CHAPTER FIVE
Mrs Griffiths again showed them into the library, where Henry Longman was slumped in a large armchair. The curtains had been drawn, as if to shut out the world, and a soft lamp bathed the open pages of the wedding album – his own presumably – that rested in his lap. To Rafferty, it seemed a morbid occupation for one so recently widowed. A bottle and a heavy tumbler, half full of Scotch, were conveniently within reach. From Henry's glazed expression, the freshly-broken paper seals discarded on the table, and the level of the bottle, Rafferty guessed it wasn't the first of the day.
'I'm sorry to have to trouble you so soon after your wife's death, Mr Longman,' he began, 'but it's necessary to ask you a few questions.'
Henry didn't appear to have heard him. He was unshaven, an
