Rafferty nodded. “Dangerous balancing act though—keeping the fear greater than the hate. Get it wrong and puff, you're dead, as this particular exponent of the bully-boy school of business ethics discovered. Still,” he frowned, “Plumley was right about one thing. If Watts And Cutley were determined to wriggle out of their commitment to keep Aimhurst's staff on the payroll they'd have only taken some other rationalization expert on to do Barstaple's job. Whoever killed him must have realized that.”
“You said yourself that reason doesn't always enter into it. After weeks of stress, worry and insecurity their hatred would naturally have focused on Barstaple himself. After all, he was the one making their lives miserable.”
Rafferty nodded. “You know, I've been congratulating myself that our line-up of suspects is naturally limited to current staff at Aimhursts, the recently fired, and anyone he was intimate with in his personal life. But I don't reckon we're going to be that lucky.”
Obligingly, Llewellyn quirked an enquiring eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Simply this. We know visitors to the premises have to sign in, but who—exactly—would be regarded as visitors? I doubt other employees in the group at large would bother with such a formality. And another thing—maybe Barstaple wasn't the only person to have changed jobs recently. What I mean is, maybe someone from his past—someone with a grudge against him—also changed jobs. Barstaple was, by all accounts, very successful at what he did and Watts And Cutley has quite a number of subsidiaries. Sounds to me like there could be a fair number of people with reason to hate Barstaple. I wonder what would be the chances of one of them ending up at one of those subsidiaries? We daren't ignore the possibility.”
Llewellyn's less emotional temperament took the fact in his stride. “But it should be easy enough to find out. We've got the details of Barstaple's previous consultancy appointments, do you want me to get on to their personnel managers and ask for the details of the relevant staff?”
Rafferty nodded. “It may be a long shot, but it's worth a try. After all, nasty pieces of work like Barstaple don't become nasty overnight.”
Llewellyn nodded. “Juvenal said something similar in his ‘Satires’.”
“Smart bloke old Juvenal,” Rafferty broke in quickly before Llewellyn could get launched on another erudite quotation. “Talk about great minds thinking alike, hey?” Llewellyn made no comment as to the greatness of Rafferty's mind. Instead, he said, “I'll make a start on checking with the other firms for whom Barstaple worked as a consultant.” He paused. “I imagine you'll want someone put on to investigating the animal rights angle?”
“It'll probably be another dead end, but like the previous victims of his rationalizing, it's got to be checked out. Ring Plumley and Gallagher. Find out what form this threat took—if it was a letter and they still have it, ask for it.” He walked round the desk, sat down and dragged the pile of staff files towards him. “While you do that, I'll plow on with these.”
Dr Sam Dally rang with the results of the post-mortem five minutes after Llewellyn left the office.
“What have you got for me Sam?” Rafferty asked when Dally was put through.
“As your resident expert guessed, the victim died of carbohydrate andromedotoxin, which the rhododendron and mountain laurels both contain. A highly toxic substance. All parts of the plant are poisonous, by the way. Pretty plants and pretty women, Rafferty, both can be lethal to a man.”
“‘Aint that the truth.” Rafferty pursed his lips thoughtfully. Llewellyn had questioned Eric Penn again and discovered that Eric had washed Barstaple's lunch dishes on Wednesday evening a fact which had concentrated Rafferty's suspicions. “Barstaple ate prawns for lunch yesterday,” he told Sam. “I suppose the poison was on them?”
“You suppose wrong, Rafferty. Doesn't the law say ‘innocent until proven guilty’? I imagine that applies to prawns as well.”
Rafferty took Sam's light rebuke with good grace. Unfortunately, he had never overcome his tendency to jump to conclusions so he had plenty of practise in having his nose rubbed in his mistakes.
“Anyway, these prawns were innocent,” Sam went on. “It was the yoghurt that killed him—or rather, what was in the yoghurt. I'd guess someone put the plant in a blender and either injected the resulting liquid toxin with a syringe or cut a small hole in the bottom of the yoghurt pot, spooned it in and sealed it with a little bit of sticky tape. Unlikely the victim would turn the pot upside-down and discover it.”
