‘What do you want?’ Jane asked Rafferty as she pulled off the uncomfortable looking high heels that were so unsuitable for a shelf-stacking job and slumped wearily on the stained green settee. She pushed her hands through already disordered hair and told him with teenage petulance, ‘I’ve just finished a long night shift and I’m bushed. Can’t it wait, whatever it is?’
Rafferty hesitated. He was conscious that he’d only heard one half of the story about Jane’s relationship with her murdered mother; perhaps an unfairly prejudiced half. Jane must seem challengingly unconventional to Clara Mortimer’s apartment block contemporaries. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But no, it can’t wait. I’m afraid we have bad news regarding your mother, Mrs Clara Mortimer.’
Jane gazed flickered from Rafferty to Mary Ca
