ithin three minutes of entering Darsett Trades and Labour Club, I knew that not even double rates could compensate me for spending Saturday night there. I don't know enough about the northern club circuit to know if it's typical, but if it is, then my heartfelt sympathy goes out to the poor sods who make their living performing there. The building itself was a 1960s concrete box with all the charm of a dead dog. I parked among an assortment of old Cortinas and Datsuns and headed for the brightly lit entrance.

Being a woman, I already had problems on my hands. In their infinite wisdom, working men's clubs don't allow women to be members in their own right. Strange women trying to get in alone are a complete no-no. The doorman, face marked with the blue hairline scars of a miner, wasn't impressed with my story that I was an agent there to see Moira perform, not even when I produced the business card that carefully doesn't specify what Mortensen and Brannigan are. Eventually, he grudgingly called the club secretary, who finally agreed to let me in, after informing me at great length that I would not be able to purchase alcoholic beverages.

I regretted this rule and the fact that I was driving as soon as I crossed the threshold. The only way to make an evening at Darsett Trades and Labour Club tolerable was to be so pissed I wouldn't notice it. The bar, on my left, was brightly lit, packed and already blue with smoke. It sounded like a riot was in progress, an impression increased by the rugby scrum at the bar.

I carried on through double doors under a blue neon sign that said Cabaret Room. Like the bar, the room shimmered under the glare of lights and the haze of cigarette smoke. It was crammed with small, round tables, two-thirds of which were occupied with chattering groups of men and women. Their gaiety was infectious, and I mentally ticked myself off for my patronising response to the club.

At the far end of the room was a small stage. A trio of electronic organ, drums and bass were listlessly playing 'The Girl From Ipanema'. No one was listening. I looked around intently, trying to pick out Maggie in the crowd. At first, I couldn't see any woman on her own, but on the second sweep of the room, I spotted her.

She was standing in the shadows right at the edge of the room about halfway back. Her clothes as much as her isolation marked her out. Unlike the other women in the room apart from me, she wasn't dressed up to the nines in teetering heels and a bright dress. Maggie wore jeans, a chambray shirt and a pair of trainers. From where I was standing, it looked like she had also avoided the cosmetic excesses of the rest of the room. She was about my height, with curly, shoulder-length pepper and salt hair. She was carrying about ten pounds overweight, but she looked sturdy rather than flabby.

For a moment, I toyed with the idea of making the first approach to her, but decided against it. I suspected she'd leap immediately to Moira's defence and give me the elbow without actually weighing up what I had to say, and I couldn't blame her for that. Even if I'd been going to approach her, I was cut off at the pass. The organist finished the Stan Getz piece with a flourish and played a fanfare. A burly man leapt on to the stage and peppered the audience with a few risque jokes, then announced, 'Ladies and animals, put your hands together for tonight's star attraction, a young lady who's going all the way to the top. Let's hear it for Moira Moore!'

With another fanfare on the organ, he vanished into the wings. The band played the opening chords of 'To Be With You Tonight' and Moira walked out on to the stage. As she moved forward into the fixed spotlight, she looked nervously from side to side, as if searching for an escape route that wasn't there. She was wearing a tight blue lurex dress which came to just above her knees. She looked painfully thin.

As the band finished the intro, Moira leaned forward to the mike and began to sing. To say I was astonished would be putting it mildly. Could this really be the woman who'd been happy to take a back-seat, lyricist's role because her voice wasn't up to scratch? OK, she didn't have the silky richness of Jett, but by any other standards Moira's was quite a voice. Slightly husky, almost bluesy, she hit the notes perfectly, and the nerves that were obvious in her body language didn't transmit themselves into her singing. Even the louts in the audience shut up to listen to Moira sing.

She followed Jett's first hit with an unadventurous selection of torch songs, ending up with a version of 'Who Will I Turn To' that almost had tough old Brannigan in tears. The audience loved it, clapping and cheering and demanding more. Moira looked dazed and surprised by her reception, and after a few minutes of applause, she turned and asked the organist something inaudible. He nodded and she launched into Tina Turner's whore's anthem, 'Private Dancer', with the kind of bitter attack that could only come from experience. The crowd went wild. If it had been up to them, she would have been there all night, but she looked exhausted by the end of the song and escaped gratefully to the wings.

Like the audience, I'd been mesmerised by Moira and when I looked back to where Maggie had been standing, I realised I'd been letting pleasure interfere with work. Maggie had gone. Furious with myself, I hurried down the side of the room and through a pass door at the side of the stage.

I was in a narrow corridor. Two doors on the left were marked Ladies and Gents, and on my right were steps leading up to the stage. Round a corner, I found three more doors. No reply to my knock on the first. Same with the second. On the third attempt, I hit pay dirt. The door opened six inches and Maggie's face appeared in the crack. Close up, she was a pretty woman. She had small, neat features and intelligent blue eyes with laughter lines at the corners. I put her in the mid thirties. 'Can I help you?' she asked pleasantly.

