RAFFERTY HAD PRAYED for a break in the case, but he hadn’t expected his prayers to be answered so promptly. He hadn’t even opened his eyelids the next morning when the phone rang beside the bed. It was Bill Beard, the duty officer at the station.
‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, my duck,’ said Beard, ‘but there’s been a development in your murder case.’
‘A development?’ Rafferty questioned sleepily as he sat up and glanced at the clock with half-open eyes. He took no notice of Beard’s endearment—the middle-aged constable had a habit of addressing everyone the same, even senior officers. He was something of an institution at the station, being the longest-serving officer there—and he was able to get away with things not permitted younger colleagues.
‘A euphemism, my dear. I just thou
