Absolute Poison Page 8

  It seemed, from their expressions, that the rest of the staff thought so too. He sensed a certain drawing back from the woman. As the room was small this was more mental that physical, but it was obvious that Amy Glossop had noticed it, too. For a moment the veil lifted and raw misery briefly peered out before being as quickly hidden. She hugged herself defensively as though she, rather than Bob Harris had been the victim here.

  Bob Harris looked even sicker than before. On the surface, Harris looked too defeated a man to have the energy to plan his own death, never mind anyone else's. But Rafferty had learned in the course of his career that appearances could be deceptive. Harris and the rest had been Barstaple's prey; he had stalked them as a fox stalks a rabbit. But, back the weakest prey against a wall and they'll turn on you. Hadn't Crippen been meek, mild, cowed, just like Harris? For Crippen, love had been sufficient spur to find the courage for murder. Added to his presumed anxiety about his continued employment, love could have been the spur in Harris's case, too. As Llewellyn had pointed out, it was possible Barstaple's murderer had been too blinded by hatred and misery to think as far as the possible consequences of ridding themselves of their immediate persecutor.

  Rafferty questioned him further. “You say you didn't go out to lunch as you had intended?”

  Harris flushed. “No. I-that is, as Ms Glossop told you, I had arranged to meet my wife just after midday. As that had fallen through, I didn't bother.”

  Rafferty, who was always ready for his lunch, found this admission curious and his frank stare prompted Harris to provide a further explanation.

  “My appetite had gone,” he said. “I suffer from stomach ulcers. If I don't eat at set times they begin to play up and I don't feel much like eating at all. I forced a glass of milk down.”

  Rafferty nodded. But he couldn't help wondering whether, in addition to the delay in eating and the upset over missing his lunch date the conversation with Barstaple had ruined his appetite. He wondered what Harris and Barstaple had discussed. But that discovery could come later. For the moment, he wanted to set the scene, get the current crop of suspects fixed in his mind as individuals and find out who was where at what time. He turned back to Linda Luscombe.

  “You said you shared Mr Barstaple's lunch. Was this a regular thing?”

  “No.” She pulled a face. “He normally went out for lunch. I learned yesterday that he was on a diet.”

  “You weren't aware of this before yesterday?”

  “No. I go to college and yesterday was my first day back.”

  “So, what did you eat?”

  “Just the prawns. Clive had some yoghurts in the fridge and he had a pot later, but I don't like yoghurt. At least, I presume he ate the yoghurt. He was about to open it when he had a telephone call—a long involved call and I came out of his office and left him to it. I suppose he ate the yoghurt later.”

  Unlucky for his killer, Rafferty reflected as he recalled Sam Dally's comment. Or was it? Barstaple was still dead. Could it really matter to the killer that the delay had made pinpointing the source of the poison that much easier?

  Maybe Llewellyn was right and he was crediting the killer with more intelligence and cunning than they actually possessed. It was possible, he supposed, though that didn't explain the removal of the poisoned yoghurt and its substitution; that smacked of a certain intelligence, a sly determination to muddy the waters.

  Rafferty glanced round at the sea of faces. It was time to glean a few facts. “Can any of you remember when Mr Barstaple placed the yoghurts in the fridge?”

  They looked at one another and, as if my mutual decision, they all shook their heads. All but one. Amy Glossop seemed to have rallied. Certainly, she had no difficulty with her memory.

  With a half-defiant look at the rest, she told him, “He brought them in last Friday morning. Six of them, all different flavours. He'd done the same for the last few weeks since he started his diet. It had become quite a routine for him.”

  “That's helpful,” Rafferty told her. “Thank you.”

  At this, Amy Glossop glanced at her colleagues, her expression smug, taunting even, the thought “I've got nothing to hide”, clearly etched.

  They all ignored her, as if determined not to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had just provided information that could be dangerous for one of them.

  He turned back to Linda Luscombe. This was the first hint they'd had of any woman in Barstaple's life. He was curious to see how deep the relationship went. “Had Mr Barstaple ever taken you out to lunch?”

