AS HE PICKED UP HIS car keys that evening and set off for town, Rafferty reflected that it was fortunate the agency social whirl left little time for brooding. The party tonight was to be held in the annexe of The Elmhurst, the posh hotel on Northgate. Close to the centre of town, it was one of Elmhurst’s larger hotels.
Rafferty had been in The Elmhurst before—the bar, anyway, but never its annexe. For some reason, he had been expecting some kind of cobbled together construction. The word ‘annexe’ to him always suggested ‘making do, 50’s austerity. But after he had parked his car a discreet distance away, showed his invitation to the two smartly uniformed doormen and followed the signs for the Made in Heaven party, he saw there was no sense of making do at this annexe. Stupid, really, tha
