‘MR MORTIMER.’ RAFFERTY entered the cell. ‘You’re free to leave.’
‘What?' Harry Mortimer stared at him, his eyes sunk back in his gaunt head. ‘But—’
‘We know you didn’t kill your estranged wife.’
‘But I did,’ he insisted. ‘By now you must have checked and learned how much money Clara had. She always hated the idea of writing a will. She was strangely morbid about the idea. You haven’t found one, I take it?’
Rafferty shook his head.
‘There you are then. It sounds as if I'm about to become a rich man. Money, Inspector—don't they say that's the greater motivation of all for murder?’
Rafferty wasn't surprised this realisation should be uttered in a flat tone that revealed such riches would bring Mortimer little joy.
He came further into the small cell. ‘Your estranged wife’s murder wasn
