Absolute Poison

by Evans, Geraldine

  They had already checked the victim's coat pockets and those of the clothes he had been wearing when he died and there had been neither receipt nor report either in them or his desk. Rafferty had left Jonathon Lilley to continue the search at Barstaple's home yesterday evening, but he had so far failed to find either item. “You've got Barstaple's car keys?”

  Llewellyn nodded.

  “Make sure the vehicle's checked over as well.” Gallagher had told them it was the Porsche still in the reserved bay at Aimhurst's premises. “Makes you think, doesn't it?”

  “What does, sir?”

  “This line the church peddles about the meek inheriting the earth. Seems to me the only earth the meek inherit is the clods of the stuff that covers their coffins. It's human manure like Clive Barstaple who get the spoils.”

  “Much good it did him in the end,” Llewellyn observed.

  “Maybe so,” Rafferty murmured. “But I still wouldn't have minded that Porsche, especially as, if my old religious teacher's to be believed, lapsed Catholics like yours truly aren't reckoned to have much chance of booty in the hereafter either. According to her, I'm more likely to end up getting my bum pricked by the devil's pitchfork for eternity. She was another believer in that adage of yours about letting them hate as long as they feared. The old bat could have given Barstaple lessons.”

  Religion was another subject Llewellyn had learned it best to avoid and he maintained a discreet silence until Rafferty returned to the matter in hand.

  “One more thing we need to check out is just how tight their security was. I admit it looks pretty impressive, but security is only as good as the human factor providing it. That guard at the desk must pee occasionally, so he presumably leaves the desk unmanned. And we know there's no guard on the premises at night. Did you find out who holds keys to the place?”

  Llewellyn nodded. “Alfred Smith, the usual guard from Guardian Security, has one set, as you know. He locks up as soon as the cleaners have finished. The only other people with keys were the victim himself, Gallagher the deputy manager and Alistair Plumley.”

  “Right. We'll need to find out if any of those sets of keys were lost or misplaced recently. We also need to find out if there's a spare set and if so, where they're kept. Perhaps you'd get Hanks to look into that while I finish going through these files?”

  Llewellyn nodded again and went out.

  When Rafferty had finished going through the staff records, he pulled some sheets of paper towards him and started to make a list.

  After writing ‘Things To Do’ in his best writing at the top, he paused, waiting for further inspiration. As usual, when it came to paperwork inspiration was slow in coming and his mind began to wander.

  They had yet to find the yoghurt pot containing the poison; he'd had all the rubbish searched as a matter of routine and, although there had been other empty yoghurt pots, a strawberry flavour one hadn't been amongst them.. He frowned as he tried to figure out if there might not be another reason other than the one Sam had suggested for the killer to substitute the poisoned pot for a normal one but he couldn't come up with anything. Probably, it was as Dally had suggested, and that, if it meant anything at all, it was that the killer was merely trying to ensure that the yoghurt was found innocent.

  Rafferty gave himself a mental shake, grasped his pen firmly and wrote:

  1. Find out who was in the victim's office after, say, one o'clock in the afternoon, by which time, at the earliest, Barstaple would presumably have consumed the yoghurt and discarded the pot in his bin.

  2. Of particular relevance to the above, find out if anyone was in Barstaple's office alone at any time that afternoon and had the opportunity to retrieve the poisoned yoghurt pot and substitute it—presumably, Barstaple, too, made occasional visits to the lavatory, so was likely to have left his office empty at least once that afternoon.

  3. Find out which members of staff were the last to leave on Wednesday evening as the same opportunity as in 2 would have been available to them.

  4. Check if any more informal visitors came to the offices that day.

  Having made a start, Rafferty sat back. That carton of yoghurt was, he felt, the key to the case. If they could pinpoint who had the opportunity to remove it he was pretty certain they'd find the killer, too. Or at the very least an accomplice.

  Pleased with his efforts, Rafferty began on another list; this one of those who were known to have been alone in the victim's office at the relevant times.

