Rafferty & Llewellyn Boxed Set Books 5-8

Chapter Four-2

SO FAR, RAFFERTY AND Llewellyn had only had the opportunity for a cursory inspection of the premises. Now, Rafferty returned downstairs and collected Llewellyn. Before Watts and Cutley’s ‘big cheese’, Alistair Plumley arrived, he wanted them to have the grand tour.

Aimhurst and Son’s offices stood twenty yards or so back from the road, with parking places for ten cars in front. The grounds incorporated a roadway that led right round the premises. Obviously, the building had originally been a quite substantial residence. Victorian in its heavy use of the ornate, it must have been gutted and turned into offices before the protecting hand of the architectural environmentalists held sway. Rafferty thought it a pity; he loved the gloriously robust individuality of such buildings, convinced that only soulless designers could come up with the uninspiring functionalism of most modern architecture. After the attentions of the architects with no souls, the building had become a sad hybrid and, to Rafferty’s fanciful imagination, it seemed aware of it. Dwarfed by its high-rise concrete neighbours, its grandeur compromised to commerce and its façade grubby, its roofline seemed bowed in dejection.

Feeling that, so far, everything today seemed designed to depress him, Rafferty forced himself into a more business-like frame of mind. ‘Come on,’ he said to Llewellyn. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ At a brisk pace, he headed round the side of the building. It had two entrances, one at the front and one at the rear. The rear entrance had a sturdy, cinema-style door, that could only be opened from the inside.

‘These’ll have to be checked thoroughly,’ Rafferty commented as they passed two commercial-sized refuse containers that stood just past the back door.

Llewellyn nodded.

Although he now knew that the much larger firm of Watts and Cutley had recently taken Aimhursts over, Rafferty was surprised at the extent of the security. Apart from burglar alarms with the usual infra-red sensors, the security stretched to floodlights that would illuminate all around the building as well as a key-numbering system on the front door that the staff used to gain access when the security guard wasn’t at his post. It all seemed a bit over the top for such a small concern, especially as the premises held only offices. Aimhursts were wholesalers, their customers would be other businesses rather than the general public, their receipts crossed cheques or credit transfers rather than cash. Admittedly, they had expensive computer equipment, but even so. He glanced at Llewellyn. ‘Inside job, you reckon?’

Llewellyn nodded. ‘Almost certainly, given the level of security.’ He paused, then added, ‘Though, of course, as the victim was poisoned rather than shot or stabbed or killed by other more immediate physical means, it’s possible someone from outside could have administered the poison via the victim’s brought-in lunch.’

‘Vengeful wife or girlfriend, you mean, hoping to shift suspicion?’

Llewellyn nodded. ‘Poisoning is usually regarded as a woman’s crime,’ he pointed out.

It certainly seemed reasonable to believe the poison had been in the prawns, Rafferty reflected. And whether they had been doctored at home or in the office, suspicion had certainly been well spread. According to Hal Gallagher, they had been defrosting on a plate in the Aimhurst staff kitchen all morning, available for anyone to tamper with.

‘You’d have thought he’d have had the wit not to leave himself so wide open to revenge,’ said Rafferty. ‘After all, he might have been reckoned a bastard, but, by all accounts, he was a clever one.’

‘It’s surprising how often men like Barstaple ignore elementary precautions,’ said Llewellyn. ‘And arrogance of that stamp tends to bring about its own downfall.’ After casting an oblique glance at Rafferty, he added softly, ‘The ancient Romans had a saying that I think would cover it.’

‘There’s a novelty,’ Rafferty murmured.

‘Arte Perire Sua’—to perish by one’s own machinations would be a literal translation. Certainly, it may well turn out that Clive Barstaple’s machinations were the death of him. Of course, it’s very difficult to make oneself totally secure from poison.’

Rafferty nodded, and threw up a quote of his own before he realised what he was doing. ‘‘No man is an island complete of himself’. Bloody hell. Your habit of borrowing homilies is catching. Whose bit of borrowed wisdom was that, anyway?’

‘John Donne’s,’ said Llewellyn. ‘From his ‘Meditations’.’ Loftily, he added, ‘And if you’re going to borrow from Donne, might I suggest you use the correct version. It’s ‘No man is an Island entire of itself.’

‘Pardon my ignorance.’ Know-all git, thought Rafferty. ‘Though whichever way you say it, the man had a point. Barstaple the Bastard obviously disregarded the fact that human islands bump against one another continuously. He must have thought his particular island was immune from life’s storms.’

They turned the corner and headed round the far side of the building. The rain had fallen off to a thin drizzle and, as the clouds parted, Rafferty saw that, all the time, a full moon had been lurking behind them. Madman’s moon his ma called it. He shivered and hoped it wasn’t an omen. Hadn’t the notorious poisoner Graham Young started his killings in an office environment?

Rafferty gave a mental shake and told himself not to be ridiculous. Barstaple’s murder had been a sane enough act, most likely committed by someone pushed beyond endurance. Rafferty, given his current difficulty concerning Llewellyn’s wedding suit and its possible effect on his own career, felt an empathy for such a final solution and its practitioner.

They turned the last corner and returned to the front of the building. Rafferty, thinking of human islands again, murmured to himself, ‘Perhaps, just before he died, Barstaple’s island saw its own vulnerability. Shame it came too late.’

***