IT WAS 10.00 P M AND Inspector Rafferty was thankful to finally be going home. The week before Christmas was not the best time of year from a policeman's point of view; Essex, in common with the rest of England’s densely-populated southern counties, had too many criminals with shopping lists of luxury items and a matching reluctance to pay for them. The combination had made his day long and tiring.
So he was inclined to snap when Constable Timothy Smales burst into his office, crashing the door back against the wall just as he was putting his coat on and melodramatically exclaimed, 'it's gone, sir. Vanished. Lilley says—'
'Can't you open a door without smashing it off its hinges, man?' Rafferty demanded. 'What's the matter with you?'
Crestfallen, Smales said, 'Sorry, sir.'
'What's gone
