Death Dance (17 page)

Llewellyn’s thinly handsome face grew longer as he considered this. ‘We’ve been through all the usual procedures and—‘

‘Exactly. Sticking to the rules. That’s what we’ve been doing. Maybe we ought to start breaking a few rules.’

‘Like what?’ Llewellyn looked faintly alarmed. The Welshman was a rules and regulations sort of guy and was always wary of Rafferty’s more outrageous suggestions.

‘Like forgetting about Superintendent Bradley and his desire to impress Region, for a start. He’s kept our noses to the grindstone for long enough with no result. Let’s just forget about him altogether and do our own thing.’

‘Which would be?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Rafferty picked up a paperclip and twisted it savagely. ‘Just something other than we’ve been doing. Something, anything, that might give us a lead. Maybe setting a watch on our main suspects and hopefully spooking them.’ Particularly Gary Oldfield, he thought.

‘I can’t see Superintendent Bradley authorising that. Think of the overtime. Think of the budgetary constraints imposed by the latest financial cutbacks.’

Rafferty didn’t want to think about them and said so.

‘Why don’t we try questioning each of the suspects again?’ Llewellyn suggested instead.

They had already questioned them all several times, to no avail. Not one of them had betrayed any degree of guilt or desire to confess and without a confession they had nothing meaty on any of them bar their dislike of the dead woman and the circumstantial evidence that they couldn’t prove where they were between four and six o’clock on the day she was murdered.

Rafferty didn’t see any point in doing this. ‘No. Not just now. That can wait. Not that we’ve got anything from any of them – apart from learning that none of them has an alibi worthy of the name.’

‘All the more reason to investigate them further, I would have thought. A lack of an alibi on a suspect’s part surely indicates the need for further questioning.’

‘Yes. And we will. Just not yet. I want to approach the case from another angle.’

‘Which would be?’ Llewellyn asked again.

The Welshman had an unfortunate habit of going into interrogation mode when Rafferty started to put ideas forward. He supposed it was down to his university education and his membership of the debating society. Whatever brought it on, it got on Rafferty’s nerves and he answered sharply. ‘As I said – I don’t know – yet. I’m working on it. Something will occur to me.’ Rafferty just hoped the something occurred to him soon, or he wouldn’t be able to deflect Bradley’s desire to look good at Region and his liability to come down hard on officers who failed to supply the goods to enable him to do so.

‘Tell me, Dafyd — what have we done so far on the case?’ Let him answer a few question for a change, instead of interrogating
him
.

‘As I said, we’ve done all the usual things. Questioned everyone with a connection to the victim. All as normal.’

‘All as normal. And where has it got us?’ Nowhere. We have to approach this from a new angle. Any ideas?’ Expecting circuitous thinking from the logical Welshman was an expectation too far, of course.

‘No.’

‘Nor have I. It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

The frustrating day finally ended and Rafferty went home to Abra. He stopped to pick up an Indian takeaway on the way after ringing home to check that she hadn’t made a start on dinner: he liked to get takeaways several times a week to save Abra from cooking. She worked all day, as did he, but she invariably got home before him so she generally started preparing the evening meal.

Abra was glad to see him. ‘And you’ve brought our dinner, too. Well done, that man. Brownie points for you.’

‘Tell God and he can put it on the plus side of his Great Book.’ Rafferty told her as he led the way into the kitchen. ‘Any news on your flat sale?’

‘Yes. I had an offer on it today,’ Abra told him as he began to dish up.

Abra had her own flat, on St Mark’s Road, which she’d bought before she’d met him. It was the place she had retreated to when she had left him over their different views on the wedding costs. He’d be glad when it was sold, then if she decided to leave him again at least she wouldn’t have a ready bolthole to go to. Unless, that was, she was having an affair with John Staveley. In which case she’d have a large and comfortable house to retreat to, a house, moreover, that was bigger than anything he could afford to buy her.

Once again, he recalled Sam Dally’s remark as to Abra being young enough and attractive enough to find a partner who didn’t work long hours, many of which were often unpaid, who earned more and who didn’t break family arrangements at a moment’s notice. What Sam had said had preyed on his mind ever since, especially given Abra’s fingerprints in Staveley’s bedroom. He really must find the courage to ask her about it without antagonising her. She was liable to fly off the handle if she thought he was accusing her of something — and what could he be accusing her of but having an affair? Unless she had killed Adrienne Staveley. Though that wouldn’t explain her fingerprints all over the house, more particularly, they wouldn’t explain their presence in Staveley’s monkish bedroom.

