Free Death Line by Geraldine Evans, Kimberly Hitchens, Rickhardt Capidamonte

like us to arrange for anyone to stay with you, sir?” he asked. “A friend or a member of your family, perhaps, if they live here? All this must have been a great shock to you.”
    Rafferty scowled as he realised he should have made the offer. Trust Llewellyn to remember the simple courtesies, he thought.
    Farley, after a glance at Rafferty, shook his head. “I don't want anyone. I'm better alone.” With a simple dignity, he added, “But thank you for asking, Sergeant. I appreciate it.” Glancing again at Rafferty, he said, “Most policemen seem barely able to conceal their distaste for homosexuals like myself, never mind show consideration.”
    Rafferty was grateful for the rush of cold air that attacked them as they let themselves out of Moon's flat and retraced their steps. It blew away the shame that Farley's dig had made him feel. Judge not, lest you yourself be judged, was undoubtedly what Llewellyn would have said to him if he was foolish enough to mention it. Rafferty was irritated that his awkward attempts to be understanding had gone unnoticed. He'd done his best, dammit, he thought. It's not as if I licked such prejudices off the street. It was only fair that the Pope and his many battalions took their share of any censure going.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Rafferty's feeling of irritation, like most of his moods, quickly passed. “Glad to see you're back to your wise-cracking self again,” he teased Llewellyn, as with the news-breaking now behind them, the Welshman's cello-length features had reverted to their normal fiddle proportions.
    Llewellyn parked the car precisely in the centre of the marked lines of the police station car park and turned off the ignition before he replied. “I've never considered murder to be a joking matter, sir,” he quietly rebuked. The words, "unlike you", hovered unspoken between them.
    Rafferty, defensive in turn, retorted, “We all have our own ways of coping with the strain, Dafyd. Just because I find it helps to keep my sense of humour intact doesn't mean I'm some kind of flinty-hearted dog. Surely you know that by now?”
    Llewellyn studied him silently for a few moments before, with a nod of his head, he acknowledged the truth of this.
    “You could do with lightening up a bit yourself, you know,” Rafferty advised, as they got out of the car and headed towards the station. “With all your psychology training, you must realise that your way of coping with strain is bad for the health. You're in serious danger of going doolally before you're forty.”
    “Do you think that will be before or after you're admitted to the coronary ward owing to your unhealthy lifestyle, sir?”
    Rafferty, who liked a drink, loathed exercise, and, until recently, had been a thirty a day man, grinned, said “Touché,” and slapped Llewellyn between the shoulder blades. “Come on, fiddle-face. Let's see if we can't catch ourselves that murderer before Bradley's PIMPmobile comes for me.” Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the letter to Hedges. “The first thing is to find out Moon's real name. Farley seemed a touch bashful about revealing it. Maybe Moon's famous clients aren't the only ones with skeletons rattling in the closets?”
    Mrs Hadleigh hadn't taken long over the photo-fit and had gone by the time they returned to the station. Having instructed one of the junior officers to type up her statement, Rafferty, feet on desk, read it through, before asking Llewellyn, “What do you make of the cleaner's evidence, Dafyd? Think Moon saw someone else after this Henderson bloke? Would he be likely to kill Moon when he knew the cleaner had seen him and could identify him?”
    Llewellyn's bony fingers stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Not if it was a premeditated killing. But, from what you, yourself said, the type of murder indicates it was done on the spur of the moment. A sudden rush of blood to the head, you might say.”
    “And a sudden rush of crystal ball to Jasper Moon's.”