THE SATURDAY MORNING sun was making fitful attempts to break through the clouds. It soon gave up.
Shortly after, fat raindrops began pelting the office windows in earnest. Rafferty, like Llewellyn, in the office early, watched gloomily as they hammered the glass. Rafferty, in an attempt to combat his increasing depression, had put on a bright, pillar-box red tie that morning. But the only effect it had was to cause Llewellyn to blink and screw up his eyes as if they hurt every time he looked at him.
Rafferty was beginning to think he was dragging a permanent raincloud around with him. He hoped it wasn’t symbolic, but he couldn’t forget that they seemed to be making no inroads into the case at all. Even worse, they now had a second murder to solve.
Sam Dally had been on the phone early,
