Death Dance (6 page)

‘Of course.’

Sarah Jones showed them out. They got in the car and headed for the home of Mrs Staveley Senior to question Kyle as to why he’d lied to them.

Unfortunately, when they got there it was to learn that Kyle had returned to school that morning. Rafferty didn’t want to haul the boy out of his class to question him. If he was being bullied, as Rafferty thought likely, such an action would only tend to make him more vulnerable to being picked on. The interview would wait till later.

John Staveley seemed distracted. He was upset that they wanted to speak to his son again and wanted to know why.

Rafferty was straight with him. ‘Kyle lied to us, Mr Staveley. He wasn’t at the library any later than 4.30. Do you know where he went?’

Staveley shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. But I’m sure he wasn’t killing his stepmother if that’s what you think. My son is a studious boy, not a violent one.’

Fortunately, Mrs Staveley Senior was out, so they were spared her interruptions during the short time they spent at the house.

Rafferty told John Staveley he could return to his home whenever he wished as the Scene of Crime team had finished their work. He handed back the house keys. ‘We’ll leave you to get on with your day.’ Wanting to know where the Staveleys would be, he asked, ‘Will you be moving back home later today?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Tell your son we’ll be along this afternoon to talk to him. Tell him also, please, that we don’t want to hear any more lies.’

Rafferty drove and they made for the station, but he stopped off in the High Street, outside his cousin Nigel’s estate agency. ‘I’ve just got to pop in and see my cousin about our honeymoon villa,’ he told Llewellyn. ‘I won’t be long.’

Llewellyn protested, as Rafferty had expected he would, as he had parked on a double yellow line. But Rafferty told him not to be such an old woman and slammed the car door on his protests.

Nigel was in his office, looking his usual immaculate self with his hair groomed to within an inch of its life. The outer room was deserted. No clients and no staff were in evidence.

‘It’s quiet here,’ Rafferty commented. ‘Is the downturn hitting you so badly?’

Nigel shrugged his sharp-suited shoulders. Today, he was in midnight blue. ‘I’m getting by. I’ve had to let a couple of the staff go. The rest are at lunch.’

‘I came in to pay the remainder of the money due on the honeymoon villa.’

Rafferty and Abra were renting a villa from Nigel’s management company for their honeymoon. Nigel had branched out into managing foreign villas the previous year, and had, surprisingly, given Rafferty a good deal. Rafferty had had a few qualms about booking the honeymoon with Nigel, but the deal was too good to pass up.

Rafferty pulled out his wallet and extracted his debit card. Nigel ran it through the machine after checking what was still owed on the booking.

‘Thanks for that, coz,’ said Nigel, as he handed over the credit card receipt.

‘Don’t go using it to pay the staff wages,’ Rafferty warned, only half joking.

‘As if. It’ll go to the clients once I’ve taken my cut.’

‘I’ll want a written receipt, too.’ Rafferty knew Nigel of old and liked to get confirmation that he’d paid full wack. Like the rest of the family, Nigel Blythe – who, before he had decided that a name-change to a more up-market moniker was indicated, had been called Jerry Kelly – didn’t fight shy of the odd underhanded shenanigans if he thought he could get away with it.

Nigel sniffed and drew back a little at this implied slur on his good character But while he might effect a hurt demeanour, Rafferty was happy to see him pull a receipt pad from the top drawer of his desk. He completed it quickly, tore it from the pad and handed it to Rafferty with an unnecessary flourish. ‘There you are. One receipt, signed and dated.’

‘Cheers.’ He tucked this evidence of payment safely in his wallet. As he observed this careful stowing, Nigel’s nostrils quivered as if suddenly assailed by a bad odour. ‘I’ll be off. I hope the business picks up soon.’

‘It already has, coz,’ Nigel drawled as he spared Rafferty one of his selectively distributed smiles. ‘I have every confidence.’

A little less would be an improvement, was Rafferty’s thought. His cousin oozed the bloody stuff. Rafferty bade Nigel goodbye and turned towards the car. Llewellyn was clearly getting restive about being parked on a double yellow. Through the rear window, he could see the Welshman edging his body over to the driver’s seat as Rafferty shut Nigel’s door behind him.

