CHAPTER THIRTEEN‘I warned her to be careful,’ Rafferty bit out. As he stood outside Amy Glossop’s tiny lavatory and stared down at her body, he was eaten up by the guilty conviction that his warning could have been– should have been – more forceful.
Even to his own ears he sounded defensive. Although nobody had accused him of anything, they didn’t need to; his overworked, lapsed-Catholic conscience provided recrimination enough. Perhaps, if he’d liked Amy Glossop better, he’d have taken more trouble to make her see that secrets could be dangerous.
But he hadn’t liked her. And although part of him had pitied her, it hadn’t been enough. And now she was dead. Her death a carbon copy of Clive Barstaple’s in its ugliness and degradation. And whatever secrets she had were now out of his reach
