Chapter Eleven
THEY FOUND DARRYL JESMOND in the nearest pub. He was in a side booth, chatting up a woman whom Rafferty assumed from her costly, but unsubtle jewellery and expensive-looking, low cut top that exposed a more than generous expanse of creamy bosom, must be the Mrs Rich Divorcée that Aurora had mentioned.
The chatting up was obviously going well as a matchstick wouldn't have fitted between the pair so closely entwined were they.
The lady into whose ear gigolo Jesmond was whispering sweet nothings exuded money in anyone's language. And although even the skilfully applied make up couldn't conceal the fact that she must be several years older than Jane Ogilvie, to Jesmond she must appear an increasingly attractive proposition to a Jane whose financial future was not only uncerta
