CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rafferty came into the office bright and early on Christmas morning, through streets that, overnight, had been clothed in a light sprinkling of snow. The air was hushed, expectant and even though he was usually caustic about what he regarded as sentimental religious mush, he was forced to acknowledge a sense almost of awe.
Nothing to do with babies in mangers or any similar tosh he had been force-fed as a child, he insisted to himself. It was something to do with the rare peace and beauty of the December day; like the pavements, the roads were practically empty, and with most of the populace still at home, the snow retained a purity of look and texture that brought magic even to the meanest street. It would be spoiled soon enough as the Great British public indulged the
