“Yes.” The secretary hovered protectively over his employer, as if he suspected Rafferty would lurch across the table and drag a confession out of him and Rafferty felt increasingly conscious that they were here on a fool's errand. “I believe you were one of Jasper Moon's clients?”
“Hardly a client,” Eckersley broke in. “Mr Kingston consulted Moon just once, some months ago. I really don't see...”
“Thank you, Jocelyn.” Kingston turned his head the barest fraction as if the least exertion tired him. “Perhaps you would be good enough to bring some refreshments for our guests?”
“But...”
“Is coffee all right?” Kingston glanced at the two policemen, who nodded. “Good coffee is one of the pleasures forbidden to me, but I think, just this once... Oh, and Jocelyn,” he added, as the secretary still hovered, “I think our guests might enjoy some of that fruit-cake Teddy sent.” Though he spoke softly, his voice was firm, and Jocelyn retreated.
“I must apologise for my young friend.” Kingston's gentle smile embraced them both. “He means well, but he can be a little over zealous. Still, what he said is correct. I consulted Jasper once, about three months ago. Perhaps I should explain that I had already met Moon several times at literary functions – we have the same publisher. He impressed me, even more so as a good friend of mine had consulted him and Moon warned him he should consult a doctor as his hands showed the beginnings of a health problem. Moon was right, as my friend's doctor confirmed. My friend suggested I see Moon when I complained of feeling unwell; he even made the appointment for me. Anyway, I kept the appointment.”
“You didn't think of consulting a doctor?” Rafferty asked.
Kingston smiled ruefully. “Even so-called literary lions can be squeamish kittens when it comes to their health – ignorance is bliss and all that. You know how one puts these things off. My own doctor had retired, I didn't find his successor very congenial, and I simply hadn't got around to making alternative arrangements. So, as a compromise, I saw Jasper Moon.”
“Did Moon come here for the consultation?”
“No. I went to his office. I was stronger then. My secretary drove me. Anyway, at first Moon would say little more about my health than that I should consult a doctor as soon as possible. I insisted that he tell me more. I imagine he thought he was breaching some code of ethics to which he adhered, but finally he did me the courtesy of accepting that I knew my own mind and admitted that my hands showed all the signs of an extremely serious disease. He was right, I'm afraid, as the doctors confirmed when I finally saw them. I haven't long to live. That was the only occasion I saw him.”
“I see.” After glancing at Llewellyn's stunned face, Rafferty shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable with Kingston's serene acceptance of his own imminent death.
“Please don't be embarrassed.” Kingston's death's head smile embraced them both. “I have had a good life, a rich life, more than most people have. I am not afraid to die. Ask whatever questions you feel necessary.” Still Rafferty hesitated and Kingston's eyes crinkled as if Rafferty's discomfiture provided him with a secret amusement. “Come now, Inspector. I'm sure you haven't come down here just to admire the view. Ask away. Before Jocelyn returns. Preferably before I die.”
Rafferty smiled. He liked this old man. On the way down, he had imagined himself being squashed by the writer's superior brain, but he wasn't the intellectual ogre he had assumed. He was beginning to enjoy Nat Kingston's company and he fell in with his suggestion, forgetting that he had told Llewellyn to ask the questions. Anyway, Llewellyn still looked stunned at the news of his idol's imminent death. “Moon's appointments diary had your name entered several times – the first three months ago as you said, and the last on the day he died. Can you explain that?”
“I'm afraid I was humouring him, Inspector. He seemed to think I would need counselling once I had the doctors investigate his warning. So he made further appointments which I had no intention of keeping. It seemed kinder to let him do so. I didn't meet him again. I read that he died last Thursday, but I can assure you I didn't kill him. I was here all that day, as I am every day. Violence is anathema to me. It always has been. Words have always been my strength, my sword.” The eyes were gently mocking. “Seeing me now, the physical wreck I have become, you probably won't believe me when I say I can be a veritable terror for the truth. But Moon believed it and so he told me what I needed to know.”
