Death Line (14 page)

Llewellyn's reaction wasn't entirely gratifying. His lips pursed, his eyes narrowed and he complained, “Seems a little bit too easy, don't you think?”

Rafferty sighed. “I might have known you'd have some fault to find. That Methodist hard work ethic of yours has a lot to answer for. Why shouldn't we have something easy for a change? I'm certainly not going to turn up my nose at a nice open and shut case. That's just the way I like them. Could even tie up with your theory about Moon trying to scrawl his attacker's name on the wall. The scrawl wasn't that clear. Could be he tried to write a 'T” rather than an “I'. It's not as if you've had any luck finding any Ians, Isaacs, or Isiahs known to Moon. Put out a call for Hadleigh pronto, Dafyd. Like yesterday.” He handed over the papers before adding, “And get yourself in front of a mirror and practise smiling. The way you look at the moment, you'll frighten our good fortune away.”

Llewellyn made for the door and opened it. Constable Beard stood on the other side, carefully balancing a tray with two mugs of tea. He was keeping it well away from his uniform jacket, with its gleaming buttons, in case of spills. Before Llewellyn disappeared, Rafferty added, “Hadleigh's last known address and his usual haunts are in the file. Though if he is our killer, he's unlikely to be at any one of them. Probably gone to ground.” Llewellyn nodded and departed.

“Hadleigh, did you say?” Constable Beard carefully placed one mug on each of the desks and straightened up, his lined face wincing slightly, as if his rheumatics were troubling him. “Would that be Terry Hadleigh you're talking about, sir, son of Mrs Ellen Hadleigh?”

“Rafferty nodded. 'That's right. Why? Do you know them?”

“Lord love you, yes.”

Rafferty managed to keep a straight face at this unusual mode of addressing a senior officer. Some of his colleagues objected to Beard's familiarity, but it didn't worry Rafferty; he certainly preferred such up-front behaviour to the devious office politics that others went in for. Besides, Beard was something of an institution at the station and, in Rafferty's opinion, had more than earned the right to consider himself the equal of anyone there. “Go on,” he now encouraged. “Tell me about them.”

“Mrs Hadleigh herself is a very respectable, hard-working woman. Believes in keeping herself to herself. But that son of hers used to be one of our more regular customers as a lad. Before your time, I imagine. Spends most of his time in London, now, I hear. You've obviously read his file, so you'll know he was into petty theft, burglary, even er, soliciting. The times we live in, hey?” Beard sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. “I was eighteen before I knew there was such a thing as a female prostitute, never mind any other sort. I wouldn't have learned that much but for having to do national service.”

“Yes, it's a man's life in the army,” said Rafferty. “Learn how to kill, learn how to strip a gun, learn how to put your condoms on. Seems like Hadleigh may have moved up several leagues. Into murder, no less.”

“Doesn't sound like Terry Hadleigh's cup of tea,” Beard objected. “He's never been into violence. In his game, he's more likely to be on the receiving end.”

“This time it looks like he's graduated into the big boys' league. And a fine mess he's made of it. Dabs all over the place. Do you reckon Ellen Hadleigh might know where he's to be found?”

Beard nodded. “Possible. He usually comes running home to mum when he's in trouble, when he's short of cash and wants to scrounge. If anyone knows where he is it'll be her. You might try that pub by the river at Northgate as well, The Troubadour. Last I heard, that's his favourite haunt when he's here. Where he goes for a drink and a pick-up. Maybe some of the other customers might have an idea of his whereabouts, too.”

Rafferty nodded. He knew the place. It was a gay bar. Henry, the landlord had been running the place for about five years, since returning from up north; he'd been born and brought up in Elmhurst. His parents had run an up-market bar and restaurant, The George Inn, to the south of the town for years. They'd only retired when their son had returned to Elmhurst.

“Tell Llewellyn to get copies of Hadleigh's mug-shots circulated, will you, Bill? And tell him to come back when he's done that and we'll pay a visit to this pub. I'd like to learn as much as possible about Sonny Jim before we see his mother, and his favourite gay haunt sounds the best place to start.”

