NIGEL BLYTHE WAS IN the private office at the estate agency he owned. This was starkly modern with black leather and chrome, the seats uncomfortably low and difficult to get out of: All the better to keep potential buyers on the premises and open to persuasion. As always, Nigel looked Italian gigolo smart in a three-piece mauve suit and a silver-grey tie. No wonder Tony Moran had described him as a peacock. Rafferty was only surprised he’d felt such a small stir of recognition at Moran’s description.
‘Well, well,’ Nigel greeted their arrival as he leant back in his high-backed leather executive chair. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
‘Nice to see you, too, Jerry.’ Rafferty pulled up a chair and sat down.
The smile vanished from Nigel’s face at Rafferty’s use of his true given name. Nigel
