'Certainly not,' Rafferty indignantly replied.
He consulted his list and marched purposefully forward. 'Here's Mr Oliver's apartment. Number 3c.'
He rapped on the door, loudly enough to block any more attempts by his sergeant at reading his mind and possible intentions.
Although Hal Oliver, at seventy-five, had a face as cadaverous as Mick Jagger's and a neck as ropey as a yacht's equipment locker, when they met him in the entrance hall of the apartments, he still retained a rake-hell's attraction about him, accentuated by the thick white hair, which flowed, with a Cavalier dash, around his sinuous neck.
His trousers were creased, attesting to the fact that currently there was no woman in his life. But for all his creased trousers and neck, for all the cadaverous folds of flesh, the co
