Death Dance (7 page)

Rafferty was glad when the frustrating day ended and he could go home. The car park was awash with puddles. He wove his way through them to his car.

Abra was back at the flat before him. They did some superficial dusting, Abra ran the Hoover over the living-room carpet and then they had a quick, micro waved meal before the potential flat purchaser arrived, concealing the dirty dishes in the dishwasher out of sight. Abra brewed some coffee for the aroma, as they rarely drank it.

The viewer was right on time. He seemed to like the flat and the coffee aroma, and also appeared enthusiastic about the amenities in the area.

‘Looks hopeful,’ said Rafferty after he’d shown their potential buyer out.

‘Yes. He seemed keen enough. Let’s hope it comes to something. It’ll be good to get a firm offer on one of our flats before the wedding.’ Abra paused, then asked, ‘Do you want to do anything this evening?’

‘No. Achieving nothing all day has made me tired. It’s the frustration that does it.’

They had a lazy, relaxed evening in front of the television and went to bed before ten.

The next morning Rafferty was again up early. He brought Abra her tea and drank his own sitting at the kitchen table. He left for work earlier than usual and for once arrived before Llewellyn. He stopped off at the canteen and got the teas in for a change. When he entered his office it was to a text from Llewellyn to say that Maureen’s car wouldn’t start, he was giving her a life to work and was it all right if he came in late?

Rafferty texted him back with a smiley wearing a big, toothy, grin. It matched the one Rafferty wore.

The estate agent rang him just after nine and told him that their viewer of the previous night had been in touch and had made an offer. It was a good one, not far off the asking price and Rafferty was happy to accept it.

Llewellyn arrived shortly after, a little flustered and showing evidence of having recently encountered an oily rag. It was so unusual to see his dapper sergeant looking anything but impeccible, that Rafferty sat and stared.

Llewellyn hated to be late. His tea was cold by now. With an apology and a ‘good morning’, to Rafferty, he took the mug of cold tea to dispose of it in the toilet. He was soon back with two fresh brews and he set to with a determined air, speed-reading. as though to make up for lost time.

Rafferty sipped his tea and watched him through slitted eyes, amused to see the calm Welshman something less than his invariably collected self, before he returned to his own pile of reports. But again there was nothing of interest. The case seemed to be stalemated.

The forensic reports were in. Adrienne Staveley’s fingernails didn’t contain her attacker’s skin under them. A number of fingerprints were found in the kitchen, including those of Gary Oldfield and Michael Peacock – their prints taken as part of the usual routine – as well as several unknown ones. One lot probably belonged to the Staveleys’ neighbour; she’d been asked her to come into the station to have her prints taken. Rafferty had also put out a request for any other visitors to the house to come forward

He’d yet to look through Adrienne Staveley’s personal effects; something he must organise as a priority. With this thought in mind, he summoned Gerry Hanks, borrowed Timothy Smales from uniformed, and gave them instructions to search the Staveleys’ house with particular emphasis on Adrienne’s bedroom where a lot of the action presumably occurred. That done, he sat back and contemplated what else he had yet to do.

He‘d told Hanks to ask John Staveley for a recent photograph of Adrienne for circulation to the media, keen to discover if Adrienne had any other lovers. They needed to find out the names of all her friends and acquaintances so they could begin elimination. It could be there was someone, several someone’s, in her life of whom they were unaware. Rafferty wanted to have all the bases covered rather than simply concentrate their efforts on the current crop of suspects when it might have been an entire unknown who had killed her.

‘Helen Ayling told us that Adrienne was a woman who liked to flirt,’ he mused to Llewellyn. ‘Maybe she went too far in her flirting while withholding her favours to one of the men in her life.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ Llewellyn conceded. ‘But so far, it doesn’t appear Mrs Staveley was a woman who much went in for favour witholding, so we shouldn’t rule out anything yet.’

‘I’m not ruling anything out, Rafferty insisted. I’m keeping an open mind.’

Llewellyn’s lips tilted fractionally upwards at this and Rafferty scowled.

‘I am,’ he insisted. ‘But it’s always advisable to consider the victim’s character — it often points to the reason for their murder.’

‘I don’t disagree. Mrs Staveley’s character is an important aspect. Just not the only one.’