  “Sometimes.” The admission was reluctant. “He could be quite insistent.”

  “She means he was into sexual harassment as well as all the other kinds.”

  This comment was drawn from Marian Steadman, whom Gallagher had introduced as the office first-aider, with the smiling comment that she doled out sympathy along with the band-aid.

  Marian Steadman was 33. Rafferty was surprised the information from her staff record should immediately pop into his head. Attractive in an understated way, her open features were as different as possible from those of Amy Glossop. Even though she seemed to have no patience for evasion of any kind, she also had something of a maternal quality about her, as though she made a habit of taking on other people's troubles as her own. She reminded him of his ma, as did the forthright suggestion which followed.

  “Why don't you tell him, Linda?” she encouraged. “Let him know just what sort of man Clive Barstaple was.”

  Linda shook her head. All at once she looked very young, very vulnerable.

  Marian Steadman was evidently made of sterner stuff. Her voice brisk, she told Rafferty, “Linda is a single mother. Her own mother, who used to look after her little girl during the daytime, recently remarried and moved away, so she's had to somehow find the money for childminders. Clive Barstaple knew this and used it to pressurize her into being nice to him in exchange for promising her a job. That's the sort of man he was.”

  More in sorrow than anger, she added, “When I started here, Aimhurst And Son was a good firm to work for, a real family firm. Old Mr Aimhurst was a lovely man, a man of principle, firm morals, but caring, too. He'd never have taken on someone like Clive.

  “God knows I didn't wish him dead, but it's not really surprising that it's come to this. Not really surprising that everyone here hated him.”

  This brought a murmur of denial from her colleagues and she turned and quietly asked them, “Do you really think there's any point in trying to pretend otherwise?” She shot an oblique glance in the direction of Amy Glossop and added, “The inspector will find out the situation here soon enough.”

  Rafferty smiled and told her, “I appreciate your honesty.” He paused. He liked to verify so-called facts from as many sources as possible, so now he went on, “And this change has come about since the takeover and Mr Barstaple's appointment?”

  Marian Steadman nodded. “I suppose we all knew our jobs were in danger and that there would probably be a certain amount of weeding out in spite of young Mr Aimhurst's assurances to the contrary.”

  As Rafferty noted the careful downplaying of the rationalization, she went on. “But it was the way Clive went about his brief that was so—distasteful.” She frowned then as though searching for the best way to make him understand. “He went out of his way to undermine an individual's confidence; whatever one did, he'd manage to find fault; pick, pick, pick. And then he made everyone terrified of falling sick. Take Bob Harris for instance.”

  Rafferty was beginning to wonder if Harris was the office fall-guy. He glanced at the tight, pain-pinched features of Harris as Marian Steadman went on. “He had an in-patient's appointment for an operation last month—one he's been waiting on for over a year. But he had to cancel. He didn't dare take the time to get his ulcers sorted out because he knew it would give Clive the excuse he wanted to get rid of him. The man was an out and out tyrant.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After Marian Steadman's
frank revelations, her colleagues, as though anxious to be thought equally as frank, were quick to back her up in her opinion of Barstaple's character. Even Amy Glossop, whom Rafferty suspected was the office spy given the speed with which the rest of the staff had isolated her, agreed that Barstaple could be “a little difficult”.

  Rafferty and Llewellyn made a start on taking the individual statements. It quickly became clear that, apart from Linda Luscombe, the rest of the staff had all had ample opportunity to plan and carry out Clive Barstaple's murder. Linda Luscombe, having only returned to work on the morning of the murder had had a much more limited opportunity. Even this was reduced to zero when her colleagues backed up her statement that she hadn't entered the kitchen at all that day, it not being her turn on the rota to make the tea or coffee.

