“I’d have a shrewd idea who to ask. If you work in this business, you get to hear things like that. But if you’re nosing into heroin dealers, I’m not the one you should be asking.” Micky lit his next cigarette. I was beginning to feel like a herring in a smokehouse. I’d be a kipper before morning if I hung around Micky.

“So who should I be asking?”

He shrugged, and a malicious gleam crept into his eyes. “A certain little lady who’s got nothing better to do with her time. Ask her why she was so fascinated by Paki Paulie at the Hassy the other week.”

He obviously meant Tamar. The description certainly didn’t fit Gloria. And where better to meet a dealer than the Hacienda, full as it always is of kids looking for the next kick? I filed the hint away for further investigation.

“Have you got any idea who killed Moira?” I asked.

“I can’t imagine any of them having the bottle, frankly,” Micky said contemptuously. “Except Neil. That bastard would do anything for a few bob. He must have made a fucking fortune out of her death already, all the stories he’s been selling to the papers. Fucking vulture.” The venom in his voice was shocking.

“Sounds like there’s not a lot of love lost between the two of you,” I observed. When it comes to spotting the obvious, I’m an Olympic contender.

“Let’s just say he’s not the person I’d choose to write my biography.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s too fond of seeing his name in big letters in the papers. He turned over my brother-in-law, you know. Years ago, it was, but

All this was deeply fascinating, but I couldn’t see its relevance. In spite of Micky’s obvious conviction, I couldn’t see Neil cold bloodedly planning murder for the sake of a byline. Before I could divert the conversation down more profitable paths, the door from the house opened and a wave of Giorgio cut through the smoky air.

I turned in my chair to watch Tamar sweep across the room in her silk pajamas. Without a word of greeting, she made for the fridge. She bent over to peer inside, then slammed it shut with an air of bad temper. She started for the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen and caught Micky’s eyes on her. “Stop letching, sleazeball,” she threw at him on her way to the Weetabix.

Micky scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the room, grabbing his coat as he went. Thanks a bunch, Tamar, I thought to myself as I watched her tip two bars into a bowl and drench them with sugar. On her way back to the fridge, I remarked, “Sleep well?”