Death Dance (2 page)

‘I’m all right. I’m used to it. I do it most days.’

Which, to Rafferty, pointed to a reluctance to go home? Why? Hadn’t he and his wife got on? There was no time like the present to find out. ‘Were you and your wife happy together, Mr Staveley?’

‘What’s this? The husband as the guilty party?’ Strangely, the possibility didn’t seem to worry him. ‘I thought we were happy. Happy enough, anyway. But since I was made redundant I’ve been getting on her nerves. Under her feet all day. That’s why I stay out. It gives – gave – us both some space. The lack of money doesn’t help either. Adrienne was used to me earning good money. She was used to spending it, too. We’ve both had to pull our horns in. I’ve had to take my son, Kyle, out of private school. He’s at the local comprehensive now. He hates it. I know he’s desperately unhappy there, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’ He swept the black hair off his forehead in a gesture of despair.

Just then, there was a commotion at the front door.

‘Let me in. I live here. Dad! Dad!’ A gangly six foot youth almost fell into the drawing room, a flustered Timothy Smales close behind him. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Kyle. You’re home. Where have you been till this time?’

‘Nowhere. Tell me what’s happened.’

Rafferty gestured for Smales to return to the front of the house.

‘It’s your stepmother. She’s dead. Murdered.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Kyle blurted out.

That he should immediately think to deny any involvement rather than ask how she had died, brought a stunned silence. His father quickly broke into the silence to say, ‘No one thinks you did.’

Kyle didn’t look too sure that this was so. His face was flushed and he fumbled awkwardly at his pockets as if trying to hide hands that suddenly seemed too large and guilt-clumsy.

Rafferty butted in. ‘I take it you didn’t get on with your stepmother, Kyle?’

‘Not really. I tried to stay out of the house most of the time. She always made me feel I was in the way. She wanted me to go to boarding school, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. I’d have gone like a shot, but there’s no chance of that now since dad lost his job.’

‘And no need with your stepmother dead,’ Rafferty pointed out.

‘No, I suppose not.’

There was another awkward silence, and then Rafferty stood up. ‘I’ll need to have one of my officers take the fingerprints of both of you – just for the purposes of elimination. If you’ll wait here.’

He called Fraser the dabs man in. The fingerprints were quickly taken and Rafferty said, ‘I’ll want to talk to both of you again. The kitchen’s going to be out of bounds for a day or two – is there anywhere you can go in the meantime?’

‘I suppose we could go to my mother’s,’ said Staveley as he stood up. ‘She doesn’t live far and she’s got plenty of spare bedrooms.’

‘If you can let me have the address.’

Staveley did so and Llewellyn made a note of it.

‘Perhaps you’d like to pack a bag and I’ll get one of my officers to drive you there.’

‘There’s no need. I can drive.’ Staveley turned to his son. ‘Come on, Kyle, You can put a few things together, too. Not too much.’ He glanced at Rafferty. ‘I presume we won’t be away from home for long.’ He nodded to Llewellyn and went out, closely followed by his son. Rafferty heard the thump of footsteps on the stairs. Ten minutes later they were back, John Staveley with car keys in one hand and a leather holdall in the other.

‘I’d better ring my mother,’ he said. ‘Let her know what’s happened and that she’ll have to put us up for a day or two.’ He dropped his holdall, pulled a mobile from his jacket pocket, jabbed at a few keys, had a low, murmured conversation, and then he and Kyle left.

Rafferty and Llewellyn went back to the kitchen. Dr Sam Dally was just finishing up. The SOCO's were busy dusting surfaces and sweeping dust and other particles from the floor.

‘Where’s the nearest neighbour?’ he asked Llewellyn.

‘You passed them on the way here. The house about one hundred yards nearer the main road.’ Llewellyn was well aware of Rafferty’s dislike of the use of metric measurements and always used Imperial. ‘That and the Staveley’s place are the only houses in the road as it finishes in a dead end another fifty yards further along.’

Rafferty remembered passing the other house at the beginning of Lavender Avenue, the side road leading to the Farmhouse. ‘Better send someone to check if they saw anything or heard any cars.’

Llewellyn nodded and went out.

