Death Dance (22 page)

Rafferty slumped against the wall as relief flooded him. He was relieved, too, to recall  that his cousin had never met Abra and didn’t know her surname. No way could he make the connection or sniff out the possibilities that had been churning his gut.

It took a few seconds for his body to co-operate with his brain; relief seemed to have winded him. But he pushed away from the wall, got in the car and started it up. No wonder her prints were in every room, even Staveley’s bedroom. She wasn’t having an affair with him. She hadn’t murdered Adrienne. All she had dome was view a house way above their income bracket. Just like a woman. She was being nosey because she could. And he had her marked down as a near adulteress or a murderer.

He thanked God and cowardice that he hadn’t questioned her about it. Now he wouldn’t have to do so at all. He’d been dreading her response, terrified of what he’d find out, distraught at what would happen to their marriage plans. Terrified, too, that he might have to lock her up.

Llewellyn’s check of the neighbouring police stations about other burglaries with violence similar to that used on Edith Staveley didn’t bear fruit. Perhaps any other victims hadn’t got away from the man as had Mrs Staveley, when she ran to her kitchen and prompted the would-be thief to become angry, chase after her and put his hands round her neck.

There had been two opportunistic thefts in the surrounding villages, but neither had been violent. Both the victims were women, which made Rafferty think the thief had studied the houses and their occupants, noting when the woman of the house was there alone. It was a cowardly crime.

Rafferty guessed that the thief had a drug habit and had used the proceeds of his crimes to buy his latest supplies. If he was the same man as had attacked and killed Adrienne they would surely already have his prints in the computer if he was caught committing another crime. Rafferty was willing to bet that if none of their current suspects had killed her, then one of the so far unidentified sets of prints in Adrienne’s kitchen and on her front door belonged to her murderer. Adrienne’s killer hadn’t worn gloves when he strangled her: his finger marks were round her neck as Sam had told him. He had been hopeful of getting DNA evidence from any sweat left behind, but Sam had told him that the neck wasn’t a very fertile area for getting DNA. Rafferty could only hope they got lucky and caught the bastard.

It was the night of Rafferty’s stag do. Abra was having her hen night at the same time and they were both getting ready. Abra looked very fetching in a short, low-cut and sleeveless white dress and a short and frivolous-looking veil. She wore a red letter ‘L’ on her back, and had put a white, blue beribboned lacy garter on her leg. This latter had stirred Rafferty’s libido to the extent that he had wanted to take it off again. But he had restrained the impulse. There was no time before Llewellyn arrived, unfortunately.

‘You’re no learner,’ Rafferty told her, in reference to the beginner’s sign. ‘In fact, I reckon you could teach me a thing or two.’

‘And the rest. That Catholic schooling of yours has left you decidedly conscience-ridden about doing naughty things. I only hope getting married and having the Church’s blessing on the conjugals will remove some of your hang ups.’

‘Mmm. We’ll just have to practise a lot. Anyway, enough dirty talk. You’re all ready, but what should I wear?’ he asked as he opened the wardrobe door and peered inside. ‘One of my new suits?’

‘No. You don’t want to ruin it or worse — lose it.’

‘Dafyd’s in charge. He won’t let me be tied naked to a lamppost. You know what a stickler he is for propriety. Besides, it wouldn’t do for a copper to be caught in such a compromising position. I think even Mickey and Patrick Sean would stop short at that.’

‘Maybe. But those brothers of yours are just as likely to get over-boisterous and ignore Dafyd. Wear something older that you don’t mind getting ruined.’

That meant his old faithful brown suit that was decidedly shabby. His other old suits were even shabbier. ‘I’ve got to wear something reasonably smart to get into the clubs.’

Abra had lost interest in what he wore. She had been admiring herself in her wardrobe mirror and now she said, ‘Talking of clubs — which ones are you going to?’

‘I don’t know. Dafyd’s organised it. Knowing him it’ll be the Liberal Club.’

Abra laughed and turned to face him. ‘He’s not that bad. Only we’re going to Cynbyn and I don’t want to bump into you and the rest of the stag night crew.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we don’t go there. There are plenty of others to choose from.’

‘Try not to get too wasted.’

‘It’s my stag do, sweetheart. I’m supposed to get wasted. It’s traditional.’

‘Even so.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said again. ‘Dafyd will look after me and see I get home okay.’

‘Thank God for him, as he’ll be the only sensible one there.’ Outside a car gave a long blast on its horn.

