‘I THINK WE SHOULD HAVE another chat with Harris himself before we see Gallagher,’ Rafferty said when they were back in the car. ‘I get the feeling Harris won’t be quite so discreet on his own behalf.’
Nor was he. They found him at home. Harris was in his pyjamas and he told them he was on sick leave; the sick leave he hadn’t dared take before Barstaple’s death, Rafferty thought to himself. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was significant.
Bob Harris lived in a bedsit just round the corner from the marital home and Rafferty concluded that he either couldn’t afford something better than the cheap rented accommodation or had put off buying anything else because hope and uncertainty stopped him; hope that he would get back with his wife and uncertainty that he would succeed in clinging to
