“TEA?” JOEL SAID GRUDGINGLY. He didn’t want to give Detective Sergeant Fowler tea. He wanted to have told him to sod off and shut the door. But he’d let the man in now, and that meant some things had to be done. He hadn’t served in a war for people to go around not offering other people tea. Joel could use a cup himself, having spent a miserable couple of hours doing his accounts, trying to persuade his left arm to work with the prosthesis, as though a pencil clamped in a hook was a substitute for the press and shift of fingers. He’d been assured it would become second nature soon enough: why,
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