Death Dance by Geraldine Evans

drawer of his desk. He completed it quickly, tore it from the pad and handed it to Rafferty with an unnecessary flourish. ‘There you are. One receipt, signed and dated.’
    ‘Cheers.’ He tucked this evidence of payment safely in his wallet. As he observed this careful stowing, Nigel’s nostrils quivered as if suddenly assailed by a bad odour. ‘I’ll be off. I hope the business picks up soon.’
    ‘It already has, coz,’ Nigel drawled as he spared Rafferty one of his selectively distributed smiles. ‘I have every confidence.’
    A little less would be an improvement, was Rafferty’s thought. His cousin oozed the bloody stuff. Rafferty bade Nigel goodbye and turned towards the car. Llewellyn was clearly getting restive about being parked on a double yellow. Through the rear window, he could see the Welshman edging his body over to the driver’s seat as Rafferty shut Nigel’s door behind him.
    ‘All right,’ Rafferty said as he opened the driver’s door and waved Llewellyn back to his own seat. ‘Keep your hair on. I’m back now. I was no more than a few minutes,’ he grumbled. ‘Why didn’t you drive around the block if you were so anxious about traffic wardens?’
    ‘That was just what I was about to do.’ Llewellyn settled in the passenger seat and gave his seat belt a taut tug. He fastened it with a firm snap. ‘But that’s not the point. I don’t like parking illegally. You know I don’t. I’m a police officer. I’m meant to uphold the law, not break it. So are you.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Rafferty’s nostrils did some quivering of their own. But he said no more, turned the key and, with a heavy foot on the gas pedal, let the engine’s throaty roar give his riposte for him. He grinned to himself as, at the edge of his vision, he could see Llewellyn, sitting stiffly, eyes front. Just to show who was boss, Rafferty put a spurt on and they reached the station in no time.
    When they got back it was to find more statements and reports. After arming themselves with tea and sandwiches from the canteen, they set to and began to read their way through them.
    ‘I see the team have traced Michael Peacock, Adrienne Staveley’s other male visitor,’ said Rafferty, tapping the report in front of him. ‘We must make time to see and question him.’
    They finally reached the end of the paperwork. Rafferty stood up and grabbed his jacket. ‘Right. Let’s head off to talk to this Michael Peacock,’ he said to Llewellyn.
    Peacock lived in a block of flats about two hundred yards from the police station, so they left the car behind and walked.
    Peacock was at home. He was dressed casually, in jeans and an open-necked T-shirt and totally lacked Gary Oldfield’s smarmy, superficial charm. After Rafferty made the introductions, Peacock invited them in with a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners.
    Rafferty was surprised to find him so little like the oily Oldfield. Presumably, Adrienne Staveley appreciated variety in her men.
    They were offered tea. But even Rafferty was all tea-ed out, and he refused.
    ‘We understand you knew a Mrs Adrienne Staveley,’ he began as he took a seat in a living room strewn with several small electrical appliances in various stages of dismemberment.
    ‘Excuse the mess. Just doing a few favours for the neighbours. I’m an electrician and it goes with the job. And yes,’ he said. ‘I knew Adrienne. I was shocked to learn of her murder on the local radio.’
    ‘How well did you know her?’
    Michael Peacock shifted a couple of toasters and sat down on the settee, gesturing for Llewellyn to do likewise. ‘Pretty well. I met her two months ago. We seemed to strike a spark when we met and just carried on from there.’
    ‘I understand you used to visit her at her home regularly.’
    ‘Yes. I’d sometimes pop in for half-an-hour on my way to get parts. I got the impression she felt bored being in the house on her own all day and welcomed company.’
    As long