‘Cut out the lecture, Daff. You’re not at that high-falutin’ university now.’ Rafferty settled himself back in his executive model chair and lifted his scuffed black shoes to the desk. ‘Me, I think the husband’s favourite rather than one of her men friends. From the sound of it, he certainly had motive enough. The lovers could get away, back to their own lives, but Staveley had to live with her. Poor bastard.’

‘Yes. It seems to have been a less than happy marriage. He’s an intelligent man— why didn’t he organise an alibi?’

‘Perhaps he hasn’t got any friends loyal enough to be prepared to lie for him, particularly in a murder case.’

‘Maybe not. But I would have thought his mother or sister might have alibied him, particularly his mother, as she struck me as the kind of woman who would be behind her son right or wrong.’

‘Yes. She struck me that way too.’

‘It could be a pointer to his innocence.’

‘Or a pointer to the desire to make us think that,’ said Rafferty, indulging the Devil’s Advocate within. ‘He strikes me as a deep one, fully capable of such double-thinking in order to muddy the waters.’

‘Time will tell.’

‘Time. And to listen to Superintendent Bradley, time isn’t on our side.’

‘It never is in a murder inquiry. But rushing ahead of the evidence to please the superintendent or anyone else is always a mistake. We need to make haste slowly.’

‘Make haste slowly,’ Rafferty scoffed. ‘How I hate those old wiseacres and their glib advice. How can you make haste slowly? It’s a contradiction in terms. Anyway,’ he said before Llewellyn could come back with a glib riposte of his own, ‘to change the subject — how are you getting on with the arrangements for my stag do? I hope you’re not organising a trip to the theatre to see Shakespeare or something equally highbrow. It’s a lads’ night out I want, not a Hooray Henry’s idea of a good time.’

‘Of course not. I know Shakespeare’s not your sort of thing and it
is
your night. No. Don’t worry. I’m organising something more to your taste.’

‘I hope so.’ Rafferty had misgivings about letting Llewellyn arrange his stag night. But the Welshman was his best man and it was tradition that the best man got the stag do sorted. He put it from his mind and turned the conversation back to the murder. ‘Killing by strangulation is often an act of rage, especially if, as we suspect, it’s by someone who knew the victim. Maybe if we can find out who had reason to be angry with her, we might find her murderer.’

‘Which brings us back to her husband.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? Certainly, as I said, he’s my favourite at the moment.’

‘What about the victim’s stepson?’

‘Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten him. No love lost there. He’s a wiry lad and tall for his age, physically capable of strangling a small woman like Adrienne. And when you add in all that teenage angst…’

Late that afternoon, following their search of the Staveleys’ house, Hanks and Smales returned in triumph. Smales, barely able to contain his excitement, the bum fluff on his downy cheeks gleaming as a shaft of dying sunlight shot through the window, held an A5 size book aloft. ‘We found this, sir. It’s the victim’s diary.’

‘Well done. Have you looked at it? Does it contain anything interesting?’

The sunlight shaft went behind a cloud. ‘I don’t know, sir. It’s all written in what looks like shorthand.’

Rafferty cursed. More delay. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it points to her having secrets worth concealing from her old man.’ He turned to Llewellyn. ‘I.don’t suppose you number shorthand amongst your many talents?’

‘Alas, no. Somehow I missed out on that one.’

‘Oh, well. We’ll have to find someone to transcribe it for us. Maybe the super’s secretary does shorthand.’

‘There was something else interesting, sir,’ said Gerry Hanks. ‘Mr and Mrs Staveley didn’t share a bedroom.’

Rafferty shot a glance at Llewellyn. ‘Another pointer to the estrangement between them. Wonder how long they’ve been sleeping apart.’ He turned back to Hanks and Smales. ‘Thanks, lads. You’ve done well. Get back out and see if you can discover Adrienne Staveley’s haunts locally. You picked up a photograph from her home?

Hanks nodded.

‘See if you can find anyone who saw her wining, dining or lunching with a man not her husband. Or even just having a coffee with one. Take a copy of that photo and give it to the Press Office. We don’t want to risk it going astray. I want it circulated as widely as possible. Off you go.’

As Hanks and Smales left, Rafferty turned to Llewellyn. ‘Wonder what the diary will tell us.’

