Rafferty pulled up in front of the grim, grey-painted bungalow that was Stubbs's home. He had only to compare the difference between Stubbs's property and those of his neighbours', to know that the years had done little to diminish Stubbs's bitterness.
Although it was December, the front gardens of the other bungalows in the row were still gay and colourful, the plants obviously chosen specially to withstand winter's blasts. Rafferty, who had recently taken over the care of his mother's garden, which task was beginning to get beyond her, immediately recognised the cheery yellow of the winter jasmine, the equally bright and sunshine flowered witch hazel, the pink and white flowered Viburnums bright against the glossy evergreen leaves of the Mexican Orange Blossom; all defied the chill and
