“It’s a little difficult,” he admitted. “I am well aware of the alleged attack earlier this evening, and I can appreciate that you might not be inclined to listen to what I have to propose.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Your client tried to strangle me tonight. He’s right off my Christmas card list. But I’m always happy to listen. You’d be amazed the things you can pick up that way.”

He smiled. He was meant to. “I take your point, Miss Brannigan,” he acknowledged. “It’s my understanding that you have been retained by one of my client’s artistes to uncover the identity of the murderer of Moira Pollock. Is that correct?”

Why do lawyers always ask questions they know the answers to? It was one of the things that made me decide I preferred being a private investigator. Maybe you don’t always come across as omniscient, but at least you get the occasional stimulating surprise. “Quite right,” I reassured him.

He gave a curt nod. “And I understand that you made certain allegations against my client in this matter?”

“Right again.” Had it really been worth trekking downstairs for this?

“My client has instructed me to pass certain information on to you, without prejudice,” he said solemnly, as if he were handing me a gift of immense value and corresponding responsibilities. His glasses had slipped down, and he peered at me through them like a judge thirty years his senior.

“Indeed,” I replied. All this legalese was causing serious linguistic regression.

“You alleged that my client had knowledge of the crime at a time when only the murderer could have known it. My client denies this strenuously, and has asked me to ascertain the source of this false information so that he can refute it,” he said earnestly.

I should know better than to be surprised by the deviousness of lawyers. “It sounds like you’re looking for information rather than handing it out,” I told him. “If your client is a murderer, would it not be rather irresponsible of me to identify a witness against him?” More linguistic contagion.

“My client is going to be charged with attempted murder,” Berman replied tartly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I don’t think he’ll be in a position to pose a risk to anyone. The point is that my client strongly denies possessing the aforementioned information at the time you allege. He denies vigorously passing that information on to anyone, and believes he can produce witnesses to all his conversations up to the time when he returned to his room.”

I felt a prickle of interest. Berman’s words suggested there might be some corroboration of my fresh suspicions. Before I could reply, Bill’s voice rang through the office like a demented Sun journalist. “Gotcha!” he cried.