WHEN HE’D FINALLY HAD his delayed proper breakfast, Rafferty strolled into a bar and looked casually about him. He couldn’t see a lot, though, as before he’d left home, he’d resurrected his dad’s old glasses as a way of providing himself with a disguise in the presumption that Carver had been busy putting the word out about their presence. It was the second time he’d used them in the course of an investigation. They were heavy dark frames—early National Health. But to Rafferty’s secret amusement, they were almost fashionable now. With his heavy morning growth of beard, he looked like one of the gangsters, which should help him blend in. The same Union Jack shorts which every other male seemed to wear, whether they were British or not, and a funny t-shirt, and he was all set.
He hoisted hi
