TWENTY-NINE
Sheila Llewellyn played idly with her toast. She really didn’t want it, but out of habit she had grilled two slices of bread and smeared them with a thin coating of margarine. Now, as she sat alone at the kitchen table, she had no desire to eat them. Her mind was far from food. She was thinking about her husband. Worrying about her husband. Well, it was part of her ‘job’ she supposed. When you are married to a policeman, you cannot expect to have an easy life. There were the terrible hours and the danger. The job was like a third person in the relationship. And she could read David like a barometer. He rarely discussed his work, his investigations, but she could tell by his demeanour, however much he tried to disguise it, whether things were going well or not. If the smiles we
