Death Dance (24 page)

Rafferty had supplied the acronym in a burst of devilment. ‘PIMP’ had been used for several months before Bradley stumbled on the insubordinate truth. It had amused Rafferty no end when Bradley realised he’d been had. It had been discussed with sniggers around the station ever since. It was no wonder that he wasn’t the superintendent’s favourite copper.

It turned out that Harry Bentley’s number was for a pay-as-you-go mobile — one that he seemingly didn’t use very often. Perhaps he’d bought it especially so that he would have a number to give Nigel so he could gain access to Adrienne’s home, when all he was interested in was murder.

This raised various questions. How had Bentley known her? Was he yet another of her lovers? But if he were, he surely wouldn’t need to go in for such elaborate plans to gain admittance. He was reluctant to ask John Staveley about Bentley in case he did turn out to be yet another of Adrienne’s lovers, but he had little choice. He had no other person to ask. But he made sure to take Llewellyn with him when he went to see the widower. Llewellyn was far more tactful than he ever managed to be: he was always so eager to get on and solve a crime that it was his habit to burst out with things that would probably have been better left unsaid. Llewellyn was far more studied in his remarks.

His sensitivity wasn’t rewarded, however. Because, just like before – when he’d asked Staveley about Gary Oldfield and his wife’s other men friends – the widower professed ignorance.

Rafferty pressed him. ‘You’re sure you didn’t know him? Or at least know of him?’ He described Harry Bentley, but it availed him nothing.

‘No. I told you. I’ve never heard of the man. He must have been another viewer that Adrienne saw on her own.’

Disgruntled, Rafferty told him to ring him if he thought of anything, whether it was to do with this Bentley or anything else.

Later that morning, he and Llewellyn drove to London to interview the second couple who had viewed the Staveleys’ home on the day of the murder. They would speak to the Elmhurst couple on their return.

It was a long, slow, slog into the capital. The weather had turned foul and rain lashed the windscreen all the way along the A12, made worse by the passing lorries, which spewed spray up from their tyres. The trip wasn’t made more bearable by the discovery that their journey had been a wasted one. The couple, a Mr and Mrs Kemp, who were patrician types in their fifties and lived in a pricey, three-storey Kensington terrace, were able to tell them little more than that Adrienne Staveley had been a little surly.

‘It was almost as if she didn’t want to sell,’ Mrs Kemp told them once they were all three seated in her surprisingly untidy drawing room: there were books everywhere, piled on chairs, on the floor and, some of them were even stored on bookshelves. Rafferty read a few of the titles, but they were clearly academic tomes not meant for the layman and his eyes glazed over. ‘She certainly didn’t have the demeanour of a woman keen to make a sale.’

Given that Adrienne hadn’t wanted to move and was doing so only under duress, this was unsurprising. Rafferty had already put the dead woman down as spoilt and selfish, so this sullen attitude was to be expected.

From the preliminary interview with the couple, conducted by Mary Carmody and Jonathon Lilley, it had been revealed that they had already known Adrienne. They had apparently met her at the dinner party of mutual friends in Chelsea — John Staveley had told them that Adrienne would often take the train to town for dinner with friends or to the theatre, though she’d always returned the same evening rather than give rise to suspicions by staying overnight. The report had inferred that the acquaintance had been more than it in fact turned out to be, and both the Kemps had denied more than a passing, few hours’ long knowledge of the dead woman.

‘She was seated at the other end of the table at the dinner, ‘Mrs Kemp explained,’ so we barely spoke to her. It was only because she was so vivacious that we remembered her and recognised her when we went to view her home.’

‘I see. Well, thank you for your time.’ Rafferty was annoyed it had been such a wasted journey. Lilley and Mary Carmody would get a rocket when he got back to the station.

They took their leave of the Kemps and headed back to Elmhurst. The weather was still awful and the return journey was as bad as the outward one had been, with, seemingly, even more spray-throwing lorries on the road.

Llewellyn drove. Rafferty told him he wanted to get a bit of shut-eye, to be fresh for the afternoon. He was in with a good chance of getting forty winks as Llewellyn was a slow and steady, not to say, cautious, driver, so it was unlikely that a sudden stamp on the brakes would jolt him awake.

