IT HAD BEEN HIS SERGEANT, Dafyd Llewellyn, who had inadvertently put the idea into his head. Llewellyn had tentatively suggested, as he and Rafferty had made their way to the Register office on the day of Llewellyn’s wedding to Rafferty’s cousin, Maureen just over a week ago, that there was a girl named Abra whom he’d like Rafferty to meet.
Llewellyn seemed to want everyone to share his happiness – even Rafferty – whom, in spite of being his Best Man, had nearly managed to make the always early Welshman late for his own wedding. Suspecting the love-struck Llewellyn wouldn’t let the matter rest, Rafferty knew he’d better squash it immediately.
‘Don’t you start, Dafyd,’ he ordered. ‘Isn’t one matchmaker in the family enough?’ Rafferty’s Ma was the equal of any professional matchmaker; he w
