‘Do you feel a bit better now?’ Rafferty asked as they finished their meal.
Abra nodded. ‘A bit. I’m sorry I was such a grump. I’ve been thinking. I suppose I could ask my youngest cousin, Aimee; she’s about the same size as Sophie.’
‘There you are then. All’s well that ends well. I doubt any necessary alterations would take long.’
‘No. You’re right. It was silly of me to get so upset.’
‘It’s understandable. It’s a fraught business arranging a wedding. There’s always so much that can go wrong.’
‘Oh God, Joe, don’t say that. I’ll be worrying about what else can happen.’
‘Nothing will.’ Rafferty crossed his fingers under the table out of Abra’s sight. ‘You’ll see I’m right. It’ll be plain sailing from here on in.’ He took a bite of a poppadum and scooped up the rest of his Chicken Tikka Masala, Abra’s favourite Indian meal.
They had an early night because after getting herself worked into such a state, Abra felt exhausted.
It was a long time before Rafferty fell asleep. His mind churned with the difficulties of his latest case. Who was the murderer? The husband? One of her lovers? Her mother or sister in law? The stepson? He felt sure one of them was guilty.
The husband, John Staveley, was still his favourite, but he must make sure this didn’t blind him to other possibilities. He wished he could be as objective as Llewellyn. His sergeant seemed to have no problem in keeping an open mind, which was something that caused Rafferty endless difficulties. He tended to home in on one particular suspect to the exclusion of the rest. It was about time he learned not to do that.
He turned over and thumped his pillow. Come on, sleep, he muttered to himself. I’ll be like nothing on earth tomorrow if you don’t come and in no fit state to find answers with or without an open mind.
Rafferty woke late and unrefreshed the next morning. With a groan, he levered himself out of bed and walked to the bathroom. A shower partially revived him as did tea and fried egg on toast. Maybe today, Anne Amos would get some more of Adrienne Staveley’s diary transcribed. And Bradley was spending the day at Region doing more arse licking so he wouldn’t be causing him any further angst.
Fed and watered, Rafferty went to work to face whatever the day brought.
Llewellyn had some good news for him for a change. The roadside survey team had finally produced some results. A male driver had seen a Vauxhall Vectra drive down the Staveleys’ road. He’d noticed it because the driver had annoyed him by taking such a time to make the right turn.
‘That’s great,’ said Rafferty.’ What’s this witness’s name and where can we find him? Did he notice if the driver was a man or a woman?’
‘He thought it was a woman, though he only saw her from the back. And the name of the man who saw the Vectra is Victor Pemberton. He lives here in Elmhurst at number 17 Station Road.’
‘Have you got a phone number for him?’
‘Yes.
‘Give him a bell, Dafyd. See if he noticed anything else about the car or the driver. I don’t suppose he made a note of the registration number?’
‘No. Why would he?’ Llewellyn picked up the phone and dialled, but Victor Pemberton could tell them nothing more.
‘A woman,’ mused Rafferty. ‘That means either Mrs Staveley Senior or her daughter, Helen Ayling.’
‘Not necessarily. It could be someone else entirely. This woman could have been visiting the neighbour.’
Rafferty gave a slow nod. ‘You’re right, of course. And now I think of it, neither lady drives a Vectra. I saw a Jag outside her daughter’s.’ He snorted. ‘So much for our roadside survey. That’s all they’ve got? This one woman?’
‘That’s all.’
‘I suppose we’d better try to check her out. Get on to Staveley’s neighbour, Sarah Jones, would you, Daff? See if she had a visitor on the afternoon or evening of the murder. If we can do nothing else, we can at least eliminate her. And while I think of it, make a note to check out Gary Oldfield’s girlfriend, Diana Rexton. Now we know for certain that Oldfield was having an affair with Adrienne it’s possible she killed Adrienne in a fit of jealousy after finding out about the affair. It’s a long shot, but possible.’ Diana Rexton hadn’t struck him as the sort of woman to seek retribution against her lover. She seemed the forgiving sort. In fact, she seemed to him to be the kind of woman who would let Oldfield get away with murder. Maybe he ought to check his alibi again while he was at it? See if Diana Rexton altered her alibi at all.
