Llewellyn nodded. “Almost certainly, given the level of security.” He paused, then added, “Though, of course, as the victim was poisoned rather than shot or stabbed or killed by other more immediate physical means, it's possible someone from outside could have administered the poison via the victim's brought-in lunch.”
“Vengeful wife or girlfriend, you mean, hoping to shift suspicion?”
Llewellyn nodded. “Poisoning is usually regarded as a woman's crime,” he pointed out.
It certainly seemed reasonable to believe the poison had been in the prawns, Rafferty reflected. And whether they had been doctored at home or in the office, suspicion had certainly been well spread. According to Hal Gallagher, they had been defrosting on a plate in the Aimhurst staff kitchen all morning, available for anyone to tamper with.
“You'd have thought he'd have had the wit not to leave himself so wide open to revenge,” said Rafferty. “After all, he might have been reckoned a bastard, but, by all accounts, he was a clever one.”
“It's surprising how often men like Barstaple ignore elementary precautions,” said Llewellyn. “And arrogance of that stamp has a tendency to bring about its own downfall.” After casting an oblique glance at Rafferty, he added softly, “The ancient Romans had a saying that I think would cover it.”
“There's a novelty,” Rafferty murmured.
“Arte Perire Sua”—to perish by one's own machinations would be a literal translation. Certainly, it may well turn out that Clive Barstaple's machinations were the death of him. Of course, it's very difficult to make oneself totally secure from poison.”
Rafferty nodded and threw up a quote of his own before he realized what he was doing. “‘No man is an island complete of himself’ Bloody hell. Your habit of borrowing homilies is catching. Whose bit of borrowed wisdom was that, anyway?”
“John Donne's,” said Llewellyn. “From his ‘Meditations’.” Loftily, he added, “And if you're going to borrow from Donne, might I suggest you use the correct version. It's “No man is an Island entire of itself.”
“Pardon my ignorance.” Know-all git, thought Rafferty. “Though whichever way you say it, the man had a point. Barstaple the Bastard obviously disregarded the fact that human islands bump against one another continuously. He must have thought his particular island was immune from life's storms.”
They turned the corner and headed round the far side of the building. The rain had fallen off to a thin drizzle and, as the clouds parted, Rafferty saw that, all the time, a full moon had been lurking behind them. Madman's moon his ma called it. He shivered and hoped it wasn't an omen. Hadn't the notorious poisoner Graham Young started his killings in an office environment?
Rafferty shook himself and told himself not to be ridiculous. Barstaple's murder had been a sane enough act, most likely committed by someone pushed beyond endurance. Rafferty, given his current difficulty concerning Llewellyn's wedding suit and its possible effect on his own career, felt a most unpolicemanlike empathy for such a final solution and its practitioner.
They turned the last corner and returned to the front of the building. Rafferty, thinking of human islands again, murmured to himself, “Perhaps, just before he died, Barstaple's island saw its own vulnerability. Shame it came too late.”
They returned inside. Alistair Plumley, Hal Gallagher's “big cheese” boss, arrived five minutes later. He'd evidently been attending either a function or a very posh dinner party, because he wore a dickie bow and dinner jacket. He even sported a scarlet cummerbund and looked a very important island indeed; one with an isthmus, no less, Rafferty thought. If he was to accommodate both his professional and personal egos he would certainly need the extra space, he mused as he sized Plumley up.
Plumley was around 36, Rafferty guessed, as they shook hands. And although his waistline was beginning to spread, mentally he seemed tough. Tall, around 6’2”, he carried the extra pounds with ease. The jawline was firm, the gaze a self-assured battleship grey. Rafferty had no trouble guessing he'd be a difficult customer to tangle with. Hopefully, no tangling would be necessary.
“Sorry you've been dragged away from your dinner, sir,” Rafferty began as he led Plumley and Llewellyn into the now empty staff room.
