'Touch anything else, miss?' he asked as he unlocked the door.
'No.' I leaned against the wall as he let himself in. All I wanted was to climb back into bed and pull the duvet over my head. It didn't seem to be an available option. Wearily, I pushed myself back into action. Apart from the young constable, whose radio was crackling like an egg in a hot frying pan, the front hall was empty.
I didn't feel up to Kevin and Gloria, so I sat on the bottom step of the stairs and wondered gloomily why I'd already stuck my neck out to protect Jett. He wasn't a friend, simply a client who'd paid his bill promptly. I know that's rarer than a socialist at a Labour Party meeting, but it still wasn't reason enough for my quixotic behaviour.
The sound of the intercom brought Gloria scuttling back from the drawing room. This time, the door opened to reveal two plain clothes officers, a uniformed sergeant and an inspector. They hadn't wasted any time. They had a brief conference with the officer on the door, and the CID disappeared in the direction of the rehearsal room. The inspector went off to the drawing room. The sergeant turned to Gloria and me, pulled out his notebook and asked, 'Who else is in the house?'
I shrugged and Gloria pursed her mouth in a self-satisfied smirk. She didn't care if it took murder to keep me in my place. Then she rattled off efficiently, 'Jett is in the drawing room with his manager, Mr Kleinman. Mr Webster, Jett's official biographer, will either be in his office or in bed. Miss Spenser, Jett's companion, is in her room upstairs.'
'Thank you,' the officer interjected, desperately trying to keep up with her flow. He scribbled on for a moment then said, 'And you ladies are…?'
'I'm Gloria Seward, Jett's personal assistant and private secretary. And this is Kate Brannigan,' she added, her tone spelling out that I was an insignificant menial, there to make up the numbers. I held my tongue. The time to reveal my profession would come soon enough. Once they knew I was a private eye, it would be straight into quarantine for me, and I wasn't ready for that yet.
The sergeant, a hard-eyed man in his late thirties, finished writing and said, 'So that's everyone, is it?'
Gloria ran through her mental checklist, then her hand flew to her mouth. I really didn't think anyone did that any more. 'I forgot Micky,' she wailed. 'I'm sorry. Micky Hampton is Jett's record producer. He'll probably be in the studio – that's in the cellar.'
'Don't worry, it's hard to remember everything at a time like this. You've obviously had a bit of a shock. I'm sorry to ask this, but we're going to have to interview everyone as soon as possible. I'd appreciate it if one of you ladies could get everyone together,' he said.
'I'll go,' I piped up. 'I think Gloria should be with Jett right now.'
The look she shot at me was pure poison, but there was really nothing she could do about it. After all, she was the one who'd set herself up as Jett's little helper. The policeman nodded and I swiftly got directions from Gloria. Jett clearly wasn't going to let me walk away from this murder. And if I was going to have to investigate these choice specimens, I at least wanted to see how they reacted to the news.
14
Tamar 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
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
