“Could you check with Jett, please. I do have an appointment.”

“Sorry. That won’t be possible.”

I wasn’t exactly surprised. Rock stars are not widely renowned for their efficiency. I sighed and tried again. This time the voice said, “I will have to ask you to leave now.”

I tried for a third time. This time there was no response at all. I shouted a very rude word at the entryphone. I could always turn round and go home. But that would have hurt my professional pride. “Call yourself a private eye, and you can’t even keep an appointment?” I snarled.

I reversed away from the gates and slowly drove along the

I slung my bag across my body and slowly made my way up the tree and along the branch. I dropped on to the top of the wall then let myself down by my arms. I only had about a foot to drop, and I managed it without any major injury. I dusted myself down and headed across the tussocky grass towards the house, avoiding too close an encounter with the browsing cattle. Thank God there wasn’t a bull about. When I got to the drive, I swapped shoes again, wrapping my Reeboks in the plastic bag I always keep in the handbag.

I marched up to the front door and toyed with the idea of ringing. To hell with that. Whoever had refused me entry previously wouldn’t be any better disposed now. On the off chance, I tried the handle of the massive double doors. To my surprise, it turned under my hand and the door swung open. I didn’t hang about thanking whoever is the patron saint of gumshoes, I just walked straight in. It was an awesome sight. The floor was paved with Italian terrazzo tiles, and ahead of me was an enormous staircase that split halfway up and headed in two different directions. Just like a Fred Astaire movie.

As I started to cross the hall, an outraged voice called from an open doorway near the entrance, “What do you think you’re playing at?” The voice was followed in short order by a blonde woman in her mid-twenties. She was strictly average in looks and figure, but she’d made the most of what she’d got. I took in the

“I’m here to see Jett,” I said.

“How did you get in? You’ve no right to be here. Are you the woman at the gate a few minutes ago?” she demanded crossly.

“That’s me. You really should get someone to look at your security. We’d be happy to oblige.”

“If you’re trying to drum up business, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m sorry, Jett can’t see anyone without an appointment,” she insisted with an air of finality. The smile she laced her reply with had enough malice to keep a gossip columnist going for a year.