Death Dance

Chapter Three-1

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. He thought, Poor b***h. She should get herself back there sharpish, 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.

The only aspects that softened the room were the sprawled figures of John and Kyle Staveley; they made the army-neat room seem untidy. The two looked very alike as they sat side by side: same wiry frames, black hair, clear brown eyes and pale skin. Rafferty surmised that they must take after Staveley’s father. Mrs Staveley Senior invited them to sit down and did so herself.

‘Mr Staveley, Kyle, I’ve come to ask a few more questions.’ Rafferty was conscious of Mrs Staveley watching him as she sat as bolt upright as her chair. Rafferty did his best to ignore her intimidating stare as he sat down. ‘Kyle, I didn’t ask you before, but can you tell me where you were yesterday between four and six o’clock?’

‘I was at the library, studying.’ Kyle’s large, bony hands clutched one another as if seeking reassurance.

Rafferty tried to put the clearly uncomfortable youth at his ease. ‘At the library? I thought all youngsters nowadays did their studying on the internet. I presume you’ve got your own computer?’

‘Of course. But not all of us go in for the slavish copying that the Comprehensive students think good enough. I like to do original work.’ There was the contempt of the scholar in his voice as he dismissed the study habits of his peers.

‘Very commendable.’ Rafferty doubted that such an attitude made him popular at school and he wondered if Kyle was bullied. He turned to John Staveley. ‘I gather that your wife was in the habit of regularly entertaining a male visitor while you were out. Were you aware of this?’

‘No.’ Staveley sounded defensive, which, in the circumstances, wasn’t altogether surprising. ‘Why would I be? I never saw him.’

‘His name’s Gary Oldfield. Did you know him? Have you heard of him?’

‘No. I know nothing about him.’ John Staveley’s lips formed a thin line. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?’

‘Your wife’s been murdered, sir, that’s why. Are you sure you didn’t know Oldfield?’

‘My son has told you he knows nothing about this man, Inspector,’ Mrs Staveley interrupted. ‘Why must you continue to badger him?’ The iron-grey hair seemed to bristle as she sat forward and challenged him.

‘Because his wife is dead, Mrs Staveley. Murdered, as I said. I need to get to the bottom of it.’ Rafferty met her gaze. He refused to be intimidated by her.

‘My son had nothing to do with it. Neither did my grandson. They were both out during the times you mention, when presumably Adrienne was killed. My son only got back home at six o’clock, which is when he found her.’

‘Yet I understand he and his wife hadn’t been getting on. It’s natural to ask him about any male friends his wife had and whether he knew about them.’

‘He’s already told you he didn’t. He spends very little time at home. Even in the evenings, when he is there, he tends to shut himself up in his study with his computer, looking for work. If dedication to a task meant anything he’d have found a worthwhile job by now. It’s been a very difficult time for him. If that wife of his had been any good, she’d have looked for a job herself and helped to pay the bills.’

‘I take it you didn’t like your son’s wife?’

‘I neither liked her nor disliked her. She was my son’s wife and as such I accepted her.’ As though determined not to betray any anxiety at this line of questioning, her hands rested lightly on either side of her chair. She looked the very epitome of a woman taking her ease.

It seemed none of her husband’s family had liked Adrienne. ‘Did Mrs Staveley Junior have any close relatives? Parents or siblings? I should have asked you this yesterday,’ Rafferty confessed as he turned back to John Staveley.

‘No. Her parents are dead and she was an only child,’ Staveley told them.

That was something, thought Rafferty. No bad news to break. Llewellyn would be relieved, as he had, since his Methodist minister father had made him accompany him to break news of a death, always ever since fought shy of such deeds.

‘Have you any other family I can ask about your wife’s friends – someone she might have confided in?’

‘There’s my sister and her husband. Helen and David Ayling,’ Staveley told him. ‘Though I can’t see Adrienne confiding in either of them. They weren’t close.’

Rafferty asked them for the Aylings’ address and Llewellyn noted it down.

‘What about women friends?’

Mrs Staveley gave an unladylike snort. ‘She wasn’t one for women friends. I can’t think of one. What about you, John?’

Her son shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anyone either, though she did sometimes chat with Sarah Jones, the wife of our nearest neighbour. I don’t think their conversation went much beyond trivial things like the weather, but she did sometimes come over for coffee on a Sunday morning.’

‘I see. Well that’s all for now.’ Rafferty got up from the unyielding settee, glad to relieve his backside: it had been getting numb. ‘Thank you for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Mrs Staveley. ‘I’ll see you out.’ She got up from her chair with a determined air.

Rafferty stifled a grin. Clearly she wanted to make sure they left rather than lingered in the hall to eavesdrop.

‘She’s a bit of a tarter,’ he said to Llewellyn when they were back in the car. He gazed through the windscreen as rain lashed it. The weather was changeable. It had been dry when they had entered Mrs Staveley’s home. He prayed it didn’t rain on his and Abra’s wedding day.

‘I suppose she sees that you suspect her son,’ Llewellyn commented. ‘She was certainly very protective of him. Natural enough in the circumstances.’

‘I suppose so. I’m surprised Staveley didn’t ask when he and his son could go back home. His mother’s doesn’t look the most comfortable of places. I bet the beds are as rigid as the settee.’

‘I don’t imagine they relish the prospect of returning home after what happened there.’ Llewellyn did up his seatbelt and put the key in the ignition preparatory to driving off.

‘No. I don’t suppose they do,’ said Rafferty as he did up his own seatbelt. ‘Let’s get over and see Staveley’s sister. Though as she and the victim weren’t close I don’t hold out much hope of learning anything useful.’

***