‘It’s certainly intriguing that she wrote it in shorthand.’

‘Isn’t it? It’s certainly got me salivating. Wonder what the Super’s secretary will make of it? Reckon it’s likely to keep her warm at night. And it might even appease Bradley’s desire for fast results.’

Chapter Six

But the diary had to wait; the only one of the administration staff likely to be familiar with shorthand was the Super’s secretary and she was on a day’s leave, so Rafferty – and Superintendent Bradley – had to bear their souls in patience. Meanwhile, Adrienne Staveley’s photo was circulated to the media.

Rafferty could barely wait to discover who else would crawl out of Adrienne Stavelely’s woodpile of lovers.

But, even without media involvement, between them, Hanks and Tim Smales had discovered a few interesting sightings of Adrienne Staveley with different men locally. One of them, from the description, sounded like Gary Oldfield, but the other one was an unknown. It wasn’t Michael Peacock because he had a shock of fair hair and the other man had been described as having curly dark brown hair and an earring. Sounded like a pikey —or a traveller, as Llewellyn had translated. Rafferty had told the pair to keep trying.

Adrienne Staveley had been quite a girl, he thought and wondered if they’d find any other men who’d had a relationship with her.

Meanwhile, Rafferty and Abra’s wedding date was drawing closer. Abra was becoming increasingly anxious that they’d have to postpone that or the honeymoon and Rafferty, bogged down in a case that seemed to be going nowhere, found it more and more difficult to reassure her.

‘Why don’t you ask to have more men assigned to the case?’ she asked Rafferty when he brought her tea the next morning. ‘Surely more bodies would help bring it to a quicker conclusion?’

‘Possibly. But I can’t see Superintendent Bradley letting me have more officers — he hoards them like a miser hoard. gold. Besides, there are other cases on our books that also require a solution and the police budget’s been cut, so there’s less money to throw at every investigation, ours included. No, I’ll have to carry on with the bodies I’ve got and hope something breaks.’

‘Hope,’ Abra scoffed as she put her mug of tea on the bedside table and crossed her arms in a combative manner. ‘I hoped that this wedding would go off without a hitch. Fat chance now, with this murder hanging over us.’

‘Don’t say that, sweetheart. We’ve time yet for the case to be solved.
Nil desperandum
, as Dafyd would say.’ Llewellyn had a habit of coming out with high sounding Latin phrases, much to the half-educated Rafferty’s irritation. Even in the face of his fiancée’s clear desire for a fight, he felt a brief spark of amusement to find himself doing likewise.

‘It’s all right for him — he didn’t have to postpone his wedding.’

‘And neither will we, yet. Anyway, there’s no reason why the wedding itself should need to be postponed. I can always take a few hours off to tie the knot.’

‘And what about the honeymoon?’ she asked. ‘I hope you took out insurance in case we have to cancel.’

He hadn’t. But he didn’t tell Abra that. ‘Leave it with me, sweetheart. I’ll speak to Nigel.’ As his arrangement with his estate agent cousin, who had a side-line as the agent for various continental villas, had been something of an under-the-counter deal, done quickly and on the cheap, the idea of insurance hadn’t been mentioned by either of them. ‘Don’t keep looking on the black side,’ Rafferty told her. ‘You’ll attract bad luck.’

Abra pulled a face, but said nothing more and Rafferty made his escape before she had the chance to ask any further unwelcome questions about the non-existent insurance. If it came to it, he’d just have to stump up the money for another honeymoon later on as he couldn’t see Nigel giving him a refund even though they were cousins. Family didn’t count for much with Nigel, unfortunately. Not, that was, unless he got the best end of any deal.

Rafferty finished his tea and toast and headed for the station with Abra’s words reverberating around his head. He didn’t know how to appease her. The only way would be for him to solve his current case, in double-quick time, and that didn’t look likely at the moment.

Little new had come in, he found, when he got to work and what little there was, Llewellyn was sorting through, leaving Rafferty to watch and twiddle his thumbs.

‘Anything of interest?’ he finally asked after Llewellyn had failed to volunteer any information.

Llewellyn looked up and shook his head. ‘Bottom of the barrel stuff.’

‘You might as well get the teas in, then.’ Rafferty put his hand in his pocket, found a couple of coins and flicked them to Llewellyn.