The Spanish Connection

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Between the Professors, once it had dawned on them after Dally’s departure, that forensic were going to be on site at the dig for some days; Bradley, who with the profs complaining to him, passed the grief on to Rafferty; and the media, all agitating for more of his attention, Rafferty didn’t have time to worry about his sausage roll. It sat on his desk getting more and more congealed until even he didn’t fancy it.

The murder was unfortunate timing for him and his wife. Abra was due to give birth to their first baby imminently, and he’d promised he’d be there to hold her hand. Though how he was going to manage it now, he had no idea.

At least Bradley had left his office in the end, after giving him earache. He could risk a quick phone call to Abra. He whipped out his mobile. Engaged. He scowled and put his phone away.

‘Did you get the shot of the dead man off to the ghouls?’ he asked Llewellyn.

‘The media, you mean? Yes. Twenty minutes ago.’ Llewellyn paused, looked doubtfully at him for a moment, then asked anyway. ‘Have you ever thought it’s your attitude that causes your bad relationship with them?’

‘Think of nothing else,’ Rafferty assured him. ‘You wait. I bet your relationship will tarnish a bit, after you’ve been sound-biting for a while. With or without your Colgate teeth.’

‘I believe, as long as I treat them with courtesy and consideration, it won’t come to that.’

Rafferty gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Right. We’ll see if you’re singing the same tune at the end of this investigation.’

Llewellyn looked as if he was about to sniff. But then he thought better of it. Strange, but ever since Rafferty had told him sniffing was common during their last investigation, he hadn’t sniffed once. Though he wanted to. Rafferty could see it in his eyes. Instead, Llewellyn turned back to his desk, his back ramrod stiff, and carried on with the reports, while Rafferty gave his equally cold mug of tea a morose smile.

They’d got the team out at the main road by the scene to ask passing motorists if they’d seen anything. Nothing so far. But it was early yet. It was the height of the holiday season, too. The schools had just broken up, so the parents would be packing their kids up and jetting off somewhere warm for their holidays.

There were no houses close by the scene. But, just in case, Rafferty had got officers out anyway, questioning the nearest householders. He turned over another report. There was nothing from that yet, either. He only hoped someone, somewhere, had seen something. They’d checked Missing Persons, and there were several there to whom the dead man bore a passing resemblance. He was hesitant, though, about contacting their families just yet. He’d wait and see what response their picture of the dead man brought. It would be on the television news by early evening, and in the papers by morning. If he was one of their mispers they’d soon know. And if he wasn’t? But, surely, someone would know he was? Someone would have missed him.

He’d been dressed in a jacket and tie, which indicated he perhaps worked in an office. He’d have had colleagues, even if there was no one at home to miss him.

Rafferty felt confident they’d have an ID by this time tomorrow. Absently, he picked up his tea, looked at the cold slops, and put it down again. He told himself once more: by this time tomorrow, they’d have something. But he wasn’t quite so confident now. That’s what imagination, cold sausage rolls and even colder tea did for you.

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