He forced such unwelcome reflections from his mind and said, ‘Really? That’s great. Is it a good offer?’

‘I think so.’ She mentioned a figure and Rafferty nodded.

‘Who was it? A young couple?’

‘No, a young guy. He seemed very keen, according to the estate agent. Well, he must have been to make an offer. Now perhaps we could do likewise on the house I fell in love with.’

Abra had set her heart on a semi-detached house they had viewed. It was on the outskirts of Elmhurst, but not on an estate. It was an older, character property with three spacious bedrooms and an open fireplace in each of the two reception rooms. There was even a small conservatory and a greenhouse, which had really pleased Abra, as she had green fingers and liked to grow things. She’d been very restricted in the flat with just a windowsill for herbs.

‘Yes. That’ll be great. I’ll ring the agents tomorrow.’ Rafferty picked up the plates and made for the living room. ‘Bring the cutlery,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

Soon, they were tucking into Abra’s favourite: Chicken Tikka Masala and making swift inroads into the food: surprisingly, for Abra, who was quite adventurous in other ways, her taste in Indian food was typically British and lacking in experiment. Why try something new? she said, when I may not like it and I’ll go hungry.

Rafferty got up. ‘Fancy a drink, sweetheart?’

‘Yes please.’

Rafferty poured two glasses of Jameson’s, brought them to the table and sat down again. Their drinks bill at the local supermarket was becoming excessive, as they got through four bottles of Jameson’s whiskey a week as well as wine and beer. Rafferty’s ma told him he drank too much and he supposed she was right, but it had become a habit that – in the way of such things – he’d settled into.

‘So what’s happening on the case? Abra asked before she bit into a poppadum.

She’d asked the same question every night since the investigation had begun, such was her anxiety about cancelling the wedding. Unfortunately, the answer was the same as it had been on each of the previous occasions.

‘Not a lot’ was Rafferty’s reluctant admission. He spooned the last of the rice and chicken into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, hoping the pause would give him time to think of something hopeful to tell her. But nothing occurred to him.

‘There must be something else you can do. What about your snouts? Haven’t they been any help?’

‘No. Most of the suspects are pretty respectable citizens, so wouldn’t come into the orbit of snouts.’

‘What about that other feller — the used car salesman. He must be a bit dodgy. Surely one of your snouts can find out something useful on him if they put the word out.’

‘I’ve already tried. There’s been nothing.’

‘Well, try again. Things change. It could be worthwhile.’ When she saw he didn’t look too enthusiastic at her suggestion, she said, ‘Go on, love. Try again. Promise me?’

‘Okay. I promise.’ Though he didn’t hold out much hope that anything useful would come of it.

‘Good. So what are we to do about the wedding? Should I ring Father Kelly and cancel?’

‘No.’ He sounded more vehement than he had intended. But for her to cancel the wedding was the last thing he wanted. To him it would indicate that any affair with Staveley was a serious one and she was using his lack of success at finding Adrienne Staveley’s killer as a smokescreen to postpone their wedding. He hoped he wasn’t tempting the fates when he said, ‘We’ll get married whatever happens, though the honeymoon might have to go on the back burner for a short while.’

‘Great. So what’s the position on the insurance?

There was no position on the insurance. They didn’t have any insurance. Rafferty, having so much on his mind, had again forgotten to arrange any, though, knowing Nigel, he’d only pocket the money if he had organised cover. ‘All in hand,’ Rafferty temporized. ‘We’ll get our honeymoon, never fear.’

‘I hope so.’

‘It’ll happen, Abra. Believe me. It might be delayed by a few weeks, but we’ll still be going to France.’

France was a new destination for them. Usually they holidayed in Spain or Greece or the Canary Islands, but Abra had recently decided to take an evening class in French conversation to help her converse with foreign agents in the theatrical agency in which she worked. They had plumped for the south of France, so they could get sun
and
conversation.

‘Good. Get me another drink, will you, Joe?’

