Death Line

by Geraldine Evans

  Rafferty forbore from reminding him that, as Jasper Moon was dead, Hadleigh had gained nothing, whereas Farley himself was now a rich man. “Were you aware that Mr Moon had taken out a large insurance policy on his life, with you as the beneficiary?”

  Farley paused before answering, as though debating whether lies or truth would best serve him. Then, his voice harsh, he admitted, “Yes, I knew. But I didn't kill Jasper to get my hands on it, if that's what you're implying. I wasn't anywhere near his office last Thursday. You just try to prove otherwise. I loved him, I tell you. The last thing I wanted to do was lose him. Without him, my life is empty.”

  Empty – apart from all the lovely money that would now fill it, thought Rafferty cynically. If he'd already lost Moon's love he had nothing to lose by killing him and everything to gain – as long as he was confident of getting away with it. They left him then, with the warning that they would want to see him again.

  “Right.” Rafferty consulted his watch. “I'm off to the accountants. I don't know what time I'll be back.”

  Mr Spenny, the accountant who dealt with the partnership books, was a thin, stooped man with a ruff of white hair, but his eyes were as sharp as those of any of Zurich's gnomes. He seemed to take as a personal slur on his professional abilities the suggestion that there might be something untoward in the accounts. He had already explained at length in his slow, rather prissy voice, that he had gone through the appointments book that Rafferty had dropped in for him, matching the appointments up with the invoices. Now, he proceeded to go through it all a second time, just in case Rafferty should have any doubts, explaining that the invoices all tallied with the appointments and the payments into the bank account tallied with the invoices. Ginnie Campbell was responsible for opening the post and entering the details of incoming payments and while the idea of collusion between her and Astell was a possibility, Rafferty considered it unlikely.

  “What about withdrawals?” Rafferty asked when Mr Spenny finally paused for breath. “Have there been any unexplained amounts taken from the account?”

  Mr Spenny drew his thin lips together. “No indeed. I've been through the bank statements as you requested. Apart from the cheque payments to creditors, nothing has gone out of the account but the usual amounts for petty cash, the wages and the partners' own monthly drawings. I can assure you, you're quite mistaken if you suspect any financial improprieties.”

  After thanking Mr Spenny for his time and trouble, Rafferty walked slowly back to the station. He had a lot to think about.

  “Seems Edwin Astell hasn't had his hand in the till,” Rafferty told Llewellyn when he returned to the station. “So that's one of my theories gone the way of the dodo.” Gloomily, he wondered how many more would have a similar fate before he finally found Moon's murderer.

  His hours at the accountants and the resultant fog in his brain had tired Rafferty out, and he decided to call it a day. Llewellyn was going to some late art gallery showing with Maureen. Rafferty was again invited, but this time he declined. He had had enough of playing gooseberry and art galleries weren't exactly his thing. Besides, he recalled with a grimace. Tonight he had a date. To escort his ma to Madam Crystal's.

  The doorbell gave a stentorian clamour. Startled, Rafferty dropped the hairdryer, and its hot blast scattered the papesr he had been doodling on earlier in the week. He glanced at the clock as he rushed to answer the door; he might have known his ma wouldn't wait for him to collect her. Any excuse for a nose into his love-life would do.

  “Hello, son.” Kitty Rafferty's gaze wondered from his half-dried hair, past his shortie Chinese dragon dressing gown, to his large bare feet. “Can I come in?” she asked. “Or do you plan on entertaining the neighbours to a kung-foowi demonstration?”

  “You're early,” he told her, as she shut the door. “I said I'd collect you.”

  “I got her next door to drop me off on her way to her eldest girl's. I thought it best. You know how difficult you find it to get anywhere on time, and I didn't want to be late. Now we've time for a cup of tea. I hope you've got proper tea leaves as I told you, not your usual dust-bags,” she called as she made for the kitchen, “and then I can read your fortune.”

