and down the country, and would be certain to ensure it gave him plentiful laudatory coverage.
But even this early in the inquiry, it was clear that not all of those newspaper purchasers had bought the paper and read the story with unalloyed pleasure at the thought that one of their own had done well and was now gaining his hard-earned glory.
If, along with the purple-penned RSVP party refuseniks, the ensuing letters sent to the paper’s editor — spiked after orders from on high — and retrieved by one of the team after an anonymous tip-off — were anything to go by, a number of these readers had learned of Seward’s return with emotions stronger than mere resentment and envy.
Given Seward’s violent death, it would seem that at least one of the paper’s readers had harboured painful memories and had brooded over the pages with a party invitation in hand and murder in mind.
The reception must have struck one invitee, official or otherwise, as an opportunity not to be missed. Seward hadn’t shown his face in Elmhurst once during the years after his involuntary and hurried departure from it. The civic reception in his honour might have been their murderer’s only chance. He hadn’t wasted it.
Certainly, someone had brought that sharpened chisel to the celebratory party, indicating more than a degree of premeditation, and had determinedly plunged it deeply between Seward’s shoulder blades. And as Rafferty believed his younger brother was innocent of the crime, it was down to him to discover who else among those still at the party when Seward died could have done it or could have had reason to do it.
Rafferty, some hours later at last back at the police station after organising the various strands at the start of yet another murder inquiry, stuck his head out of his office and looked left and right. Thankfully, the corridor was deserted. Most of the team had gone home for a well-earned rest and the uniforms’ shift replacements were at morning prayers. But not for him the draw of bed and sleep; he would have to wait for both.
Gently, anxious not to make any noise and attract unwanted attention, he closed his office door behind him. Careful not to bump into any of the team who had yet to remember they had homes to go to, or to encourage unwelcome questions from any other stray, passing pig or piglet late in their attendance at duty allocation, he slipped down the rear stairs and out the back way. Even at such an ungodly hour, he was lucky enough to hail a passing taxi. It was a good omen, Rafferty told himself before he realised his fate-tempting faux pas, and hurriedly crossed his fingers to ward off trouble.
He sat back in the cab and as the car moved swiftly through the practically empty streets, he found his mind racing equally quickly through the options of what he could do with Mickey.
He’d have stashed him at Ma’s, but although the fact she lived alone might have indicated her place would be ideal for his purposes, she really wasn’t as alone as ‘living alone’ implied. Her home provided too much of an open house to all and sundry — an unguarded cough or sneeze would be enough to betray Mickey’s presence. Besides, he thought harbouring Mickey might prove too much of a strain for her. She would be upset enough when she learned the news without him making her an accessory after the event.
Rafferty took a brief glance at his wristwatch as the cab passed under a streetlight. He must try not to be gone too long. With his car back in the car park, he hoped, should anyone came to his office and discover he wasn’t there, that they would assume he was still somewhere in the station, though it was possible that Llewellyn, with his bloodhound tendencies, might prove less easily put off the trail.
He must just hope that Llewellyn had already taken himself off home to Maureen as Rafferty had instructed. If, for a change, the fingers of fate were crossed in his favour and the ever-dutiful
But even this early in the inquiry, it was clear that not all of those newspaper purchasers had bought the paper and read the story with unalloyed pleasure at the thought that one of their own had done well and was now gaining his hard-earned glory.
If, along with the purple-penned RSVP party refuseniks, the ensuing letters sent to the paper’s editor — spiked after orders from on high — and retrieved by one of the team after an anonymous tip-off — were anything to go by, a number of these readers had learned of Seward’s return with emotions stronger than mere resentment and envy.
Given Seward’s violent death, it would seem that at least one of the paper’s readers had harboured painful memories and had brooded over the pages with a party invitation in hand and murder in mind.
The reception must have struck one invitee, official or otherwise, as an opportunity not to be missed. Seward hadn’t shown his face in Elmhurst once during the years after his involuntary and hurried departure from it. The civic reception in his honour might have been their murderer’s only chance. He hadn’t wasted it.
Certainly, someone had brought that sharpened chisel to the celebratory party, indicating more than a degree of premeditation, and had determinedly plunged it deeply between Seward’s shoulder blades. And as Rafferty believed his younger brother was innocent of the crime, it was down to him to discover who else among those still at the party when Seward died could have done it or could have had reason to do it.
Rafferty, some hours later at last back at the police station after organising the various strands at the start of yet another murder inquiry, stuck his head out of his office and looked left and right. Thankfully, the corridor was deserted. Most of the team had gone home for a well-earned rest and the uniforms’ shift replacements were at morning prayers. But not for him the draw of bed and sleep; he would have to wait for both.
Gently, anxious not to make any noise and attract unwanted attention, he closed his office door behind him. Careful not to bump into any of the team who had yet to remember they had homes to go to, or to encourage unwelcome questions from any other stray, passing pig or piglet late in their attendance at duty allocation, he slipped down the rear stairs and out the back way. Even at such an ungodly hour, he was lucky enough to hail a passing taxi. It was a good omen, Rafferty told himself before he realised his fate-tempting faux pas, and hurriedly crossed his fingers to ward off trouble.
He sat back in the cab and as the car moved swiftly through the practically empty streets, he found his mind racing equally quickly through the options of what he could do with Mickey.
He’d have stashed him at Ma’s, but although the fact she lived alone might have indicated her place would be ideal for his purposes, she really wasn’t as alone as ‘living alone’ implied. Her home provided too much of an open house to all and sundry — an unguarded cough or sneeze would be enough to betray Mickey’s presence. Besides, he thought harbouring Mickey might prove too much of a strain for her. She would be upset enough when she learned the news without him making her an accessory after the event.
Rafferty took a brief glance at his wristwatch as the cab passed under a streetlight. He must try not to be gone too long. With his car back in the car park, he hoped, should anyone came to his office and discover he wasn’t there, that they would assume he was still somewhere in the station, though it was possible that Llewellyn, with his bloodhound tendencies, might prove less easily put off the trail.
He must just hope that Llewellyn had already taken himself off home to Maureen as Rafferty had instructed. If, for a change, the fingers of fate were crossed in his favour and the ever-dutiful
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