He held out his hands. They were as pale, as wasted as the rest of him, the lines on his palms were broken up, all but the head line were weak, islanded as they crossed the palm. “I was still fairly robust when I saw him, but Moon knew. Although he urged me to see a doctor, I think we both knew it was too late for that; my health worsened swiftly soon after I had seen him. I could see the pity in his eyes. That's what made me so insistent.”
He put his hands back in his lap. “I've always believed a man has the right to make decisions about his own life and to do that he needs to know if his death is imminent. The doctors told me I would die without treatment, but I would also die with treatment. There seemed little point in putting my poor body through tortuous regimes to gain a few more weeks of life, so I came home. I wanted to arrange my affairs.” His gaze returned to the ocean, and he smiled his gentle smile, as if he saw something out there that more earth-bound mortals couldn't see. “I have now done so and I can die in peace.”
They sat in a curiously companionable silence after that, broken only when Jocelyn Eckersley brought deliciously fragrant coffee in giant cups. He had forgotten the fruit cake. Llewellyn, his face even more mournful than usual, chatted quietly to Kingston about his life and work. The old man answered him politely enough, but Rafferty got the impression the subject bored him. That part of his life was past, done with, his manner implied. All that remained to Kingston was eternity and whatever place in the annals of the great the literati decided to award him. They left soon after, Llewellyn so subdued, he didn't even point out that he had been supposed to ask the questions.
“That's one suspect out of the running,” Rafferty ventured to comment, when they were halfway back to the station.
Llewellyn turned his head. “You didn't seriously suspect him, did you? A man like that wouldn't descend to murder. Only the highest, most honourable motives would prompt a man like that to kill.”
“I liked the old man myself,” Rafferty told him. “But he still had to be questioned. You know that. It's called police-work, Dafyd,” Rafferty gently reminded him. “Remember that quaint old word?”
They had now worked their way through all of Moon's client list with no result. They had all checked out. Astell would be pleased, Rafferty thought. He's been itching to get them all off my suspect list. His thoughts were interrupted as a call came through on the radio. The elusive Terry Hadleigh had finally turned up; the need for food and money having brought him out of hiding. Harry McGrath, one of Rafferty's contacts in the Met, had spotted him draped on the euphemistically named "meat rack" in Piccadilly Circus, among the rest of the bodies for sale. He was expected back at Elmhurst at any time.
Rafferty put down the radio mike. Sitting back in the passenger seat, he instructed Llewellyn to put his foot down; a pointless request with Llewellyn, of course, who was caution itself behind the wheel. However, Rafferty made no comment. He merely sat, running over in his head the best way to conduct the coming interview. At the least, he hoped they would get to the bottom of the business of the art lessons.
CHAPTER TEN
“So, the Prodigal Son has returned,” was Rafferty's comment, as he stepped into the interview room. Hadleigh was slouched in his chair and, apart from scowling in Rafferty's general direction, he didn't look up. “I'm afraid the canteen's right out of fatted calves. But we've plenty of juicy questions. I'm sure I don't need to tell you what about.”
The only response this brought from Hadleigh was a sneer and an even lower slouching. His thin face looked gaunt beneath his bleached blonde hair. H
e seemed to suffer from an acute case of arrested development. Not only was he short – he could be no more than 5′5″ – at first glance he could easily be mistaken for a teenager, an anorexic teenager dressed in the universal youth uniform of skin-tight blue jeans and sleeveless black tee shirt. The tee shirt was too big for him and looked as if it had been borrowed from a larger friend. The armholes were designed for more muscular limbs, and Hadleigh's thin, white goose-bump-blemished arms, hanging from the depths of the black cotton, gave him a curiously defenceless, childlike air which was not only disconcerting, but at odds with his attempted hard man of the streets, couldn't care less manner.
Rafferty reminded himself that Hadleigh was forty-one, long past the age of innocence, and notwithstanding the early homosexual assault, would appear to have embarked on his later dissolute lifestyle with enthusiasm. At any rate, he'd never made any strenuous efforts to break away and find a legal way of earning a living. He'd rarely held down any job for more than a few weeks, never shown any inclination to self-improvement. Yet now, if his mother was to be believed, he had developed artistic aspirations.
