LOLLING UNDER A STURDY oak tree, Rafferty finished the last of his ham rolls and pulled the tag on his second can of bitter. He gave a contented sigh. Bradley, Cyrus, the murders, all seemed far away. All around them tourists were sitting, taking their ease and enjoying the occasional tiny breeze. Some energetic Australians were playing football and Rafferty found himself watching them desultorily until the ball headed in his direction and he had to duck. ‘Colonials,’ he muttered before pouring the rest of his beer down his throat. ‘Time we weren’t here,’ he said.
Llewellyn – who had deigned to sit on the grass after all – got up and made a big show of dusting himself down.
Rafferty ignored him and headed for the nearest exit.
From Sophie Diaz’s friends they had learned that Sophie had
