Death Dance (20 page)

He agreed with her, though he wouldn’t say so. To agree might only add stronger ammunition to any future nightmares.

‘Did he have any distinguishing marks? Tattoos, that kind of thing.’

‘Not that I noticed, though he had a long-sleeved jacket and gloves on, so I wouldn’t have seen.’

He’d come prepared then, was Rafferty’s thought. The gloves in June told him that, not to mention the balaclava.

‘Did you recognise his voice? Or did it have any kind of noticeable accent?’ he asked.

No. I don’t think so. But he didn’t say much — just the demand for valuables.’

‘An unpleasant experience for you.’

‘Yes. I’ve always felt so safe in that house, even after my husband died and I lived alone. I never shall again. My son said I can stay with him for as long as I like — until he manages to sell the house, anyway.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. At least till you get over the worst of the shock. And when you go back home don’t answer the door unless the chain’s on.’

She nodded and he left her then with best wishes for a speedy recovery. But she wasn’t a young woman and he wondered how long it would take her to get over the attack. Some people never got over such an experience and it blighted the rest of their lives.

He wondered how – or if – this attack impinged on their murder case. Were they connected? Or was it a coincidence and this just a random attack by a young thug on a woman who was alone and vulnerable? Did it mean that Adrienne, too, had been attacked by a stranger who just turned up at her door and overpowered her?

The thought was a worrying one. If this was a stranger killing, their chances of catching the killer reduced significantly. But would Adrienne have opened the door to a stranger when she had the spy hole to check on the identity of visitors?

At least there was a certain satisfaction in knowing Mrs Staveley had successfully fought off her attacker and that he hadn’t managed to steal anything. She was a brave woman to have fought off the assailant. Lucky, too, as he could easily have seized a knife from the kitchen rack and stabbed her. Perhaps her attack with the rolling pin had stunned him: he wouldn’t have expected an elderly woman to fight back, even best him.

He walked back to the car, returned to the station and updated Llewellyn.

‘An attempted strangulation,’ the Welshman mused. ‘Think it’s got any connection to our murder?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a bit of a coincidence that two women in the same family should be attacked in a similar way. But John Staveley said there was nothing missing after Adrienne was killed, whereas the man who made the attack on Mrs Staveley Senior was clearly after money or jewellery. Anyway, I made some notes for what they’re worth. I’ll get them typed up. By the way,’ he said as Llewellyn made for the door, ‘you weren’t going anywhere near the canteen were you?’

‘I wasn’t, but I could.’

‘Good man. Get me some tea and a bacon butty, will you? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’ Rafferty put his hand in his pocket for some cash to give to Llewellyn and wondered at his appetite. He’d already eaten one breakfast this morning — a large fry-up. He shouldn’t be hungry again, but he was.

While Llewellyn was gone, Rafferty batted his two-fingered way through his interview with Mrs Staveley Senior. His mind niggled at him as he typed. He was familiar with that particular niggle. It meant his mind was trying to point him in a new direction. Was it something he wasn’t doing? Something was making him edgy. He just wished he knew what it was, though it must surely have something to do with this latest attack. He ran through the events as described by Edith Staveley, but nothing leapt out at him.

Although it was a short enough interview that he was typing up, he was still at it when Llewellyn returned. He took a break from typing to eat his butty, slapping his lips as he tucked in. He made short work of the sandwich, sipped at his tea, wiped his greasy hands on one of the tissues that Llewellyn so thoughtfully provided, then returned to his typing.

‘Can you arrange a house-to-house round Mrs Staveley’s home, Dafyd?’ he asked as he finished typing up the interview and hit ‘save’. ‘Someone might have noticed this thug arrive or leave. They might have even seen him without his balaclava and be able to give a more detailed description than Mrs Staveley was able to supply. Also, set the team to checking for similar assaults during the course of robberies. It could be that matey-boy makes a habit of these assaults. Check with the other cop shops in the district, too, as he might have spread his attacks over a wider area than just Elmhurst and it mightn’t have got on the system yet. Shame her house is set well back from the road. Means it’s less likely anyone noticed anything.’

