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head. Who else could be responsible other than one of those present at the private reception, given that access to the suite had been policed by two of the hotel’s own security guards throughout the evening, and that Dr Sam Dally estimated Seward had died but a short time before his own arrival — sometime between 11.00 p m. and shortly after midnight?
    ‘Inspector,’ Bignall continued. ‘I appreciate that as the investigating officer you have a job to do and will need to question us all as a matter of routine. But could you at least give us an idea of how soon we are likely to be able to go home? My wife doesn’t feel well. She’s very distressed — as are we all, of course,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Poor Seward. The mayor’s quite right. It is a dreadful thing to have happened. But—’
    But life went on, Rafferty silently finished for him. He held up his hand before Bignall could continue or anyone else had a chance to get in on the act. ‘Ladies and gentleman, if you please. We will get through the preliminary interviews as speedily as possible so you can all go home. But we’ll get done a lot quicker if you remain calm and quiet. Perhaps you will allow me to explain a few things so you all know the drill.’ He paused. ‘We shall require each of you, individually, to come along to the Boudicca Ballroom on this floor, where we shall be conducting the interviews. Unless any of you have anything of great moment to confide, I doubt any of these will take longer than a few minutes. Once you have been questioned, you may go home. Unless, of course,’ he added on a sudden burst of optimism, ‘one of you would like to confess now to Sir Rufus Seward’s murder, and save us all a great deal of trouble?’
    This brought a collective gasp, as well as a few uneasy sniggers, as he had known it would. But it was late, he was tired, they were tired, and, as Bignall had already pointed out, one of those present must have killed Seward. Who else was there, apart from Mickey? And Rafferty was as nearly certain as anyone could be that Mickey was no more capable of such a murder than he was himself.
    If he had hoped that such a brisk suggestion might shock an admission out of one of them, he was disappointed. His quick sweep around the large reception room to check if there were any takers, took in Marcus Canthorpe, the dead man’s assistant, whom he had already briefly questioned, as well as Roy and Keith Farraday, thirty-eight-year-old identical twins, whom he also had no trouble recognising, as they had attended the same secondary school as Seward and  Rafferty, as well as his brothers and cousin.
    Canthorpe had told him the twins had been taken on Sir Rufus’s staff only a matter of months ago as general dogsbodies and gofers.
    Rafferty wondered if the Farraday brothers still indulged their childhood hobby of snitching to teacher and spying out information they could sell for a profit. He was willing to bet this evening had brought a few unwise disclosures they must hope to use to their advantage. He was surprised a man of Rufus Seward’s renowned acuity hadn’t recognised them for what they were straight away. Or perhaps he had? Maybe he had had his own reasons for employing the pair…?
    Rafferty noticed his cousin, Nigel Blythe, hovering at the back of the crowd as if hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. Nigel proved unwilling to meet his eye. Bloody Nigel, Rafferty thought, annoyed all over again that his cousin should once more turn up in his life like the proverbial bad penny. His presence needlessly complicated an already complicated situation. As if the problem inherent in Mickey’s brief but oh-so-traumatic attendance at the party wasn’t causing Rafferty enough, yet to be resolved, grief!
    Mickey had posed the question: how the hell had Nigel managed to wrangle an invitation to such a swanky do? It was a question that had already occurred to Rafferty. Its possible answer piqued his curiosity. He