Rafferty's lip curled and he sat down on the other side of the table, picked up Hadleigh's bum freezer leather jacket and threw it at him. “You look cold. Better put this on.” He didn't want any crusading brief making accusations of ill-treatment.
Rafferty signalled to Llewellyn to turn on the tape recorder, cautioned Hadleigh and fed the relevant details into the microphone. “Right, Mr Hadleigh, as I'm sure you're aware, Jasper Moon, the well-known astrologer, was found murdered in his consulting rooms on Friday the 9th of October. I want to know what you can tell me about it.”
Hadleigh ignored the thrown jacket, which had fallen to the floor. He denied any knowledge of Moon's death and tried to assume a cocky pose. But whether guilt and fear had damaged his acting skills, his heart didn't seem to be altogether in it.
“Come on, Hadleigh. You left your fingerprints behind; bloody prints. We know you broke into Moon's consulting rooms on the night of his murder, so you needn't bother to deny it. Looking for something to steal were you?” Rafferty made no mention of what Mrs Hadleigh had told them about that night. If Terry wanted to tell them the same tale he had the chance.
Sullenly, he told them, “I don't know what you mean. I didn't steal anything.”
“Oh, I see. It's a coincidence that a thousand quid went missing that night, I suppose?”
Hadleigh stared at him. “A thousand quid? But-” He broke off, and resumed his sullen expression. “All right,” he admitted bluntly. “So I was there that night. But I didn't steal anything,” he insisted, then more quietly, he added, “Jasper was my friend.”
“You must have a forgiving nature, seeing as Moon or Hedges as he was then, assaulted you as a boy.” Hadleigh flushed and shuffled on his chair, as if the hard surface hurt his thin buttocks. “Now that we've managed to establish that you were there, perhaps you'd like to tell me why? Into reminiscences, were you? Or was it something else you were after? Like money to keep your mouth shut?”
Hadleigh's lips tightened as if to stop himself responding to Rafferty's taunt. “If you must know,” he said thinly, “Jasper was giving me art lessons.”
Rafferty smiled. “What a coincidence. That's what your mother told us. And when did this interest in art develop? At Pentonville, was it?”
“No. At school.” Hadleigh had apparently decided to open up a little, for now he went on. “I've always been interested in art. And I was good at it, too. Jasper knew that. I want to go to art college and that's why he offered to give me some training. He said he'd finance it, too.” His lips pouted like those of a spoilt child. “He was my last hope. Now he's dead and I'll never get there.”
“Your mother mentioned something about building up your portfolio. Where are these alleged masterpieces of yours? I'd love to see them.”
Hadleigh's openness hadn't lasted long. Now his voice was sullen again. “They're in a lock-up garage belonging to a friend of mine.”
“I'll have this friend's address, if I may.”
Half expecting there to be no friend, Rafferty was taken aback when Hadleigh supplied the address with no difficulty. “Now perhaps you'll believe me.”
“As to that, we'll wait till we've checked with this friend of yours.” Rafferty got up. “That shouldn't take long. We'll be back before you know it. In the meantime, I suggest you remember exactly what happened that night. Because I shall want to hear all of it.”
Rafferty glanced at his watch as the interview room door closed behind them. “We'd better get a move on,” he said to Llewellyn, “or we'll be late for the inquest. But first I'll get Lilley to look into this portfolio business. Before I speak to Hadleigh again I want to know, one way or the other, if he's telling the truth about these art lessons. If he is, I reckon it could throw this case wide open.”
As expected, the inquest was adjourned. Sam Dally caught up with them as they headed for the exit.
“Can't stop, Sam,” Rafferty told him. “Got urgent business.”
“So had I, with a woman,” Sam told them, as by a neat sleight-of-foot, he manoeuvred himself in front of them and succeeded in slowing them down. “But I missed her. Tall red-head in peacock blue. Did you notice her at the inquest?”
