Either way, they'd have to question him again. They'd have to question them all again. Certainly, vindictive or not, as far as it went, Amy Glossop's evidence had the ring of truth. It had narrowed the odds considerably and gave them a fighting chance of finding Barstaple The Bastard's killer. Wasn't that a stroke of luck? Rafferty wryly asked himself.
Ross Arnold, the boss of Allways Contract Cleaners, the firm that supplied Aimhurst's cleaning staff, was a superficially friendly man of about 35. Broad, with a too-easy smile, his apparently open manner appeared designed to disarm.
As soon as he entered Arnold's office and saw the set-up, Rafferty suspected that the task of clearing a few names off his suspects’ list wasn't going to be quite as simple as he'd hoped. Because Allways struck Rafferty as one of those fly-by-night concerns that were always one step ahead of the taxman. Its one-room office was situated above a dry-cleaners and housed a mobile phone, a scratched, secondhand desk and a card-index box. That was it. Its location, close to the railway station, was also indicative of the wide boy nature of Arnold's operation. The location would ensure a quick flit should the inland revenue start showing an interest.
His suspicions were almost immediately confirmed. After asking for background details of those of his employees who worked at Aimhursts, Arnold did his best to oblige, but it was obvious that the man's best would fall far short of requirements.
He opened his card index file with a great show of willingness, but the sparsity of information it contained made it only too plain that his workers were of the more casual sort.
“Is this all you have, Mr Arnold,” Llewellyn asked quietly. “Where are your payroll records for instance?”
Arnold, of course, had his answer off pat. “They're with my accountant. It's my year end, you see. I like to have everything nicely squared off.”
I just bet you do, thought Rafferty, who recognised a wide-boy when he saw one. “Perhaps we can have the name of this accountant,” he suggested dryly.
Rather to his surprise, Arnold supplied a name. Unsurprisingly, the name of Arnold's finance man was one of that breed of accountants at the less salubrious end of the adding and subtracting echelon. He was also one who had more addresses than the Queen. “And where might we find Mr Cohen this week?”
“I believe he's away at the moment,” Arnold told them. “Got a villa in Spain, I understand.”
With all the rest of the Costa Crooks presumably. “How convenient. Going to work on your tax return during his hols, was he?”
Arnold shrugged.
Rafferty thought he was going to have to come the hard man. But Llewellyn, that man of stern principles and even sterner morals saved him the trouble. Of course, the Welshman had the advantage of actually caring that the taxman was being defrauded.
“That's simply not good enough, Mr Arnold,” Llewellyn told him. “We're in the middle of a murder enquiry. We need information about the staff who worked at Aimhursts and we need it now.”
Arnold protested. “Most of my workers are casuals, drifters, students and the like. They come and they go.” He threw his hands in the air as if to seek their sympathy as he tried to justify himself. “What can I do? I have to employ what I can get. It means I have little information on any of them; often just a name and a contact number.” He shrugged, as much as to imply that, left to himself, he would prefer to run a more stable business.
Rafferty doubted it. It seemed likely that anyone who wanted a job without too many questions being asked would find one here with few problems, with cash in hand and no paperwork. As he'd had a few jobs like that in his youth, Rafferty was in no position to put the moral boot in. Not so Llewellyn.
“And would some of these casuals be illegal immigrants, Mr Arnold? Desperate people who'll work for whatever pittance you choose to pay them? Some people would call you a parasite.”
“Now look here,” Arnold blustered. “I don't…“
“No. You look,” Llewellyn told him sharply. “Among your records or in your memory. I don't care which. We both know that the cleaning staff at Aimhursts were among your more long-standing employees. You shouldn't find it too difficult to supply a few meagre details.”
Arnold blustered and wriggled a while longer, but Llewellyn was implacable. Rafferty admired Llewellyn's staunch principles. The trouble was he'd admire them a whole lot more if they weren't likely soon to be directed at him. Because Arnold wasn't the only one currently trying to wriggle his way out of a predicament. When Superintendent Bradley found out about his Ma and her “bargain” suit, he and Llewellyn would be labelled with far harder names than “parasite”. Bent coppers, for instance.
