As Rafferty drifted off to sleep, Gemma's face kept passing in and out of his dreams. each time, gazing pensively at him from the frame of a photograph. It was as if, in his dream, she was trying to tell him something.
The dream moved on, became tangled up in the lives of the other young girls involved in the case, their emotions, their vulnerabilities. Perhaps it was the combination of those things which set his mind on the correct path at last. But, all at once, in his sleeping state, anyway, he had the answer.
Of course, it had faded by morning, but certainly, when the phone woke him at seven, and groggily, he surfaced from an alcoholic sleep, stretched out a hand and sent the bedside lamp clattering to the floor, he was aware of a vague sense of having dredged up something vital. He
