When his car had finally slid its way to the office, he was dragged away from his internal arguments by Llewellyn, who remarked that whether Massey was a murderer or just a fool, they still had other suspects to keep them busy while the hunt for Massey continued.
'True,' Rafferty admitted. 'And no leads for any of them.' He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets. Something rustled in the left-hand side one, and idly, he pulled out the piece of paper.
It was Mrs ffinch-Robinson's list of poachers, he discovered, and a guilty dart pricked his conscience. Like Llewellyn's unwanted and unasked-for tickets for Shakespeare, he had appeased Mrs ffinch-Robinson by the simple expedient of shoving her list in his pocket and forgetting about it.
'What's that?' Llewellyn enquired. 'Your Chris