‘Mr Oldfield won’t like us questioning his girlfriend when it’ll mean his affair with Mrs Staveley coming out. Miss Rexton is likely to want to know why we’re pursuing him when she’s already provided him with an alibi.’
‘Too bad. I can’t concern myself with his domestic difficulties. He should learn to keep his dick in his trousers. We’ll go and see her this evening.’
Llewellyn turned to the telephone and Rafferty sat back and sipped the tea Llewellyn always fetched first thing. It was lukewarm, but sweet and strong, just as he liked it.
While Llewellyn was on the phone to Sarah Jones, Rafferty reflected on the case. He was disappointed that they had yet to find a firm lead. What if it wasn’t one of their current crop of suspects who had killed Adrienne? What if it was someone else entirely? Someone who didn’t even feature on their list? Such a thought was the stuff of nightmares; he could only hope it didn’t give him another sleepless night.
Llewellyn came off the phone then and told Rafferty, ‘Mrs Jones didn’t have a visitor on the day of the murder.’
‘Really? That’s a turn up. There are only two houses down the Staveley’s side road, so this woman must have been visiting
their
house. Get back on to Sarah Jones and find out if she knows who drives a Vectra. If this woman is a regular visitor, she might know her.’
But unfortunately for Rafferty’s turn of optimism, Sarah Jones wouldn’t have recognised a Vauxhall Vectra if one ran her over. She knew nothing about the car or the driver, as Llewellyn discovered.
‘Damn,’ said Rafferty. ‘I thought things were looking too rosy. Oh well, back to the drawing board.’ Rafferty twiddled his thumbs while he thought of
what to do next. ‘Get on to John Staveley and see if he recognises the car; maybe if this woman was a regular visitor to Adrienne, he’ll know her.’
Llewellyn turned again to the phone, checked Staveley’s telephone number and punched it in. The conversation didn’t last long.
‘He doesn’t know anyone who drives a Vectra, either,’ Llewellyn reported as he replaced the receiver.
Rafferty sighed. All their long shots were going down the pan. All they had left was Oldfield’s girlfriend and he didn’t hold out much hope of anything coming from the next interview they had with her. They were seeing her this evening and had agreed that, even if she didn’t ask why they were still questioning her about Oldfield’s alibi, they would liven things up with revelations about Oldsmith’s affair with Adrienne Staveley. It was always interesting to stir the brew and see what happened.
The afternoon wore desultorily away. Rafferty felt as if he had been investigating this case for months. For some reason, the plenitude of suspects fatigued his mind rather than energised it. Perhaps, after twenty odd years of going after assorted murderers and other criminals, he was getting jaded. He wouldn’t be the first police officer to go down that road. It was an occupational hazard. He’d known a few coppers, weary of the chase, who had only hung on because the pension rights were so good. Bill Beard was one of these; he’d been glad enough to relinquish the murder hunts to the frisky youngsters coming up on his heels and retire – owing to his bad back and varicose veins – to a job behind the reception desk. Not that he’d ever struck Rafferty as being remotely ambitious, having never aspired to rise above the rank of constable.
But, Rafferty told himself, you’re an inspector in the CID and supposedly in charge of catching this killer. No matter how much he might sometimes long for it, he couldn’t see Bradley agreeing to him taking on the ease of desk duty. Certainly not if Bradley thought it was what he wanted. The superintendent had never liked him, but that his dislike had been confirmed by Rafferty’s actions when he had been unwise enough to give into the impulse to take a rise out of Bradley during a previous investigation when Rafferty had provided a – to him, anyway, – appropriate acronym for Bradley’s latest PR wheeze. Oh well, he thought, even as he cursed the impetuous Irishmen who were his ancestors, there’ll be no escape to behind a desk for me this side of retirement age.
That being the case, he’d better apply himself and try to catch Adrienne Staveley’s murderer.
And seeing as I’m going to give Diana Rexton the glad tidings of Oldfield’s affair and probably break her heart, he placated his stirring conscience with the thought that at least it would lay bare the true nature of Oldfield’s love, which Rafferty felt he had guessed correctly was love for her and her family’s money rather than herself.
