Chapter SeventeenWhen Rafferty drove round to his cousin's apartment on his way home that evening in order to confront him, Nigel didn't even trouble to deny that he had been the writer of the blackmail letters. In fact, although clearly a touch peeved that he'd been found out, Nigel seemed rather pleased with himself and inclined to gloat.
'Bet those letters got you nicely rattled, didn't they?' he taunted while vainly checking via the mantel mirror perched above the Italian marble fireplace that the hair he had raked back from his forehead had flopped forward again in a satisfactory manner.
Narcissus R Us, thought Rafferty as he stared at the preening cousin who had caused him such anguish. He'd like to smash his vain face in. But, of course, this was merely another temptation he daren
