Death Line by Geraldine Evans, Kimberly Hitchens, Rickhardt Capidamonte

type,” Rafferty joked. “Promise I won't tell Maureen.”
    Llewellyn took a long-suffering breath. “I meant that it struck me as odd that Astell should have popped in twice to check on her. Didn't you notice her prompt him? He looked puzzled for a second, before he agreed. Why was she so keen to mention the visits at all?”
    “Now you mention it, twice does seem a bit excessive. Still, people are always anxious to cover themselves in such circumstances. I don't suppose it means anything. Even if she was totally alone from just after 8.00 p m to 8.50 p m, I can't see her creeping out on such a night to kill Moon. She might have disliked the man, but that's hardly strong enough reason for murdering him. Besides, by the look of her, I'd have thought beating Moon around the head with his own crystal ball hard enough to kill him would be physically beyond her.”
    Rafferty guessed what was about to come out of Llewellyn's open mouth and forestalled him. “I know, I know. An open mind is a policeman's friend and conclusion jumping his enemy. I haven't forgotten.” Not likely to get the chance, Rafferty added to himself, with you around. And even if I am guilty of jumping to conclusions, he mused, I still can't see her doing it.
    After staring at the still silent phone with a frown, he said, “I want you to get onto Moon's London agent. Check that Astell was telling the truth when he said he had nothing to do with Moon's profitable side-lines. Not that it's likely to make much difference one way or the other,” he muttered half to himself. “It doesn't look as if he would have had the opportunity to kill him. But we'd better get it checked out.”
    While Llewellyn busied himself with that, Rafferty glanced through the growing pile of reports, abandoning them with relief when Llewellyn put the phone down and told him that Moon's agent had confirmed that Astell had told them the truth.
    Rafferty nodded. He had expected as much.
    Half an hour later, the accountant still hadn't got back to him. So much for the benefits of modern technology, Rafferty thought. At least when you dialled a number yourself, you had the satisfaction of slamming the receiver down when it was continually engaged. “I reckon the bloody phone's redirected my call to a public phone box in the Outer Hebrides,” he complained to Llewellyn.
    Llewellyn smiled his superior smile. “It's always possible you dialled the wrong number,” he pointed out. “It's easily done.”
    Rafferty scowled. “Might have known it would be my fault. Why don't you give them a ring, Mr Know-all?”
    Of course, Llewellyn got through on the first attempt, obtained the information that Mr Spenny, the partnership accountant was away on a late holiday and wouldn't be back till the following week and made an appointment for Rafferty to see him as soon as he came back.
    With great restraint, Rafferty merely nodded an acknowledgement when Llewellyn told him this. Sitting forward in his chair, he said, “Let's see what we have to consider so far. Moon's office was broken into on the night of his murder. Could be a coincidence, could be someone trying to throw us off the scent. Of course, £1000 is a large enough sum to kill for, especially when you consider how many people nowadays get murdered for the sake of a few pence. But whatever happened, and aside from the oddities I mentioned earlier, there are four other things we must consider about that break-in.” He began to mark them off on his fingers. “One, if it happened before the murder, why did the intruder burgle an obviously occupied office? It could have been a drug addict, as I told Farley, but I doubt it. An addict would find easier pickings by mugging old ladies. Two, if Moon surprised him, why was the only injury to the back of his skull?”
    “The intruder could have had a gun and forced Moon to turn around so he could hit him.”
    “So why not hit him with the gun? Why bother to look around for another weapon?”