Death Dance

Death Dance

A Rafferty & Llewellyn Procedural

Geraldine Evans

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Joseph Rafferty was only half-listening as Father Kelly led him and his fiancée, Abra, through their wedding rehearsal. The warm sun of an early June evening shining through the stained-glass window rendered him somnambulistic. Father Kelly, verbose at the best of times, became even more put-you-to-sleep loquacious on occasions, such as today, when he was master of ceremonies, breaking off from the rendition of the service to interject with other bits of information he thought they needed.

Their wedding was three weeks off and things were speeding up, with the days flashing by. It was suddenly becoming all too real and rather scary. Rafferty found himself dwelling more and more on the speech he would have to make on the day. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. He’d made half a dozen attempts to put some suitable words together and scrapped all of them. His train of thought was briskly interrupted.

‘Is it wool-gathering you are, Joseph Rafferty?’ Father Kelly demanded in a carrying voice that it was impossible to ignore. ‘And amn’t I waiting for you to make your responses?’

Rafferty came to with a jerk. ‘Sorry, Father. Can you say it again?’

Father Kelly heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Sure and it’s simple enough. You know your own name, I take it? Say after me – I, Joseph Aloysius—‘

‘Aloysius?’ Beside him at the altar of St Boniface Catholic Church, Abra, his bride-to-be, smothered a giggle. ‘I never knew that was your second name.’

‘Don’t you think I made sure of it?’ he retorted. ‘I don’t know what my mother was thinking of to land me with such a moniker.’

‘It’s a good saint’s name as well as being my father’s name,’ his ma told him from the second pew. ‘And don’t be taking my name in vein. I’m right behind you and can hear you.’ She put in her two penn’orth about his wandering attention. ‘You want to pay heed to Father Kelly when he’s talking to you, son. Or I’ll never get you married and my grandson on the way.’

‘Never mind about that,’ Father Kelly admonished. ‘Can we get on with it? I’ve got a Mass to prepare for so I don’t want to be coaching you two for the rest of the evening. Now, repeat after me: I, Joseph Aloysius Rafferty take thee, Abra Anne Kearney, to be my lawful wedded wife.’

This time, Rafferty managed to dutifully repeat the words and got through the rest without any further mind wandering.

‘So I’ll be seeing you at church on Sunday, Joseph?’ Father Kelly asked as the rehearsal came to an end.

Rafferty gave a glum nod. With the wedding fast approaching, he’d been obliged to attend Mass. But as a fully-fledged lapsed Catholic he intended to slide out of this obligation at the first opportunity. Father Kelly didn’t know this yet, though he probably suspected it. He felt a bit of a hypocrite to be getting married in the Catholic faith, but Father Kelly had more or less taken it for granted and he and his ma had railroaded him into it. Abra felt obliged to attend Mass as well, seeing as she was receiving instruction in the faith and had told Father Kelly that she was going to convert to Catholicism. Even Mickey, one of his two younger brothers, had attended today as a stand in for the best man who couldn’t attend the rehearsal.

He’d forgotten to turn his mobile off, so he was relieved it didn’t go off until the rehearsal was over and he and Abra were back out on the street. He could imagine Father Kelly’s reaction if it had gone off in church.

The caller was Sergeant Dafyd Llewellyn, his missing best man. ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt your wedding rehearsal.’

‘No. It’s just finished. What’s the problem?’

‘The body of a woman has been found. It looks like strangulation. A Mrs Adrienne Staveley at a place called The White Farmhouse.’

‘Who called it in?’

‘Her husband. A Mr John Staveley.’

‘Okay. Where is it?’

‘Off St Mark’s Avenue — Lavender Avenue. You can’t miss it. I’ve already called the team out and Dr Dally’s on his way.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you there as soon as possible.’ Rafferty shut his mobile and turned to Abra. ‘Guess what? Some woman’s got herself murdered. I’ll have to go.’

‘What about me?’

‘I’ll drop you and Ma home first. I don’t know how late I’ll be.’

‘I suppose this is the shape of things to come.’ Abra tossed her long chestnut plait. ‘Just don’t do a disappearing act after our real wedding ceremony.’

‘No chance of that, my sweet.’ He kissed her. ‘I wouldn’t miss our honeymoon for anything.’

‘You’d better not. Come on then. Take me and your mum home so you can get off.’

The journey back to the flat didn’t take long. His ma told him she’d walk from there to her own home as it was a nice evening. And after kissing them both goodbye, Rafferty quickly drove in the direction of The White Farmhouse. And yet another murder.

Chapter Two

The balmy weather and flower-strewn verges would have made for a pleasant drive out into the country surrounding the Essex market town of Elmhurst, but for what awaited Rafferty at journey’s end. Another person brought to a sudden and violent death.

He hated viewing the body of a human being that had presumably been breathing and walking about, enjoying their life and its pleasures such a short time before being brutally murdered.

He wondered what the world would be like without him in it. He found it difficult to imagine himself not existing. But the world had gone on for countless millennia before he was born and would doubtless continue after his death, strange as he might find the fact. ‘Joe Rafferty centre of the universe,’ he murmured to the empty car. ‘Not.’

After he’d passed a sizeable house and driven on a further hundred yards down Lavender Avenue, it wasn’t difficult to realise he had arrived at the right place with all the police vehicles and flashing lights to point the way. Perversely, the White Farmhouse was painted yellow. It stood in spacious grounds and had several outbuildings. The green front door stood wide open. Rafferty said hello to the young PC Timothy Smales, looking important with his clipboard. He climbed into his protective gear and ducked under the police tape.

