WHEN LLEWELLYN STILL hadn't returned from the London agency by 7.00 p m, Rafferty decided to have an early night; the first for nearly a week. As soon as he reached home, he ran a hot bath and a cold whiskey. Shedding his clothes, he eased himself into the hot water with relief. Bliss.
He sipped the Jameson's whiskey and sank lower, letting his eyes close and his mind drift, hoping that, this time, the conditions would be more conducive to intuitive deductive leaps. But something his mother had said broke his purposeful repose, and he sat up slowly and opened his eyes, as it occurred to him that her words had inadvertently prodded him into coming up with the most unlikely theory yet on the murder. As if he didn't have enough of those to keep him busy for a month of Sundays. How many more
