Free Absolute Poison by Geraldine Evans Page B

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 discovered that Barstaple had set himself up two years previously as a consultant, a troubleshooter, an expert who hired himself out to firms who wished to rationalize. 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 rationalized, 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 rationalization 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