Prologue
‘LOOK AT THAT DAFT MARE.’ DI Joe Rafferty's chin narrowly missed connecting with the reception counter as Constable Bill Beard grabbed his head-propping arm and inadvertently pulled it from under him.
At the best of times, Beard, the station's self-appointed grey-sage, treated the younger officers who had attained superior rank with an over-familiar lèse-majesté. But this, thought Rafferty indignantly, even for Beard, was a lèse too far.
But he had hardly got the first word of his protest out before Beard waved his complaint aside much as he might swat away a particularly annoying probationer, pointed the podgy forefinger of his other hand across the reception desk of the police station's entrance and voiced the inviting suggestion, ‘Fancy being out of your head at nine in the