  At the top he wrote the name of Ada Collins, the contract cleaning supervisor. Beside her name, he put the work ‘unlikely’. She didn't work for Watts And Cutley, so unless she had been one of those rationalized by him in an earlier episode, she had been safe from Barstaple’ particular brand of nastiness. Furthermore, she had claimed never to have met the man. Rafferty still considered that unlikely. In his consultancy capacity, Barstaple had been the acting manager and earned a tidy sum if the brand new Porsche was anything to go by. He'd hardly pack up dead on 5.30 every single evening and, according to both Gallagher and Eric Penn, he hadn't done so.

  He made another note against Ada Collins’ name, a reminder to check her background, then paused again. Before he sat back, he added the same against the names of the other contract cleaning staff.

  He gazed happily at his neat lists for a few moments, before he remembered they were only a start. And as he thought of all the other checking that lay ahead he slumped in his chair. Maybe it wasn't too late even now to follow his uncles, cousins, and brothers into the building trade? Of course, Superintendent Bradley might yet make the decision for him and give him a shove in the direction of such an alternative career—as a trustie in a prison carpentry shop. But Rafferty immediately put that thought aside. Dafyd Llewellyn was a cautious soul, so it was hardly an imminent danger. The wedding suit would hang in the closet for a year or two yet, gathering moths and dust and—with a bit of luck—the label ‘unfashionable’ to boot. It was a comforting thought and cheered Rafferty immeasurably.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “By the way,” Llewellyn said as they got in the car much later that morning and headed for Aimhurst And Son's offices to interview the staff. “We were too busy earlier for me to mention it, but Maureen and I have set a date and venue for our wedding.”

  Rafferty's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He had congratulated himself too soon. The fates had obviously decided to make an example of him. Llewellyn's news meant the iffy suit had a definite date set for its airing. It explained why Llewellyn had been throwing out so many high-minded quotes. Rafferty had noticed their number went up or down according to whether Llewellyn was happy or miserable.

  Still, not to panic, he told himself. Knowing Llewellyn's no-rush mentality, the date was probably months away. He managed to choke out his congratulations.

  Llewellyn gave him one of the tiny smiles that were the equivalent of a huge grin from anyone else and confided, “It was what you said that prompted us.”

  Me and my big mouth, thought Rafferty. He prayed he'd get laryngitis next time he felt tempted to give advice against his own best interests. Conscious that his ready tongue had got him into enough trouble already, he managed to avoid giving voice to another of the opinions that were always ready to trip off its tip. Admittedly, it was pretty unromantic to arrange your wedding date right at the start of a murder enquiry, but he was damned if he was going to be the one to say so. He thought he'd said more than enough on the subject of marriage already.

  “Yes,” Llewellyn added. “We've been thinking seriously about it and finally made up our minds. We've compromised on a register office ceremony and will ask our respective churches for blessings afterwards. Maureen had a day off today and went to Elmhurst Register Office to make the arrangements. She rang me just before we left the office to let me know that the date at least is organised.”

  Rafferty tried to look pleased at the news. After all, he had been the one to get the romance off the ground. He
immediately crunched the gears. To cover his gaffe, he attempted a joke. “So, when is it? Christmas five years hence?” Llewellyn had a well- deserved reputation for caution. Rafferty had relied on it, dammit. “Remind me to put a note in my five-year diary.”

  “It's a little earlier than that, actually. It's March. March 29th this year.” Llewellyn paused. “You know, I haven't been in a Marks And Spencer store for some years. I know they have a reputation for quality, but I didn't realize before that it extended to superior suits at reasonable prices. You should ask your mother to look out for a new one there for you.” Rafferty sensed the pained glance Llewellyn directed at his old brown suit. “You'll want to look smart for the wedding, especially as Superintendent Bradley's been invited.”

  A chilly breeze seemed to flutter around Rafferty's heart at Llewellyn's latest revelation. The fates were really going for the jugular this time. The news about Bradley was all he needed. “Long-Pockets’ Bradley could price anything at a hundred yards, and if Llewellyn wore his iffy suit Bradley would be bound to ask where he'd got it. No way would he be taken in by the fake Marks And Sparks tag. “Who decided to invite him?”

