Death Line (29 page)

Now all he had to do was drop the dress off with Appleby at forensic and wait for the results of their tests to see if they matched the fibres removed from Moon's desk. With luck – even if it was no thanks to him – the end of the investigation was in sight.

Back at the station, Rafferty told a slightly happier Llewellyn, “If Appleby comes up trumps, I think we'll have enough to get a search warrant and...” He broke off as the phone rang. Two seconds later, he shot up in his chair, fingers clutching the receiver tightly as he demanded, “When did this happen? What hospital?” Having got answers to his questions, he deliberately broke the connection. After asking the desk sergeant to get him the hospital on the line, he told Llewellyn grimly, “Guess what? That was Edwin Astell. His wife tried to kill herself this afternoon.”

“What was
it?” Llewellyn asked. “An overdose?”

Rafferty confirmed it. “The little girl's nanny found her in time and she's had her stomach pumped out.” He met Llewellyn's eye and smiled wearily. “I'd say this clinches the case against her, wouldn't you?” The phone rang again. It was the hospital. Quickly Rafferty got put through to the doctor looking after Mrs Astell and, after a bit of persuasion, managed to get him to agree to let them see her for a few minutes.

Sarah
Astell was pale, but dry-eyed. She was sitting up in her hospital bed when they arrived and appeared surprisingly calm, as if her recent brush with death had insulated her from earthly troubles. Astell, in the chair beside the bed, tried to prevent them questioning her, but when Rafferty over-rode him he subsided.

Sarah Astell's unnatural calm deserted her when Rafferty tried to get her to admit the reason for her attempted suicide. She quickly became hysterical, and Astell protested again. “Surely you can see she's in no fit state to be questioned? For pity's sake, she's just tried to-” Astell broke off and glanced guiltily at his wife, as if he had been about to mention a forbidden topic.

“I'm aware of that, sir,” Rafferty told him, his own guilt making his voice sharper than he intended. He should have guessed Sarah Astell might attempt suicide, he told himself. She had already attempted a form of self-destruction with the anorexia in her youth, so the seeds were there. Being suspected of murder was a far more pressurizing influence than the indifference of a parent. But Astell was right, he realised. Now was not the best time to question her. But before he could say so, Sarah Astell herself calmed down sufficiently to answer his question.

“Surely you know of our money problems, Inspector?” Her voice, though flat, was tinged with irony, as if she didn't really expect him to believe that was the reason for her attempted suicide and was just going through the motions.

So, Rafferty thought, that was how they were going to play it. Astell, although failing to inject his wife with conviction, had at least managed to make her primed response both reasoned and reasonable. “So you took all those tablets because of money worries?”

She gave a brief nod and began to warm to her story. “I was a "Name" at Lloyds. I lost a lot of money. We've had to mortgage the house, sell some of our most precious possessions. We've had to economise left and right. I was afraid, so afraid I'd lose – everything.” She swallowed hard, her expression bleak. “And then – with Moon's death – Edwin made me see that the bulk of our income had gone also. He explained that the house would certainly go. I-hadn't realised. It was the end, I knew that then. I couldn't bear it any longer, the waiting for the worst to happen.” Her fingers began folding the loose cover of the duvet, gathering it into a neat fan shape, as if its precisely matching folds was the most important thing in the world to her.

“I see.” Rafferty paused. Her elaborated explanation sounded yet more reasonable than the simpler version. And, even though both Llewellyn and the evidence had convinced him of her guilt, but for that ironic tone he might have believed her. More plainly than the truth shouted loud from the hospital roof, it betrayed her appreciation that, in murdering Moon, she had brought about her own ruin. He tried to get her to admit it. “And there was no – other reason, for taking the overdose?”

“Other reason?” She stared back at him, her chin coming up a fraction. “What other reason could there be?”