‘Let’s wait and see. I’ll go and get the house-to-house organised.’

The house-to-house didn’t take long. Mrs Staveley Senior’s home was in an expensive area of Elmhurst with each house nestled in a large plot, so there weren’t too many neighbours to interview. Only one had seen anything out of the ordinary — a man parked in a car outside Mrs Staveley’s house. This neighbour had noticed it particularly because all of the houses in the road had spacious drives with no need for visitors to park on the street. There were no shops in the immediate vicinity so that wouldn’t have been a reason for his presence, and there was nothing else on that stretch of road but private houses. The thug had been without his balaclava at the time – if, that was, this man had been the thug who had attacked Edith Staveley – though the neighbour had been too far away to provide them with much of a description.

He hadn’t taken the registration number either, though it seemed possible the car had been stolen, so even if the neighbour had taken the number it wouldn’t have gained them anything. But the question was — was it just an opportunistic attack or had it a connection to the murder?

On the surface, the two women were very different: Adrienne Staveley was a woman with more men friends than morals. Whereas Mrs Staveley Senior had struck Rafferty as a very upright woman, a bit like an older, female version of Llewellyn. The two women had nothing in common so it was no wonder they hadn’t had a loving relationship, even allowing for the usual mother-in-law difficulties. So how could there be a connection between the two crimes? Why would there be? Two very different women with two very similar injuries, in two widely separate parts of town, one assault of which had been taken to the ultimate. It was fortunate that the second attack hadn’t had a similar result.

Another difference between the two women — Rafferty couldn’t imagine Adrienne Staveley had ever made pastry in her life, so would have had no rolling pin to hand with which to defend herself. Maybe, if she’d been more of a Domestic Goddess she’d still be alive? A humourless grin curved his lips. If being a Domestic Goddess meant the difference between living and dying, he was a goner for sure.

He had the description of the thug, such as it was, circulated in the area. It wasn’t a lot to go on. Edith Staveley had offered a reward leading to the capture of her attacker, which might throw up a few leads although, inevitably, it would also throw up a lot of time-wasters looking to get their own back on an ex-husband or former boyfriend as well as those simply hoping to get their hands on the money. It would take a hell of a lot of man-hours to sift the results, but the information coming in had slowed to a trickle, so it would give the team something to do.

They already had the task of questioning the people on the list of friends and acquaintances that John Staveley had supplied. He had been able to recall some of the streets where his wandering had taken him on the day of the murder, so something else might come of it to support his story.

Maybe, as he said to Llewellyn, as their next step, they should make time to re-interview David Ayling in the presence of his wife, bring up his obsession with Adrienne, and the fact that, apparently, unbeknownst to that same wife, he had been in the habit of dropping in at The White Farmhouse several times a week. It would set the lion amongst the wildebeests and stir them up, stimulating distrust between them. This was something that Rafferty often felt guilty about, particularly for those amongst the suspects who turned out to have nothing to do with a murder, but it was an essential part of an investigation. There was nothing like witnessing a good row for throwing up new evidence. But that would have to wait till this evening.

He made arrangements for Llewellyn to pick him up at eight o’clock and drive them to the Aylings’ house, and then he went home. All he was doing was supervising a lot of routine stuff and the team hardly needed his input for that. It was an early end to his day for a change, and, as a surprise for Abra, he popped into Sainsbury’s and bought ingredients for their evening meal: lamb’s liver cooked with apple, bacon and fried onions with mashed potato and runner beans. He even provided a pudding, though this was a creation of Mr Kipling rather than himself. Practising my Domestic Goddess arts, he told himself as he unpacked his purchases in the kitchen and set to work. Making sure I’m not a goner.

He was looking forward to seeing David and Helen Ayling this evening. It should liven things up once he’d revealed Ayling’s obsession with Adrienne Staveley. As he’d observed earlier, it was always interesting to stir the brew and see what happened.

