SAM DALLY WAS BEING his usual tardy self with the post mortem results on Carol Mumford. Not for nothing was he nicknamed Dilly Dally. When he got back from Linda Cartwright’s home, Rafferty rang and chased him up.
‘You’re not my only customer, you know, Rafferty,’ Sam told him testily when he was put through. ‘I’ve got corpses lined up left and right, all awaiting my attention.’
‘Yes, but they’re not all part of a double murder investigation.’
‘A suspected double murder investigation, surely? For all the evidence you’ve got the murders of Sutherland and Mumford are unconnected.’
‘I doubt that. I’ve a feeling in my water.’
‘Ever thought it might be a bladder infection?’
‘Funny man. You might scoff, Sam, but such feelings have proved to bring killers banged to rights before. I’ve no re
