The Bullocks, father and son, lived in a flat near the bus station, in conditions of squalor only too typical of all-male household; discarded chip wrappings and other takeaway containers sharing the decorative honours with crushed lager cans and choked ashtrays. According to what Llewellyn had discovered during his last conversation with them, neither of them had a job.
The television was on, the over-excited voice of a race commentator screamed at them. Rafferty asked for it to be turned off, and without awaiting permission, pressed the on-off button, and the maniacal voice was thankfully silenced. The son scowled at this interference, but Bullock said nothing, and simply sat back in his well-squashed armchair and awaited developments.
Jes Bullock was a well-built man of fifty-seven an
