Within a couple of minutes, the already crowded office was verging on rush-hour tube train claustrophobia.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Rob Empson volunteered, as, with much breathing-in by all parties, he squeezed past Rafferty, Llewellyn and Jane Ogilvie’s shelf-stacking colleagues.
The two work colleagues Rob Empson had selected were both middle-aged women. They claimed Jane was always complaining about lack of money, but as her colleagues testified, this was hardly surprising, as she ran up credit on various department store cards.
‘Up to her ears in debt,’ one of her colleagues confided. ‘Getting desperate, she was. Of course, that pretty boyfriend of hers cost a packet. You’d think she’d have more sense at her age than to go in for such dainties.’
It was clear that Jane Ogilvie hadn’t
