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 shook himself 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 a most unpolicemanlike 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.”
They returned inside. Alistair Plumley, Hal Gallagher's “big cheese” boss, arrived five minutes later. He'd evidently been attending either a function or a very posh dinner party, because he wore a dickie bow and dinner jacket. He even sported a scarlet cummerbund and looked a very important island indeed; one with an isthmus, no less, Rafferty thought. If he was to accommodate both his professional and personal egos he would certainly need the extra space, he mused as he sized Plumley up.
Plumley was around 36, Rafferty guessed, as they shook hands. And although his waistline was beginning to spread, mentally he seemed tough. Tall, around 6’2”, he carried the extra pounds with ease. The jawline was firm, the gaze a self-assured battleship grey. Rafferty had no trouble guessing he'd be a difficult customer to tangle with. Hopefully, no tangling would be necessary.
“Sorry you've been dragged away from your dinner, sir,” Rafferty began as he led Plumley and Llewellyn into the now empty staff room.
“Not your fault, Inspector,” Plumley had the grace to concede. “Bloody awful do, anyway. Charity dinner, with the usual plastic food and inferior wine. I was glad to get away.” His brief smile hovered between them and for the first time Rafferty got a glimpse of the charm concealed beneath the steel.
Plumley must suddenly have recalled the reason for his abrupt calling away because he smothered his gaffe with another brief smile and the charm washed over them again. “Not that I wouldn't rather have endured it than be called away under such circumstances. Poor Clive.” The steel overlaid the charm as he fixed Rafferty with an uncompromising gaze. “Heart attack, was it?”
“No, sir. I'm afraid not.” Rafferty paused before he added, “It would appear that Mr Barstaple ate something that disagreed with him. In short, we believe he was murdered.”
Plumley stared hard at him for a few seconds. “I see. And he was murdered here, where he worked.” His gaze clouded over and Rafferty wondered if he was mentally calculating the commercial implications of Barstaple's death.
However, it seemed he'd misjudged the man, for now Plumley commented quietly, “He was my placeman. He did my bidding. I hope the fact that he died here is just an unhappy coincidence. I would feel morally responsible should it turn out that his work here brought about his death. I hope he didn't suffer.”
“I'm afraid it wasn't an easy death, sir. Poison seldom is.”
“Poison?” Plumley's lips thinned. “Gallagher didn't mention-”
“He didn't know, sir.” Rafferty felt obliged to save the engaging Gallagher from any possible repercussions. “I understand he tried to contact you straight after my sergeant here,” he gestured to the silent Llewellyn, “phoned him to advise him of Mr Barstaple's death. I imagine he felt he had to let you know the little he knew as soon as possible.”
“Yes. Of course. I see. Where is Gallagher now? He's still here I take it?”
Rafferty nodded. After he'd questioned them, he had let the cleaners
Rafferty shook himself 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 a most unpolicemanlike 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.”
They returned inside. Alistair Plumley, Hal Gallagher's “big cheese” boss, arrived five minutes later. He'd evidently been attending either a function or a very posh dinner party, because he wore a dickie bow and dinner jacket. He even sported a scarlet cummerbund and looked a very important island indeed; one with an isthmus, no less, Rafferty thought. If he was to accommodate both his professional and personal egos he would certainly need the extra space, he mused as he sized Plumley up.
Plumley was around 36, Rafferty guessed, as they shook hands. And although his waistline was beginning to spread, mentally he seemed tough. Tall, around 6’2”, he carried the extra pounds with ease. The jawline was firm, the gaze a self-assured battleship grey. Rafferty had no trouble guessing he'd be a difficult customer to tangle with. Hopefully, no tangling would be necessary.
“Sorry you've been dragged away from your dinner, sir,” Rafferty began as he led Plumley and Llewellyn into the now empty staff room.
“Not your fault, Inspector,” Plumley had the grace to concede. “Bloody awful do, anyway. Charity dinner, with the usual plastic food and inferior wine. I was glad to get away.” His brief smile hovered between them and for the first time Rafferty got a glimpse of the charm concealed beneath the steel.
Plumley must suddenly have recalled the reason for his abrupt calling away because he smothered his gaffe with another brief smile and the charm washed over them again. “Not that I wouldn't rather have endured it than be called away under such circumstances. Poor Clive.” The steel overlaid the charm as he fixed Rafferty with an uncompromising gaze. “Heart attack, was it?”
“No, sir. I'm afraid not.” Rafferty paused before he added, “It would appear that Mr Barstaple ate something that disagreed with him. In short, we believe he was murdered.”
Plumley stared hard at him for a few seconds. “I see. And he was murdered here, where he worked.” His gaze clouded over and Rafferty wondered if he was mentally calculating the commercial implications of Barstaple's death.
However, it seemed he'd misjudged the man, for now Plumley commented quietly, “He was my placeman. He did my bidding. I hope the fact that he died here is just an unhappy coincidence. I would feel morally responsible should it turn out that his work here brought about his death. I hope he didn't suffer.”
“I'm afraid it wasn't an easy death, sir. Poison seldom is.”
“Poison?” Plumley's lips thinned. “Gallagher didn't mention-”
“He didn't know, sir.” Rafferty felt obliged to save the engaging Gallagher from any possible repercussions. “I understand he tried to contact you straight after my sergeant here,” he gestured to the silent Llewellyn, “phoned him to advise him of Mr Barstaple's death. I imagine he felt he had to let you know the little he knew as soon as possible.”
“Yes. Of course. I see. Where is Gallagher now? He's still here I take it?”
Rafferty nodded. After he'd questioned them, he had let the cleaners
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