“Not your fault, Inspector,” Plumley had the grace to concede. “Bloody awful do, anyway. Charity dinner, with the usual plastic food and inferior wine. I was glad to get away.” His brief smile hovered between them and for the first time Rafferty got a glimpse of the charm concealed beneath the steel.
Plumley must suddenly have recalled the reason for his abrupt calling away because he smothered his gaffe with another brief smile and the charm washed over them again. “Not that I wouldn't rather have endured it than be called away under such circumstances. Poor Clive.” The steel overlaid the charm as he fixed Rafferty with an uncompromising gaze. “Heart attack, was it?”
“No, sir. I'm afraid not.” Rafferty paused before he added, “It would appear that Mr Barstaple ate something that disagreed with him. In short, we believe he was murdered.”
Plumley stared hard at him for a few seconds. “I see. And he was murdered here, where he worked.” His gaze clouded over and Rafferty wondered if he was mentally calculating the commercial implications of Barstaple's death.
However, it seemed he'd misjudged the man, for now Plumley commented quietly, “He was my placeman. He did my bidding. I hope the fact that he died here is just an unhappy coincidence. I would feel morally responsible should it turn out that his work here brought about his death. I hope he didn't suffer.”
“I'm afraid it wasn't an easy death, sir. Poison seldom is.”
“Poison?” Plumley's lips thinned. “Gallagher didn't mention-”
“He didn't know, sir.” Rafferty felt obliged to save the engaging Gallagher from any possible repercussions. “I understand he tried to contact you straight after my sergeant here,” he gestured to the silent Llewellyn, “phoned him to advise him of Mr Barstaple's death. I imagine he felt he had to let you know the little he knew as soon as possible.”
“Yes. Of course. I see. Where is Gallagher now? He's still here I take it?”
Rafferty nodded. After he'd questioned them, he had let the cleaners go home, but Hal Gallagher, by mutual consent, had remained on the premises.
Alistair Plumley made for the door. “I want to see him.”
“In a moment, sir.”
Plumley turned, evidently not best pleased at the delay. “What is it, Inspector? Whatever it is, surely it can wait. I need to speak-”
“This will only take a few minutes, sir. There are a few things I'd like to get clear in my mind. For instance, Mr Barstaple—what did you know about him? I gather he's a self-employed consultant and that you hired him as an interim manager?”
Plumley evidently didn't feel the need to confirm this. “Obviously Gallagher's told you all this? I can't-”
“Please sir. As you said, Clive Barstaple was your man. Your responsibility and-”
Plumley winced at this. “You've made your point, Inspector. You know what he was doing here. What else do you want to know?”
“Was he liked?” Although Rafferty already knew the answer to that, he wanted to hear how Plumley would respond.
Plumley raised thick dark eyebrows. “What do you think, Inspector? Pretty unlikely in the circumstances, wouldn't you say? I'm sure you've been told that Clive Barstaple had been hired to wield the axe, something which seems unfortunately to have become common knowledge around here. To answer your question, no, of course he wasn't liked. I didn't employ him to become Mr Popularity. I wanted a job done and I judged him the most competent to do it. He had a reputation for getting results, which is why I hired him.”
Plumley seemed to feel the need to add more. “To be blunt, Inspector, Watts And Cutley didn't buy this firm to add Aimhurst's staff to the payroll.. We wanted the Aimhurst Widget amongst other things, and that's all. It's just business. We do have shareholders to answer to.”
Plumley and business types of his ilk certainly didn't answer to their consciences, Rafferty thought. He doubted Plumley had a conscience. Or if he had, it certainly wasn't of the censorious Catholic variety. Rafferty's gave him almost as much trouble as his selectively law-abiding family.
Not for the first time, he reflected than an active Catholic conscience was the best curb on a man's behaviour he'd ever come across. It was a pity the courts couldn't dish them out instead of fines and prison sentences. He was convinced they would be much more effective at reducing the crime statistics. He supposed that a businessman like Alistair Plumley would assume that “just business” was not only adequate explanation but also sufficient excuse. Now he commented, “I don't suppose the staff saw it that way. I gather some of them have been here for years, felt part of a family.”
