WHEN DON WESTLAKE WAS ushered into the Head’s office just before lunch on Monday morning and met Rafferty’s gaze, he simply gave a wry smile, as if to say, ‘Here we are again.’ He’d left Don Westlake until later in the morning, hoping the delay would have got under his skin. But although naturally wary – this was, after all, a murder case – he seemed as smooth as cream cheese.
‘Good morning, Mr Westlake. Recovered from your trip to the hospital yet?’
’What? Oh yes. I never knew David packed such a mean punch.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I must duck another time.’
‘Indeed.’ God, where had that come from? He really must watch it, he was sounding more like Llewellyn by the day. He’d be spouting Latin next.
‘That was a silly misunderstanding.’ Westlake smiled again. ‘Do I need to tell you that La