‘Anyway, that’ll be my cab. I’m off. Have a good time.’

‘And you.’ Rafferty came over and kissed her. ‘And don’t you drink too much, either. I don’t want some Lothario taking advantage of you.’

‘This is strictly a girls’ night out. No fraternization allowed.’

‘Glad to hear it. Even so, just you be careful. A few drinks and you might forget the no-fraternization rule.’

Abra blew him a kiss from the doorway. He heard the front door slam and turned back to his wardrobe. He decided, after all, to wear one of the smart Italian suits that he’d bought before he met Abra, sure that Dafyd would take care that nothing happened to it or him. The decision didn’t take long. Llewellyn was knocking on the door five minutes later to collect him.

The Welshman looked smart, but then he always did. He was as dapper as Beau Brummel, though without the flamboyance.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

Rafferty nodded.

‘Shall we go then? I’ll pick up your two brothers on the way to the pub.’

Llewellyn didn’t drink, so had volunteered to drive the three Rafferty brothers. The rest of the party were making their own transport arrangements.

Collecting Mickey and Patrick Sean didn’t take long as they both lived in Elmhurst. Within fifteen minutes, they were in the Red Lion on Elmhurst’s High Street. This, of course, was Llewellyn’s choice and was the favoured pub of him and Maureen. It catered for what Rafferty called “the cappuccino crowd” – middle-class intellectuals from the local college – and normally Rafferty steered well clear. The Red Lion was a smallish pub, with leather banquettes and a restaurant that had a Michelin star and that went in for fresh flowers on the tables. The décor was muted and could, he supposed, be described as stylish, with none of the garish décor often sported by the town’s more utilitarian pubs. Its pale green walls featured photographs and paintings of Elmhurst and surrounds in centuries past, with more modern watercolours and oils by local artists which were for sale.

Rafferty’s favourite pub was The Black Swan on the River Tiffey to the north of the town. It was a comfortable, down-to-earth hostelry without the pretensions of The Red Lion, which was also the favoured haunt of several of his superiors, including Superintendent Bradley – which was another reason to drink elsewhere.

The others in the party had beaten them to it and were already several drinks ahead, judging by the noise emanating from their table and the uproarious way they greeted Rafferty’s arrival.

‘So what are you having, Joe?’ Mickey, one of his younger brothers, asked once the din of greetings had died down.

Rafferty raised his voice above the hubbub emanating from their table. ‘I’ll start off with an Adnam’s bitter and work my way up.’

‘Okay.’ Mickey turned to Dafyd, put his mouth to his ear and shouted, ‘Dafyd, what about you? What can I get you?’

Llewellyn shouted back, his expression pained. ‘I’ll have a pineapple juice, please.’

Rafferty grimaced. Poor Dafyd, It was going to be a long night for him. Rafferty guessed that the rowdiness of the stag night boys was already something of a torment to him; a torment that could only increase as the night wore on. But at least it was only once in a lifetime. Or twice, in his case.

The drinks were soon in and, several pints later, Rafferty felt nicely relaxed and ready to enjoy the remainder of the night. And once he’d got a few whiskey chasers inside him he became as raucous as the rest as he shouted to be heard. He had learned to drink bitter – rather than lager, which his contemporaries drank–– from one of his uncles on his mother’s side. Rafferty soon found he preferred it to the lager he had drunk with his friends.

They decided on a kitty and gave the money to Llewellyn to look after.

The conversation didn’t take long to turn smutty. It was something that Rafferty had expected, but by now he was nicely anaesthetised and past caring.

‘So, have you got your stock of strawberry-flavoured condoms in for the honeymoon?’ Mickey shouted, drawing several disapproving looks from the pub’s high-class patrons.

‘Abra doesn’t like strawberry.’ Rafferty replied, deadpan. ‘She prefers tequila-flavoured ones. And banana. She likes a bit of variety.’

‘Tequila? I didn’t know you could get tequila-flavoured johnnies.’

‘Joke. But perhaps some enterprising condom manufacturer makes them and the pub landlords in Elmhurst think their customers get through enough alcohol in the usual manner without them resorting to other means.’ Rafferty stood up. ‘My turn to get the drinks in.’ He turned to Llewellyn and shouted, ‘Give me some of the kitty money, Dafyd. Another pineapple juice for you, is it?’

‘Llewellyn’s lips turned down. ‘I think not. I’ll have a coffee.’

‘Coffee it is. Same as before for the rest of you?’