Good grace notwithstanding, Rafferty wasn't above getting pleasure out of contradicting Sam and now he told him, “There was no hole in the pot that was in Barstaple's wastebin. Now even a tiny one such as a syringe would make.”
“Was there not?” Sam paused, obviously searching for something to confound Rafferty's evidence. As usual, he succeeded. “What flavour was the yoghurt in the bin?”
“Hazelnut flavour.”
“That explains it.” Sam sounded smug. “I don't know what that was doing in the bin, but I do know that whoever ate it, it wasn't the victim. Apart from coffee, he'd only eaten the prawns and a strawberry yoghurt. The poison was in that.”
Rafferty just managed to stop himself from asking who, then, had eaten the hazelnut yoghurt. He asked another stupid question instead, the idiocy of which he realized too late. “Wouldn't he have tasted the poison?” Obviously not, was the answer. He wouldn't have eaten more that a spoonful of it if so, a fact which Dally was quick to confirm.
“Carbohydrate andromedotoxin doesn't have a strong flavour. Anyway, as I've already told you, it would need only a tiny amount to kill, no more than a five mil spoonful.”
“What about shelf-life?” Rafferty questioned. “We don't know when the poison was put in the pot of yoghurt, but would its effectiveness have been greatly reduced over time?”
“As to that, I'd have to check, but as the victim's dead, the poison's potency lasted long enough to do its job so it hardly matters. It should be a simple enough matter to find out when that yoghurt was bought—when you've done that you'll also discover the earliest time the poison could have been added to it.”
Rafferty grunted an acknowledgement of this, then remarked wistfully, “Pity the poison wasn't in the prawns. According to the deputy manager, Barstaple brought them in on the morning of his death, so they were only in the kitchen for a few hours. It's something I've yet to check out, but I'd guess the yoghurt cartons were there since at least the Monday as there was only one left in the fridge when we arrived and most people buy packs of four or six at a time. If so, they'd have been there for anyone to tamper with for several days, which makes things considerably more tricky.”
“I suppose you've considered the possibility that it wasn't necessarily Barstaple's yoghurt that was poisoned?”
“What do you mean?” Rafferty frowned. He hadn't thought much about the yoghurt at all, truth to tell. More fool him, he realized, as Sam went on.
“Always supposing his would-be poisoner had access to the office fridge, all this poisoner would need to do was to note the manufacturer and flavours of yoghurt that Barstaple had bought and then buy the same. That way, his killer could put the poison in at their leisure at home. It would be only a matter of seconds to switch Barstaple's original pot of yoghurt for its poisoned twin.”
Rafferty didn't like Sam's conclusions. If what he outlined had actually happened it was going to make pinning Barstaple's murderer down that much more difficult. “You're absolutely sure the poison was in the yoghurt?” he asked, desperate to debunk Sam's theory. It was an unwise move. “I'd have thought-”
“In this instance I'm the one paid to do the thinking,” Sam crisply reminded him. “And I'm telling you I'm sure.”
Rafferty had to accept it, but as consolation, he had now come up with a theory about the hazelnut yoghurt. “Anyway, no matter who brought the poisoned yoghurt into the office, it's obvious that someone deliberately removed the empty, poisoned yoghurt carton from the bin, emptied the
hazelnut one of its contents—presumably down the sink in the kitchen—and then placed it in Barstaple's wastebin. The thing I want to know is why? What possible advantage did the killer think they'd get from it?”
“I've no idea, Rafferty. But I suggest we make a pact. You don't try to tell me my job and I won't try to tell you yours.”
As he'd already, most effectively, too, told Rafferty his job, this suggested pact would put Rafferty at a severe disadvantage, so he demurred, adding, “But thanks for the offer, Sam. You're all heart.”
“I know. And that being the case, I'll tell you one thing that occurred to me. It's my guess your poisoner assumed the prawns and yoghurt would get so jumbled together in the victim's stomach we wouldn't be able to tell precisely where the poison was introduced, especially without the help of an obviously poisoned yoghurt pot. The poisoner probably hoped we'd concentrate on the prawns and whoever had the opportunity to tamper with them yesterday. If he—or she—was lucky and deliberately out of the office on the day he died, they might expect to be removed from the list of suspects altogether.”