Plumley gave a faint sigh. “Look, Inspector, Robert Aimhurst was into paternalism, I'm not. Neither was his son or he wouldn't have accepted my offer. Now was there anything else you wanted to know or do you expect me to stand here the rest of the night justifying my business methods?“
Llewellyn broke into the suddenly hostile atmosphere. “How many of the staff were to go? All of them?”
“No. Every firm has a few key workers who are worth their weight in gold. It was part of Barstaple's brief to appraise the employees here and see if any were of interest to us. As a matter of fact, he was due to bring the interim report on his recommendations to my office tomorrow morning.”
Rafferty wondered why Gallagher hadn't mentioned this report. He seemed a well-informed man and was likely to have been aware of it. “And have you any idea what this report contained? For instance, who exactly, did Barstaple suggest was surplus to requirements?”
Plumley grimaced at his choice of phrase. “I have no idea. I'm sure you can appreciate that my firm has wide-ranging interests. I can't oversee every tiny detail. That's the reason I hire people like Barstaple. He came highly recommended from the last company that made use of his services.”
“And they were?”
Plumley named a firm that Rafferty had never heard of.
“Small, but prestigious,” was Plumley's comment. “Their Head Office is in north London.”
Rafferty nodded as Llewellyn noted the details. “This report—you said he was to bring it to you rather than post it?”
“That's right. Obviously I'd want to discuss the details with him. Why do you ask?”
“It's just that we haven't found such a document in his office. Of course, it's possible he was working on it at his home.”
“Probably hadn't printed it out yet. I believe he worked a lot on his lap-top so I imagine it would be on that.”
Rafferty nodded. There had been no lap-top computer in Barstaple's office. He could only hope they found it at his home. “I understand Mr Barstaple had only worked here for three months?”
Plumley nodded. “That's correct. He joined us at the end of November on a six month contract.”
“So he'd been here just three months,” Rafferty mused. Not a very long time in which to make an enemy who wants you dead and dead in such an awful way, he mused.
Plumley seemed to guess his thoughts. After his first shocked concern that his demands might bring a certain moral responsibility for Barstaple's death, he now swiftly backtracked. “I wouldn't jump to conclusions, if I were you, Inspector. Thinking about it, it's unlikely that one of the staff here killed him. They had no reason to. He was merely a tool. With or without Clive Barstaple's undoubted skills, heads were going to roll. As far as the staff here are concerned his death alters nothing. Unless old man Aimhurst employed idiots—and that wouldn't altogether surprise me—the staff would have known that. From their point of view, Barstaple's death accomplishes nothing.”
“Reason doesn't always enter into it, sir,” he commented. Besides, thought Rafferty, as he'd already discussed with Llewellyn, given the level of security it seemed unlikely an outsider could have gained access. “I take it you change the access code on the entrance keying system regularly?”
From the quick narrowing of Plumley's gaze he evidently saw where this was leading, but was forced to admit that he didn't know. “You'd have to ask Hal Gallagher. As I said, I don't deal with such day-to-day matters. But it seems likely. It would be imprudent to allow any ex-employee with a grudge to gain access, after all.”
So unless the murder was connected to his private life, it seemed to Rafferty even more likely his work here led to his death. “Tell me, was he married or-?”
“I've no idea. I didn't enquire into his love life when I hired him.” Plumley's lips drew together as he went on, and although it was with evident reluctance that he heaped more suspicion on the staff, he was honest enough to add, “Though I would suspect not. Somehow he didn't strike me as the marrying kind.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at Rafferty. “There's another aspect you ought to be aware of. Since the takeover, Aimhurst And Son have received some threats. They gave no names, of course, but to judge from the subject matter, I'd guess they were from animal rights activists.
“Watts And Cutley, amongst other things, have a pharmaceutical arm where we use animals in laboratory tests. I suppose, after the takeover, these animal rights people thought this place would be an easy target. We updated the security system because of their threats. Maybe you should look into their activities?”
