Fred Skeggs looked about a hundred, though he was probably no more than seventy. Small and wizened, his eyes were as sharp and full of mischief as the nanny goat who had chased them up the path to Skeggs' isolated cottage.
'So, Mr Policeman.' Fred fixed Rafferty with a gimlet eye. 'What makes you think I can help you?' he asked, after Rafferty had explained why they had called. 'Sit, sit.' He waved his hands at them. 'You're making my kitchen look untidy.'
Rafferty couldn't imagine that their presence could make the tiny room look any more like a rag and bone merchants than it did already, stuffed to the rafters as it was with verminous looking clothing, rusting enamel basins, bait boxes and discarded tobacco tins, but he looked around for a chair. There was only one; a stout, wooden aff
