Chapter Five
David Lodge and his colleague Donald Westlake were looking more shamefaced than battered. Typical of grown men who hadn’t had a playground scrap in twenty or more years. They sat, a chair between then, nursing their bruises and glowering at one another.
Rafferty and Llewellyn walked towards them. With a just-restrained grin, for the remembrance of old battles, Rafferty said, ‘Evening gentlemen. Been in the wars I see.’
They glanced briefly at him. Though he noticed Don Westlake’s look was more challenging and encompassed all of him from his untidy, collar curling, auburn hair and Day-Glo orange tie, to his down-at-heel black shoes that he’d again forgotten to polish, and ended with a tiny smirk. Rafferty felt like wiping the smirk from his face, but he decided dignity was t