  Rafferty, aware that his ma was capable of making use of his own groceries to poke about in his love life had made sure that any tea leaves had been consigned to the bin. He congratulated himself on his foresight and wondered how he would be able to prevent her bringing her own next time?

  After he had finished drying his hair, he realised that neither the promised tea nor his ma had appeared, and concluded that she was taking the opportunity to have a snoop. Tying the knot of his belt tighter, he made for the door, only to meet his ma on her return. As he had suspected, she had a glow of satisfaction but no cups.

  “What's the matter, Ma?” he enquired sarcastically. “Couldn't you find the kettle? It's not like you.”

  “Mind your tongue, Joseph Aloysius. You're not too big for a slap on the legs.”

  He grinned. “So where's the tea, then?”

  “Sure and I've left it to brew,” she explained. “I know how strong you like it and those awful bags you buy take forever.” Deprived of a roundabout snooping route by the dearth of tea leaves, she was forced to make a frontal assault. “Done any entertaining lately, son?”

  “When do I get the time to entertain, Ma?” he prevaricated. “You know I'm in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  She sighed. “Dafyd doesn't seem to let his work interfere with his love-life.”

  “That's because you've got his love-life under your personal supervision, Ma,' he reminded her dryly. 'He doesn't get a chance to neglect it.”

  “Sure and you could do a lot worse yourself than let me find a nice little girlfriend for you,” she told him tartly. “But no, not you-”

  They'd had this conversation too many times for Rafferty to want to hear it again. “Anyway,” he told her firmly, “Dafyd's not in charge. The case is my responsibility and it has to take priority over anything else.” Even your quest for grandchildren from your eldest son, Rafferty silently added.

  Bested for now, his ma made a moue of annoyance. But it didn't stop her scrutinising the letters that Rafferty had stuck behind the clock. Obviously, his being there was cramping her style, for she suggested he get some clothes on.

  Rafferty left her to continue her snooping. When he returned, the tea was poured and she had collected his scattered doodles from the carpet. He stood in the doorway watching her as she quickly perused them. “Hoping for love letters, Ma?”

  “Do you have to come creeping up on a body?” she demanded. “And it's only tidying up, I am. What was all this rubbish doing round the floor, anyway?” she asked as she glanced down at the sheets. “Doodling, is it?” Her eyes twinkled wickedly. “Did you know a man reveals a lot in his doodles. Take yours for instance-”

  Rafferty plucked the sheets out of her hands. “They're not doodles,” he told her firmly. “If you must know, that's what Jasper Moon scrawled on his office wall just before he died. I copied it last week at the scene of his murder and have been trying to see what else I can make out of it ever since. Dafyd thinks it's a toss-up between an 'I” and a “T'. Someone's initial, you see. I reckon he's right.”

  “God bless us and save us,” she muttered. “Sure and anyone with a brain in his head could see it's nothing of the kind,” she told him. “I'd have thought Dafyd, at least would-”

  “All right, Miss Marple,” he broke in irritably. “Tell the thick detective what you reckon it is.”

  “If you'll give me a minute, I'll not only tell you, I'll show you.” She began to hunt through her capacious handbag. “I know what you think of my little hobby, so I don't suppose you'll believe me till you've seen the evidence with your own eyes. Wait now till I find it.”

  Rafferty folded his arms as pale blue knitting wool for the latest grandchild, her worn tobacco pouch, several spectacle cases and packets of extra-strong mints
were all emptied onto the carpet before she found what she was looking for. “There, Mr Detective.” She opened a magazine and triumphantly thrust it at him. “Take a look at that.”

  Rafferty took the magazine. He looked. He blushed.

  “Well might you blush. Now will you be telling me I don't know what I'm talking about?”

  With mock humility he shook his head and told her, “Not me, Ma. Not ever again.” Grinning, he gave her a smacker on the cheek, picked her up and swung her round. “You're a wonder, that's what you are.”

  “And so are you – a wonder to me I ever gave birth to you. Now, put me down and drink your tea.”