‘All right,’ Rafferty said as he opened the driver’s door and waved Llewellyn back to his own seat. ‘Keep your hair on. I’m back now. I was no more than a few minutes,’ he grumbled. ‘Why didn’t you drive around the block if you were so anxious about traffic wardens?’

‘That was just what I was about to do.’ Llewellyn settled in the passenger seat and gave his seat belt a taut tug. He fastened it with a firm snap. ‘But that’s not the point. I don’t like parking illegally. You know I don’t. I’m a police officer. I’m meant to uphold the law, not break it. So are you.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Rafferty’s nostrils did some quivering of their own. But he said no more, turned the key and, with a heavy foot on the gas pedal, let the engine’s throaty roar give his riposte for him. He grinned to himself as, at the edge of his vision, he could see Llewellyn, sitting stiffly, eyes front. Just to show who was boss, Rafferty put a spurt on and they reached the station in no time.

When they got back it was to find more statements and reports. After arming themselves with tea and sandwiches from the canteen, they set to and began to read their way through them.

‘I see the team have traced Michael Peacock, Adrienne Staveley’s other male visitor,’ said Rafferty, tapping the report in front of him. ‘We must make time to see and question him.’

They finally reached the end of the paperwork. Rafferty stood up and grabbed his jacket. ‘Right. Let’s head off to talk to this Michael Peacock,’ he said to Llewellyn.

Peacock lived in a block of flats about two hundred yards from the police station, so they left the car behind and walked.

Peacock was at home. He was dressed casually, in jeans and an open-necked T-shirt and totally lacked Gary Oldfield’s smarmy, superficial charm. After Rafferty made the introductions, Peacock invited them in with a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners.

Rafferty was surprised to find him so little like the oily Oldfield. Presumably, Adrienne Staveley appreciated variety in her men.

They were offered tea. But even Rafferty was all tea-ed out, and he refused.

‘We understand you knew a Mrs Adrienne Staveley,’ he began as he took a seat in a living room strewn with several small electrical appliances in various stages of dismemberment.

‘Excuse the mess. Just doing a few favours for the neighbours. I’m an electrician and it goes with the job. And yes,’ he said. ‘I knew Adrienne. I was shocked to learn of her murder on the local radio.’

‘How well did you know her?’

Michael Peacock shifted a couple of toasters and sat down on the settee, gesturing for Llewellyn to do likewise. ‘Pretty well. I met her two months ago. We seemed to strike a spark when we met and just carried on from there.’

‘I understand you used to visit her at her home regularly.’

‘Yes. I’d sometimes pop in for half-an-hour on my way to get parts. I got the impression she felt bored being in the house on her own all day and welcomed company.’

As long as it wasn’t her husband, stepson or mother in law, was Rafferty’s thought. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

Peacock frowned in thought. ‘It must be about two weeks ago.’

‘And you haven’t seen her since?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Thank you. Perhaps you can tell us where you were two evenings ago from 4.00 to 6.00 p m?’

‘I was on a rewiring job for a client. As I said, I’m an electrician. Self-employed.’

Which meant he spent a lot of his time out and about and in other people’s houses. He’d already freely admitted he stole the odd half-hour for private purposes.

They got the name and address of the client Peacock had been working for at the relevant time. Not that that would necessarily prove anything either way. Tradesmen, as Rafferty knew only too well, given there were plenty of them in his own family, were a law unto themselves. They—and, doubtless, Peacock too, could be relied on to pop out for several hours at a time when it suited them, without feeling the need to let the client know how long they’d be away from the job. Sometimes this ‘popping-out’ stretched for days on end, and they’d return to the job only after a client’s frantic phone call as if they were doing a favour. Nice little perk, if you could get it, Rafferty thought. Wouldn’t he like the opportunity to do a vanishing act when Superintendent Bradley was on the warpath?

With a sigh for opportunities not taken, Rafferty stood up. ‘We’ll leave you to it, Mr Peacock, but we may need to speak to you again.’

‘Yes, of course. Anytime. Let me show you out.’

They left and made for the station to pick up the car then headed for the Staveley’s home to speak again to Kyle.

He was at home. John Staveley let them in and brought them into the drawing room where a sullen-looking Kyle was slouched on a settee.

Invited to sit down by John Staveley, they sat on the armchairs opposite Kyle.

‘Kyle, I imagine your father’s told you that we’ve learned you lied to us about being at the library after four-thirty,’ Rafferty began. ‘So where were you?’

