IAN SUTHERLAND LIVED in a flat on Southgate, about three hundred yards from The Railway Arms. It was no more than five minutes’ drive. Number Sixty-Four was the first floor flat in a row of terraces. The curtains were still drawn although by now it was ten o'clock.
Rafferty gave three sharp rings on the bell. 'That should wake him up,' he remarked.
Llewellyn's lips twitched. 'I'd have thought that you, of all people, would sympathise with a man with a thick head.'
'Oh, I do. But solving this murder has to be my first priority.' He gave another three short bursts to the bell. 'Come on. Come on,' he said. 'Let's be having you.' Rafferty peered through the letterbox and stood back as he saw hairy legs descending the stairs, gratified that his persistent ringing had finally stirred the hung
