WHEN THEY RETURNED to Primrose Avenue that evening to speak to Mr Palmer, they were waylaid at the gate by a hangdog-looking Les Sterling. He must have been looking out for them because they’d barely climbed from the car before he rushed out of his front door.
'You'd better come in,’ he muttered. ‘I don't want that bastard, Palmer, next door badmouthing me before I have a chance to put my side of the story.'
Rafferty was tempted to remark that he’d had every opportunity to unburden himself. But he said nothing in case the suddenly confiding Sterling changed his mind. It was always good to get evidence from the horse’s mouth rather than just a possibly vindictive neighbour.
Sterling led the way into his living room. He even invited them to sit down.
There was no sign of Mrs Sterling or
