Chapter Five
RAFFERTY WAS IN HIS office when the phone rang later than afternoon. It was Dr Sam Dally with the post-mortem results on Keith Sutherland.
‘It’s much as I told you at the scene,’ he said. ‘There’s little to add except that it was a single-bladed knife, at least eight inches long. The victim died from the one knife thrust straight to the heart. Either our killer was an expert, or he got lucky.’
‘You say ‘he’, but—’
‘Could equally well be a ‘she’. Choose your spot and it would have gone through like a blade through butter as it seems to have done in this instance. The estimated time of death remains the same.’
‘And idea what sort of knife, Sam?’
‘A kitchen knife would be my guess. A carver, well sharpened. The sort you can find in any kitchen.’
Great, Rafferty thought. Ju