Rafferty sighed and wondered why life always had to be so difficult. “Perhaps, Mr Arnold, while you're thinking about the names of the staff that my colleague has requested, you'll answer another question.”
“If I can.” Arnold's ready smile was becoming frayed around the edges.
“This one shouldn't tax you too much,” he reassured. “It was just a question of your receipts and their nature. I suppose we can take it that the firms you have contracts with all pay by cheque?” From the look on Arnold's face the answer to this was likely to land him in another predicament. Rafferty could almost feel sorry for the man.
Arnold eased the shirt collar from around his fat neck as if he suddenly found it too tight. “Not always. I er. I generally manage to come to some arrangement.”
I just bet you do, thought Rafferty. He forced himself to put aside all thoughts of the ”there but for the grace of” variety and pushed for answers. Anyway, he'd never liked euphemisms. He always preferred to get things nice and clear. “Bungs, you mean? Cash payments and backhanders to the accountant, manager or whoever has responsibility for office maintenance? To whoever's able to authorise such cash payments and is willing to do so without asking a lot of difficult questions? Is that the arrangement you usually come to?”
Arnold's gaze moved shiftily between them. But it was apparent he expected no understanding from Llewellyn and he fastened on Rafferty's more charitable mien. However, it seemed Arnold wasn't prepared to commit himself to the folly of a verbal answer even to Rafferty. He restricted himself to a silent, hands widespread, “What can you do?” gesture.
Rafferty tapped the card index box. “How are you doing on the details of your staff? Has your memory come back yet?”
Arnold nodded miserably. His easy smile had by now inexplicably vanished. As, no doubt, had half Arnold's illegal workforce once they'd heard about the murder.
“Good. I shall also need a list of your previous staff. And that means all of them; permanent, casuals, come-day-go-days, illegals, moonlighters, dole cheats, the lot. Any that ever worked at Aimhurst And Son or for Watts And Cutley or any of their subsidiaries. How many would that cover?”
“A few,” Arnold admitted.
“How many's a few?” demanded Llewellyn. “Five? Six? Ten?”
Arnold waxed indignant. “Certainly not that many. I only got the Aimhurst contract a few months ago and I've never supplied any workers to Watts And Cutley.”
“However many there are we want their details.” After he had thrust a pen into Arnold's hand and watched him get started, Rafferty reasoned that any one of them could have talked their way past Albert Smith. Any one of them might have been sacked by Barstaple in the past; this would often be the line of work they'd end up in. He recalled he'd had doubts about Ada Collins who had denied ever meeting Clive Barstaple. Now he asked Arnold what he knew of her.
Arnold paused mid-scribble. Out of all Arnold's workforce, it seemed that Ada Collins was one of the honest ones. She even declared her earnings to the taxman, Arnold confided. “I inherited her when I bought the business,” he explained. “She'd worked for my predecessor for years. Why do you want to know about her, particularly,” he asked, apparently feeling now that he'd been so helpful and all that he was entitled to ask a few questions. Suddenly, he grinned. “Don't tell me you suspect Honest
Ada of murder? That would be a turn-up.”
Rafferty declined to share the joke. “We've already got the current addresses for Eric Penn, Ada Collins and Mrs Chakraburty, so why don't we start with Dot Flowers and go on from there?” Aware that he might not get a second chance, Rafferty was determined to stay until he got the information he wanted.
Ross Arnold scowled. “I'm trying, aren't I?” He sat back. “It's no good. I can't remember. Anyway, even if I could, she wouldn't be at home. According to Ada Collins, she went up to Birmingham to nursemaid her sick son. I don't expect her back this week.”
Or next week or any time at all, Raffferty silently tacked on. It was evident that Arnold would be surprised if he saw either Mrs Flowers or Mrs Chakraburty again. Such interest in them by any form of authority was not something such casual workers would relish.
“You must have a contact number, man.”
Arnold began to flip through his card index box. He frowned and his flipping became increasingly anxious.
