amar was my first target. For obvious reasons, her reaction to Moira's death was the one that interested me most. I didn't know what had been happening at Colcutt Manor in the six weeks since I'd dutifully delivered Moira, but the corpse downstairs told me plenty. Not everyone had been as thrilled by her return as Jett. At least one person had taken extreme measures to try to return things to the status quo ante. (I love legalese. Sometimes it sums things up so beautifully.) And even if Jett and Moira had no longer been an item, it can't have been Easy Street for Tamar having Jett's alleged soul mate under the same roof.

I knocked sharply on the panelled door Gloria had directed me to and didn't wait for a reply. Crossing the threshold gave me the answer to one question at least. Jett and Tamar might be lovers, but he was clearly a man who liked his own sleeping space. This room was Tamar's, no question.

It looked like a guest room where someone was camping out. The only light came from a flickering TV screen, but it was enough to show me the room was decorated in white and gold, with some very nasty still-life oils on the walls. Lots of dead pheasants and fruit. It was furnished in Louis Quinze style. The only straight edges were on the television, which was even housed in a hideous gilt cabinet. If someone had put me up there, I think I would have preferred to sleep in the bath.

Tamar was lying on one of the twin beds wearing a pair of silk lounging pyjamas. She hadn't noticed my entrance because she was glued to the television, watching a video of 9Vi Weeks. A pair of headphones were clamped to her head as she studied Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke indulging in the ultimate nice work if you can get it. I walked across her line of vision and she sat bolt upright in annoyance.

She pulled the headphones off and snapped the bedside lamp on. More gilt horror.

'What the hell do you think you're doing, walking into my bedroom?' she snapped.

'Sorry to butt in on you,' I apologised insincerely.

'So you bloody should be. What are you doing here, anyway?'

I was beginning to get the message. Maybe I should change my deodorant. 'I'm afraid I've got bad news for you,' I said.

She scowled and pushed her tangled blonde hair back from her face. 'OK,' she sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. 'Message received and understood. He means it this time.' She walked across the room and dramatically pulled open a wardrobe door. 'I was getting pissed off with having to be a little goody two shoes anyway. I'm too old to be sneaking off to the loo every time I want a joint.' She rattled the hangers noisily.

Then she turned back to me and shouted, 'So what are you hanging around for? Enjoying the cabaret, are you? My God, he didn't have to send you to do his dirty work.'

Crossed wires are, in my experience, the kind that provide most illumination. Unfortunately, it looked like this set had finally short-circuited. 'I think we're at cross purposes, Tamar. It's not Jett who asked me to come and get you. It's the police.'

'The police?' The puzzlement on her face looked genuine. 'What d'you mean?'

'Like I said, I've got some bad news. Moira's dead,' I said.

It was as if I'd pressed the freeze-frame button. Tamar stopped dead, her face immobile. At first, she said nothing. Then a slow smile curled her lips. 'Well, what a shame,' she said sarcastically. 'I suppose she just couldn't stay away from the stuff.'

Tamar might have been a blonde, but I was far from convinced that she was dumb. And if she was guilty, she was choosing a very clever way of hiding it.

'You're right off track,' I commented. 'Moira's been murdered. In the rehearsal room.'

That got a reaction. Tamar flushed scarlet. 'I ... I don't understand,' she whispered.

'I don't know any more than that myself,' I said. 'I called in to see Jett, and he went to fetch Moira. He discovered the body, and we called the police. They're waiting downstairs. You'd better get down there now. Everyone's in the blue drawing room.' I know I'm not going to win any points from bereavement counsellors for my attitude, but as far as I was concerned, Tamar lost all rights to my sympathy with that smile.

I moved towards the door. 'Wait,' she called. I turned back. 'Do you know who did it?' she asked.

I shook my head. 'Not up to me, Tamar. It's the police who work that sort of thing out. And they want to see you now,' I added, twisting the knife as I closed the door behind me.

I didn't hang around to see if she was following me. I tripped back down the curving stairs, half-expecting a Busby Berkeley chorus to break into song. But all I could hear was the police radio chatter. As I reached the hall, the intercom sounded again. This time, the constable on the door dealt with it so I made my way to the cellar door at the end of a short side-passage. I opened the door which led to a tiny vestibule with a flight of steps. I descended and found myself facing a heavy steel door. Above it was a red light. I know what happens in computer games if you ignore warnings like that, but I thought the chances of being zapped by an android were pretty remote, so I opened the door. Just shows how wrong you can be.

I was in a large recording studio, walls and ceiling covered in acoustic tiling. Keyboards, drum machines and mikes filled most of the available space. At the far end of the room there was a wall of glass. Behind it, a man sat hunched over a series of control consoles, a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth. I could actually feel in my chest and stomach the throbbing bass line that emerged from tall speakers. I walked down the studio and waved to catch his attention. Abruptly the music stopped and a deafening voice yelled over the intercom, 'Get the fuck out of here! You blind, or what?'

