Micky sighed deeply and tossed his cigarette end into the sink. “It’s doing my head in, this business. Questions, questions, questions. And Plod all over the sodding place. All I want to do is get on with my job. Some of us have got deadlines to meet,” he grumbled.

“Inconsiderate of Moira, really,” I replied. “But the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner it’ll all be sorted,” I added with a confidence I didn’t feel.

“Might as well get it over and done with,” he muttered irritably, tossing a teabag into a mug and swirling it around viciously with a teaspoon. He removed his jacket and threw it over a chair, then brought his tea over to the table. He perched on the edge of a chair and immediately lit another cigarette which he continuously dabbed nervously at his lips. Apart from the cigarette, he looked just like those chimps they dress up for the PG Tips adverts. I half-expected him to answer my questions in Donald Sinden’s fruity tones.

“I need to know your movements around the time of Moira’s death,” I said bluntly.

“I didn’t make any,” he replied belligerently, his fingers beating a silent tattoo on the side of the mug. I gave him the benefit of my quizzical look. I couldn’t do words because I had a mouthful of soup. “I was in the studio all evening,” he finally volunteered.

“Doing what, exactly?” I pursued.

“Doing what I do, exactly. Jett and Moira had been in earlier, around eight, listening to what we’d been working on that afternoon. Moira was full of bright ideas about the mixing, and some synth effects she wanted me to lay down. I was fiddling around with a couple of tracks, trying various things. I wanted to have a selection of versions for them to hear the next day. Time passes fast when you’ve got your head down.” Micky took a swig of tea and sniffed loudly as the steam hit his cold nose. It was far from incontrovertible evidence of what Gloria had suggested and Neil had confirmed.

Even the cloud of smoke slowly filling the kitchen couldn’t put me off my soup. I finished it, and the sound of my spoon scraping on the bottom of the bowl made him wince. “I understand Moira had pretty firm ideas on what she wanted the album to be like,” I remarked.

He crushed out his cigarette, swallowed some more tea, sniffed again, blew his nose on a large, paisley patterned handkerchief and lit another cigarette before he answered. “She was a royal pain,”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re too sorry that she’s dead,” I said.

The look of astonishment that crossed his face came as a genuine surprise to me.