AFTER RAFFERTY HAD confessed, he sat, hardly daring to breathe, while he waited for Llewellyn to speak.
But for once Llewellyn seemed to have nothing to say. Instead, he developed a serious case of the fidgets. He rose from his seat, walked to the opposite wall, and began to fiddle with one of the pictures, a dreary portrait of a middle-aged man coloured in dull shades who looked almost as worried as Rafferty. Just to break the silence, Rafferty asked him what it was.
‘It’s a print of one of Rembrandt’s later self-portraits.’
Rafferty nodded. Secretly, he thought the painter would have been better advised to supply posterity with just the younger version of his face, but he wasn’t really interested in Llewellyn’s dreary picture selection. Tense from waiting for Llewellyn’s reaction to h
