CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Christmas Eve dawned with a hard frost, and when Rafferty went out to start his car, he found he'd not only neglected to cover the screen, but had also used the last of his de-icer. Cursing, he set to scraping the glass, bruising his knuckles in the process. Few of his neighbours had stirred, he noticed. Lucky devils had probably already started their holiday.
The thought made him realise that they probably wouldn't be the only ones putting their feet up. The search for Frank Massey might as well go on hold, he thought, for all the chance they'd have of finding him over the Christmas period. Policemen, too, liked to put their feet up; somehow he doubted his continental opposite numbers would stir out of their warm stations in any numbers for anything less than a full-sc