I didn't know if he could hear me, but I spoke anyway. 'I'm sorry to interrupt, but you have to come upstairs.' I was beginning to wish I'd left this to Gloria.

'Look, sweetheart, it might have escaped your obviously limited intelligence, but I'm working. I don't stop on the say-so of anybody's bimbo, so just fuck off and find someone else to bug,' he snarled back at me, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another.

'Please yourself,' I said angrily. 'The next interruption you'll get will be the cops. They don't like being pissed about by little boys with expensive toys when they're investigating a murder.' I turned on my heel and marched off towards the door, feeling strangely satisfied with my childish response. Two steps later, I regretted it. I'd thrown away the chance of watching his reaction to my news. I turned back quickly and saw he'd stood up.

The resemblance to a chimp was overwhelming. The long arms, the jutting jaw, the flat nose all gave Micky Hampton a startlingly simian appearance. His blond-streaked hair had been carefully cut, but it couldn't altogether hide the Prince Charles ears. He'd have made a wonderful extra for Planet of the Apes. At least the make-up department wouldn't have had much work to do.

As I watched, he disappeared from my sight then emerged from a small door at the back of the studio. 'Wait a minute,' he said. 'You'd better explain yourself. For a kick-off, who the hell are you?'

'I'm Kate Brannigan.'

Understanding flooded his face. His soft brown eyes were unexpectedly intelligent. 'You're the one who dug Moira up,' he acknowledged. 'What did you mean about a murder?'

'Moira's been killed. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the police want to see everyone who was in the house tonight,' I parroted.

Micky's eyebrows shot up. 'They're wasting their time with me. A bomb could drop up there and I wouldn't know. I've worked in top-class studios the world over and I've never found one that was better soundproofed than this.'

His concern for Moira was overwhelming. I hid my contempt and simply said, 'Nevertheless, they want to see everyone. The blue drawing room,' I added as I left him.

The hall had suddenly begun to resemble a police station. The scene-of-crime team had arrived with their cameras and fingerprint cases. Half a dozen uniformed constables were being directed to search the outside of the house and the grounds, to check for any signs of a break-in and to cover all exits. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me, so I slipped past them and crossed the hall. I headed down the corridor to Neil's domain. According to Gloria, he'd been given an office on the ground floor near the dining room.

I knocked on his door and heard him call, 'Come in, open all hours.' I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. The wood panelling obviously deadened any noise from outside. The small room looked remarkably like Richard's study. I wondered if journalists are born untidy or if they think the appearance of complete chaos is a necessary part of the image. Neil sat at the eye of the storm of paper, facing a computer screen, a small tape recorder beside him. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. 'Kate! Glad you could find the time to pop in on a humble scribe. Sorted out your business with Jett?'

'I'm afraid this isn't just a social call,' I said. 'I've been asked to come and fetch you.'

His hooded eyes half-closed as a guarded expression crossed his face. 'Fetch me?' he queried. 'Who wants me?'

'The police,' I said.

I could see the muscles in his jaw clench. 'What's all this about, Kate,' he forced out in a light tone.

'Bad news. Moira's dead.'

His eyes opened wide in horror. 'Oh no!' he exclaimed. 'Moira? Dead? How? What happened? Has there been an accident?' His questions spilled out, the professional habit attaching itself to his obvious personal shock.

'No accident, I'm afraid. Look, Neil, you'd better get along to the blue drawing room. The police want to see everyone who was in the house. They'll be able to fill you in on the details.'

'You mean, it happened here?'

'Why? Where did you think it had happened?'

'I don't know. She said something earlier about going down to the village to see someone. I suppose I assumed she was attacked on her way back or something. Oh God, poor Jett. He must be in a hell of a state.' At last, someone had finally spared a thought for the boss. Neil jumped to his feet and pushed past me to the door. 'The blue room, you said?' he demanded as he pulled it open.

'That's right,' I replied as I followed him.

As I re-emerged in the hall, a plain clothes policeman pounced. 'Kate Brannigan?' he demanded.

'That's me,' I agreed.

'You didn't tell us you're a private investigator,' he accused.

'No one asked me,' I replied, unable to resist. I don't know why I get this urge to be a smartass round coppers.

'The inspector wants to see you right now,' he told me, steering me down the hall into a smaller room next to the blue drawing room. It was wood panelled and stuffed with leather chairs. It looked like I've always imagined a gentlemen's club to be. A small writing desk had been moved away from the wall, and behind it sat a slim, dark-haired man in his mid thirties, his eyes indistinct behind a pair of glasses with tinted lenses. He was the last man in England wearing a pale blue shirt with white collar and cuffs under his dark blue suit. His striped tie was neatly knotted. He didn't look as if he'd been called out of bed in the middle of the night, but equally, he didn't look crumpled enough to have been on duty.

