Rafferty & Llewellyn Boxed Set Books 5-8

Chapter Five-3

WHEN LLEWELLYN RETURNED to the office after getting in touch with Barstaple’s previous firms, Rafferty told him Dally’s post-mortem findings. ‘Sam suggested the killer was probably hoping to confuse the issue by putting the poison in the yoghurt rather than Barstaple’s main lunch dish. What do you think?’

‘It’s something to be considered,’ replied Llewellyn with his usual caution. ‘It’s possible, of course, as Dr Dally inferred, that the person who poisoned him wasn’t in the office yesterday. Equally, it could be that whoever killed him just wanted to spread suspicion by making it look as if the poison could have been introduced to the food on another day. On similar lines, maybe the location of the murder was chosen to confuse. Was he killed in his office because his murderer either didn’t know where he lived or was unable to gain access? Or because, for the killer, the location of the murder held symbolic significance?’

Rafferty sighed. ‘Don’t go getting all psychological on me,’ he pleaded. ‘At least, not this early in the case.’ He’d already overdosed on ancient Greeks and Romans. The last thing he wanted was the not-so-ancient Freud and Niesc – Nits – whatever his name was, getting in on the act.

Ignoring the interruption, Llewellyn went on. ‘Then again, for all we know, we’re crediting the killer with more intelligence than they possess. Maybe they just put the poison into whatever food was available at a time they were available to administer it and were prepared to await results.’

‘Light blue touch-paper and retire, hey?’ Rafferty grinned. ‘But if that’s the case, why not wait for a more convenient time and a wider choice of foodstuffs in which to put the poison? It would have the advantage of spreading suspicion, too.’

Llewellyn shrugged. ‘I doubt they’d have chosen to put the poison on the prawns, anyway. Barstaple would surely have noticed if the prawns suddenly gained a sauce, however minute.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘We’ve so far more or less assumed that it was one of Barstaple’s colleagues who killed him. But we ought to give more consideration to the possibility that someone unconnected with his work hated him and that, as Dr Dally suggested, the victim brought in yoghurt that had already been poisoned. Such a killer could have found a willing accomplice in the office to swap the pots in the waste-bin. We mustn’t forget that we’re taking about a man with a strong talent for making enemies. Maybe he made use of his ‘let them hate, provided they fear’ philosophy at home, too.’

Rafferty shook his head. ‘Maybe he would have done,’ he said. ‘But, luckily for us, he didn’t have anyone at home.’ He had already instigated enquiries about Barstaple’s living arrangements. Unfortunately, the neighbours had known little about him. There had been no sign of a wife or other live-in partner at Barstaple’s home. Of course, he might had had some more casual arrangement which would reveal itself in due course—but a casual lover was unlikely to be a killing kind of lover, certainly not of the premeditated kind as Barstaple’s killer had been.

The search of Barstaple’s home had failed to find his lap-top computer. Rafferty made a mental note to question Aimhurst’s staff about it; if he had been using it at his office on the day of his murderer someone would surely have seen it.

Tired yesterday evening, he hadn’t noticed the loose sheet of paper tucked between the personnel files, so Llewellyn hadn’t had the opportunity to learn more about the victim. But now, Rafferty handed him the PR puff about Barstaple’s business consultancy service, which Gallagher must have thought they’d find helpful. Pity he hadn’t mentioned it at the time, Rafferty had thought when he found it.

In it, along with his educational background and qualifications, Barstaple had boasted of being a bachelor, having no ties, no wife or child to make demands on him.

Rafferty thought it strange that Alistair Plumley hadn’t been aware of the fact. But then, he reasoned, Plumley hadn’t struck him as a man to be overly concerned with the workers’ private lives, certainly not when the worker in question was a hired consultant like Barstaple.

Barstaple’s hand-out displayed no false modesty when it went on to proclaim that, as he was only 28, his energy was considerable, and he would be able to devote it all to his work.

As Llewellyn handed back the PR puff, Rafferty added, ‘Of course, he could have lied about his marital status, simply to make himself look an even more attractive proposition to potential clients. But, until we can check further, we’ll take him at his word that he’s not only currently single but hasn’t even got a messy divorce in his recent past. Which, if confirmed, will make our job a little easier, particularly as you remarked that poisoning is most often thought of as a woman’s crime.’ He paused for a moment. ‘To get back to the yoghurts. We’ll have to check out where and when he bought them and when he brought them into the office. Even if Sam’s right and someone bought identical yoghurt and added the poison at their leisure, it doesn’t really matter for our purposes. If, for the moment, we discount the possibility of an accomplice, it’s who had the opportunity to swap the yoghurts in the waste-bin that will lead us to our murderer.’

Rafferty glanced down at Barstaple’s PR puff. It said he had left university seven years earlier after following a business studies course. He’d come out of it with Honours. ‘Must have been the last time Barstaple came out of anything with honours,’ he commented as he tapped the relevant section.