Whatever Astell had said to her had been effective, Rafferty realised in frustration. It was obvious they would get no confession out of her today. But, even if she did confess, it would probably be inadmissible. She was in hospital, in a vulnerable state; not the ideal confession from the police point of view. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. They had the evidence. All he was waiting for was Appleby's confirmation. And it would be better if she were in custody when she learned of the rest of the evidence against her. Just in case she attempted a second suicide. Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own, “When do you expect to go home, Mrs Astell?”

She stiffened, as if in recognition that home would be a luxury she wouldn't have long to enjoy. “In a few days, I suppose.” All the colour seemed to have been drained from her face. The skin under her eyes was a dirty putty colour. “They want me to see a psychiatrist.” Unexpectedly, she laughed, a harsh, broken sound that expressed the depth of her despair more effectively than mere words. “Though I fail to see how that would help.” She blinked and the precariously balanced tears tumbled over.

They left before Astell could voice any more of the protests Rafferty could see welling up in him. On the drive back to the station, Rafferty mused, “I wonder why she chose that particular night to kill Moon? When she was all dressed up in her expensive frock.” When Llewellyn failed to respond, he supplied his own answer. “I suppose it must have seemed particularly appropriate. What better night to rid herself of the man who threatened her father's reputation than the one that held most poignant memories of him?”

“I doubt if she chose it for that reason,” said Llewellyn. “In fact, I doubt if she chose it at all. Moon must have insisted he had to see her that night. He would know how much that evening meant to her; obviously, it was a case of come or take the consequences.”

“She'd have done better to take the consequences,” was Rafferty's opinion. “They'd have been, what? A five minute and soon forgotten sensation in the press. Even someone like Sarah Astell could get through that; damn sight easier to endure than a murder trial with months of headlines parading your father's homosexuality. Can she really have thought anyone but herself would care what her father did with his body?”

“I'm sure she did. Old prejudices don't die,” Llewellyn told him. “They simply go underground.” His voice deceptively soft, he added, “Not everyone's as broadminded as you, sir.”

Rafferty had the grace to blush as Llewellyn went on. “After all, it's not so many years since all homosexual acts were classed as criminal offences, punishable by prison. Hadleigh told us that Moon himself had kept his homosexuality secret as a young man, said he'd even tried to deny it by having one or two heterosexual affairs. Carstairs went even further. He got married, produced a child.”

Llewellyn slowed to cross the bridge at Tiffey Reach. “Sarah Astell admitted she was repelled by homosexuality. There's usually some cause for these unreasonable prejudices, and my guess would be that she had seen her father with another man as a child and pushed it to the darkest corner of her mind. Maybe the psychiatrist will get it out of her? But if she regarded it as so secret that she couldn't even admit it to herself, imagine how she'd feel to have Moon – a man she had come to hate – knowing all about it, sneering and making threats.”

Llewellyn turned left into Cymbeline Way, past the ruins of the old priory. 'Of course, adult homosexuals no longer risk imprisonment, but in other ways, things haven't really changed so much since Carstairs' youth. Many careers still demand marriage; employers think it "steadies" a man. Even a society photographer in the fifties would do well to keep his real traits hidden. Carstairs was obviously deeply ambitious, he wanted fame, to be respected as a man and admired for his work, not sniggered over in corners because of his sexual preferences, which, if they had got out, could have cost him work, the world-wide reputation that he craved. So, as I said, he married, fathered a child, which "proved" his heterosexual credentials in the eyes of society. Unfortunately, in his youth, he hadn't been quite so cautious or he wouldn't have permitted that old film to be made. I imagine that until Moon sent Sarah Astell the video she had pushed the realisation of her father's homosexuality so deeply into her subconscious in determined denial that it was effectively buried.

“But Moon made her face that denial. As part of the price for not revealing her father's homosexuality. Can you imagine what it must have done to her to see that film of her father with another man when he had shown her so little affection? I think she became temporarily insane when Moon made her watch the video in his office. It must have brought it home to her that she had adored a man whose indifference had turned her into a neurotic invalid, ruined her life. I think in that instant, her obsessive love for her father turned to hatred, and Moon received the full force of that hatred at its birth. She needed to punish someone, and he became the focus of that hatred.”

