When Rhys met the Express, it was clear that his concerns were well-founded. Detective Inspector James Canham didn’t walk, he swaggered. He didn’t speak, he shouted. Flushed and bulgy-eyed, he bellowed at Rhys MacFarlane before he’d finished descending the gangplank. “You MacFarlane?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Rice, is it?”
“It’s pronounced Reese, sir.”
“Oh. What kind of name is that?”
“It’s Welsh, sir.”
Canham was in his face now. Rhys took a step backward. “Well, don’t back your way off the pier,” Canham laughed. “Right now, you and Gospel here are all I’ve got to work with. And to look at you, there’s not much I’m going to get out of you.” He turned away, leaving MacFarlane painfully aware of his bleary eyes, unshaven face and rumpled uniform. He probably smelled, too.
A tall man