  Fortunately, she wasn't the only suspect out of the running. Although Barstaple had chaired a sales meeting in the downstairs conference room with the firm's sales representatives and had also, in the previous week, instigated the last in a long line of appraisal interviews with these same reps, none of them had ventured into the main office or the kitchen, it being part of Barstaple's policy not to encourage the usual reps’ idle chat

  Unfortunately, when it came to visits by other employees in the group, the statements were contradictory as to who had visited on what day and whether it had been the previous Thursday or the previous Friday; even Albert Smith, the apparently not over-security conscious security guard, was uncertain as to details. Certainly none of their names appeared in the official visitors’ book.

  Rafferty sat back after he'd let Smith go, studied his steepled fingers and observed gruffly, “This place seems to have been a veritable Piccadilly Circus in the last week. Isn't it just our luck?”

  “At least we've got their names,” Llewellyn reminded him.

  “Most of them,” Rafferty contradicted. “There was one visitor whose identity nobody seems too sure about, apart from the probability that he's something to do with finance at Watts And Cutley's main office.” He scowled. “I could wring Smith's neck. If the bloody man had done his job properly ours would be so much simpler.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Come on. I asked Hal Gallagher to wait till last. He should be in the staff room. We'll interview him there.”

  “Sorry to have kept you, Mr Gallagher,” Rafferty apologised as he and Llewellyn entered the otherwise empty staff room.

  Gallagher shrugged. “No matter. I've nothing to go home for. My wife died recently,” he explained, “and to sit there alone only rubs my nose in how much I miss her. The apartment's just somewhere to eat and sleep now.” He smiled grimly at Rafferty. “Funnily enough, if you can believe it after what you've learned this morning, I'd rather be here.”

  Rafferty nodded. He'd been the same after his wife Angie had died, though not for the same reasons. Guilt had driven him out of the home they had shared, where memories of her and the echo of their acrimonious rows were on every surface and on every stick of furniture; the dent in the door where she'd hurled a heavy ashtray at him; the stain in the carpet where a bottle of red wine had been sent flying; the remaining, mismatched crockery resulting from the nights she'd dumped his dinner, plate and all, in the bin when he'd had to work late. It had been a relief to move into his flat and away from all the accusatory contents of their old home.

  The knowledge that he'd never really loved her had made him feel even more guilty and had hovered over him throughout the drawn-out period of her dying. Towards the end, gaunt from the ravages of the spreading cancer, she had taunted him with it; the pain had given her tongue a dreadfully bitter edge.

  With difficulty, Rafferty pushed the distant past out of the forefront of his mind. Concentrating instead on the recent past, he said to Gallagher, “I've asked everyone else this, sir, so, if you could let me know if you were here all day yesterday and if you've had any time off in the last week or so.”

  “Sure. I was here all day yesterday. And no, I haven't had any time off recently.” Gallagher grinned. “Hey, you heard what Marian Steadman said. I didn't dare. None of us did. You could say that Clive had made clear in that sly way of his that taking our full holiday entitlement wouldn't earn us the required brownie points in his report.”

  Rafferty nodded. “Perhaps you could tell me if anyone was alone in Mr Barstaple’ office any time after lunch yesterday.”

  He hoped to pin down the identity of anyone who had had the opportunity to remove the poisoned yoghurt pot from the bin. The timing for this aspect of the murder was only a matter of hours instead of days and it might given them their lead. But in an attempt to avoid alerting the culprit of his interest in what could be a vital point, he had decided to limit the question to Gallagher. He now discovered his choice of confidant had been unfortunate.

  Gallagher stared curiously at him. “In his office? After lunch? But surely…?” Gallagher's voice petered out and his expression became watchful.

  Rafferty chose not to satisfy the American's curiosity and merely repeated his question. “Can you recall anyone in particular?”

  Gallagher shook his head firmly. “Can't say I do.” He grinned again and his next words revealed that if it meant pointing the finger at Barstaple's murderer he wasn't likely to try too hard to remember. “Always had a kinda shaky memory, me.” He glanced appraisingly at Rafferty. “Weren't the rest of the staff able to help?”

  Rafferty, unwilling to give Gallagher the idea that it was important, shrugged. “I neglected to ask them. Never mind. It's only a minor point.”

