Death Dance (18 page)

They sipped as they looked through the latest reports. But Llewellyn was right. There was nothing of interest in any of them. Even the roadside survey team near the Staveleys’ home hadn’t produced anything new. Rafferty finished the rest of his tea and sat back. ‘Now what?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer, but feeling obliged to ask the question in the hope that Llewellyn would inspire him.

‘I don’t know,’ said Llewellyn. ‘I’m plumb out of ideas.’

‘And me. But we’d better come up with something soon or Bradley’ll go ballistic. You know what he’s like.’

‘Mmm. There is one thing — Gary Oldfield’s girlfriend has form.’

‘What, Diana Rexton? You do surprise me. She struck me as the honest type. So what did she do? Rob some of the pick and mix from Woolies when she was ten, as a dare?’

‘No. And you’re right — she is honest. At least as far as shoplifting is concerned. But not as regards Mr Oldfield, of course. You haven’t forgotten that she must have lied about him being with her when Mrs Staveley was murdered?’

‘No. I haven’t forgotten. In fact, she’s on my list to be questioned about it. Anyway, so what did she do?’

‘Assault. It seems that, like her horse, she has a temper. She attacked a woman she thought was flirting with Mr Oldfield.’

‘Did she now? That’s interesting. Is that it? The only thing against her?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Still, it’s something. Shows a propensity for violence in the name of love, if nothing else. She didn’t go for this woman’s throat by any chance?’

‘No. She punched her. Knocked her out, apparently.’

‘Pity. And there was me thinking her such a nice lady.’

‘Not so much the lady to have done such a thing,’ said the Methodist-raised Llewellyn primly.

‘Mmm. So we’ve established that she’s got a violent streak. She’s the only suspect we’ve got who’s shown such a predilection. Pity her car doesn’t show up on the CCTV.’

‘Isn’t it? There again, is Gary Oldfield the man to incite murder?’

‘Wouldn’t have thought so. But who knows with women? They’re an unpredictable sex at the best of times. And she seems potty about him.’

‘Mmm. But we’ve no other evidence against her.’

‘We now know Oldfield wasn’t at home from five o’clock till around quarter past five, so she’s no one to corroborate that
she
was at home during that time. Not that I’d believe Oldfield if he said she was and was in the bath up to her neck in asses’ milk.’

‘Doesn’t make her guilty.’

‘I didn’t say it did.’ Rafferty wouldn’t give it up easily. ‘Still, she’s moved up from innocent girlfriend, to wronged potential spouse with a violent streak.’

‘I can’t see one woman strangling another. Strangling isn’t a woman’s crime.’

‘No. I know. You’ve already said.’

‘So. More questioning of the suspects, I presume?’

‘Yes. One of them did it. It’s just a matter of finding the guilty party. Piece of cake.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I just did, didn’t I? Must be true. There’s a limited cast of suspects, none with an alibi. Couldn’t be simpler.’ In theory.

‘Ah, but it could be, couldn’t it?’

‘There’s the rub. Yes it could be. I don’t know where we’re going with this case, Dafyd, and that’s flat. What we need is a miracle.’

‘I don’t think we need a miracle, as such. More a piece or two of good luck.’

‘Whatever. There’s no sign of either of these desirable items. So it’s back to the drawing board with everyone involved in the case. I want every suspect’s story checked again. I know that none of them has an alibi, but they might be hiding something else relevant to the case — though God knows what it could be, as I don’t.’

He went out just before lunch in an attempt to fulfil the promise he’d made to Abra about contacting his snouts. Nowadays, police officers weren’t supposed to have exclusive handling rights on snouts, but were meant to share them with at least one other officer. Rafferty tended to bend this rule. He’d done the work of cultivation, so he didn’t see why he should share his snouts with any other officers, particularly if it meant their arrest record turned out better than his own. Why provide Superintendent Bradley with ammunition to use against him?

He did the rounds of the local pubs and managed to find two of his snouts that he hadn’t seen in a while.

Jimmy Mack was an old-time criminal with more jail time than Nelson Mandela. Like Rafferty, he didn’t believe in informant registration: he didn’t like being monitored by authority. He’d had enough of that after spending so many years in jail, so he was more than happy to accommodate Rafferty’s desire for an exclusive arrangement.