“We'll certainly do that, sir,” Rafferty agreed. “I imagine Mr Gallagher has the details?”
Plumley nodded. “If that's all, Inspector…?”
“For the moment. Now, you wanted a word with Mr Gallagher. Llewellyn, perhaps you'd escort Mr Plumley to the other office?”
As Plumley followed Llewellyn out, Rafferty watched him. Although Plumley had managed to spread a little of the guilt outwards from the firm with his revelations about the animal rights activists threats, the man struck him as a realist. He would realize as well as Rafferty that, apart from the difficulty an outsider would have in gaining access, the method of murder indicated a knowledge of the victim's habits, which only an intimate was likely to possess.
It was apparent the realization didn't please Alistair Plumley. But he hadn't wasted his time in futile denial. Instead, just before he followed Llewellyn, his gaze had once more become shuttered and Rafferty guessed he was planning his damage-limitation exercise. He was curious to know how Alistair Plumley hoped to turn the murderer's woeful lack of team spirit to the Company's advantage.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rafferty was in his office early on Thursday, He had asked Hal Gallagher for the personnel files and he wanted to go through them, learn something of the staff before he spoke to them later in the morning.
Apart from the files of the firm's current staff, he had also obtained those of the staff who had left between the death of Robert Aimhurst and the murder of Clive Barstaple. He was thankful there had been no more than three such departures, thankful, too, that, having reached the superstitiously significant figure of three deaths they must now have reached the week's total cadaver tally. It was a comforting thought and one he confided to Llewellyn as he arrived with the canteen tea. “I know that with its two corpses, yesterday was decidedly gutty, but let's look on the bright side. We're three corpses up and should be safe from any more—for this week at least.”
As the Welshman didn't share his superstitious beliefs, Rafferty was surprised when, after putting the tea down on the desk, Llewellyn nodded and remarked, “Yesterday was a Dismal Day, so-”
“You can say that again,” Rafferty broke in and waved at his office window and the sodden grey sky. “And, weather-wise at least, it doesn't look as if today's going to be any better. February—the dreariest month of the year. Ma reckons her daffodil bulbs have rotted.” He scowled. “Bloody weather.”
“I was actually referring to yesterday's date,” Llewellyn told him, “not its events or the weather. The 26th of February is one of the so-called Dismal Days of the year. Each mont
h has two, traditionally regarded as evil or unlucky days. Comes from the Latin ‘Dies mali’.”
“Might have known you'd drag those ancient Romans in somehow,” said Rafferty. “It was certainly a dismal day for Clive Barstaple,” he added, in an attempt to deflect Llewellyn from sounding off on his favourite topic. It was a forlorn hope. Llewellyn had connected with the part of his brain where he stored such edifying tidbits and was not to be diverted from sharing the benefits of a superior education with Rafferty.
“If my memory serves me correctly,” he said, “they're also known as Egyptian Days; though there are two views on why that should be so. Some say they had been computed by Egyptian astrologers, others say they were connected with the plagues of Egypt.”
Rafferty forced a smile as grey as the day. “I wonder what view our esteemed cadaver would favour? It certainly sounds as if Clive Barstaple was a past master at making plagues of enemies.”
He sat on the edge of his desk, dislodging the pile of staff files which began to totter. Llewellyn rescued them as Rafferty expanded. “From what Hal Gallagher said, Barstaple had succeeded in persuading some of the staff at Aimhurst And Son to leave. Without redundancy pay, of course. The rest, he'd apparently intimidated and browbeaten to such an extent they must have been on the verge of doing likewise. Barstaple seems to have been a thoroughly nasty piece of work. Who could blame them if one of them decided to rationalize him?”
“‘Oderint dum metuant’.” Llewellyn was off again. “‘Let them hate, provided they fear,’ he translated. “A method of man-management attributed to the Emperor Tiberius. In this case, of course, it must have suited Barstaple's brief very well. A frightened workforce is not usually the most efficient, which would have given him the excuse he needed to dispense with their services.”
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