Barstaple had provided Watts and Cutley with glowing testimonials from half a dozen previous clients and, to judge from what Alistair Plumley had said, was evidently regarded as a high-flyer, a term Rafferty viewed with distaste. In his experience, high-flyers were often people who would do anything to get ahead. The term always made him wonder about the poor sods such high-flyers used as a launch-pad.

Since finding the PR puff, Rafferty had made a few enquiries, and he’d discovered that Barstaple had set himself up two years previously as a consultant, a trouble-shooter, an expert who hired himself out to firms who wished to rationalise. It was a business he ran from home. He had obviously excelled at the role as he had gone from strength to strength. Of course, the times they lived in meant Barstaple’s particular expertise was in demand. Firms were being rationalised, people de-hired all over the place.

Rafferty shivered as a stout policeman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Superintendent Bradley walked over his grave. If Bradley discovered the real provenance of Llewellyn’s wedding suit, being de-hired was the least he could expect. With a determined shrug, he dismissed the thought, and turned back to the matter in hand. After filling Llewellyn in on the rest of his discoveries, Rafferty returned to the Welshman’s earlier comment. ‘Of course, it’s possible Barstaple crossed swords with a neighbour.’ He grinned, ‘Or maybe he picked a fight with the milkman over the bill.’ He had been more than half-joking about the latter, but now he added, ‘That’s a thought. Barstaple didn’t live far from Aimhurst’s offices. It might be an idea to find out if the same milkman delivers there as delivers in the neighbourhood of his home.’

In an attempt to divert his mind from the many problems besetting it, Rafferty joked, ‘What a turn-up it would be if our vengeful killer turned out to be his friendly neighbourhood milkman, clutching a pint of gold top in one hand and a poisoned carton of yoghurt in the other.’

It was pretty unlikely, Rafferty admitted to himself. Still, if they failed to find a receipt for the yoghurt’s purchase, that could explain the reason why. If Barstaple’s milkman was anything like Rafferty’s, his bills would be masterpieces of brevity, and consist of nothing more than the date and a total amount due written in bold strokes that discouraged argument.

‘One point about your murdering milkman, sir.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He might be in an ideal position to poison the yoghurt, but would he be able to swap cartons and remove the poisoned one from Barstaple’s office?’

‘Possibly, if our poisoning milkman had an accomplice as you assumed a murdering lover might have. Let’s face it, our victim seems the kind of man who would cause the most unlikely alliances against him.’

‘Anyway, it shouldn’t be difficult to find out where he bought the yoghurt.,’ said Llewellyn. ‘The receipt might still be in his flat.’

Rafferty nodded. ‘Better get some more officers round there. I want his place given an even more thorough going-over, not only for that receipt, but also for that rationalisation report he was preparing for Alistair Plumley. His lap-top might have gone missing, but there’s a fair chance he printed the report out and it’s somewhere in his home. Tell Lilley.’

They had already checked the victim’s coat pockets and those of the clothes he had been wearing when he died, and there had been neither receipt nor report either in them or his desk. Rafferty had left Jonathon Lilley to continue the search at Barstaple’s home yesterday evening, but he had so far failed to find either item. ‘You’ve got Barstaple’s car keys?’

Llewellyn nodded.

‘Make sure the vehicle’s checked over as well.’ Gallagher had told them it was the Porsche still in the reserved bay at Aimhurst’s premises. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘What does, sir?’

‘This line the church peddles about the meek inheriting the earth. Seems to me the only earth the meek inherit is the clods of the stuff that covers their coffins. It’s human manure like Clive Barstaple who get the spoils.’

‘Much good it did him in the end,’ Llewellyn observed.’

‘Maybe so,’ Rafferty murmured. ‘But I still wouldn’t have minded that Porsche, especially as, if my old religious teacher’s to be believed, lapsed Catholics like yours truly aren’t reckoned to have much chance of booty in the hereafter either. According to her, I’m more likely to end up getting my bum pricked by the devil’s pitchfork for eternity. She was another believer in that adage of yours about letting them hate as long as they feared. The old bat could have given Barstaple lessons.’

Religion was another subject Llewellyn had learned it best to avoid, and he maintained a discreet silence until Rafferty returned to the matter in hand.

‘One more thing we need to check out is just how tight their security was. I admit it looks pretty impressive, but security is only as good as the human factor providing it. That guard at the desk must pee occasionally, so he presumably leaves the desk unmanned. And we know there’s no guard on the premises at night. Did you find out who else holds keys to the place?’

Llewellyn nodded. ‘Alfred Smith, the usual guard from Guardian Security, has one set, as you know. He locks up as soon as the cleaners have finished. The only other people with keys were the victim himself, Gallagher the deputy manager and Alistair Plumley.’

‘Right. We’ll need to find out if any of those sets of keys were lost or misplaced recently. We also need to find out if there’s a spare set and if so, where they’re kept. Perhaps you’d get Hanks to look into that while I finish going through these files?’

Llewellyn nodded again and went out.

***