“Don't tell me,” said Rafferty. “Her index card's not there. What a surprise.”
Apparently it was a surprise to Arnold as well. He had started to sweat, Rafferty noticed. Great, dark patches had appeared under his meaty arms and his forehead glistened like morning dew.
Grabbing the box from him, Rafferty checked for himself. Neither Mrs Flowers’ nor Mrs Chakraburty's cards were there. Guessing that a man like Arnold would find a good memory an asset, he suggested it would be in his interest to employ it. “If not, I'm sure the Social and the Immigration people would be only too willing to help you remember those contact numbers.” Not to mention the Inland Revenue, Customs and Excise and the Council BusinessTax bods.
It appeared that Arnold wouldn't need their assistance after all. He remembered the women's contact numbers with no problem at all. They were probably used by a number of his workers; such things got passed around.
Rafferty smiled. He hadn't been keen to seek the help of other government departments. He didn't want them tramping all over his investigation if he could help it. Fortunately, Arnold didn't know that.
“You said you only got the contract at Aimhursts a short time ago,” Llewellyn broke in. “How long ago, exactly?”
“Three months.”
Rafferty raised his eyebrows and commented, “Interesting. That's when Clive Barstaple started there.”
Arnold said nothing.
“He was a friend of yours, I take it?”
“Hardly a friend.” Arnold was becoming shifty again. “More an acquaintance. A business acquaintance.”
“And did you have one of your little arrangements with Clive Barstaple at Aimhursts?” Rafferty asked.
Arnold was quick to deny it. But Rafferty had been expecting the denial and he didn't miss the brief spurt of alarm in Arnold's shifty hazel eyes. He would want to distance himself as much as he could from the murder victim. He was already far too close for comfort and being implicated in crooked deals with the dead man wasn't likely to decrease the proximity.
Rafferty suspected that Arnold might find it convenient to do another flit pretty soon. He wasn't too worried about that. Of course, he'd have to be checked out, but somehow he didn't think Arnold likely to go in for murder; certainly not that of someone like Barstaple. Arnold would prefer his victims to be weak and vulnerable like his illegal casual workers and no-one—apart possibly from Llewellyn—could call Barstaple either.
Still, Rafferty took the time to take a statement from him as to his whereabouts on Wednesday and warned him he'd be watched so not to think of leaving town. Though he doubted Arnold would be taken in by such a warning for long. A man who worked on the wrong side of half-a-dozen laws would soon realize police funds didn't stretch to such 24 hour watches. But he was hopeful that Arnold wouldn't detect the lack of a tail till they'd checked his alibi.
“What an appalling man,” Llewellyn burst out when they were in the car and on their way back to the station.
Rafferty was surprised that Llewellyn hadn't found some easy excuse for Arnold's less pleasant character traits. After all, he'd managed to excuse Barstaple's with little difficulty. He glanced at Llewellyn and sighed when he saw that the Welshman was wearing his po-faced moral look.
“To think he's probably been running that business under our noses for months, flouting the law and getting away with it.”
Usually, Llewellyn kept his personal feelings out of an investigation, but it seemed he'd decided to make an exception in Ross Arnold's case. Rafferty soon learned why.
“If there's one thing I find contemptible it's people who think the law's only for others to obey. And like Arnold, they're generally full of mealy-mouthed excuses for their behaviour.”
Rafferty slunk down in his seat and just managed to swallow the groan. It was the first time Llewellyn had expressed such an opinion. Isn't it just my luck? he sighed, that Llewellyn's particular hobby-horse should be the very thing that brings me most grief.
Few of Rafferty's family considered buying iffy “bargains” a crime and indulged in such purchases frequently. His Ma, unfortunately, had a particular weakness in this regard and refused to give it up no matter how much or how often he pleaded with her to do so. On the contrary, she always defended her actions vigorously. Every time he had reminded her that she was breaking the law, she had pooh-poohed him and told him that he should be out catching real criminals instead of browbeating his poor defenceless mother.