I smiled. 'You must be Maggie. Hi. I'd like to see Moira.'

She frowned. 'I'm sorry, have we met?' Without waiting for a reply, she went on. 'Look, she's too tired. If it's an autograph you want, I can get her to sign one for you.'

I shook my head. 'Thanks, but I need to see her. It's a personal matter,' I stated calmly.

'Who is it?' a voice from inside the room called out.

'No one we know,' Maggie remarked over her shoulder. She turned back to me and said, 'Look, this is not a good time. She's just done a show, and she needs to rest.'

'What I have to say won't take long. I don't like to be difficult, but I'm not going till I've spoken to Moira.' I spoke firmly, with more confidence than I actually felt. I was in no doubt that Maggie could have me thrown out of there so fast my feet wouldn't touch the sticky carpets. However, to do that, she'd have to leave Moira. I couldn't see Darsett Trades and Labour Club being the kind of place that had a house phone in the star dressing room.

'What the hell's going on?' Moira demanded, pulling the door open and staring belligerently at me. It should have been a moment of triumph for me, to come face to face with my quarry like this, but any satisfaction was destroyed by the irritation in her voice. 'Are you deaf or what? She told you, I'm too tired to talk to anybody.'

'I'm sorry it's a bad time, but I need to talk to you,' I apologised. 'It's taken me a long time to find you, and it's important for you that you listen to what I have to say.' I tried a conciliatory smile which produced a scowl from Maggie, standing like a bulldog in front of Moira.

Moira sighed and pulled her white bathrobe more tightly round her. 'You're damn right, it's a bad time. I suppose you'd better come in. Let me tell you, sister, this better not be bad news.'

I waited for Maggie to move reluctantly away from the door before I entered the tiny dressing room. There were two small formica topped tables in front of mirrors, a corner sink unit, three chairs and several hooks on the wall. Moira sat down in one chair facing a mirror and carried on removing her make-up. Maggie leaned against the wall, arms folded.

I pulled a chair over beside Moira and sat down. 'I don't think it's bad news, but that's for you to decide. My name's Kate Brannigan and I'm a private investigator.' Moira flashed a quick look at me, fear in her eyes, then forced herself to look back in the mirror.

'So what's your interest in me?' she challenged.

'Jett asked me to find you,' I told her, watching for her reaction. The hand with the make-up removal pad shook and she quickly lowered it to the table.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said in a low voice.

'He wants to work with you again. He bitterly regrets what happened all those years ago,' I tried. My instincts told me that with Maggie in the room, I should steer well clear of the emotional arguments.

Moira shrugged. 'I haven't a clue what you're on about.'

'I think you should go now,' Maggie piped up.

I ignored her. 'Look, Moira, Jett is desperate to reach you. He says his work has gone down the tube since the two of you stopped writing songs together. As a fan, I have to agree with him. And I bet you do too. He just wants to meet you, to talk about the possibilities of making music together again. That's all. No strings.'

Moira laughed, a harsh bark. 'Oh yeah? And what's Kevin going to say about that? If you've been looking for me, you know what my life's been like the last few years. I'd be too much of a skeleton in the cupboard for Mr Clean. Never mind what Jett will think.'

'Jett knows all about it. And he didn't tell me to stop looking just because you'd been on the game, or on smack. He wants to talk to you. He doesn't care what's happened in between,' I argued as fiercely as I could.

Moira ran a hand through her short curls. 'I don't think so,' she said softly. 'Too much water under the bridge.'

'You heard her,' Maggie interjected. 'I really think you'd better go now before you upset her any more.'

I shrugged. 'If that's what Moira wants, I'll go. I told Jett he might be wasting his money, asking me to find you. I told him you might not want to be found. But he's not going to be satisfied with that. And the next private eye he hires might not do things my way.'

'Don't you threaten us!' Maggie exploded.

'I'm not threatening you,' I flashed back. I'm simply trying to be straight with you. Jett wants to find you. Whatever that takes. You might do a runner after tonight, but you've got to leave traces. Someone else will track you down, just like I did. And next time, it could be Jett knocking on your door. Don't you think it would be better to meet him on your terms, when you're prepared for it, rather than have him catching you by surprise?'

Moira's head dropped into her hands. 'You say he knows already?' she mumbled.

'He knows about everything except the singing.' And I don't think that's going to give him the screaming habdabs, I thought wryly.

Moira's head came up and she stared at her face in the mirror. 'I don't know,' she said doubtfully, lighting up a pungent Gauloise.

Maggie crossed the room, all two paces of it, and put a protective arm round Moira. 'You don't need him any more,' she declared. 'Where was he when you really needed help? If he'd been so bloody keen to find you, why didn't he do it when you left? He's just being selfish. His career's a disaster area, and he wants you to get him out of the shit. You don't owe him anything, Moira.'

