RAFFERTY COULD ALMOST believe that the wind, which had seemed to quieten while they were in the station, had waited for them to re-emerge onto the street, before reasserting itself. Its icy breath was bitter and shrieked painfully in his ears. He tugged his coat collar as high over his head-flaps as it would reach and put up with it. It was only a short walk to Moon's home in Quaker Street, not worth a car ride. Moon's flat was in the old Dutch quarter of town, a chic, expensive area, which confirmed that star gazing was a profitable line.
The man who opened the door to their knock was fat, fair and fiftyish. Rafferty was surprised. He had expected a much younger man; the equivalent of the bimbo that successful heterosexual males liked to hang from their arm. 'Mr Farley?' Rafferty queried