‘Dr Dally here yet?’ he asked.

‘Just arrived, sir,’ Smales informed him as he entered Rafferty’s name on his clipboard in his best, schoolboy handwriting.

Rafferty nodded acknowledgement.

The Scene of Crime team had yet to arrive so the farmhouse was peaceful. The house was quite substantial, Rafferty noted as he paused in the doorway to get his bearings. There was a wide hallway leading from the front of the house right through to the rear, with two doors opening on either side and stairs to the left. He slowly paced his way to the first two doors. There was a large room with a desk and a computer off to the left, with the even more spacious drawing room off to the right. Llewellyn was in there with a man Rafferty guessed was the husband. He entered and Llewellyn stood up and introduced them.

Rafferty acknowledged John Staveley with a nod, but he wasn’t ready to question him yet. After briefly commiserating with the new widower, he gestured for Llewellyn to come into the hall and bring him up to date.

‘So, what’s occurring?’ he asked after Llewellyn left the drawing room and shut the door behind him.

‘I’ve just been speaking to John Staveley, the victim’s husband.’

‘And what does he have to say for himself?’

‘That he was out all day. Came home around six and found his wife dead in the kitchen.’

‘Anyone with him when he found her?’

‘No one.’

‘Did he have company while he was out of the house?’

‘He says not.’

‘Who are the other occupants? Or did Mr Staveley and his wife live alone?’

‘Kyle, Mr Staveley’s son by a previous marriage. He’s a schoolboy. He’s out, but according to his father he’s expected back any time.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Sixteen.’

Rafferty nodded and muttered, ‘teenage angst. Better have a look at the body. In the kitchen you said?’

‘Yes. It’s next door on the left. The dining room’s opposite.’

When they entered the large, modern and expensively outfitted kitchen Dr Dally was busy about his usual examination and didn’t welcome the interruption.

‘Last to arrive as usual, Rafferty,’ he said irascibly as he eased his plump knees on the hard stone floor.

‘I was at my wedding rehearsal when Dafyd phoned,’ he defended himself against this unjust accusation. ‘Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re not known as Dilly Dally for nothing.’ Rafferty nodded at the woman’s corpse. The body was on its back with the legs bent. There was purple bruising to the throat and the face and neck were dark red and congested and looked even more so when adjoined by a white sleeveless top. ‘Any idea how long she’s been dead?’

‘No more than an hour and a half. Two hours, tops. Strangled, as you can see. Done manually. He left the marks of his fingers on the skin.’

‘There were no signs of a break-in at the front,’ Rafferty said. ‘What about at the back?’ he asked Llewellyn.

‘No. Nothing like that. Either she let her killer in or they were here already.’

‘The husband, you mean. I’ll have a word with him now. See if he feels like incriminating himself.’

This remark received one of the Welshman’s pained expressions.
You’ve only just got here,
it seemed to say,
and have barely spoken to the man, yet you’re ready to place him in the role of chief suspect.

Rafferty winked, tapped his nose and said, ‘Nearest and dearest, Daff. Nearest and dearest—often not as dear as they make out.’ They walked back along the hallway and into the drawing room. John Staveley was still sitting as before, with his hands clenched between his knees and his head bowed, seemingly unaware of their entrance.

‘Mr Staveley,’ Rafferty began, to get his attention.

Slowly, John Staveley looked up, blinking. He brushed his straight dark hair out of his eyes with long, slim fingers. His deathly pallor, combined with his black hair and thin face, gave him a Draculaesque appearance. Rafferty half expected him to bare his teeth in a snarl. He found his hand reaching for his throat in a protective gesture. Sheepishly, as he became aware of what he was doing and why, he dropped his hand back to his side.

‘I’m sorry to have to speak to you at such a time, sir, but there are a few questions I need to ask. Was your wife expecting any visitors this afternoon or evening?’ Rafferty sat on the settee opposite. Llewellyn did the same and got his notebook out again.

‘Not that I know of, but she is – was – a sociable woman. People would drop in to see her without ringing first.’

‘Did she have a job?’ Rafferty was thinking about work colleagues and brightened when he learned there weren’t any. Fewer suspects to complicate matters. All to the good.

‘No. Until I was made redundant six months ago I earned enough to keep all of us.’

‘You were made redundant? The last months must have been difficult for you.’

‘Yes. You could say that.’

‘You haven’t been able to find another job?’

‘No.’ This last was said with a note of bitterness. ‘It’s not for want of trying. I go to the Job Centre every day.’

‘What time did you go there today?’

‘My normal time. Nine o’clock.

‘I understand you were out all day. Where did you go after the Job Centre?’

‘I stayed in town. I took a newspaper to the public library to study the job vacancies.’

‘What’s your line of work?’

‘I’m an engineer. Or I was. Now all the Job Centre can offer me is factory work or shelf-stacking.’ The bitter note was back. Staveley had rather beautiful brown eyes. They were large, with clear whites and long lashes. At the moment, unsurprisingly, his gaze was troubled and his lashes shielded his eyes as if he preferred to avoid meeting another’s gaze. Especially Rafferty’s.

‘You told my sergeant you didn’t get back home till six o’clock this evening.’

‘That’s right. That’s when I found my wife lying dead on the kitchen floor.’

‘So you were out all day. What were you doing, apart from going to the Job Centre and the library?’

‘I just walked around. Had a couple in the pub. Nothing much.’

‘You must have spent several hours just walking around. Pretty tiring.’