Rafferty’s other informant hadn’t been able to help him, but Jimmy Mack seemed to have something useful. At least that was what he implied. He bought the old man a large scotch and started to pump him. ‘What can you tell me about McGann’s Used Cars?’ he asked. ‘I’m particularly interested in their salesman, Gary Oldfield.’

‘Oldfield. I know him. Sold a car to a friend of mine. It was never any good. It spent most of its time in the garage. He went back to the lot demanding they honour their paltry three-month warranty, but they didn’t want to know. Made out it was something he’d done that caused the problem.’

Rafferty frowned and took a large gulp of his Adnam’s Bitter. He wasn’t interested in tales of old bangers going wrong. That was what old bangers did. ‘Can’t you tell me anything else more useful to me? It is a murder case I’m investigating, not a traffic accident.’

‘It’s a terrible violent world we live in, Mr Rafferty.’ Jimmy Mack shook his head and managed to drain his glass at the same time. He slapped his lips and said,’ more of the same would go down a treat. These chilly British summers get into me bones.’

Rafferty sighed and took the hint. When he came back it was to find Jimmy had ordered a beef sandwich and told the girl to put it on Rafferty’s tab.

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind, Mr Rafferty. Me old bones need some decent protein.’

‘I think your old bones are doing pretty well today.’ Rafferty put the second scotch on the table and sat down. He took his wallet out and, under the table, he extracted a twenty pound note. He screwed it up and showed it into Jimmy’s gnarled right hand.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I want more than thanks. I want something helpful. I’ve bought you some decent protein and part of your required daily liquid intake; now sell me some decent information.’

‘I heard tell that this Oldfield is involved in selling ringers and cut and shunts — cars that have been involved in accidents and welded together with another car to make one complete vehicle.’

‘I know what cut and shunt means. What’s that to do with my murder?’

‘Nothing, I suppose. I just thought you’d like to know.’

‘So now I know. What else have you got?’

‘‘He’s a bit of a boyo where the ladies are concerned. I’ve seen him in here with several different women, yet I heard tell he’d meant to be living with some bint.’

‘Again – what’s that to do with my murder?’

‘I’m just giving you a bit of character background, aren’t I? No need to be snippy.’

Rafferty did his best to keep his impatience in check. He went up to the bar and bought a third large one, in the hope that the extra liquor would loosen Jimmy’s tongue.

It did the trick. Because as he cradled the glass, Jimmy became far more voluble.

‘Don’t quote me, but I heard on the grapevine that he siphons petrol out of the cars for sale and uses it in his own car. He’s been heard to boast that he never has to buy petrol. And that his own car stays in good nick because more often than not he borrows one of the for sale vehicles when he has to go on a longish trip. The old man who owns the firm seems to let him do what he likes. He’s lost interest in the business. In poor health, or so I understand.’

‘This is all very fascinating, Jimmy, but it’s not much use to me. Have you got any info that’s tied in with this murder or not?

Jimmy downed his last scotch quickly as if he feared it might be snatched away from him and sat back with a sulky expression. ‘I reckon I’ve given you plenty for a measly twenty. There’s fraud, surely and theft. And taking without consent. Not a bad haul.’

‘Don’t sulk. You’re too old to get away with it.’

Jimmy Mack pulled a sarcastic smile. It displayed his teeth. Rafferty had expected the decayed old brown jobs that the ex-con had sported last time he’d seen him, but these were large and sparkling white. He must have got some dental treatment during his latest spell in the nick. The teeth looked incongruous in Jimmy’s seamed, cigarette-tanned face.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It’s a fair cop. I’ve had my fun. Oldfield’s a slimy type with a nasty temper on him. The firm’s got a young lad that comes in to valet the cars, polish them up and so on.’

‘Yes. I know what valeting entails. I wish you’d get on with it and stop telling me what I already know.’ As of he wasn’t on the receiving end of enough lectures from Llewellyn.

‘Word is they had an argument and Oldfield beat him up. Pretty badly, or so I heard. You lot were involved, but nothing came of it. The kid ended up in hospital.’

It was the first Rafferty had heard of it. ‘Go on.’

