WHEN RAFFERTY ARRIVED home that evening, he didn’t go in immediately, but sat in his car on the drive, in deep thought: about Sebastian Carlton, about Babbington and Wantage. If Carlton was somehow involved in Hunter-York’s murder, how come Babbington’s were the only prints they’d found, the only DNA? Where the hell was Carlton, anyway? It was urgent that they found him.
But as Llewellyn reminded him before, there was always tomorrow. They had put out a call to find Carlton. The young waiter at Frascati’s restaurant had said Carlton had no friends, no-one who’d allow him to hide out. He’d have to conceal himself on the streets. If he’d gone to ground, they’d find him, of that there was little doubt.
Abra knocked on the car window, and he let it down. She was carrying Neeve, who was weari
