Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, Llewellyn was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as usual.
Not so Rafferty. He sat, head in hands, groaning pitifully. ‘Got any paracetamols?’
Silently, Llewellyn produced a packet. For the next ten, twenty, thirty seconds, the only sound was Rafferty slurping his tea. Llewellyn could stand it no longer. ‘Well?’
‘Well? I should say not. I think I’m dying.’
‘I meant—are you going to tell me? About last night?’
‘Tell you? It was a great night. What more can I say?’
‘You’re being deliberately obtuse.’
‘I am, aren’t I? Right, then. Joey Briggs dealt drugs, did he not? Just one, amongst many, of his attempts to make it big in the crime world. Never made it. But what he did make was an enemy. I remembered, almost too late, what Sven Daniels told me about Pr
