IT WAS STILL ONLY 8.00 a m when Rafferty presented himself at John Staveley’s door. It was early, yes, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He might already have waited too long. Even now the maniac that Rafferty had conjured up in his mind and hadn’t been able to forget about might have attacked another woman.
Staveley had clearly still been in bed when Rafferty knocked as he opened the door in his dressing gown, with his hair standing on end and sleep in his eyes.
‘Inspector. What do you want? It’s barely eight o’clock.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry about disturbing you so early, sir, but something your mother said yesterday suddenly struck me.’
‘Who is it John?’ Edith Staveley’s newly quavery voice floated down the stairs.
‘It’s all right, Mother. It’s Inspector Rafferty. Go back to bed.’
‘What do