They chorused their agreement and Rafferty walked over to the bar and consulted his list of drinks before he gave the beginning of the order to the barman. He ordered another large Jameson’s for himself. He preferred the Irish whiskey to scotch; He found it smoother than its northern brother. Usually, he had Jameson’s Triple Reserved whiskey — they got it in especially for him in The Black Swan and The Railway Arms. But he could only get the ordinary Jameson in the Red Lion and he was lucky to get that given the patrons’ preferences, amongst which such specialised Irish whiskey still didn’t feature, as his swift, assessing glance over the optics had already told him.

While he waited for the drinks to be served, and with the chance to observe the stag night boys in a more objective way, he decided to suggest they make a move when they’d drunk this round. Their noisy party was getting those mutterings of disapproval from the cappuccino crowd which the British do so well. He didn’t want them to be asked to leave this early in the proceedings. It would be embarrassing if the landlord called the police and they discovered that one of their own was the cause of the trouble…

In spite of Rafferty’s misgivings about their rowdy behaviour, the others refused to leave the pub till closing time. They told him they didn’t want to waste valuable drinking time traipsing between various bars on a pub crawl. After a few more drinks he was past worrying if they disturbed the coffee aficionados or even if his uniformed colleagues were called in.

At closing time, they headed for The Scorpio Club. Llewellyn drove Rafferty, Mickey and Patrick Sean; the others in the party decided to walk, as it wasn’t that far. Nigel, because the night was drizzly and he was, as usual, wearing one of his snazzy, made-to-measure suits, opted to wait for a taxi .He arrived at The Scorpio Club last, and was in a bad mood when he got there.

‘You finally made it, then?’ said a bleary-eyed Rafferty, as he downed his seventh large whiskey.of the night and struggled to focus.

‘Damn taxi was late picking me up. I shan’t use that firm again.’

‘Never mind, Nige.’ Rafferty stood up. ‘Have a drink.’

‘I’ll have a large brandy. And don’t get me the house brandy. I can’t drink cheap alcohol.’

‘Don’t I know it? I’ll get some money from Dafyd’s kitty.’

Fortunately, alcohol soon coaxed Nigel out of his ill-humour. The night wore on and grew hazy. It was three in the morning before they staggered out of the last club. Quite early, really. But Rafferty was forty and not so up to such long hours as he’d once been. The others were around the same age and didn’t make any objections to the relatively early end to their clubbing.

Besides, unwisely, earlier in the evening, nicely lubricated and feeling hail-fellow-well-met, Rafferty had said they could all come back to his place. They didn’t need a second invitation. He had thought they might have forgotten after their alcohol intake, but not a bit of it. The prospect of more, free, drink was way too attractive for that. Abra was staying in her own place for the night, so they wouldn’t disturb her.

They put some music on when they reached his flat and Rafferty brought out the booze.

‘So, are you ready to be an old married man again?’ Nigel asked as he sat down on the settee beside him.

‘I certainly am. More than ready. There’s no shotgun aspect to this marriage, unlike my first one.’

‘Yeah. I remember. I always thought it was funny that you got caught like that, only for Angie’s bun in the over to fall out a few months after you got hitched.’

Rafferty had always thought Angie’s “miscarriage” a bit suspect, too. Not that he was going to tell Nigel that. It was clear his cousin already thought him enough of a fool for getting caught by the pregnancy bogey in the first place. He was even more surprised when he’d felt he had to marry Angie because of the child.

To admit to being duped by Angie with a fake pregnancy wouldn’t be a wise move. His cousin would think him an even bigger fool if he confessed to his suspicions. Nigel was the sort of bloke – cousin or no cousin – who would take great delight in reminding him of such an unwise revelation. ‘Yes, well, that’s a long time ago, now. Water under the bridge.’

‘If you say so. Abra not pregnant, is she?’

‘No.’ Rafferty’s reply was curt. Nigel could be straight to the jugular at times and drink made him worse. It was probably brought about because of all the crawling he felt he had to do to his high-flying agency clientele. He liked to loosen the guard on his tongue on the rare occasions when he deigned to socialise with family and he tended to revert to his Jerry Kelly persona. Perhaps, too, he was getting his own back for Rafferty’s brusqueness when he’d dragged him from his bed. They were still checking out the house viewers from the list Nigel had supplied. A couple of them lived in Elmhurst, but most on the list lived miles away and he had sent the team out to do preliminary interviews. If he thought it necessary from the results of the preliminaries, he would see them himself.