Jett himself was holding court at the far end of the room, looking as fresh as if he’d just got out of the shower. His arm was draped casually round the shoulders of a classic Fiona. Her blonde hair hung over her shoulders in a loosely permed mane, her blue eyes, like the rest of her face, were perfectly made up, and the shiny violet sheath that encased her curves looked to me like a Bill Blass.

“Come on, let’s go and talk to Jett,” Richard said eagerly, steering me towards the far side of the room. As we passed the table where the drinks were laid out, a shirtsleeved arm sneaked out from a group of women and grabbed Richard’s shoulder.

“Barclay!” a deep voice bellowed. “What the hell are you doing here?” The group parted to reveal the speaker, a man of medium height and build, running slightly to paunch round the middle.

Richard looked astonished. “Neil Webster!” he exclaimed with less than his usual warmth. “I could ask you the same thing. At least I’m a bloody rock writer, not an ambulance chaser. What are you doing back in Manchester? I thought you were in Spain.”

“A bit too hot for me down there, if you catch my drift,” Neil Webster replied. “Besides, all the news these days seems to happen in this city. I thought I was about due to revisit my old haunts.”

Their exchange gave me a few minutes to study this latest addition to my collection of Journalists Of The World. Neil Webster had that slightly disreputable air that a lot of women seem to find irresistible. I’m not one of them. He looked to be in his late thirties, though a journalist’s life does seem to accelerate aging

My scrutiny was interrupted by his own matching appraisal. “So who’s the lovely lady? I’m sorry, my love, that oaf you came with seems to have forgotten his manners. I’m Neil Webster, real journalist. Not like Richard with his comic books. And you’re …?”

“Kate Brannigan.” I coolly shook his proffered hand.

“Well, Kate, let me get you a drink. What’s it to be?”

I asked him for my usual vodka and grapefruit juice, and he turned to the bar to pour it. Richard leaned past him and helped himself to a can of Schlitz. “You didn’t say what exactly you were doing back here,” Richard pressed Neil as he handed me my drink. I tasted it and nearly choked, both at the strength of the drink and the impact of Neil’s reply.

“Didn’t I? Oh, sorry. Fact of the matter is, I’ve been commissioned to write Jett’s official biography.”

Chapter   3