Dying For You Read Online Free Page B

create the right ambience. They might have been convincing, too, as I told her, if we'd been going for several years. But as it is–’ He broke off and sighed in a long-suffering manner that implied some people couldn't be told anything. He again shook Rafferty's hand with both of his and told him, ‘But I mustn't keep you. I expect you're busy, busy, busy like so many of our other clients.’
    As Rafferty removed his hand from Simon Farnell's over-effusive handshake and re-entered reception, he wrinkled his nose. He hadn't previously noticed how cloying was the perfume Isobel favoured. Perhaps she'd just topped it up? There should be a law, he often thought, to stop people imposing their penchant for powerful pongs on the nostrils of others.
    At least Isobel didn't seem inclined to chat and force him to linger for which he was grateful. She was engrossed in the magazine that, like the rest piled in the open drawer of her desk, featured exotic honeymoon destinations and wildly expensive country house receptions. She seemed to find them absorbing, but she forced her head up for long enough – with much fumbling and peering at the numbers, to put Nigel's credit card through her machine. She handed him the personal party invitations, the guidelines and the map of Elmhurst with New Hall, Caroline Durward's home, The Elmhurst and a couple of other prestigious venues boldly marked. After giving him a dreamy, unfocused, far away goodbye, she retreated to her magazine, obviously already back on some sun-drenched beach with the perfect lover even before Rafferty had got the door open.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Only a couple of days later Rafferty sat in The Huntsman, one of several riverside pubs in Elmhurst. It wasn't one of his usual haunts, being a bit up-market, modern and, with its vast selection of ‘Alco-pops’, clearly designed to appeal to the younger generation. But, keen to get into his ‘Nigel’ persona he had thought it the sort of place that would appeal to Nigel, though when he'd checked with his cousin that this wasn't one of his preferred drinking holes; Nigel had laughed the idea to scorn down Rafferty's borrowed mobile.
    Unwilling to arrive at the Made In Heaven party smelling of drink with the appearance of needing Dutch courage, he'd bought orange juice instead of his customary Jamesons or a pint of Adnams. Trouble was, Dutch courage was exactly what he needed. But then again, as he stared at the healthy juice with distaste, he hadn't totally made up his mind that he was going.
    Don't start that again, he told himself. Besides, he'd ordered a taxi, from an unfamiliar cab firm; he'd even remembered to order it in his ‘Nigel’ persona.
    To put a stop to any further prevarication, as he saw a man enter and the barman nod in his direction, he picked up the glass, drank the contents in one swallow and after hailing the cabbie, followed him out of the pub with a determined stride. The early April evening was muggy, threatening a storm. He smiled as he wondered what the honeymooning Sergeant Llewellyn would say if he had seen his DI drinking orange juice. The smile faded as he wondered what his Ma would do if she ever found out about his signing up with the agency. But he was determined she would never find out; not Ma, nor anyone else. It was his secret and he intended it to stay that way. Well, his and Jerry's.
    Caroline Durward's home, New Hall, the venue for the evening's party, was the other side of the village of St Botolphe to the south east of Elmhurst. Rafferty had done a recce which had revealed the presence of a security camera mounted on the high metal gates. To avoid being recorded while in his alter-ego, he held a large handkerchief to his face and blew his nose.
    The gates opened as they approached and a woman— whom Rafferty assumed from the overalls and rubber gloves perched on the top of her basket, must be the cleaner – rode through on her bike. The taxi driver didn't wait for instructions but