on her heel, her long, lustrous plait of hair swinging behind her and stormed out, back to her own flat, without another word.
It was yet another first. Abra had moved into his flat three weeks after they had met and – apart from the demands of work – they hadn't spent a night apart since
Their little difference was beginning to set records at an alarming rate. The previous night spent at opposite sides of the bed had been bad enough, but this was ten times worse. The situation was beginning to accelerate away from him, Rafferty realised; soon they could be past the point of no return. The ridiculous part was that he wasn't even sure he was that set against becoming a father.
Grimly, Rafferty faced the possibility that he might be about to lose Abra. This was sobering. Because he'd only just found her…
It was certainly too sobering a thought to face without alcohol, he thought, as he reached for the bottle of Jameson's and poured himself a generous measure.
Chapter Five
After a night spent brooding, wondering what to do for the best, bleary-eyed, Rafferty left for the station. He had tried to contact Abra several times the previous evening, but she had left her ansafone switched on and in spite of his desperate pleading, she had chosen to take none of his calls.
Somehow, he knew he would have to find time during a busy day of interviews to go round to her flat. At least she should be there, as he knew she'd taken this week as a holiday from her job in order to do some long overdue spring cleaning.
Rafferty, beginning to worry that he'd be spring-cleaned out of Abra's life along with the dust and cobwebs, had reason to regret his shocked response to her news. But how had she expected him to react? He wasn't far off forty, already more than halfway through the biblical three score years and ten. At his age he should be thinking of putting more money in to his savings, not taking on – if the newspapers were to be believed about the costs of modern child-rearing – what sounded like a chunk of the National Debt.
His appalled reaction had been exacerbated by memories of another pregnancy – that of his late wife, Angie. Then too, failed contraception had brought about an unplanned pregnancy, followed by a shotgun wedding and years of unhappiness and acrimony; years not even relieved by the consolation of a bouncing baby who grew into a loved child as Angie had miscarried shortly after the wedding.
Rafferty felt certain that if Abra did turn out to be pregnant that the outcome wouldn't be anything like his previous experience. For one thing – and in spite of this recent turmoil – he believed he and Abra were soul mates in a way that he and Angie had never been. If only he could get over the bad memories, he might come round to the idea of fatherhood. He would have to, he acknowledged, as he was aware that if he didn't he might lose Abra altogether.
But for now, he knew he must put to one side all such thoughts and get on with the murder investigation.
Fortunately, they didn't even have to trace Mary Soames. She came forward immediately she read of Clara Mortimer's brutal murder in the morning's Elmhurst Echo.
Mary Soames it seemed, like her late friend, Mrs Mortimer, was an early riser, for she had already rung the station and arranged for them to call to see her by the time Rafferty arrived at work.
As Rita Atkins had said, Mrs Soames lived in the southern outskirts of Elmhurst in a spacious, Georgian-style detached house enclosed within what looked to be about an acre of land.
As Rafferty and Llewellyn drew up outside the front door and parked on a short gravelled drive lined with what looked like hand-thrown tubs filled with deliciously scented pinks and butterfly lavender, Rafferty caught a glimpse of the tall chimney pots of another, much older house through the trees. He wondered if that had been where Clara Mortimer had previously lived. Mary Soames confirmed it when she opened the
It was yet another first. Abra had moved into his flat three weeks after they had met and – apart from the demands of work – they hadn't spent a night apart since
Their little difference was beginning to set records at an alarming rate. The previous night spent at opposite sides of the bed had been bad enough, but this was ten times worse. The situation was beginning to accelerate away from him, Rafferty realised; soon they could be past the point of no return. The ridiculous part was that he wasn't even sure he was that set against becoming a father.
Grimly, Rafferty faced the possibility that he might be about to lose Abra. This was sobering. Because he'd only just found her…
It was certainly too sobering a thought to face without alcohol, he thought, as he reached for the bottle of Jameson's and poured himself a generous measure.
Chapter Five
After a night spent brooding, wondering what to do for the best, bleary-eyed, Rafferty left for the station. He had tried to contact Abra several times the previous evening, but she had left her ansafone switched on and in spite of his desperate pleading, she had chosen to take none of his calls.
Somehow, he knew he would have to find time during a busy day of interviews to go round to her flat. At least she should be there, as he knew she'd taken this week as a holiday from her job in order to do some long overdue spring cleaning.
Rafferty, beginning to worry that he'd be spring-cleaned out of Abra's life along with the dust and cobwebs, had reason to regret his shocked response to her news. But how had she expected him to react? He wasn't far off forty, already more than halfway through the biblical three score years and ten. At his age he should be thinking of putting more money in to his savings, not taking on – if the newspapers were to be believed about the costs of modern child-rearing – what sounded like a chunk of the National Debt.
His appalled reaction had been exacerbated by memories of another pregnancy – that of his late wife, Angie. Then too, failed contraception had brought about an unplanned pregnancy, followed by a shotgun wedding and years of unhappiness and acrimony; years not even relieved by the consolation of a bouncing baby who grew into a loved child as Angie had miscarried shortly after the wedding.
Rafferty felt certain that if Abra did turn out to be pregnant that the outcome wouldn't be anything like his previous experience. For one thing – and in spite of this recent turmoil – he believed he and Abra were soul mates in a way that he and Angie had never been. If only he could get over the bad memories, he might come round to the idea of fatherhood. He would have to, he acknowledged, as he was aware that if he didn't he might lose Abra altogether.
But for now, he knew he must put to one side all such thoughts and get on with the murder investigation.
Fortunately, they didn't even have to trace Mary Soames. She came forward immediately she read of Clara Mortimer's brutal murder in the morning's Elmhurst Echo.
Mary Soames it seemed, like her late friend, Mrs Mortimer, was an early riser, for she had already rung the station and arranged for them to call to see her by the time Rafferty arrived at work.
As Rita Atkins had said, Mrs Soames lived in the southern outskirts of Elmhurst in a spacious, Georgian-style detached house enclosed within what looked to be about an acre of land.
As Rafferty and Llewellyn drew up outside the front door and parked on a short gravelled drive lined with what looked like hand-thrown tubs filled with deliciously scented pinks and butterfly lavender, Rafferty caught a glimpse of the tall chimney pots of another, much older house through the trees. He wondered if that had been where Clara Mortimer had previously lived. Mary Soames confirmed it when she opened the
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