RAFFERTY’S CONFIDENCE took a bit of the dent the following morning, when he arrived at the station to find that no confession had been forthcoming during the wee small hours, when the ‘cold, dark night of the soul’ encouraged the conscience to bite the hardest. And Llewellyn was no happier at their mutual deceit today than he had been yesterday. As the minutes and hours ticked away, he grew even less so.
‘I know you said this suppression of evidence would be for no more than a couple of days,’ he began, once the day had progressed to mid-afternoon and he fetched the canteen tea. ‘But time has a tendency to be elastic. It stretches to meet whatever requirements one has of it. How long do you really intend to keep this statement quiet? Days? Weeks? Months?’
Rafferty might have been prepare
