“Polson poached Petrovicĉ and got him half a million to head up Jeremy’s list. His previous agent was chewing the carpet, but there was nothing he could do. Petrovicĉ paid him the commission on the £350,000 he’d negotiated already, as per his contract, and Polson got the reputation. And in this business, where reputation goes, authors follow, sure as seagulls follow the sardine boat. The end result being that Polson had to pay Paul Firestone a massive chunk of dosh about three months ago and now her cash flow is plunging through the floor. The business owes money to its landlord, and its authors, and Polson’s taken out a second mortgage on her house.” Kirsten smiled sweetly. “Looks like the Darkliners film deal was her lifebelt.”

Lindsay stood up and wiped the sweat from her upper lip. “Does Helen know about your killer instinct?”

Kirsten grinned like a barracuda. “What else do you think she sees in me? I’m just glad I could help you out. You’re a bit of a legend in our house, you know. Radical feminism’s answer to Miss Marple.”

“I wish,” Lindsay said wryly. “If I was ever radical, it’s ancient history now. If I’m the answer, somebody’s asking the wrong question.”

The climb to Catriona Polson’s office hadn’t got any easier since Lindsay had last scaled the heights. Nor had the stairwell become any more appealing. It was hardly surprising, given what she now knew about the agent’s finances. If you were looking at losing the roof over your head, paying a cleaner wasn’t going to be high on the list of priorities.

The receptionist hadn’t become any more welcoming, either. “You can’t see Ms. Polson without an appointment,” she announced as soon as recognition sparked in her eyes.

“That what you say to Milos Petrovicĉ, is it?” Lindsay said conversationally.

“Anyway, you lied about not being a journalist,” the receptionist continued.

Lindsay shrugged. “I never said I wasn’t a journalist. You assumed I wasn’t. However, if you’d looked at that card with half a brain, you’d have seen it was at least eight years out of date. Nation Newspapers moved to Docklands back in ’88. And London phone numbers have changed a bit since then, too.”

“She won’t see you, you know. There’s no point in me even trying.”