  “Maureen's mother. When Maureen rang her to tell her the news she was so pleased her mother didn't quibble about it being a civil ceremony that she agreed to let her make a start on the invitation list.” Llewellyn directed another of his little smiles at Rafferty. “I gather Superintendent Bradley was the first name she thought of. She's already dropped his invitation round. She knows him from the Masons’ dinner dances. Apparently, Maureen's father's a member.”

  I might have known it, Rafferty thought. Maureen's mother, Claire Tyler-Jenkins as was, snob and social-climber second to none, would consider it as natural as breathing that, with ambitions to the future, she should invite her prospective son-in-law's big white chief to the wedding. Why didn't that possibility occur to me? he asked himself with dismay. He hadn't exactly endeared himself to the old man and for months Bradley had been looking for a reason to get rid of him. He was unlikely to worry if the means to that end put paid to Llewellyn's career as well as his own.

  Absorbed in his plans, Llewellyn rattled on happily, oblivious to the consternation he had caused. Rafferty heard not a word. A heart-thumping panic had blocked most of his senses and his automatic pilot took over the driving. It wasn't difficult for him to imagine the sequence of events after Bradley learned not only of the bargain basement price of the wedding suit and its claimed and unlikely provenance, but that his ma had supplied it. He stifled a groan. The Marks And Sparks label wouldn't fool him for a minute, suspicious-minded git that he was. Somehow Rafferty doubted St Michael would extend his saintly protection under such circumstances. Visions of interrogations, suspension, court rooms and prison chased one another remorselessly across his inner vision; not just for him, but for Llewellyn as well. It would certainly get his and Maureen's marriage off to a flying start.

  Preoccupied by this uncomfortable thought, Rafferty turned off the roundabout into Aimhurst And Son's forecourt, parked and got out before the still chatty Llewellyn had time to notice his distracted air.

  Constable Smales was on the door, his boyish complexion still green-tinged from his recent post-mortem attendance. Rafferty, at the moment feeling empathy with all the troubled souls in the world—even Smales—spared him a sympathetic glance.

  Smales told him that, as he had requested, the employees had been gathered in the ground floor staff room to await his arrival. Rafferty could, of course, have contacted them the previous evening and told them to stay at home, but he had felt it would be more helpful to the case to get them together on the premises and, hopefully, talking revealingly to one another.

  Rafferty nodded at Smales and walked into the reception area. Hal Gallagher was hovering beside WPC Liz Green and immediately he opened the staff room door for Rafferty to enter.

  As soon as he stepped into the room, Rafferty felt the tension in the air. He had warned Hal Gallagher and Albert Smith the security guard to say nothing to the staff about the murder as he wanted to gauge their reactions when they learned of it. Although he suspected it was too much to hope that the murderer—if he did turn out to be one of the staff—would react in an obvious way, there might just be something.

  But if any of the staff harboured an emotion stronger than curiosity it was well concealed. Of course, with so many police officers on the premises they would be aware that something major had occurred.

  As he gazed round at the faces Rafferty could discern nothing more than a heightened excitement at this interesting change to the normal routine, plus an expectation that he was the man who would provide the answers. Nobody looked guilty, fearful or even remorseful. Of course it was reasonable that whoever had killed Barstaple felt no guilt or remorse. After all, if the victim had been a dog he'd have been put down years ago as being too mean-spirited and spiteful.

  Apart from Gallagher, all four of the remaining office staff were present and each of them stared at him with varying degrees of curiosity.

  “Are you going to tell us what's going on?” A young blonde woman demanded. “Nobody will tell us anything.” She glanced round at her colleagues and her, “I think we've a right to know,” brought several agreeing nods.

  She was an attractive girl with a sensitive oval face, shapely figure and a gleaming bob. Rafferty automatically straightened his shoulders and sucked in what Sam Dally insisted was the beginnings of a paunch. “I'm sorry,” he said. “And you are Miss-?”