Contentedly, Rafferty picked up his tea and sipped, determined to savour his unusual good fortune. An open and shut case wasn't something that fell into his lap every day. But, as Llewellyn's previous comment took insidious hold, doubts began to fill him, and he put the cup down again and stared pensively into space.

Although
he knew Henry, the landlord by sight, when in uniform Rafferty had never needed to go into The Troubadour's bar. Henry was a big chap and could handle himself, in spite of his airy-fairy ways. He ran a well-ordered pub and there was rarely any trouble there.

Rafferty realised that Henry must have inherited his parents' photo gallery of their famous and not so famous patrons when they retired. Many pubs made a feature of such things, though Rafferty had reason to doubt the stars had patronised The George as frequently as the collection of pictures implied. He'd taken Angie there once or twice. She'd been keen to rub shoulders with TV personalities, and, anything for a quiet life, Rafferty had given in and taken her. The meal had cost an arm and a leg, but to Rafferty's relief and Angie's annoyance, the nights they'd gone, they'd not seen so much as a weather girl. She hadn't asked to be taken a third time.

He was amused to see Henry even had a photo of the Queen, taken during her Jubilee year, as the large silver, 1977 sign made clear. It had a centralised place of honour amongst the famous faces who had also supposedly patronised his parents' restaurant that year. Though Rafferty doubted that even Henry's parents expected to convince many that the Queen had really popped into their place for a leisurely prawn and steak dinner.

The Troubadour was busy, but the conversation died and the crowd parted as he and Llewellyn made their way to the bar. Conscious of the assessing stares, Rafferty wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted to find the glances dismissed him almost immediately before moving on to his immaculately groomed sergeant. But maybe he was wrongly assessing either of their supposed attractions, he told himself. Perhaps it was simply that The Troubadour's customers all had reason to recognise a policeman when they saw one, and that their more obvious interest in Llewellyn was simply because he was the most elegantly turned out copper they'd seen in a long while.

There was the expected mix of willowy queens and butch, leather types that frequent any homosexual haunt, but nothing too overt. After all this was Elmhurst, not Soho.

“Henry.” Shuffling his feet and trying to ignore the whispered comments behind them, Rafferty greeted the landlord and introduced Llewellyn.

In front of the customers, Henry always pretended he didn't know any of the local police. Now, with an arch smile, he ignored Rafferty's greeting, and went into a well-worn routine for the benefit of his customers. “What'll it be, dears? I do a nice line in Harvey Wallbangers. Or else there's a Long Sloe Screw Against the Wall.”

Rafferty smiled thinly. “Too rich for my blood. I'll have a half of Elgood's bitter, and my friend,” this produced a titter from behind them, “my friend will have an orange juice. I imagine you've heard about Jasper Moon's murder,” he murmured when the landlord had brought the drinks.

Henry immediately dropped his comic turn, and nodded soberly. “We're all pretty cut up about it. You in charge of the case, then?” Rafferty nodded. “I hope you get the bastard who did it.”

Rafferty sipped his bitter, savouring its delicate hop aroma. He was surprised that Henry should be so amenable. In front of his customers, too. It was far from usual amongst homosexuals, even in a murder case. “He must have been well known around here,” he commented, “with his morning television spot and so on.”

“Quite a regular was Jasper, when he was at home. He liked to sit on that stool there in the corner of the bar.”

“Known him long? Like before he needed to change his name?”

Henry studied him for a moment, nodded, then told him quietly, “Wondered how quickly you'd find out about that. I knew him slightly years ago, long before he began calling himself Moon, though as he seems unwilling to talk about those days, or the court case, I've never pushed it. Used to go to my parents' restaurant when he worked for that photographer chap Alan Carstairs.”

Rafferty raised his head. “Hold on. I didn't know Moon had worked for Alan Carstairs. How long ago was this?”

“Oh, years and years ago.” Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Must be knocking on for forty years ago now. He only worked for him for a year or two, though. Must have decided working for such a prima donna wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Never showed his face in The George again, that much I do know. Didn't set eyes on him again myself till I opened this place.”

