For the third time, I said, “I have an appointment. Kate Brannigan of Mortensen and Brannigan.”

She tossed her long plait over her shoulder and her cornflower blue eyes narrowed. “You could be the Princess of Wales and you still wouldn’t get past me without an appointment. Look for yourself,” she added, thrusting an open desk diary at me.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or -four, but she had all the steely intransigence of the Brigade of Guards. I glanced at the page she was showing me. As she’d said, there was no appointment marked down for me. Either Jett had forgotten to mention it to her, or she was deliberately trying to keep me away from him. I sighed and tried again. “Look, Miss …”

“Seward. Gloria Seward. I’m Jett’s personal assistant. I’m here to protect him from being troubled by people he doesn’t want to see. All his appointments go through me.”

“Well, I can only assume he forgot to mention this to you. The arrangement was only made last night after the concert. Perhaps it slipped his mind. Now, can I suggest that you pop off and find Jett and confirm our arrangement with him?” I was still managing to be sweet reason personified, but the veneer was beginning to wear thin.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Jett’s working and can’t be disturbed,” she smirked.

It was the smirk that did it. Beyond her, I could see the cool marble hall beckoning me. I pushed past her and I was halfway to

I opened the first door I came to. It was a square drawing room done out in watered blue silk and gilt. Very country house and garden. A stereo system heavily disguised as a Queen Anne cabinet was blasting out Chris Rea’s Road To Hell album. The only sign of life was reclining on a blue silk sofa that looked too delicate for anything heftier than Elizabeth Barrett Browning in her last days. There was nothing tubercular about Tamar, however. She looked like she’d had more than the three hours’ sleep I’d managed, that was for sure. She glanced up at me from the magazine she was reading and said, “Oh, it’s you again.”

She was wearing a cobalt blue shell suit that clashed so violently with the furnishings it hurt my head to look at her. “Hi,” I said. “Where’s Jett?”

“The rehearsal room. Straight down the hall, down the passage at the back and first right.” Before she’d even finished talking, she’d returned to her magazine, her foot tapping in time to the music.

I emerged in the hall to find a furious Gloria standing guard outside the door. “How dare you!” she exploded.