When they finally reached Elmhurst and were able to interview the other couple, the Donaldsons, it was to find that the couple, who were staid and elderly, hadn’t noticed Adrienne’s vivacity and had been far more concerned with checking the agent’s room measurements and pointing out faults in an attempt to get the price reduced. They didn’t say as much, of course, but it was apparent from their every word and gesture.

Sore at heart, Rafferty had had Llewellyn drive them back to the station and a late canteen lunch. It completed the day’s disappointments when they found nothing but sandwiches remaining from the lunchtime repast, rather than the hot meal they had been looking forward to. The sandwiches were even salad, rather than beef or ham, much to Rafferty’s even greater disappointment, though the salad perfectly suited Llewellyn.

Rafferty would have gone out to lunch, but he’d already been out all morning and nearly all of lunchtime, so he felt it prudent to show his face around the station. Besides, Bradley would surely want to know how his latest interviews had gone. Rafferty and Llewellyn weren’t the only ones destined for disappointment.

When Rafferty got home that night it was to find Abra complaining about the mess the stag night boys had left behind them. ‘You might have tidied up,’ she told him as soon as he came through the door.

Rafferty had a vague recollection of Llewellyn trying to clear away the beer cans and other detritus, but being jeered at by the rest. Nevertheless, he had persevered and cleared a lot of the rubbish. He bit his tongue in time to stop himself revealing this fact. It wouldn’t go down well if Abra learned that it had been Llewellyn rather than him, who had filled the two bulging bin bags leaning drunkenly by the kitchen door.

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Rafferty. Thinking it politic to show willing, he pulled a bin bag off the strip on the table, finally got it open and started putting cans in it. ‘It won’t take long, and then I’ll ring for a home delivery meal. What do you fancy?’

‘How about a Chinese?’

‘Fine by me. Sweet and sour chicken okay? Mushrooms on the side?’

Abra nodded.

The room was soon tidied and Rafferty rang for the meal. They enjoyed a quiet evening and an early night. They both needed it and Rafferty knew he couldn’t have a second day of relative idleness. Not in a murder investigation.

Chapter Sixteen

The following day was a busy one. But at least Rafferty didn’t feel hung-over and was more able to deal with it.

The team had discovered more potential witnesses and, in desperation, he and Llewellyn were out all morning questioning them. But not one of them had anything useful to confide. Indeed, several turned out to be those timewasters looking for their moment in the spotlight, which bedevilled every police inquiry. Disgruntled, they returned to the station.

Even though he’d been half-expecting it, Rafferty was even more disgruntled when he found Bradley waiting for them in their office. The superintendent wanted an update on the investigation. He was now demanding updates twice a day, much to Rafferty’s irritation. It made him even more irritated because he had no updates to give to him. If it wasn’t for Bradley’s desire to shine in the eyes of the bosses at Region, Rafferty would swear he was getting pleasure out of his failure.

This time, once Rafferty had provided the update, Bradley expressed himself far from satisfied. Bluntly, the superintendent told him, ‘Even you can do better than this, Rafferty.’ The words:
Though not much better,
hung in the air. ‘God knows you’ve had long enough to sort it out. Try a bit harder. I’ll be at a retirement do at HQ for most of the afternoon, but I’ll want another update at the end of the day. Try to see that it’s better than this one.’

Bradley barrelled his way out, leaving the door wide open behind him. Rafferty met Llewellyn’s eye. ‘I don’t know what he expects,’ he complained. ‘I’m doing everything I can. Aren’t I?’ he asked plaintively, even as he began to believe that he couldn’t be or why would anyone, even Bradley, be so critical? But Llewellyn reassured him.

‘I’m afraid the superintendent has been a long time out of front line policing and no longer understands the difficulties.’

‘Paperwork wallah,’ said Rafferty in disgust. ‘That’s what’s wrong with the police nowadays — too many paper shufflers, management-speak idiots, and not enough investigators.’

‘Well, it’s how things are so we have no choice but to accept it.’

Llewellyn didn’t believe in expending his energy and his temper in battling against what he couldn’t change.

‘True. But we don’t have to like it.’