“And would you say that was a reasonable expectation for the killer to have?”
“Reasonable enough for a layman. As long as the victim ate the yoghurt immediately after the prawns.”
Rafferty brightened. At least they could check who had been out of the office yesterday. It might give them a helpful pointer. “Thanks Sam. You've certainly given me plenty of food for thought.”
“Well, while you're chewing on it, a word of advice.”
“What's that?”
“Don't eat the yoghurt.”
When Llewellyn returned to the office after getting in touch with Barstaple's previous temporary employers, Rafferty told him Dally's post-mortem findings. “Sam suggested the killer was probably hoping to confuse the issue by putting the poison in the yoghurt rather than Barstaple's main lunch dish. What do you think?”
“It's something to be considered,” replied Llewellyn with his usual caution. “It's possible, of course, as Dr Dally inferred, that the person who poisoned him wasn't in the office yesterday. Equally, it could be that whoever killed him just wanted to spread suspicion by making it look as if the poison could have been introduced to the food on another day. On similar lines, maybe the location of the murder was chosen to confuse. Was he killed in his office because his murderer either didn't know where he lived or was unable to gain access? Or because, for the killer, the location of the murder held symbolic significance?”
Rafferty sighed. “Don't go getting all psychological on me,” he pleaded. “At least, not this early in the case.” He'd already overdosed on ancient Greeks and Romans. The last thing he wanted was the not-so-ancient Freud and Niesc—Nits—whatever his name was—getting in on the act.
Ignoring the interruption, Llewellyn went on. “Then again, for all we know, we're crediting the killer with more intelligence than they possess. Maybe they just put the poison into whatever food was available at a time they were available to administer it and were prepared to await results.”
“Light blue touch-paper and retire, hey?” Rafferty grinned. “But if that's the case, why not wait for a more convenient time and a wider choice of foodstuffs in which to put the poison? It would have the advantage of spreading suspicion, too.”
Llewellyn shrugged. “I doubt they'd have chosen to put the poison on the prawns, anyway. Barstaple would surely have noticed if the prawns suddenly gained a sauce, however minute.”
“I suppose so.”
“We've so far more or less assumed that it was one of Barstaple's colleagues who killed him. But we ought to give more consideration to the possibility that someone unconnected with his work hated him and that, as Dr Dally suggested, the victim brought in yoghurt that had already been poisoned. Such a killer could have found a willing accomplice in the office to swap the pots in the wastebin. We mustn't forget that we're taking about a man with a strong talent for making enemies. Maybe he made use of his ‘let them hate, provided they fear’ philosophy at home, too.”
Rafferty shook his head. “Maybe he would have done,” he said. “But, luckily for us, he didn't have anyone at home.” He had already instigated enquiries about Barstaple's living arrangements. Unfortunately, the neighbours had known little about him. There had been no sign of a wife or other live-in partner at Barstaple's home. Of course, he might had had some more casual arrangement which would reveal itself in due course—but a casual lover was unlikely to be a killing kind of lover, certainly not of the premeditated kind as Barstaple's killer had been.
The search of Barstaple's home had failed to find his lap-top computer. Rafferty made a mental note to question Aimhurst's staff about it; if he had been using it at his office on the day of his murderer someone would surely have noticed.
Tired yesterday evening, he hadn't noticed the loose sheet of paper tucked between the personnel files, so Llewellyn hadn't had the opportunity to learn more about the victim. But now, Rafferty handed him the PR puff about Barstaple's business consultancy service, which Gallagher must have thought they'd find helpful. Pity he hadn't mentioned it at the time, Rafferty had thought when he found it.
In it, along with his educational background and qualifications, Barstaple had boasted of being a bachelor, having no ties, no wife or child to make demands on him.
