RAFFERTY HOPED MR LESTRANGE was in his flat. He’d deliberately timed their visit after lunchtime, as he was reluctant to question him again in his restaurant; and not only because of all the sharp weapons much too readily to hand. He didn’t want him to use the food preparation as a distraction, either.
He parked up outside the restaurant and rang the bell for the flat. He heard its piercing call, but no-one came to the door. Rafferty rang the bell again, a longer blast, thinking, why was it that no one seemed to answer their door in this town?
‘Perhaps Mr Lestrange isn’t at home.’
‘He’s home. There’s his car.’ Rafferty gestured down the street.
‘Perhaps he walked to wherever he was going.’
‘How likely is that? With the weight he’s carrying?’ Rafferty pressed the bell for a third time,
