SLOWLY, RAFFERTY REPLACED the receiver. He could barely believe it, but Clara Davies had confirmed Sarah Astell's story. And when he had questioned her memory and powers of observation, she had briskly reminded him that she had worked as a designer all her adult life; of course she noticed whether someone was wearing black, silver-threaded cashmere or navy-and white wool.
Dispirited, Rafferty knew he had no more cards to play. They'd worked their way through the entire suspect pack: queens, knaves, even the odd joker. Before today, he'd believed – as the man said – that once they'd done that, whoever was left, however, improbable, must be the murderer.
The trouble was they had nobody left. They had eliminated every single suspect. Not only had the middle-aged woman on the bus whom Llewel