  He did so and held up the magazine. “Can I keep this?”

  She nodded. “But I'll want it back, mind. I haven't read it yet.” She returned her belongings to her bag, stood up and gulped down the rest of her tea. “And now that I've solved your murder for you, is there any chance we can make tracks for Madame Crystal's and get a few answers from your daddy?”

  Rafferty breezed into his office the next morning, told a startled Llewellyn that the case was as good as solved, and handed him his ma's astrology magazine. “Take a look at that.”

  Llewellyn glanced briefly at the page indicated, before he turned to the front of the magazine, raised his eyebrows, and asked perceptively, “Do I detect the assistance of the indomitable Mrs Rafferty in the matter?”

  “You do,” Rafferty told him sheepishly. “We now know what that symbol means. It wasn't an attempt at an initial, at all, but the astrologer's way of writing the sign for Gemini. Jasper Moon was a professional astrologer – what more natural than for him to scrawl the identity of his murderer in the astrological language he used every day? Which is what ma kept repeating all the way to that damn clairvoyant's last night. As I told her, perhaps if he'd written it more clearly we'd have got there quicker and without her assistance.” Still,' he rubbed his hands gleefully. “All we have to do now is find out which of our suspects is a Gemini and we've cracked it.”

  “Gemini.” Llewellyn frowned as he studied the page. “But this says that the sign covers the end of May and most of June.”

  “That's right,” Rafferty agreed. He felt a moment's anxiety at Llewellyn's doubtful expression, but even Llewellyn couldn't argue with accepted astrological fact, he reminded himself.

  “No, it's wrong,” Llewellyn contradicted. “Because none of our suspects was born during those weeks. I've got all their details in here.” He patted his breast pocket where he kept his notebook with its neatly recorded information.

  Rafferty stared at him. “One of them must have been,” he insisted. “Obviously, whoever killed him, recognised the significance of Moon's clue and lied to you. You're too trusting, man. You shouldn't believe everything you're told.”

  Llewellyn's lips thinned. “No-one lied to me. I checked their details. You know I always check everything.”

  That was true, Rafferty knew. Llewellyn might frequently be a pain in the behind, but he was a painstaking pain.

  “Virginia Campbell subtracted a few years from her age but she didn't worry about the month. The others didn't even bother to lie about the year.” It was Llewellyn's turn to look smug. “Not one of our suspects was born during the dates given here. None of them is a Gemini.” Llewellyn took out his notebook, found the appropriate page and handed it to Rafferty with a flourish. “Ecce signum. Look at the proof.”

  Rafferty snatched the notebook and studied it, before throwing himself into a chair, all his jovial bonhomie sunk to his boots. He'd been so sure he was on the right track at last. He lost his temper and scowled at Llewellyn. “You needn't look so bloody cocky. How many bright ideas have you come up with?” he demanded. “All I get from you is smart-arse quotes. Why don't you try this one for size? Dun an doras mas e do thoil e.” His pronunciation was shaky; luckily Llewellyn wouldn't know that.

  Llewellyn raised his eyebrows in that superior way he had. “Irish?” Rafferty nodded. “Would you care to translate?”

  “You're damn right I would. It means, put a lump of wood in the hole.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Shut the bloody door, man,” Rafferty translated again. “And make sure you're the other side of it!”

  His expression injured, Llewellyn retreated to the doorway, from where he fired a parting salvo. “At the risk of getting my head bitten off, I was going to tell you that I finally got an answer from those Memory Lane video people. They said Moon ordered four copies of the video and paid by credit card. The videos were posted to his office the week before his murder. Makes you wonder what happened to the other copies.”

  No it doesn't, Rafferty muttered to himself. Between clients that don't exist and blood-red clues that make no sense, I'd rather have a rest from wondering.