Kyle didn’t answer immediately, but after a few seconds he said,’ I was just walking around town, checking out the shops. I wasn’t in the mood for studying. It was a sunny day and I didn’t feel like staying cooped up in the library.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place instead of lying?

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I was scared.’

‘Why didn’t you come home?’

‘Because I knew
she’d
be here. Dad’s always out all day.’

‘Did you see anyone you know when you were walking?’

‘No.’

Rafferty stared hard at the youth, but as it was clear there was to be nothing more forthcoming, he got up. ‘A word of advice, Kyle. Don’t lie to the police, as you’ll inevitably get found out.’

Kyle didn’t answer, but darted a moody up-and-under glance at him from beneath his lashes.

John Staveley saw them out and, after apologising for his son’s teenage manners, he carefully shut the door.

Rafferty complained as they got in the car and headed back to the station. ‘We seem to be hitting dead ends all the way. Acres of possibilities, but no definite leads.’

‘We’re fairly certain that Adrienne Staveley was killed by someone who knew her,’ Llewellyn pointed out. ‘It’s surely just a matter of sifting through her family, friends and acquaintances. We’ll get there.’

‘Hmm. Hope you’re right. Anyway, let’s get back to the station and type up these last two interviews. When we get there, remind me to get one of the team to check out Peacock’s client to see if they can confirm he was there between four and six o’clock.’

The journey back to the station was quickly accomplished as Rafferty was again behind the wheel. As usual, he ignored the Welshman’s white-knuckled fists and the stretched-out leg pressing on an imaginary brake pedal, and put his foot down. Sooner than his sergeant would have liked, they were ensconced in their office with Llewellyn huffily typing up his notes, his displeasure evident from his stiff features and determined and silent concentration.

Rafferty concealed a grin. The phone rang. It was the estate agent Rafferty and Abra were using to sell their respective flats — he had chosen not to use his cousin’s services for this; Nigel was just too tricksy for such a major matter. Nigel had been frosty when he learned he hadn’t been given the business and had made his feelings known in no uncertain terms. ‘You should keep it in the family’, he’d told Rafferty. ‘You know I’d have made a good deal.’
Yeah, but who for?
had been Rafferty’s rejoinder. They’d parted unhappily with insults thrown on both sides, which was how many of their encounters ended.

‘I’ve got a viewing for you,’ the not-Nigel estate agent told Rafferty.

‘Great. When for?’

‘This evening at 7.30, if it’s convenient.’

‘That’s fine. Thanks.’ Rafferty put the phone down. It was only the third viewing he’d had; the property market might have picked up a bit after the recession, but it wasn’t picking up as quickly as he’d have liked. It was a fag keeping the place tidy, but if it sold fast it would be a good investment of labour.

The rest of the day passed slowly. Gerry Hanks, who had been deputed to speak to Peacock’s client, reported that the client hadn’t been able to confirm Peacock’s alibi as the electrician had left the house for half-an-hour during the relevant time. To get parts, he’d claimed, but he could equally have spent the time visiting Adrienne Staveley and murdering her.

Superintendent Bradley stopped by to discover what progress they’d made and wasn’t best pleased to learn they seemed to be getting nowhere.

‘It’s a limited circle of suspects,’ he pointed out with that impatient, hectoring tone that seemed to imply even Rafferty should be able to whittle them down. ‘You must have someone who sticks out, but,’ he complained, his Yorkshire plain-speak well to the fore.

‘No one that springs to mind,’ Rafferty replied in level tones.

‘What about the husband?’ Bradley barked. ‘You said he didn’t have an alibi worthy of the name.’

‘He’s a possible, certainly. But as yet we’ve no proof of guilt.’

‘Well get some, Rafferty, get some. And soon. I want this case wrapped up as quickly as possible. Murder cases eat into my budget. You know I like to present a clean pair of financial heels at Region.’

Rafferty did. He’d had it hammered into his head at regular intervals.

Bradley glowered at him for a few more seconds, before he stomped off, muttering.

Rafferty sighed and went back to reading the latest statements. But there was nothing of interest in any of them. He sighed again and sat back. If only Bradley wouldn’t be so unreasonable in his demands. But his desire to impress the brass at Region made him behave unfairly to those under him. A leader of men he wasn’t.