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would make sure Nigel at least answered that one truthfully, whatever lies on other matters he might in the meantime have concocted and hope to get away with.
    The two hotel staff — Randy Rawlins, the cocktail waiter cum barman, and Samantha Harman, the blonde and buxom waitress — who had been on duty in Seward’s suite during the reception, had clearly decided that the safer option in the circumstances, was making sure they remained amongst the less suspect lower orders in Rafferty’s mind. For they had adopted servile positions behind the bar, well away from the VIP guests. Randy Rawlins even retained a hold on one of the tools of his trade, tightly clutching a shiny metal cocktail shaker as if he thought his life depended upon it.
    Rafferty had, of course, recognised Rawlins’ name. It was curious that in Rawlins, Mickey, Nigel and several others, this evening’s civic reception should have brought so many of his old, long since grown-up schoolmates together in the same room as the town’s more elite inhabitants.
    Randy Rawlins, in spite of the trendy diminutive that the manager had used when naming the staff on duty at Seward’s reception and the barman’s tight-fitting clothing, was none other than Randolph, the weedy kid that everyone – even the teachers — had picked on at school. Though, the teachers, of course, had mostly had a far better developed instinct for picking out the weak than the majority of the kids.
    After telling the guests what was next on the agenda and reminding them again that they would be questioned individually in the Boudicca Ballroom, Rafferty made his escape before any of the agitated suspects got a second wind. It was already late enough. They all wanted to get home, so he was keen to limit any further delays in the proceedings.
     
     
    The first of the guests called to the Boudicca Ballroom for questioning was Ivor Bignall. Bignall was around fifty and although clearly still both tired and emotional, he carried his drink well. From his reddened face, it was apparent he got plenty of practise in this and, as a local councillor and prominent businessman, was presumably a frequent and far from unwilling participant in these free food and booze extravaganzas.
    Still, given that the big man had been, according to Seward’s assistant Marcus Canthorpe, a business associate and partner with the late Rufus Seward in various enterprises, as well as, presumably, a personal friend, he was far more reasonable than Rafferty had expected in such fraught circumstances, especially considering he had been forced to hang around for over an hour and a half.
    By now, it was approaching two in the morning and the florid fifty-something undoubtedly wanted his bed. So did Rafferty, for that matter. But ‘I’ve a Big’un’, as Rafferty had already mentally dubbed Bignall and, given the size of the man’s feet, he might well be so endowed, was undoubtedly to reach this refuge long before Rafferty, Llewellyn or any of the rest of the police team.
    And, after Bignall outlined his experiences during the evening – his encounter in the hallway with the stranger, whom he readily described, who had enquired as to Seward’s whereabouts, and whom Rafferty had no trouble recognising as Mickey, he professed himself unable to enlighten them any further. Once he, like the two security guards, had supplied a description of this late-arriving guest, Rafferty, conscious of the by-the-book Llewellyn hovering at his elbow, had told him he’d need to come to the station the following day to work with the police artist, then he let him go.
    But this was purely a preliminary questioning. The meatier stuff would come later once further evidence had been discovered and sifted.
    Next, they spoke to Bignall’s beautiful wife, Dorothea, though with so little result they might as well have not bothered. She did, however, blurt out one interesting piece of information: that she had attended St Oswald’s, Seward’s