  As the door shut softly behind his sergeant, Rafferty slumped. He already regretted his outburst, but sometimes Llewellyn got right up his nose. Angry with himself, Rafferty took his temper out on the other departed; it was the only way he could be sure of having the last word. “Not up to much, were you, Jasper old love?” he taunted the glossy photograph of Moon which he had pinned to the noticeboard at the start of the case. “Not only did you fail to predict your own death, you couldn't even manage to give us a halfway decent clue.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Demoralised after receiving such a knock-back, Rafferty gave himself a pep-talk. You're a copper, he reminded himself. And coppers 'cop', not cop-out. You've still got a case to investigate; still got suspects with shaky alibis, so get on with it. You can start by having another word with Ginnie Campbell.

  As Rafferty opened the door of The Psychic Stores, he snatched a glance at Llewellyn's face. The Welshman, still put out over Rafferty's angry outburst that morning, was barely talking to him. Even an apology had done little to thaw the air. But instead of throwing him deeper into the glooms, Llewellyn's 'nasty smell under the nose' expression filled Rafferty with a new determination to catch Moon's killer. It was just going to take longer than he'd thought, that was all.

  There was music playing in the background. Strangely soothing, it sounded like a rushing wind interspersed with the cries of sea birds and the calls of whales and dolphins.

  “Do you like it, gentlemen?” Mercedes Moreno materialised beside them and fixed Rafferty with her great dark eyes.

  “It's – unusual.”

  “It's designed to relax the stressed mind,” she told him. “Would you like a copy? It's a very reasonable price.” She paused and added softly, “I'm sure even Edwin would be happy to offer a discount in your case, especially if it calms your mind sufficiently to enable you to catch Jasper's murderer.”

  Rafferty smiled. “Very good of him. But I think it will take more than my listening to the dolphins' greatest hits to secure a conviction.”

  “I see you are a sceptic, Inspector. Perhaps our stones and crystals would be more to your taste?”

  Rafferty, remembering the claims for these trinkets painted on the shop window, shook his head. “I don't think so. I don't believe in such things.”

  Mrs Moreno stared at him as if he'd just uttered the psychic equivalent of blasphemy, before commenting, “Even a sceptic can't totally deny the wonderful properties of crystals. Their use in radios and watches; their ability to "oscillate" at specific vibratory rates. Surely you're aware of this?”

  Rafferty was forced to admit that he was.

  “Then why are you so ready to reject their powers in other areas of life? It is not logical.”

  Llewellyn could have told her that logic had never been one of his strong points, but as this would have forced him out of his standoffish mood, he said nothing, and merely twitched his lips downwards in a way that more than adequately expressed his thoughts on the subject. Rafferty ignored him.

  “You must at least let me try to convince you of their qualities before you reject them,” Mrs Moreno insisted. Her voice filled with the fanatical conviction of the true believer. “Tell m
e what areas of your life are causing you anguish, and I will tell you which of our gems and crystals has the power to help you. If you have money problems, you should wear Jade as it promotes a long and prosperous life; if you have love problems,” she gestured at a stone with a pale, pearly sheen, “a Moonstone exchanged with your lover will ensure your passion is returned; if you have health problems,” she pointed at another stone, “a Bloodstone will stimulate physical strength.”

  From childhood, Rafferty had rejected the Catholic Church's automatic assumption that they owned his mind, his soul, and any other bits they fancied. Now, as a matter of bloody-minded principle, he always firmly resisted the arrogant insistence from any other empirical quarter that he should do this, think that, believe the other. To reinforce his stance, he brought out his sharp cynic's pin and applied it. “I've got a murder to solve,” he reminded her bluntly. “I don't think trinkets will help me with that.”

  It seemed he'd only succeeded in pricking her professional pride, for her voice rose on a triumphant note, as she told him, “That is where you are wrong. I shall prove it to you.” She looked down at the selection of gems and crystals displayed on the counter. “I will prescribe for you a suitable stone.” After a few moments, she placed a violet-pink stone in his hand and commented, “Most people, at first, do not believe in the power of the stones. I simply tell them to wait and let the stones convince them.”