‘That’s it. Isn’t it enough? I’ve given you three pieces of information and thrown in a fourth as a bonus. You’ve only given me a measly twenty quid. I reckon you owe me a tenner.’

Their new investigation into the suspects’ stories revealed some interesting anomalies. Gary Oldfield had admitted that he’d gone out once to collect a takeaway. So why did his car show up on CCTV late on the evening of the murder? Why would he need to lie about it when it could have no bearing on Adrienne Staveley’s death? Where had he been going and to what purpose? And why – once again – had Diana Rexton not mentioned it? Of course, it had been late. Eleven o’clock. And she might have been in bed and asleep. But her seeming complicity in the cover up of what Rafferty regarded as Oldfield’s guilt left a sour taste. So much for his nose for the truth. He was getting older, he reminded himself. Perhaps this trait that had served him so well during his long career was starting to fade. He hoped not as it was the only advantage he had against the university-educated Llewellyn.

And then there was his girlfriend. She had lied about Oldfield being at home at the relevant time. Was she scared he had killed Adrienne? Did she have reason to think so? Then again, she had good reason to suspect he was having an affair even though she hadn’t found the courage to challenge him about it.

‘Give them a bell, Dafyd,’ said Rafferty. ‘Let’s have them both in. See what they have to say for themselves.’

Gary Oldfield and his girlfriend came in after the working day was over. Oldfield was indignant at being questioned again and called into the police station. He made his feelings plain in no uncertain terms.

Rafferty decided to interview Oldfield first, leaving Diana Rexton to cool her heels in reception. She looked relieved at the reprieve, as if she wasn’t in any hurry to undergo another interrogation; in fact, she looked scared out of her wits and tended to cling to Oldfield, who only just managed to curb his impatience at this.

Once he and Llewellyn had brought Oldfield through to an empty interview room and had set the tapes recording, Rafferty began.

‘So, Mr Oldfield. Perhaps you can tell me why you failed to mention that you went out a second time later on the night of Mrs Staveley’s murder?’

‘Mention it? Why would I mention it?’ Oldfield leaned back in his chair and gave him an insolent stare.

It seemed Oldfield thought he’d got his measure and could speak in a patronising manner without bringing any retribution on himself. Seeing as his alibi had fallen on its arse at the first hurdle, and he was back in the frame, Rafferty wondered where he found the nerve.

‘What relevance does it have? Adrienne had been dead for hours according to you. What difference does it make where I went?’

‘It might not make any difference in that way. That being so, I don’t understand why you didn’t mention it, but told us you were at home all evening. Humour me. I’m curious as to why you thought we wouldn’t be interested in all your movements.’

‘As I said – I don’t see the relevance. But if you must know, I went to see a friend.’

‘I see. And would that be a male friend or a female one?’

‘Female, as it happens.’

‘And this lady’s name?’

Oldfield balked a bit at disclosing this information, tried to pretend he was too gentlemanly to drag a lady into the investigation. But the gentleman in him was soon subsumed in the used car dealer, so it didn’t take long to get it out of him. He was reticent about answering their other questions, too, and Rafferty had once again to remind him that this was a murder inquiry and that his alibi had gone the way of the dodo. He told him that a reluctance to answer police questions inevitably made him more interesting as a suspect.

Oldfield’s lips thinned at this, but his reticence vanished. It was clear that once he’d decided to answer their questions more fully, he was keen to remove himself from their list of suspects. He’d lost his mistress to death; and if she had any sense he’d also lose his girlfriend. It was clear that he didn’t want to be charged with murder and lose his freedom, too.

‘Quite a busy man on the lady friend front,’ said Rafferty when he finally let Oldfield go. ‘I don’t know how he ever found time to do any work. I wonder if he’s got any more women stashed away?’

‘I doubt we’ll ever know. Not that it’s relevant, any more than is where he went late on the evening of the murder, just as Mr Oldfield said. I don’t understand where you thought you were going with that line of questioning.’

Neither did Rafferty. But such seemingly pointless questions had opened doors during past investigations. You never knew what you’d find behind those doors. Not until you pushed them a bit. ‘I suppose I was just being nosy in questioning him about it. Though it might be significant that we found him out in another lie, or at least a failure to reveal something that might be of relevance. Oh well, let’s have the girlfriend up now and see what she has to say.’