RAFFERTY'S STINT AT staring goggle-eyed at the screen of CCTV footage covering the late evening of Keith Sutherland's death, seemed to have borne some fruit, rather to his surprise.
He had already sat through twenty minutes of the tape for the night of the first murder, when he called Llewellyn into the viewing room.
He pointed to the right-hand corner of the screen. ‘Tell me what you think that is.’
Llewellyn peered over his shoulder. ‘Looks like part of a bicycle tyre to me.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He switched the tape. ‘Now take a look at that one.’
‘A bicycle tyre again. White, same as the other one.’
‘Right. And one is close to the Sutherlands’ home, and the other not far from The Railway Arms. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’ Whoever was riding it seems to have made su