'I'm Inspector Cliff Jackson,' he introduced himself. 'And you must be our elusive private eye.'

'Good morning, Inspector,' I replied politely. 'I'm Kate Branni-gan, of Mortensen and Brannigan.'

'I know exactly who you are, Miss Brannigan,' he countered, a note of irritation in his gravelly Lancashire voice. 'What I want to know is why you felt it necessary to go round interfering with witnesses.'

'I haven't been interfering with anyone,' I returned. 'If you mean rounding up the inhabitants, I was simply doing what your sergeant asked.'

'As you well know, he wouldn't have let you near one of them if he'd known the way you earn a living.'

'Inspector, if anyone had bothered to ask what I do, I'd have been happy to tell them. Don't give me a bad time because one of your lads didn't do his job properly. I really don't want to fall out with you.'

'That's the first sensible thing you've said so far,' he grumbled as he made a note on his pad. We went through the formal routine that prefaces the taking of a statement, then he pushed his glasses up and massaged the bridge of his nose with surprisingly well-manicured fingers. 'So, what were you doing here tonight?' he asked.

'It was a social call. We did a job for Jett some time ago, and he told me to drop in whenever I was passing. So I did.' It sounded thin, even to me, but I could only hope he thought I was a bit starstruck.

'You were just passing at this time of night?' he challenged sarcastically, letting his glasses slip back into place. 'You normally drop in on people this late?'

'Of course not,' I countered. 'But I knew Jett keeps late hours. I'd been working and I was wide awake, so rather than go home and bounce off the walls I thought I'd stop off for a coffee. Besides, it wasn't that late when I got here. It can't have been that much after midnight.'

He clearly wasn't happy with the scenario, but he didn't have anything to contradict it yet, so he let it go for now. I outlined the version of events I'd agreed with Jett, hoping he'd remembered what he was supposed to say. I had plenty of time to think between sentences, since the detective who'd collared me was carefully writing it into a statement.

After we'd exhausted the subject of the discovery of the body, Jackson asked plenty of questions about the household and their movements, but I didn't have any answers. Frustrated, he gave up on that line and asked, "What was the nature of this job your firm did for Jett?'

I'd hoped we wouldn't get to that till I'd had a chance to discuss the matter with Bill. I took a deep breath and recited, 'The nature of our business is confidential. I am afraid that is a private matter between Mortensen and Brannigan and our client.'

Jackson pushed his glasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. It looked like he had a sinus headache, and I began to feel the slight stirrings of sympathy. He wouldn't be getting much sleep over the next few days unless they got a very lucky break. However, my sympathy didn't override my professional ethics.

'You are withholding information that could be material to a murder inquiry,' he sighed.

I was waiting with bated breath for him to say something, anything, that wasn't a cliche. I was destined for another disappointment.

'I don't have to tell you that it's an offence to obstruct the police. Frankly, I could do without the hassle of charging you, Miss Brannigan, but you make it very tempting.'

'I could do without the hassle too, Inspector. If it's any help, the answer will be the same whether you charge me or not.' I tried not to sound as defiant as I felt. A night in the cells would be both uncomfortable and bad for business.

'Get her out of my sight, Sergeant Bradley,' Jackson said, getting to his feet. 'Get her to sign her statement first,' he continued as he crossed the room and left.

The sergeant proffered the sheets of my statement and I read through it quickly. It never ceases to amaze me that no matter what you actually say in a police statement, it always comes out in a strangulated officialese. In spite of the jargon, Sergeant Bradley appeared to have got the gist of what I'd said, so I signed dutifully.

I was escorted back to the hall, where Jackson was earnestly talking to the uniformed sergeant. When he saw me, he scowled and said, 'Miss Brannigan's leaving now, sergeant. Get one of the lads to see her off the premises. And I mean right off.' Then he turned to me and said, 'I don't want you discussing the circumstances of this case with anyone. And I don't just mean the press. I mean you are not to talk to anyone about the method or timing of this incident. Is that understood?' I nodded. Then he added. 'We'll let you know when we want to see you again. And keep your nose out. Leave this to the professionals.'

I'd be only too happy to do just that, I thought as I drove down the drive. But somehow, I had the feeling Jett wasn't going to give me that option.

It was just after three a.m. when the electronic gates opened silently before me and I drove out into the lane, waving goodbye to the patrol car that had followed me down the drive. I slowed down as I approached Colcutt village, searching in the glove box for something more soothing than Tina Turner. As I hit the bend, a figure appeared in my headlights. It froze momentarily, then disappeared into the darkness of the verge.

I braked the car to a halt and jumped out. I ran back the few yards to where the figure had disappeared. There was no trace of anyone. The only sound to break the silence of the night was the soft mutter of my engine. I might have been dreaming, but I didn't think so. I had only seen Moira's lover once, but I'd have recognised Maggie Rossiter anywhere.