If only he could have confessed Ma's little failings to Llewellyn. But his sergeant had put the kibosh on that all right. To do such a thing now would be asking for trouble. After his outburst on morality, Llewellyn might feel it his duty to shop ma. And if he did, who was to say what might not be the outcome? It wouldn't surprise him if she decided to come clean and bring a load of previous to be taken into considerations into the equation.
The merest suspicion of wrongdoing could be enough to wreck his and Llewellyn's careers. And the iffy suit provided a damn sight more than mere suspicion. It would certainly be enough for Superintendent Bradley to throw the book at him. Bradley would think his numbers had come up on the national lottery; it was unlikely he would stop at charging Ma with receiving. Before he finished, he'd have the entire Rafferty clan implicated and in the charge room.
Rafferty, never good at concealing his feelings at the best of times, had made little enough effort at hiding his contempt for his superintendent and his brown-nosing at Region. It was unfortunate that Bradley had finally sussed that the pleasingly apt acronym Rafferty had supplied last year for the Super's latest public relations scam—Politeness in Interaction with Members of the Public—PIMP for short—had been far from accidental.
But what did he expect when his public relations efforts were only done to save money? The trouble was, of course, that being made to look a prat was unlikely to encourage the quality of mercy in the Super. More likely it would bring the quality of insistence on the pound of flesh to the fore.
Llewellyn, tarred with the brush of being his partner, could expect no mercy either. But then, for once, he didn't seem all that keen on dishing it out. Like a hell-fire preacher, he was still pounding Rafferty's ears from the pulpit of the passenger seat.
“That man should be exposed to the authorities, the Inland Revenue, for instance. If only to make it more difficult for him to set up his grubby business elsewhere.”
Rafferty nodded absently and abandoned any idea of confessing Ma's sins to Llewellyn. The penance would obviously be more than a few Hail Marys. With Plan A out of the running, he'd better concentrate on finding a Plan B and fast. His options weren't the only things that were rapidly reducing. Time wasn't on his side either.
The address given by Mrs Chakraburty proved to be false. On investigating the contact numbers supplied by Ross Arnold they discovered they belonged to corner shops; presumably their owners made additional income from providing message services for the local illegals and dole cheats.
And alt
hough Rafferty pressed them, he had to accept that the Asian families who ran the stores knew little more about either Mrs Chakraburty or Mrs Flowers than he did. All he did know was that the women usually popped in once or twice a day to see if they had any messages about work. As there seemed to be little chance that either woman would be stupid enough to continue to do so, it was a dead end, though he warned the shopkeeper concerned to let him know if either woman showed up.
He was hopeful that Birmingham would have more luck in tracing Mrs Flowers, at least. With any luck, her troublesome son was going to cause her even more problems by making her inconveniently accessible. As for Mrs Chakraburty, Rafferty suspected they had seen the last of her.
Arnold had insisted that, apart from Mrs Chakraburty and the several cleaners who had let him down right at the beginning of the contract, the cleaners at Aimhursts had all worked there for most, if not all of the three months he had held the contract. Only Dot Flowers had started later.
Rafferty, disinclined to believe anything the man said, intended to check Arnold's story with the two workers who remained—Ada Collins and Eric Penn. He half hoped Arnold had been telling fibs. It would be some satisfaction to haul the man into the station and give him a proper grilling.
Meanwhile, unable to stop scratching at the scab, as they got back in the car after questioning the last shopkeeper, Rafferty glanced across at Llewellyn and asked, “How's Maureen's mother getting on with those wedding lists, then? All done?”
Llewellyn gave a tiny moue. “I'm afraid not. Unfortunately, my future mother-in-law's trouble is that she doesn't know when to stop. Maureen and I are going over there tonight to try to make her see that a grand reception for four hundred is out of the question.”
The normally imperturbable Welshman had a decidedly hunted look. Rafferty felt a tiny spasm of guilt that he should be pleased this wedding was causing problems for someone other than himself. Llewellyn's repressed personality and Methodist upbringing would, he was sure, find the thought of such excess thoroughly distasteful.
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