Abra was upset that he had to go out again that evening. So was Rafferty when it came to it. They’d enjoyed a lovely dinner and had laughed a lot and teased each other even more than usual. Abra was sending out all the signals that red-hot sex was on the agenda. Just his luck that the timing was off. He’d remember when next he decided to cook dinner to make sure there was nothing but Abra requiring his attention.

He’d left it late to break the news, knowing she wouldn’t like it and reluctant to spoil the part of what remained of the evening that they could be together with arguments or recriminations.

After promising her he wouldn’t be above an hour, he put on his jacket and was ready to slip out the door when Llewellyn rang the bell. He was on time, as always, spot on eight o’clock.

The Aylings’ home looked even more attractive at night with the lamps lit and a fire sparking in the grate.

Helen Ayling wasn’t quite as forgiving of her partner as had been Diana Rexton. As soon as Rafferty had broken the glad tidings of her husband’s regular visits to Adrienne, she turned on him. At that moment she had a look of her mother, the stern and upright Mrs Staveley Senior.

‘What were you thinking of, visiting that woman? I wouldn’t have thought she was your type.’

The Adrienne Staveleys of this world were every man’s type, as far as Rafferty was concerned. It was clear from her diary that Adrienne had liked sex, unlike a lot of wives who generally pleaded a headache to get out of it.

‘Why did you visit her? Were you having an affair with her?’

‘No. Of course I wasn’t. She’d never have looked at me that way. I knew that, an attractive woman like her. I’m paunchy and balding. Only a mother and a long-term wife could love me.’

‘I’m not sure I do love you any more. I thought I knew you. Now I discover I don’t know you at all. When I think of all those evenings you said you were working late. Why did you find it necessary to lie if you weren’t hopeful of getting into her bed?’

‘Because I knew you wouldn’t like me visiting her. I told you — she would never have thought about me in that way. And I certainly never even considered the possibility. That wasn’t why I went to see her.’

And if he believed that he was more deluded than Rafferty had thought. Of course he had wanted to get into her bed, perhaps entertained hopes that his persistence would earn its reward. And even though he knew her to be a selfish bitch, Rafferty thought he, too, would have given way to temptation if it had been a few years ago. Before he met Abra.

Either Helen Ayling was a very good actress or she really hadn’t known of her husband’s visits to Adrienne — which removed any motive to kill her. Unless, that was, the big sister syndrome of protecting her little brother was more developed than usual and she had killed Adrienne for her brother’s sake rather than her own.

Either way, she didn’t seem about to confess, so they left them to their mutual recriminations, which had developed into simmering silences on both sides, rather than the interesting spat that had happened earlier, said good night and led Llewellyn from the room.

Christ,
thought Rafferty, as he lay in bed that night, suddenly wide awake.
John Staveley had his house up for sale. How had he missed Edith Staveley’s reference to this earlier? It could be important.

They’d thought all along that Adrienne Staveley had known her attacker. But supposing she hadn’t, and had only let her assailant in because she was expecting someone? Someone like a possible house purchaser.

Rafferty felt an urge to get up, dressed and drive himself over to John Staveley’s house to question him on the matter. But a glance at the luminous clock on the bedside table told him it was three o’clock in the morning, and he subsided back on his pillows. No way could he go waking the household up, particularly when it contained Staveley’s recently assaulted mother, who would surely receive another unwanted shock if he started hammering on the front door at this hour.

Besides him, Abra stirred in her sleep and he sat lay quiet so as not to disturb her. She quickly turned over and was soon submerged in slumber. Rafferty eased his body into a sitting position, and leaned back against his pillows to think things through.

Why hadn’t Staveley had a ‘For Sale’ sign posted on his gate? Because of the lack of such a sign it had been a mere fluke that he’d found out about the sale, yet the estate agents – whoever they were, which was something else he would have to ask Staveley – could have sent Adrienne’s murderer to her door.

With such new possibilities opening up, he found he couldn’t go back to sleep. So, rather than sit in the dark for the rest of the night waiting for the dawn, he got up and went along the hall to the kitchen to make himself some tea.