'Oh, I see,' I remarked. 'There's a statute of limitations on feeling guilty now, is there? Just because Jett didn't act right away, then he can only be out for himself? Is that it?'

Maggie glowered at me, but Moira actually smiled as she reached up to squeeze her lover's hand. 'He's really not like that, Maggie. He's one of the good guys. I didn't expect him to come after me. I'd been doing his head in for so long he must have been glad of the peace.'

'So what's it to be?' I asked. 'Will you at least listen to what he's got to say?'

Moira took a deep drag on her cigarette. Maggie looked as if she was holding her breath and praying. Moira blew two streams of smoke down her nose and nodded at me. 'I'll listen. When can you set it up?'

'The sooner the better. He's at home working on his new album. Believe me, he needs your help yesterday.'

Moira smiled, a wide grin that lit up her whole face and took ten years off her. 'I'll bet,' she said. 'What about tonight? Might as well get it over with.'

'But it's past ten o'clock!' Maggie protested. 'You can't go off there now.'

'Maggie, unless Jett has had a personality transplant, he'll be up watching videos and listening to music till three or four o'clock. He doesn't get up to listen to the Archers omnibus on Sunday mornings,' Moira replied, a gentle tease in her voice.

Maggie flushed. 'I still think you should leave it till tomorrow,' she said stubbornly. 'You're tired. You need a night's rest after the show.'

She still had a lot to learn, I thought sadly. Every performer I've ever met is so high after a show that they need half the night to come down to a point where sleep's possible. That's why so many of them get hooked on a mixture of uppers and downers.

As if reading my thoughts, Moira said, 'No, Maggie. Right now, I'm on a high. All that applause! Tonight, I feel like I could meet Jett as an equal. And if I sleep on it, I'll probably bottle out. Or else I'll let you talk me out of it.'

Moira got to her feet and put an arm round Maggie's waist. 'Kate, if you'll give me ten minutes, we'll meet you in the car park. Ours is the red 2CV. I'll have to go home and change into something more suitable,' she added, waving at her blue lurex dress and a jogging suit. 'If you follow us back there, then you can take me over to see Jett. If that's OK with you.'

'Fine by me,' I confirmed, feeling exultant. There's no better feeling in the world than the moment when you know you've cracked a difficult job. Moira wasn't the only one who was on a high.

An hour later, Moira and I were heading back down the motorway towards Manchester. "I feel like I've spent more time on this motorway in the last couple of weeks than I've spent in my own bed,' I muttered to break the silence that had fallen on us since Maggie had waved a mournful farewell on the doorstep.

Moira chuckled. 'I'm sorry I've given you so much trouble,' she remarked.

'Oh, it's not just you. It's another case I've been working on. A team that's flooding the country with fake watches. You know, Rolex copies, all that sort of thing.'

Moira nodded. 'I know exactly what you mean. A lot of the guys in Bradford are into that kind of thing. It's a nice little earner. They do a lot of fake jogging suits and t-shirts. You know, any big thing like the Batman movie, or the Teenage Mutant Turtles. They just copy the legit stuff and flog it round the pubs and the markets. The guy I worked for in Bradford even had us selling fake perfume to Johns for their wives, can you believe it?'

I laughed. 'Wonderful. I love the psychology.' I put Everything But The Girl's Language Of Life in the cassette and we both settled in a companionable silence to listen to Tracy Thorn's sensuous tones.

'So how did you track me down?' Moira asked finally as I turned on to the M6, heading south towards Jett's mansion. The home she'd never seen, I reminded myself.

When I got to the bit about Stick asking for his four hundred pounds, she laughed out loud. 'You know,' she said, 'if this does work out, I might just pay him back. Mind you, he'd die of embarrassment if word got out that he took me to Seagull. Stick the hard man! He'd never live it down.'

I turned into the gateway of Colcutt Manor and wound down the window and leaned out to press the intercom button. When it crackled back at me, I said clearly, 'It's Kate Brannigan to see Jett. Don't fuck with me, Gloria, let me in.'

As the gates opened, I caught Moira's expression out of the corner of my eye. She looked stunned. I headed up the long drive, and the house appeared in my headlights. 'Shit,' she breathed. 'You might have warned me, Kate.'

I pulled up at the foot of the steps that led up to the front door and said, 'You ready?'

Moira took a deep breath and said 'Ready as I'll ever be.'

We got out of the car and I led the way up towards the door. Three steps from the top, it opened and a pool of light flooded out. Jett himself stood silhouetted in the doorway. It took only a moment for him to realise I wasn't alone. Then he saw who my companion was. 'Moira?' he said in tones of wonder, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

I paused, and she walked past me. 'Hi, babe,' she said, stopping a few feet short of him.

Jett's hesitation was only momentary. Then he stepped forward and folded her into his arms. Moira buried her head in his shoulder.

Me, I headed back into the night, trying to start the car as quietly as possible. Some things don't need witnesses. Besides, I had a huge invoice to dictate before I could sleep.