Rafferty thought it strange that Alistair Plumley hadn't been aware of the fact. But then, he reasoned, Plumley hadn't struck him as a man to be overly concerned with the workers’ private lives, certainly not when the worker in question was a hired consultant like Barstaple.
Barstaple's handout displayed no false modesty when it went on to proclaim that, as he was only 28, his energy was considerable and he would be able to devote it all to his work.
As Llewellyn handed back the PR puff, Rafferty added, “Of course, he could have lied about his marital status, simply to make himself look an even more attractive proposition to potential clients. But, until we can check further, we'll take him at his word that he's not only currently single, but hasn't even got a messy divorce in his recent past. Which, if confirmed, will make our job a little easier, particularly as you remarked that poisoning is most often thought of as a woman's crime.” He paused for a moment. “To get back to the yoghurts. We'll have to check out where and when he bought them and when he brought them into the office. Even if Sam's right and someone bought identical yoghurt and added the poison at their leisure, it doesn't really matter for our purposes. If, for the moment, we discount the possibility of an accomplice, it's who had the opportunity to swap the yoghurts in the wastebin that will lead us to our murderer.”
Rafferty glanced down at Barstaple's PR puff. It said he had left university seven years earlier after following a business studies course. He'd come out of it with Honours. “Must have been the last time Barstaple came out of anything with honours,” he commented as he tapped the relevant section.
Barstaple had provided Watts And Cutley with glowing testimonials from half a dozen previous clients and, to judge from what Alistair Plumley had said, was evidently regarded as a high-flyer, a term Rafferty viewed with distaste. In his experience, high-flyers were often people who would do anything to get ahead. The term always made him wonder about the poor sods such high-flyers used as a launch-pad.
Since finding the PR puff, Rafferty had made a few enquiries and discovered that Barstaple had set himself up two years previously as a consultant, a troubleshooter, an expert who hired himself out to firms who wished to rationalize. It was a business he ran from home. He had obviously excelled at the role as he had gone from strength to strength. Of course, the times they lived in meant Barstaple's particular expertise was in demand. Firms were being rationalized, people de-hired all over the place.
Rafferty shivered as a stout policeman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Superintendent Bradley walked over his grave. If Bradley discovered the real provenance of Llewellyn's wedding suit, being de-hired was t
he least he could expect. With a determined shrug, he dismissed the thought and turned back to the matter in hand.
After filling Llewellyn in on the rest of his discoveries, Rafferty returned to the Welshman's earlier comment. “Of course, it's possible Barstaple crossed swords with a neighbour.” He grinned, “Or maybe he picked a fight with the milkman over the bill.” He had been more than half-joking about the latter, but now he added, “That's a thought. Barstaple didn't live far from Aimhurst's offices. It might be an idea to find out if the same milkman delivers there as delivers in the neighbourhood of his home.”
In an attempt to divert his mind from the many problems besetting it, Rafferty joked, “What a turn-up it would be if our vengeful killer turned out to be his friendly neighbourhood milkman, clutching a pint of gold top in one hand and a poisoned carton of yoghurt in the other.”
It was pretty unlikely, Rafferty admitted to himself. Still, if they failed to find a receipt for the yoghurt's purchase, that could explain the reason why. If Barstaple's milkman was anything like Rafferty's, his bills would be masterpieces of brevity and consist of nothing more than the date and a total amount due written in bold strokes that discouraged argument.
“One point about your murdering milkman, sir.”
“What's that?”
“He might be in an ideal position to poison the yoghurt, but would he be able to swap cartons and remove the poisoned one from Barstaple's office?”
“Possibly, if our poisoning milkman had an accomplice as you assumed a murdering lover might have. Let's face it, our victim seems the kind of man who would cause the most unlikely alliances against him.”
“Anyway, it shouldn't be difficult to find out where he bought the yoghurt.,” said Llewellyn. “The receipt might still be in his flat.”
Rafferty nodded. “Better get some more officers round there. I want his place given an even more thorough going-over, not only for that receipt, but also for that rationalization report he was preparing for Alistair Plumley. His lap-top might have gone missing, but there's a fair chance he printed the report out and it's somewhere in his home. Tell Lilley.”
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