“You could hardly miss her, Sam.” Rafferty lengthened his stride, skirted Dally and lunged ahead. Dally was forced to break into a trot. “That's Ginnie Campbell, one of the suspects in our murder case. Why?” Rafferty threw a grin over his shoulder. “I must say you look a bit gobsmacked. Case of lust at first sight, is it?”
“Lust be blowed,” the practical Scot panted his reply. “That woman's cost me money, which is far more important.” He grabbed Rafferty's arm and forced him to stop. “For God's sake, man, can't you stand still when I'm talking to you?” With a sigh, Rafferty obliged. “That's the feckless female who caused my accident. Turns out she hasn't got any insurance. Means I'm going to lose my no-claims bonus,” he grumbled. “She must have recognised me, too, as she made herself scarce pretty damn quick.”
Rafferty's earlier eagerness to get back to the car vanished. He turned and stared at Sam's indignant face. “Wait a minute, let me get this clear. Are you saying that Ginnie Campbell was in the vicinity of Moon's consulting rooms early on the morning that his body was discovered?”
“Haven't I just said so? She bashed into me round the corner from the High Street. Got her number, too, though fat lot of good it did me. And if the way yon woman drives is any indication of character, which to me, it is, you won't have far to look for your murderer. She fair murders the Queen's highway, at least and its poor, unsuspecting, law-abiding users.”
Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged glances. Ginnie Campbell had told them she had gone straight home from her boyfriend's house on Friday morning. Yet now they discovered she had made a detour via the High Street, which was a rather circuitous route for her to have taken. On its own, the lie seemed insignificant. But taken with the fact that she had ample opportunity to return to the office on the evening of Moon's murder, it became much more interesting. If she had killed Moon on the spur of the moment and rushed from the scene in panic, she couldn't be certain she hadn't left some incriminating evidence behind. Hence the necessity for an early visit the next morning.
Rafferty sighed. If Hadleigh turned out to be telling the truth, this latest discovery meant the case was so wide open, he hardly knew which of the crop of suspects to interview first. So far, the only one amongst Moon's close associates who had no possible motive or opportunity was Mercedes Moreno. But there was still time for something to turn up, he reflected. Moon's death had so far unearthed several juicy titbits. He couldn't help but wonder if there would be more.
Rafferty didn't have long to wait to find out. For when they returned to the station, it was to find that the bank notes stolen from Moon's office had turned up; or rather most of them had. They had been paid into the bank account of Robb and Trim, a
local firm of money-lenders. When Rafferty and Llewellyn had questioned them as to how they had come by the money, they hadn't been able to pass the buck fast enough. One of their customers had used a wad of new notes to settle her debts, they told Rafferty. A Mrs Campbell. A Mrs Virginia Campbell. Rafferty, who had intended to speak to her very soon, was forced to put her name at the top of a growing list.
“Damn.” Ginnie Campbell flung herself into her chair. “Thought you'd be round when I saw you with that fat doctor. Knew he'd recognised me. I suppose you want to know why I lied when I said I'd not been near the consulting rooms on Friday morning?”
“That's the general idea,” said Rafferty mildly, as he looked round for somewhere to sit. The living room was as untidy as it had been on their previous visit. Rafferty even thought he recognised the same clothes scattered on the furniture. “You might also explain how you came by the money stolen from Moon's cashbox.”
Her eyes first widened, then narrowed. Rafferty could imagine the furious thought going on behind her Technicolor eye-shadow. He wasn't altogether surprised when she immediately went on the attack.
“I hope you don't think you're going to pin this murder on me. And for your information, I didn't steal it. Jasper lent it to me. I was desperate for money – you know that already thanks to that old bag next door and Jasper promised to lend me a grand. He knew I had planned to spend Thursday with my boyfriend. He gave me the Friday off as well, so I could get my financial problems sorted. He knew Del – Derek, my boyfriend's very jealous – he was very sympathetic about that – and that I wouldn't be able to get away on the Thursday without a lot of explanations – my boyfriend doesn't know about my debts,” she added.
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