Rafferty returned to the empty drawing room and sat down to think through what to do next. Kyle and John Staveley would have to be questioned more thoroughly as to their whereabouts this afternoon and early evening. The son was as tall as his father and had admitted he hadn’t got on with his stepmother. He looked strong enough to manually strangle the slender Adrienne and there was certainly no love lost there.

And then there was John Staveley. Money worries inevitably brought tension. It had apparently developed to such an extent that Staveley had taken to staying out all day. He would need to talk to Staveley’s mother and see what he could learn from her about their relationship. The neighbours, too, might be able to tell them something about the Staveley household.

He had obtained the address of Staveley’s mother so he could speak to her at any time. There would also be friends and possibly other relatives they could talk to.

He went back to the kitchen. The Coroner’s Officer had just given permission for the body to be removed. Sam Dally was still there, chatting to Adrian Appleby, head of the SOCO’s.

‘All done, Doc?’ Rafferty asked.

‘For now. I doubt I’ll be able to tell you more than I already have even after I get her on the table.’ He began to pack his instruments back in his bag.

Rafferty nodded. He hadn’t expected any more: it looked a simple enough murder with little in the way of complications from the pathologist’s point of view.

The SOCO's would be here for some time, but there was no need for him to be. He would go back to the station and write up his report. But before he could make good this intention, Llewellyn and the officer he had despatched to the neighbours returned with the news that the victim had regularly entertained a male visitor when her husband was out.

‘Chap called Gary Oldfield.,’ Llewellyn told him. ‘The neighbour said she often saw his car parked outside when she took her dogs for a walk.’

‘Just good friends, or rather more?’ Rafferty mused. ‘Does she know where this Oldfield lives?’

‘No. But she knows where he works. That second-hand car lot on Station Road. He’s a used car salesman.’

Rafferty grinned. ‘Bit of a cliché if he was her lover. I wonder was the husband aware of these visits.’

‘What is it they say?’ Llewellyn intoned. ‘That the husband is usually the last one to find out.’

‘Not always. And maybe not in this case.’

Chapter Three

The victim’s ‘friend’, Gary Oldfield, when they spoke to him the following morning, was full of surface charm and what he obviously thought was a winning line in patter. He was in his late twenties and had a mass of curly dark brown hair of which he was clearly immensely proud. He kept running his fingers through it as though to reassure himself that it was still there. And while such a gesture might draw attention to his hair, it also brought attention to his fingernails, which were badly bitten and at odds with his otherwise smart appearance. Altogether, with his sharp suit, his hair, his ingratiating manner and his too-ready smile, he didn’t find favour with Rafferty. In this way, he matched the cars for sale.

The used car lot was the usual collection of dubious bargains. But they all gleamed proudly in the sunshine as if at heart they were Rolls Royce’s. The lot occupied roughly a half-acre plot on Station Road, situated between The Railway Arms and a charity shop. The site office consisted of a Portakabin. Gary Oldfield leant carelessly against the office desk while they questioned him. He professed himself shocked at Adrienne Staveley’s murder and, as though to prove it, he ran his hand through his hair again and shook his head.

‘I gather you were a regular visitor to the Farmhouse,’ said Rafferty. ‘You and Adrienne Staveley must have been good friends.’

Oldfield took a few seconds to answer as though debating with himself how much he should admit to. Finally, he said, ‘We were. I’m gutted that she’s dead.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘At the local tennis club. She was always great fun, the real life and soul. I’ll miss her.’

The tennis club seemed an unlikely place for the used car salesmen to frequent; maybe he went there to pull the ladies. Certainly the female of the species was likely to be found there in some numbers, presumably from a desire similar to Oldfield’s.

‘What did her husband think of your visiting her? I gather it was invariably when he was out that you called round.’

Oldfield shrugged and gave another winning smile. It did nothing for Rafferty. ‘I never saw him, so I don’t know what he thought. You’d have to ask him. As for me calling round when he was out, that’s just the way it happened. It was Adrienne I wanted to see, not the rest of the family. I found her stepson a surly youth and he was mostly in during the evenings. Adrienne and I would have a few drinks and a few laughs. I’d often drop round during my lunch break and Adrienne would make me a sandwich.’ He moved to sit behind the desk as though he thought it prudent to put the width of a metal barrier between them.

‘Where were you, Mr Oldfield, between four and six yesterday evening?’