  “Luscombe. Linda Luscombe.

  Rafferty flipped open his notebook, but wasn't surprised to discover that he was unable to decipher his scrawled notes.

  Llewellyn came to his rescue and extracted the required information from his own notes which he had efficiently and speedily lifted from the staff files before they had left the office. “Miss Luscombe is here on work-experience from the local college, sir.”

  Hal Gallagher stepped forward. “Perhaps I should get the introductions out of the way?” At Rafferty's nod, he worked his way round the room, naming each of the staff. He finished with Rafferty and Llewellyn and introduced them in turn.

  Now that the formalities were over the staff stared at him impatiently. “Right,” said Rafferty. “I'd better start by telling you why you've all been gathered to wait in your own staff room.” Bluntly, he told them, ”I'm afraid there's been a murder on the premises.”

  This produced gasps of astonishment and a certain amount of ghoulish thrill though nothing more suspicious as far as Rafferty could judge. He waited for the excited buzz to die down before adding, “Mr Clive Barstaple was found dead in his office yesterday evening.”

  This shocked them and it was a few seconds before the questions came at him.

  “How?”

  “Who did it?”

  “When exactly?”

  Nobody asked “why?”, Rafferty noted.

  After the first shocked questions a more wary silence took over. From the covert glances it was clear they were examining motives, opportunities, possible alibis. He guessed the last point might pose them a few problems. As he had already concluded, in this investigation the time of death was of less significance than was usually the case. It was who had had the opportunity to doctor the yoghurt pot, or more importantly, substitute it that were the questions here. He doubted any of them would have an alibi that covered the entire time from its purchase, its placing in the fridge—the timing of both of which they had still to establish—and its consumption and the substitution of the discarded pot for another.

  Linda Luscombe at nineteen had the resilience of youth and recovered far more quickly from the news than her middle-aged colleagues.

  “Are we allowed to know how he died?”

  Rafferty could see no reason not to tell them. They were likely to find out soon enough from the security guard. “He was poisoned, Miss Luscombe.”

  The colour drained from her face. “God. I shared Clive's—Mr Barstaple's
lunch yesterday. If it was in that whoever killed Clive might have murdered me as well.”

  Her claim was confirmed by Bob Harris, a grey-faced, worried-looking man of about 50. “That's true. They were both eating in his office around 12.30. I-I had intended to take my lunch from 12 till one,” he rambled on. “But Mr Barstaple called me into his office just as I was going for lunch. I was with him till just after 12.30 and decided not to bother going out after all.”

  “Oh, Bob, how upsetting for you.” The woman Hal Gallagher had introduced as Amy Glossop had a thin, embittered face. After her comment, she glanced round at the other members of staff as if looking for approval. Instead, she got stony expressions of dislike. It seemed to spur her on. “Of course, I left just before noon and didn't realize you weren't able to meet your wife after all. You poor thing.” The sympathetic smile she directed at Harris appeared designed specifically to turn the knife. It certainly made Bob Harris look sick and caused Linda Luscombe to glare at her, a glare that said “shut up” as clearly as words.

  Amy Glossop gave a glance of injured innocence around the room. “I'm sorry. Have I said something I shouldn't?” The innocence was as patently false as the sympathy. And, as she went artlessly on, sticking the knife in a little deeper, Rafferty wondered what the inoffensive Harris could possibly have done to her.

  “It's just that we all know how much yesterday meant to you. I hope Eileen didn't take it too badly.” Amy Glossop turned to Rafferty and explained, “Bob here had an important date with his estranged wife yesterday lunch time. Such a shame he had to stand her up.”

  Miss Glossop's staff file claimed she was forty-five, Rafferty remembered, but she looked older. And while he thought it possible that someone of Amy Glossop's age could still be naive enough to unwittingly let them know that her colleague had an additional reason to dislike his interim manager, he doubted this was so in her case. There was something about her thin lips and narrowed, bird-bright eyes that told him her comment had been calculated.