Jennifer couldn’t have cared less. She perched on the edge of the neatly made bed and pulled out her note-pad. “First, let’s get your name.”

“Desmond Joyce,” he said. “I’m a freelance in Birmingham. I work two days a week at the university in the media studies department.”

“Tell me about last night.”

Hands shaking, Desmond fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. When he stopped coughing, he said, “I was at the ceilidh, and a woman I used to work with in Dublin introduced me to Lindsay. I’ve been offered a teaching job in Minnesota, you see, and Rose thought Lindsay might be able to give me a wee bit of a notion what it would be like working in America.” He rubbed a hand over the bright ginger stubble on his chin that looked the more disreputable because of the contrast with his chestnut hair.

“We couldn’t talk properly, what with all the music, and Lindsay had just had a bit of a head-to-head with some of the jackals from the Street of Shame, so we went outside.”

Desmond continued with the story that Jennifer had already heard from Lindsay. She registered gratefully that there seemed to be no significant discrepancy.

“She asked me what time it was. My watch said ten past three. She said she had to be going because she had things to do in the morning. So I said cheerio and went back to the ceilidh. That was my big mistake,” he groaned. “I never could tell when to call it a night. Half past five I got to my bed.”

“And you’re quite sure about the time?”

“Half past five? That’s right, a bunch of us left the ceilidh together not long after I went back. We all went to Rose’s room because she had a couple of duty-free bottles of Black Bush there. That’s how come I didn’t hear about this business till I got up this morning and read the Conference Chronicle.”

“Not half past five. The time when you left Ms. Gordon,” Jennifer said, unable to hide the note of exasperation in her voice.

“Oh. Sorry. Yes, sure I’m sure. I remember because I thought to myself that it was a bit early to be heading for bed when there was a good time going on. I was thinking that if that was what living in America does to a person then maybe it wasn’t for me after all.” He gave a feeble smile.

“Right. Well, Mr. Joyce, what I need is for you to have a shower, a shave, a clean shirt and two aspirin.” She glanced at her watch. “How long will that take you?”

“About half an hour, I suppose,” he stuttered.