The possibilities chased one another round and round Rafferty’s brain till he felt dizzy. He hadn’t even managed to come up with an answer to the suit problem, never mind that of the two deaths. He wasn’t sure he cared much any more. The second death had put his problem in perspective. He supposed he could always get a job on the buildings when Bradley got him chucked off the force. Get himself a pair of ‘builder’s bum’ jeans and a hod and he’d be away.
Of course, that still left Llewellyn. Somehow, he couldn’t see the elegant Welshman at home on a building site. All those dropped aitches would crucify him. Rafferty didn’t reckon he’d be too keen on the builders’ bums, either.
I’ll come up with something, he promised his conscience. Just you see if I don’t. But even if he managed to sort