  Gallagher smiled. “I wouldn't be sure the rest of the staff will remember either. Clive always kept them too busy for standing and staring. That was more his role.”

  Although he thought the American was being deliberately obstructive, Rafferty couldn't help liking him. He suspected, in similar circumstances, he would behave the same. However, he was here in his policeman capacity not as a Dutch uncle and he opened his mouth to ask another question when Llewellyn saved him the trouble.

  “What about Ms Glossop?” he asked Gallagher. “She seems an observant kind of woman.”

  Gallagher's smile faded. “Well now, Sergeant, I reckon you could be right there. Amy Glossop always did have a damn fine noticing way with her.”

  Although he hadn't actually added the words, “too bad”, his whole manner implied that he wouldn't be exactly grief-stricken if Barstaple's murderer wasn't caught and punished. Given the character of the victim, Rafferty could sympathise with this attitude. It was clear Gallagher wasn't about to volunteer anything beyond the minimum.

  It meant Rafferty had no choice but to select another confidant at the earliest opportunity. Llewellyn hadn't the only mind into which Amy Glossop's name sprang and he realized he should probably have put the question to her instead. She seemed the only one to have any reason for grief over Barstaple's death. And if she had been Barstaple's spy, she would presumably regret that his sudden death had also brought the loss of her little bit of power.

  He brought the conversation to an end and thanked Gallagher for waiting. When the American had left, Rafferty didn't hurry away to continue the investigation elsewhere. Instead, he studied the noticeboard in the staff room, upon which, apart from the official notices, there was a display of photographs.

  They had been taken at Christmas, that much was obvious, and were evidently at a staff function. Rafferty hardly recognised the happy, smiling faces; they were a far cry from the strained expressions he had encountered earlier; the strain not simply the result of being part of a murder investigation, but clearly predating it by several months. He turned as he sensed someone hovering in the doorway It was Marian Steadman. Beyond her, in reception, he could see Bob Harris and Linda Luscombe chatting to Smith the security man. They were clearly waiting for Mrs Steadman. By now, it was lunchtime and from the snatches of their conversation that he caught it was apparent they had decided to go off to the pub and discuss the murder. Amy Glossop wasn't with them.

 
Rafferty had already put her down as the office spy, Barstaple's creature. And while, before his murder, it might have paid them to keep in with her, now there was no pretence that she was anything other than a pariah. As he looked through the window of reception he could see her leaving. A lonely figure, she was walking very slowly up the drive, her shoulders hunched.

  Rafferty might have felt sorry for her had he not suspected that the forlorn air owed more to consciousness that her reign as boss's pet was at an end than to regret over her behaviour. He also felt it likely that her current ‘untouchable’ status would encourage her to seek ways of hitting back. And while he felt a certain distaste for tapping into such a source of information, he was too much the policeman to turn his back on it.

  “How times change, Inspector.” Marian Steadman nodded at the noticeboard. “Those photos were taken the Christmas before last. Mr Aimhurst senior was already in failing health. I suppose we'd realized it was the end of an era as, by then, most of us suspected he hadn't long left. It turned into something of a wake. We were determined to have a jolly time. Put like that, it sounds callous, but old Mr Aimhurst would have been the first to raise his glass. He was always such a lively man.”

  She came and stood beside him and pointed to a particular picture. Central to the group was the jovial elderly man, white of hair and red of face, who made Rafferty think of Father Christmas.

  “That's old Mr Aimhurst. A lovely old gentleman.” She sighed. “It was a sad day for us when he died.”

  Rafferty nodded and studied the photographs again. “You certainly look as if you were having a good time.” he smiled. “Albert Smith, the security guard particularly. I hardly recognised him.”

  In the photo that Rafferty was examining, Albert Smith was sprawled across the lap of Marian Steadman, his thinning dark hair against her thicker tresses, while through the thick lenses of his glasses his dark eyes glistened with tears as he laughed uproariously at the camera.