LATE THAT AFTERNOON, following their search of the Staveleys’ house, Hanks and Smales returned in triumph. Smales, barely able to contain his excitement, the bum fluff on his downy cheeks gleaming as a shaft of dying sunlight shot through the window, held an A5 size book aloft. ‘We found this, sir. It’s the victim’s diary.’
‘Well done. Have you looked at it? Does it contain anything interesting?’
The sunlight shaft went behind a cloud. ‘I don’t know, sir. It’s all written in what looks like shorthand.’
Rafferty cursed. More delay. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it points to her having secrets worth concealing from her old man.’ He turned to Llewellyn. ‘I don’t suppose you number shorthand among your many talents?’
‘Alas, no. Somehow I missed out on that one.’
‘Oh, well. We’ll have to find someone
