Absolute Poison (22 page)

Eric darted a brief glance at him and quickly away again. The rocking recommenced.

Mrs Penn intervened. “Eric. If you know anything about it, I want you to tell these gentlemen.” She paused and added in a sharper tone, “Are you listening to me, Eric?”

He darted an even briefer glance at his mother, then jerked his head up and down several times.

Mrs Penn turned towards them and said quietly, “He'll answer your questions. Only,” her voice dropped lower, “please keep them simple. Otherwise you'll get no good out of him. Any you'll need to ask him direct questions if you want answers. It's no good expecting him to pick up hints. He's never been able to understand them. I know.”

This last was said with feeling and Rafferty nodded to show he had understood. He already knew that talking to Eric was like talking to a small child. And children took everything adults said at face value. They had no appreciation of nuances or subtleties. Eric Penn would be the same.

He took a deep breath and began, conscious that if Llewellyn was right, what Eric told them might lead to a killer. “You remember Wednesday evening, Eric? The evening Mr Barstaple died?”

Eric shot him another sullen look. “Course I do.”

“That's good. Now, Eric, can you tell me what you remember about that evening? Anything at all.”

Mrs Penn interrupted. “It's no good expecting him to answer general questions like that. I told you, keep it simple. Eric doesn't do descriptions. You'll have to be specific.”

Chastened, Rafferty tried again. He remembered Llewellyn's talk of secrets and asked, “Did anyone ask you to keep a secret that day, Eric?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“You're sure?”

Eric nodded equally as vigorously.

“What about at other times?” Llewellyn put in. “Did anyone ask you to keep a secret at any other time?”

Eric paused, then shook his head again.

Realizing that unless someone had actually specified the word ‘secret’ to Eric, he mightn't think to mention any euphemisms for same, Rafferty tried another tack. “Did anyone ask you not to speak about something you saw?”

This brought another emphatic shake of the head. Their other questions brought no more informative answers. Rafferty was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Llewellyn had been mistaken. Eric Penn knew nothing at all. Even if he had, he looked so unhappy, cornered, tormented that Rafferty doubted he'd have had the heart to continue pressing him. Rafferty was inclined to think they'd been wasting their time. Admittedly, his copper's nose was too distracted to be its usually reliable self, so he couldn't feel certain of this. But as Llewellyn's copper's nose was non-existent and the rest of him permanently infected with the germ of logic, his instincts couldn't be relied on either.

Still, Rafferty told himself as Mrs Penn showed them out, he'd done what Llewellyn wanted and questioned Eric again; was it his fault if it had been the futile exercise he'd expected? Apart from requesting Mrs Penn to continue to probe Eric for anything he might know, Rafferty wasn't prepared to waste any more time on him.

If only my nose was its naturally efficient self, he thought, we might be well on the trail of the murderer by now, almost certainly a double murderer. Unfortunately, his nose was as off-colour as the rest of him, its sniffability to a large extent blocked by other little problems…

They
got back to the office about 10.15. Llewellyn, his nose out of joint, retired for consolation to a spare interview room and his daily stint with his gazetteers.

Rafferty was heading for his own office when Sergeant Beard on the desk shouted after him that he had a visitor. A Mr Alistair Plumley. He'd put him in interview room 1.

Rafferty's surprise at the identity of his visitor was soon overtaken by another; that the previously self-confident Plumley should seem strangely ill at ease. It seemed unlikely to be a feeling with which the boss of Watts And Cutley would be familiar. That he should feel it now made Rafferty curious.

“Did you want to see me about anything important, Mr Plumley?” he asked encouragingly as Plumley seemed reluctant to begin.

Plumley immediately lost his unnatural diffidence. “Only about these.” He pulled an envelope from his inside breast pocket and dropped it on the table between them. “I think you'll agree they could be important. They arrived in the post.”

“They?”

“I suggest you look at them.”

Plumley's voice was tight, and Rafferty stared at him before he opened the envelope. It contained several photos and he pulled them out. As he did so he realized why Plumley was not quite himself. The man was embarrassed. And no wonder. The first sight of the photographs was enough to make Rafferty's toes curl.

The photographs
were of Clive Barstaple and looked as though they had been taken from outside his bedroom window; Rafferty could just detect what looked like a window frame and the edge of a curtain.

Barstaple was dressed up in the bondage gear that Lilley had found, but there was no doubt it was him. His face in the first snap was turned away from the camera, but each succeeding shot showed it turning further towards it as if someone had tapped on the glass to gain his attention. The last shot showed him full face, his expression startled and the beginnings of fear in his eyes.

Rafferty checked the envelope. The postmark was smeared, but he was able to make out that it was a local one. “There was no message with these?” he asked Plumley.

“None was necessary, was it?” Plumley replied. “The message seems obvious to me. Someone was threatening to expose his…peccadilloes. Obviously Barstaple didn't react in the way the sender expected so, to fulfil their presumed threat, they sent copies to me. Probably hoped I'd get rid of him when I saw what he got up to in his leisure hours.”

“When did you say these photos arrived?”

“I didn't say.”

Rafferty waited.

After a few moments, Plumley admitted, “They arrived about a month ago.”

“So why didn't you show them to me immediately after Clive Barstaple was killed?”

Plumley shrugged. “Let's just say I was considering the situation. Anyway, I'm showing them to you now.”

Rafferty suspected Plumley had debated long and hard about the pros and cons of showing them to him at all. He must be aware that if the photographer turned out to have been implicated in Barstaple's murder, there was no way such pictures could be kept secret. There again, Rafferty frowned, it was possible that Plumley wanted to direct his suspicions elsewhere. Maybe he had discovered Barstaple's side deal with Ross Arnold and resented it. Just because Barstaple had claimed during his argument with Hal Gallagher that Plumley was aware of it and had okayed it didn't make it true. But if Barstaple's claim was true it still might have been the case that the dead man had cheated Plumley of his share and Plumley had found out. Who knew what these oh-so-ethical business types got up to?

