CHAPTER EIGHT
Rafferty gave a low whistle as he pulled up in the short drive of Prosecutor Elizabeth Probyn's house on Saturday morning. 'She's spent a few bob here recently on security.' He grinned. 'Wonder who else she's managed to rub up the wrong way? One of those criminals she feels so impartial about, perhaps?'
The burglar alarm squatted like a square red carbuncle on the white-painted face of the house; the front door had a spyhole, and the ground floor windows all had dark green metal shutters that could be rolled down at night.
Although Rafferty had only once before, some five months previously, had occasion to visit the house, he knew none of these precautions had been in evidence then. He grinned again. He couldn't help it. Of course Llewellyn had to speak up for her.
'I thi