‘Coming right up.’ Rafferty poured the Jameson’s and handed Abra her glass. ‘Here’s to us,’ he said as he chinked glasses. He crossed his fingers under the table as he added, ‘And to our future together.’ He hoped he wasn’t tempting fate and that they
did
have a future together.

‘To us,’ Abra echoed. ‘But Joe, what do you think are the chances that we’ll still be able to go on honeymoon for the two weeks we booked?’

‘Fair to middling,’ he told her as he kept his fingers crossed. ‘Stop fretting, sweetheart. It’ll happen. Believe me.’

‘I hope you’re right. I’m not optimistic.’

‘Be optimistic, Abracadabra. I’m working on it.’

‘I know you are, Joe. Just try a bit harder.’

‘I will. I’m doing my best, sweetpea.’

‘Yes. I know you are,’ Abra said again. ‘Just keep trying hard, my love and we won’t have to cancel anything.’

Her words renewed his hope that she wasn’t having an affair and that he’d find if – no, when – he asked her about the presence of her fingerprints all over the Staveleys’ house, that she’d be able to supply a rational explanation. It seemed unlikely. However, he strove for optimism. ‘You’ll see. It’ll come right before the honeymoon.’

‘Let’s drink to it.’

They chinked glasses again. ‘To our wedding and honeymoon,’ said Rafferty.

‘To our wedding and honeymoon,’ Abra repeated.

They went to bed soon after and once again, Rafferty tossed and turned, unable to sleep, as his worry gene went into overdrive. His mind turned to the honeymoon again. Always supposing it happened. He didn’t want to disappoint Abra — he’d disappointed her enough in the past. Perhaps that was why— But no, he wasn’t going to go there. Still, unless he could hit on the solution to the case her disappointment was likely to be inevitable. And he didn’t want that. She’d had occasion already in their relationship to discover that he had feet of clay and the last thing he wanted was for her to make the same discovery again.

If she really was thinking of leaving him, then giving her yet another reason, on top of the job, for her to go, wasn’t a good idea.

Chapter Thirteen

To Rafferty’s surprise, the new day brought with it a new optimism. Even the sun was shining as if to cast its approval on such unreasonable cheeriness. Rafferty sprang out of bed, showered and took Abra her tea, then set off for work with a sprightly gait. He didn’t know where this new optimism had come from or why it had appeared, but he was grateful for it. It beat the downbeat mood of previous days. Maybe it would even give him the courage to ask Abra about her relationship with the Staveley family…

’What ho, Dafyd,’ he said as he entered the office. ‘What’s cooking?’

Even Llewellyn’s reply of ‘not much’, didn’t dampen his enthusiasm for the day ahead.

‘Never mind. I’ve had a new lease of life. We’re going to get somewhere today; I feel it in my bones.’

‘Really? That’s good. You’ve given up your thoughts of out-of-the-box rule-breaking? Llewellyn’s voice took on an upward lilt, as if pleased at this.

Rafferty killed the hope. ‘Not at all. I’m still deciding which of the many rules that constricts us, to break. I’ll let you know when I come up with one. No, I woke this morning feeling all’s well with the world and I’m sure the day won’t disappoint me.’

In spite of Rafferty’s newfound optimism, it was clear that Llewellyn didn’t share it. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said with a downward turn to his voice.

So do I, thought Rafferty as a little of the previous pessimism returned to haunt him. But his optimism wasn’t to be dented, not even by Llewellyn’s lacklustre response.

‘So, update me on the latest reports,’ he said. ‘Anything of any interest?’

‘No.’

‘Tell me the worst — don’t hold back whatever you do.’

‘There is no worst, as such, just nothing good or helpful.’

‘Same old, same old, then. Oh well. Time for tea.’ He took a large gulp of the tea Llewellyn got from the canteen each morning. It helped him think. In fact his first few sips gave him a brainwave.

Why didn’t he ask John Staveley what Abra’s fingerprints were doing in his bedroom? He might surprise the man into an admission, though of course, there was the danger that he’d let the cat out of the bag to others, which Rafferty didn’t want. Still, it was something worth thinking about, especially if he received a reassuring answer concerning Abra’s presence in the house. Though, for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what such a reassuring answer might consist of