TO RAFFERTY’S SURPRISE, when they drew up in front of the Bignalls’ substantial detached stone house just outside the busy market town of Habberstone, four miles to the west of Elmhurst, Ivor Bignall himself answered the door. He was in his shirt sleeves and looked remarkably relaxed considering he was a suspect in a murder investigation.
‘Ah, Inspector,’ he boomed, loudly enough to rouse several fat wood pigeons from their roosts in the surrounding trees—and to give his wife warning of their arrival. ‘I wondered when we’d see you again. Do come in, both of you.’
He led the way down an enormous, square hall. It housed a giant Christmas tree with a mass of presents already piled underneath even though Christmas Day was still a couple of weeks off.
Bignall must have noticed Rafferty’s cur