Still, Superintendent Bradley’s unfair criticism worked as the spur he had no doubt intended. Rafferty read through the statements from scratch once again. And this time, he picked up on something he should perhaps have pursued with a bit more vigour before.

‘Gary Oldfield,’ he said. ‘I think we should question him again. He’s a liar. And I don’t like liars. Not in a murder investigation, anyway,’ he added as an afterthought when he recalled some of his own white lies to Abra over the honeymoon. Not to mention his silent deception over his unwarranted suspicions about her activities re the Staveleys.

‘Nor do I,’ said Llewellyn. ‘Shall we get over there?’

Rafferty nodded and reached for his jacket.

Gary Oldfield was working, though not trying to part a customer from his cash this time. They found him in the lot’s Portakabin, working on the computer. He must have heard them on the steps, because he turned at their entrance and the ready smile he presumably adopted for spending customers was quickly replaced by a scowl.

‘Not you again,’ he complained sourly. ‘This is harassment. I’ve a good mind to call my brief.’

‘Your prerogative, Sir,’ said Rafferty as he walked the few paces to the front of the desk and stared down at him. ‘But when someone lies to us, it makes us prick up our ears.’

Oldfield scowled again. ‘I told you, I forgot I went out around five that afternoon. If I’d remembered, I’d have mentioned it.’

‘Even so. It wasn’t very helpful. We don’t like it when people are unhelpful. As I said, it makes us suspicious.’

‘Yes, well. There’s no need to be. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘So you say.’

Oldfield slammed the laptop shut and stood up. ‘Look, I don’t have to listen to this.’

Today, he was in a three-piece ensemble in dove grey. Like all his other clothes, it looked expensive. Rafferty wondered if Oldfield and his cousin Nigel patronised the same tailor. ‘I’m afraid you do, sir. It’s important that you’re co-operative. It is a murder investigation. Not to mention the murder investigation of your girlfriend. I thought you might actually care that we catch her killer.’

Oldfield sat down and gazed at Rafferty with every evidence of sincerity. ‘Of course I want you to catch her murderer, but you’ve already had my co-operation. Several times. I don’t see what else I can do.’

‘You can make sure you don’t lie to us again,’ Rafferty told him. ‘And as for having your cooperation, sometimes it takes several conversations to get to the crux of the matter. As it did with you.’

‘Well, as you said, you’ve already got to the crux of the matter in my case. I went out for a takeaway and came home again. That’s it. Full stop. Nothing more to say.’

‘If we find there’s nothing more to say we won’t trouble you again.’

‘Good. Now, can I get on?’ He glanced out of the Portakabin’s grimy window. ‘I see I’ve got a potential customer hovering. I might make a sale if you leave me in peace.’

Rafferty shrugged, wished him good day and walked back to the car with Llewellyn.

‘Let’s question the other liar in the case,’ he said, as he tightened the seatbelt around him. ‘Kyle Staveley. He should be home from school by now.’

Kyle was at home and no more pleased to see them than had been Gary Oldfield. He slammed the door behind them after letting them in, threw himself into an easy chair and folded his arms.

John Staveley was there and appeared no happier than his son at their arrival. ‘Was it me you wanted, Inspector?’

‘No sir. It was your son we wanted to see. We need to question him again about where he went when he left the library on the afternoon of his stepmother’s murder.’

Staveley frowned and glanced at his son before turning his attention back to Rafferty. ‘I don’t know how Kyle can help you any further, Inspector. He’s told you all he can remember. Badgering him isn’t going to help him recall where he went.’

‘I’m sure he thinks he’s told us all he can. But there might be something he’s remembered since we last spoke to him.’

‘I don’t see what. He was wandering aimlessly after he left the library, not taking any notice of where he was going.’ He pulled a face. ‘You could say I was doing the same and I certainly don’t remember more than a few of the streets I walked down.’

‘Maybe. But he lied to us about when he left the library.’

‘He was scared, that’s all. That’s why he didn’t tell you the truth. It’s why he ran away to London.’

‘Even so. It’s still relevant to the inquiry.’ He turned to the sulky-looking Kyle. ‘So where was it you went when you left the library, Kyle? Have you remembered yet?’

‘I just walked around, like dad says.’

‘I imagine you had all your school books with you?’