15
The spring sunshine, signalling the beginning of the end of winter, had overtaken the best efforts of the central heating programme at Milford Road, and Mayo’s office was several degrees too hot for comfort, despite the open windows. He ran a finger round the inside of his collar and wondered how the man sitting opposite could bear it.
Bradshaw K. Hunnicliffe Jr, drawn and jet-lagged, an American equipped for English weather in a long, heavy raincoat of British origin, had thrown it open as his only admission of the heat but refused to be parted from it. He sat staring at a cup of cold, untasted coffee. His face was blank with stunned incomprehension, refusing to believe that anyone could have wanted to harm his wife, his lovely wife, much less kill her.
‘She can’t be dead, not Angel
