AS HE ENTERED THE POLICE station, a song hovering on his lips, from behind the desk Constable Bill Beard hailed him. ‘Heard the latest, Inspector?’
‘Surprise me,’ Rafferty unwisely invited.
‘We’ve a new murder case. The ‘Lonely Hearts’ murder the lads are calling it.’ Beard shook his grey head. ‘These young women—no sense, some of them. Seem to positively put themselves in the way of murderers.’
His head still throbbing from its argument with the shelf, Rafferty had let Beard’s news wash over him. It was only when Beard mentioned the name of the victim that Rafferty’s head shot up as if someone had inserted a 1000-watt probe into his rectum.
Fortunately, as Beard spoke, there was a tremendous clap of thunder directly overhead and the storm which had been threatening since the previous