It was yet another angle to be considered, Rafferty realized with dismay. He gazed appraisingly at Plumley for a few moments before dropping his gaze back to the photographs.

They had yet to check Plumley out thoroughly. On the face of it he was in the clear. Like Ross Arnold's alibi, Plumley's had stood up to initial scrutiny. But he was a wealthy man and well able to bribe his way out of trouble. Apart from any other considerations, Plumley was one of only three people apart from the victim himself to have keys to Aimhurst's premises. He could have visited the offices at any time, disconnected the alarm system with his own set of keys and poisoned Barstaple's food with nobody any the wiser.

There again, Rafferty reminded himself, he would hardly be likely to know much about Barstaple's personal dietary arrangements; it was unlikely he and Barstaple had discussed the finer points of the F Plan or any other diet. As far as Plumley was concerned the food in the fridge could have belonged to any member of staff.

Besides, he couldn't imagine a man like Alistair Plumley murdering one of his own hirelings just because he might have drawn the short straw in one minor crooked deal.

Now Rafferty commented, “I hate to say this, but it's possible that whoever sent you these photographs hadn't attempted to blackmail Barstaple at all. Their aim could have been totally different—using you to get rid of Barstaple. Maybe, after they sent you these photos they tired of waiting for you to break his contract and got rid of him themselves.”

Plumley nodded. “I have to agree it's a bit of a coincidence that Barstaple should be murdered a mere month after I received them. I can't believe there's no connection.”

Neither could Rafferty.

A few minutes later he escorted Plumley downstairs and made for his office. He spread the photos out on his desk and gazed at them again. As he did so, into his mind came a picture of the display of photos in Aimhurst's staff room. Like these, they were crisp, sharp, professional. He knew Albert Smith, the Guardian Security guard had taken them. Had he taken these, too?”

Rafferty shook his head. What possible motive could he have? Further digging had made clear that Smith had never been a victim of Barstaple's previous rationalizing. And, although Smith's shifty denial that he had heard Barstaple shout for help was curious, Rafferty doubted Smith would have had the opportunity to get to know Barstaple well enough to discover such secrets as the photographs revealed. And even if Barstaple had homosexual leanings, he thought it unlikely that Albert Smith would have been his type.

Rafferty
was still brooding over the photos when Llewellyn returned, scrupulous as ever to take no more than his allotted half-hour on his personal obsession with the country's gazetteers.

Rafferty told him about his visitor and handed over the photographs.

After studying them for a few seconds, Llewellyn commented, “These were taken by someone who knew what they were doing. Shooting through glass is not something a weekend amateur is likely to have mastered. The reflections would have ruined most such attempts.”

Rafferty had forgotten that Llewellyn was something of a camera buff. It certainly moved Albert Smith further into the frame…or did it? He'd told Alistair Plumley that an aggrieved member of staff was probably responsible for the photos. But who, amongst the staff was likely to have known of the way Barstaple spent his leisure hours? And Smith wasn't even on the staff. Rafferty certainly couldn't see a man like Clive Barstaple exchanging such chitchat with a lowly security guard. Barstaple would have kept his little hobby quiet. It was hardly the sort of thing he'd want bruited about. Having others in his power was what he enjoyed; he would have taken care that none of his victims got the chance to reverse roles.

No, Rafferty thought, whoever had taken the photos surely knew Barstaple longer than the three months he'd worked at Aimhursts, and more intimately than a mere underling at work. With what people are you most yourself? he silently questioned. Who did you let your guard down with? Back came the answer—with your family, that was who. He frowned as he remembered their investigations had revealed that not only had Barstaple never married, he had no brothers or sisters either, and both his parents were dead.

He shared his thoughts with Llewellyn and was just about to order a deeper dig into Barstaple's family background when the phone rang and saved him the trouble.

The
voice on the other end of the phone was old, quavery, but still retained an authority that sounded innate. After Rafferty had identified himself, the caller continued.

“My name's Alexander Smith. I am, or rather was, a Great Uncle to Clive Barstaple.”

Intrigued, Rafferty gestured to Llewellyn to pick up the other phone.

The line crackled and the voice said loudly, “Hello? Hello? Are you still there? Damn this infernal machine!”

“Yes, sir. I'm still here,” Rafferty reassured him. “How can I help you?”

The elderly gent gave a dry cough. “It's more a case of how I can help you, I think, Inspector.” He paused. “Look, this is a bit delicate. I don't want to discuss it over the telephone. Could you pop down here for a chat, do you think?”

“Pop where, exactly, sir?”

“Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm sorry. I live in Devon. Just past Exeter.” He added the address, said, “Come for tea,” and put the phone down.

Bemused, Rafferty replaced the receiver. Clive Barstaple's great-uncle had invited him for tea. He smiled grimly. It would involve a drive of four hours or more. He glanced out of the window. And it was raining again.

He sighed. Still, he did want to know more about Barstaple's background and if that was the only way to get it…

“God knows what time I'll be back,” he told Llewellyn as he shrugged into his jacket. “I'll leave you to hold the fort. Just promise me that if anything useful comes in you'll use your initiative and not sit on it till my return?”

To Rafferty's surprise, instead of protesting at the implied slur, Llewellyn agreed, his manner uncharacteristically meek.

However, Rafferty had neither the time nor the inclination to wonder what the Welshman was plotting. His mind was already taken up with the long journey ahead of him and what, if anything, he might find at its end.