Rafferty, whose previous love life had had its ups and downs. Mostly downs. Had felt like he had come home when he met Abra, so although he felt certain she was heading for heartbreak, he could understand Diana Rexton’s love for someone as intrinsically worthless as Oldfield. She was in her thirties and she looked every year of it. She must have seized on Oldfield when he showed an interest as her great white hope of marriage and motherhood before the ticking clock put paid to parenthood. She wouldn’t, he was sure, want her best years lived out as an unloved spinster; he imagined this plain young woman had had more than her share of rejections, unlike the pretty sister, whose photograph had been much in evidence at the Rexton home.
There had been no more reported sightings of Adrienne Staveley with any other man and they had still to identify the third, mysterious man in her life. Rafferty, who still nursed hopes of proving that, somehow, Gary Oldfield was their killer, was glad to pack up and head over to Heathcote Manor that evening.
But when he got there, the odd-job man/father that again opened the door, told them that Diana wasn’t there.
‘She’s gone back to the flat she shares with that bounder, Oldfield. Silly girl. I thought she had more sense. She should have, given her lack of good looks. Her sister’s got beauty
and
brains.’
‘I take it you don’t like Gary Oldfield, Sir. Can you tell me why?’
‘Feller’s a bounder, I told you. He’s only after our Diana for her money — her grandmother left her a tidy sum and she’s frittering it away buying him presents. Every time he comes here he’s wearing some new expensive gewgaw or other. I thought she’d remain on the shelf and would look after her mother and me in our dotage. But no. Seems she intends devoting her life to looking after that fortune hunter.’
This last was obviously a sore point with Mr Rexton; clearly the thought of expensive care homes didn’t appeal.
But Rafferty, preparing to break the news to Diana Rexton that her boyfriend was unfaithful, didn’t have the patience to spare for this selfish old goat and he bade him a hasty goodbye and hurried back to the car.
‘I’ll drive,’ he told Llewellyn, who had made for the driver’s side of the car. ‘I want to get to Oldfield’s flat this evening rather than tomorrow.’
‘More haste less speed. Surely there’s no rush? We have all evening.’
‘For all we know they’re going out for the night to cement their reconciliation.’
‘If they’re having reconciliation. We don’t know that they are.’
‘We don’t know that tomorrow’s going to dawn, but it’s likely.’ To forestall any other delaying tactics, he got in the car, turned the ignition on and revved up. He was amused to see the rarely hurried Welshman yank open the passenger side door and fall into the seat. Llewellyn looked pained. He didn’t like his dignity to be ruffled.
Although Rafferty felt bad about breaking what must be extremely unwelcome news, he was curious to see how Diana Rexton took it. He expected tears.
So when they got to the flat, and told her of Oldfield’s and Adrienne Staveley’s affair, he was surprised when she admitted she already knew. Or at least suspected.
Diana Rexton’s pallid face showed a crimson tide rising up from her neck. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you knew. It’s rather embarrassing.’ She pleated her tweed skirt between her thick fingers.
Somehow Rafferty wasn’t surprised that she knew already. He had half-suspected the reason she had gone to her parents’ was because she and Gary had had a row. And that the row had been over Adrienne Staveley.
Oldfield wasn’t at home, unfortunately; Rafferty would have liked to drop his bombshell with him there to see the shock waves and their interaction. Denied this satisfaction, he contented himself with studying Diana Rexton.
She had been surprised to see them again and had clearly thought her evidence had exonerated her boyfriend of any suspicion of being mixed up with murder. Rafferty, sure that Oldfield had somehow tricked her into believing he hadn’t left the flat that afternoon, felt sorry to disillusion her.
‘Your father told us you’d come back here.’
‘Did he?’ She pulled a face. ‘I found I couldn’t stay there any longer. Daddy is rather horrid about Gary. He calls him a fortune hunter. He’s not. He had no idea that my grandmother had left me some money when he first asked me out. He only realised I had money of my own when I bought a new Landrover.’
Rafferty doubted that. He thought it probable that Oldfield had asked around at the tennis club and found out that the plain and probably grateful Diana Rexton came from a moneyed family.
She seemed to think her choice of vehicle merited some explanation, for she added, ‘I often have to take a horse to events and the Landrover is good and strong and excellent at getting out of muddy fields.’
She gazed placidly at him through her bottle-top spectacle lenses. She hadn’t been wearing them the first time they had seen her: she’d probably taken them off in case her beloved horse from hell, Benjy, got even more frisky than usual and broke them They didn’t improve her looks.