‘Why? Do you want to put me in the frame for Adrienne’s murder?’ He grinned as if he found this possibility worthy of merriment. I’m a personable young man, the grin seemed to say. How can you possibly suspect me? ‘As it happens, I was at home from 4 o’clock onwards. I was there all evening. With my girlfriend. You can check with her, if you like.’

‘Thank you. I will,’ Rafferty told him. ‘What’s her name and where’s home?’

‘She’s called Diana Rexton. We’ve got a flat around the corner in Abbot’s Walk. Number 18A.’

‘And is she likely to be there this evening if we call round about eight o’clock?’

‘Yes. Di’s a homebody. She rarely even wants to go to the tennis club since she met me.’

She’d landed her man so there was no need, thought Rafferty. Poor bitch. He thought. She should get herself back there smartish and land herself another one — a man as unlike her current beau as possible.

‘Do you always finish work so early?’

‘No. But I often work odd hours and the boss gives me time off in lieu.’

For the fourth time since they’d entered the Portakabin Gary Oldfield ran his fingers through his hair. Rafferty caught a glimpse of what looked like an expensive watch. It was a slim, sleek gold. He was beginning to wonder whether the hand-running-through-the hair routine was a nervous action rather than one caused by vanity. ‘Tell me, Mr Oldfield; were you and Mrs Staveley a bit more than friends?’

Oldfield gave a lazy smile, linked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair as if to demonstrate how relaxed he was at this line of questioning

‘I wish. No. We were no more than friends. The last six months hadn’t been a happy time for Adrienne. I guess I provided her with a bit of light relief after her husband was made redundant. She was bored and liked male company, that’s all. It’s why she joined the tennis club. I’d often see her there when I wasn’t working in the afternoons. She had a mean backhand. She complained that her old man had become very morose since he lost his job. They barely talked and when they did, they rowed.’

Was Oldfield trying to throw suspicion on John Staveley? Or was he simply telling the truth? Of course, it could always be a mix of the two, but if it was the former the question that occurred to Rafferty was why Oldfield should want to thrust suspicion on Staveley? Was his own alibi somewhat shaky? Wasn’t he sure his girlfriend would back him up or that she wouldn’t lie convincingly if she did?

Beneath the too-charming exterior Rafferty thought Oldfield would probably be a nasty piece of work if anyone crossed him. He suspected he was getting a kick out of stirring things up. The girly running of the fingers through his hair was beginning to get up his nose.

‘We may need to speak to you again, sir,’ Rafferty told him as he made for the door.

‘I’m always available, Inspector.’ The smile flashed again. ‘If I’m not here, I’ll likely be at home. We don’t go out much, Diana and me.’

They left it there and drove to John Staveley’s mother’s house to find out what they could. She lived in the village of Elmwood to the south east of Elmhurst. It wasn’t a long drive. The house was modern, detached and double-fronted, with white painted walls and a glossy black door. The property had a good-sized front garden, surfaced with zig-zagged brick, which provided room to park as many as six cars. It was screened from the road by high privet hedges.

A woman that Rafferty took to be Mrs Staveley Senior answered the door. She looked a formidable woman with sharp ice-blue eyes and iron-grey hair worn in a severe cut. Although she must have been in her sixties, she had retained her figure and she looked very trim in a grey trouser suit. She held herself ramrod straight and such was her posture, she could have been an officer just graduated from Sandhurst.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Staveley, we’re police officers.’ Rafferty introduced himself and Llewellyn. ‘We’d like to speak to your son and grandson.’

The icy blue gaze sharpened even more. ‘I thought you’d already spoken to them. They’re both in mourning and should be left to their grief. I don’t know what else you think they can tell you.’

‘Neither do I until I speak to them.’

She met his gaze with another challenging stare, which she held for several seconds. Then she seemed to accept that Rafferty had the upper hand and stood back. ‘You’d better come in.’ She shut the door behind them. ‘Follow me.’

She led them along a wide and bare white-painted hallway into a large drawing room with no frills. Upright black armchairs were matched by a similarly upright settee. The pictures on the walls were stark black and white abstracts. There were no plants or flowers and no ornaments. Even the family photographs were few in number and grouped neatly on a bureau. The carpet was a plain institutionalized mid-grey.