Chapter Thirteen
IT HAD BEEN A LONG and particularly frustrating day. When Llewellyn dropped him off at 10.30 p m, Rafferty knew just how he intended to spend what remained of it. He was going to climb off the wagon and into a hot bath with a comfortingly large whiskey. The last person he wanted to see was his mother.
Yet when he pushed open the living-room door of his flat, there she was, duster in hand, face glowing from exertion, as she gave the place a belated spring clean. Ever since his wife, Angie, had died, two and a half years ago, his Ma had insisted on doing it. He'd more than once told her not to bother, suspecting that the cleaning provided his mother with the perfect excuse to investigate his love-life.
'A bit late for housework, isn't it, Ma?' he asked caustically, as he