“But Moon knew Terry Hadleigh was due for his painting lesson that same evening,” Rafferty suddenly pointed out. “Why would he tell Mrs Astell to come to his office at virtually the same time?”

“I imagine he wanted Hadleigh to tell her that he had lied about Moon's supposed attack on him all those years ago, perhaps he wanted to force an apology out of her? We'll never know for certain now, but I'd guess that was what it was.”

Slowly Rafferty nodded. None of Mrs Astell's fingerprints had been found in Moon's office, but that wasn't surprising if this was a one-off visit. It had been a chilly night and she would have been wearing gloves. He could imagine her sitting, determinedly upright in her chair, still dressed in her outdoor clothes, as Moon put the video in the machine.

Llewellyn continued. “Moon was expecting her. You remember he called the Astell's house from his office earlier that day? Astell, of course, said Moon had spoken to him to find out if Sarah Astell had liked her present. But I believe if was Sarah Astell he spoke to. Astell said Moon called in the early evening, just before the anniversary guests were due to arrive. I think Moon rang as soon as he could be certain she had received his birthday present. She denied opening it, but Moon would have told her she'd better do so. He would have also told her she was to come to his office that evening. He would have given her little choice. The rest we can guess.” Llewellyn fell silent.

Rafferty felt rather sorry for Sarah Astell. In her own way, she had been as unlucky with the men in her life as Ellen Hadleigh. She had adored a father who had been indifferent to her and had then married a man who, while he had done his best to protect her from the consequences of her own folly, had obviously failed to answer her emotional needs. If he had, her desperate love for her father would have faded naturally as she matured. But, instead of fading, it had taken her over – that and her pitiful obsession with her own health – which she appeared to cling to like a child clung to its security blanket. She'd have security of another sort soon enough though, complete with bars and warders. All they were waiting for now to make her arrest inevitable was the evidence from Appleby. Rafferty wished he could find some pleasure in the prospect.

Rafferty,
in danger of feeling sorry for Sarah Astell, was relieved when, later that day, with hindsight's godlike vision, he saw clearly an aspect of the case that he and Llewellyn had both missed. One that provided Sarah Astell with an even stronger and – from Rafferty's point of view, anyway – far more satisfying motive for murder – greed.

This indication that she hadn't been prompted entirely by a misconceived but entirely understandable concern for Carstairs' reputation, instantly gave Rafferty much more relish for his job. Even better, Llewellyn would be annoyed that he'd spotted the large clues while missing the more subtle ones. But, he picked up the phone as he cautioned himself. He'd better try to check his facts before he shared his suspicions with the Welshman.

Fortunately, the phone call supplying the required answers to Rafferty's questions came before Llewellyn returned.

Rafferty
waited till his sergeant was seated comfortably before he began. “We assumed that Moon had an affair with Carstairs. What if we were wrong? And it was
Mrs
Carstairs with whom he had the affair and Sarah Astell was the result? Mrs Astell told us her arrival caused a bit of a stir as she wasn't born till her parents had been married for ten years.”

Llewellyn, of course, was inclined to pour cold water on his idea. “It's something of a wild leap, isn't it?” he criticised, obviously more than content with his own theories and unwilling to have them mucked about. “Have you any proof to back it up?”

“Not proof as such,” Rafferty admitted. “Not yet. But I've got the next best thing. I did a bit of arithmetic, and, for once, my sums added up. Was it just coincidence, do you think, that the young Moon worked for the Carstairs' nine months before Sarah was born? Mrs Carstairs must often have felt lonely. Not only did her husband spend most of his time careering round the world, but she must have suspected he had only married her as a cover for his real inclinations. And then there was Moon – a young Moon, fearful of his own homosexuality. What more natural than that two unhappy people should comfort one another? She was lonely, Moon was young and desperately trying to deny his real inclinations.”