Rafferty nodded. It explained why Sarah Astell hadn't known Moon. He'd have been long gone before she was born.

Henry went on. “Carstairs could be demanding, I know, because years later, my parents' held his daughter's twenty-first birthday bash in their function room. In the October of the Queen's Jubilee year it was. It was the only function he ever booked at The George, though you'd swear he entertained there all the time and contributed to half the profits from the way he threw his weight around. I wouldn't mind, but he didn't exactly push the boat out when it came to spending his money. Had the cheapest set menu. With a man like that, you'd have thought he'd have had marquees on the lawn and an orchestra, but not a bit of it. Still, even if he wasn't mum's favourite customer, he was very well known.” Henry grinned and nodded towards the wall of famous faces and Rafferty followed his gaze to the family group around the birthday cake. “She made sure she got him on film during the birthday bash. She was determined to get something other than complaints and a stingy cut-price cheque out of him for being such a pain.”

“You were telling us about Moon,” Rafferty reminded him when Henry dried up.

‘So I was. Anyway, when he left Carstairs', he decided to take up art again, only this time as a teacher. But obviously, you know all about that.'

Rafferty nodded. “What about Terry Hadleigh? We understood he came in here sometimes. Have you seen him recently?”

The landlord shook his head. “Can't say I have. Rarely comes in now. I heard he spends most of his time in London. Why?” Henry's gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Think he did it?”

“Just routine enquiries,” Rafferty quickly answered. Even though the landlord seemed anxious for Moon's killer to be caught, he might just clam up if he thought they suspected another homosexual of killing him, even a low-life like Hadleigh. “Did you ever see them together in here?”

'No. But then I'm not here every night. Got another pub ten miles away now. I spend half the week there.

Rafferty nodded and said, “It would help if we could eliminate Hadleigh from our investigation. Did he have any particular friends here? Someone who might be able to tell us where we could find him?”

The landlord shook his head. It seemed Beard's information had been stale, as Henry added, “I don't encourage my place to be used as a pick-up joint. Got my licence to think of. Not that Terry Hadleigh was ever too popular, anyway. Reckon he'd have trouble giving it away now, last I saw of him.”

“What about Jasper Moon? Did he have any particular friends?” Llewellyn asked. “Anyone he was close to?”

“Apart from his live-in boyfriend, you mean? No. Jasper was friendly with everyone, but he didn't play away from home if that's what you mean. At least, he hadn't.” The landlord frowned, “But now you mention it, there had been rumours recently that he was seeing someone else. Jasper was very close-mouthed about it, but I'm pretty sure he had a regular thing with someone in his office on Thursday evenings. It's probably why Jazz refused to give Farley a key to the building. It was the only place he could get away from him.”

“Did he want to get away from him?”

“I would if I'd been him. Farley – that's the boyfriend – is the jealous type. Wanted to keep Jazz to himself. I think he was scared stiff he'd lose him. Jasper was a bit of a soft touch, to tell you the truth. He even gave that red-headed termagant Ginnie Campbell a job when she was on her uppers, though we all told him he'd regret it. Jazz just said that providing she didn't dip her fingers in the till she could have a job with him for as long as she needed it. Dishonesty amongst friends was his pet hate, you see. Thought it showed the worst sort of disloyalty. Funny really, as I gather he wasn't above buying things off the back of a lorry when it suited him. Still, takes all sorts.”

Interested to discover that Henry knew of Moon's little hobby, Rafferty questioned him further, but it was apparent that the landlord had no idea of the identity of Moon's supplier.

“Farley didn't like him doing favours for other people,” the landlord confided, returning to his earlier point. “If he wasn't sulking about that, he made scenes when Jasper bought a round of drinks; anyone would think it was his money. Jasper was an open-handed guy; he earned a lot and he spent a lot. We all liked him. But as for that Farley.... We all wondered what Jazz saw in him.”

“You can say that again. Chris Farley is a prize bitch.”