Before I could properly judge her reaction, there was a tattoo of knocks on the front door. I pushed past Gloria and opened the door. Two uniformed officers stood on the doorstep, the flashing blue light on top of their car washing them in an eerie glow. “Miss Brannigan, is it?” the older of the two asked politely.

“That’s me. You’d better come in. Are the CID on their way?”

“That’s right, miss,” he said as they walked into the hall, looking around them curiously. They’d drink out on this for months, murder in the rock star’s den. “Can you show me where the uhh …”

“You’d better wait here, Gloria,” I said loftily. “Someone will have to let the other officers in.”

As I turned away to lead them to the rehearsal room, a man’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “What the fuck is going down?” I glanced up to see Kevin leaning over the gilt banister, looking as spruce as if he was heading for a meeting with his bank manager. Didn’t anybody ever sleep in this house?

“You’d better get yourself down here,” I called back.

“What the hell are you doing here, Brannigan?” he ranted as he turned the corner of the stairs. Then he saw the cops and stopped dead. “Oh shit, what are they doing here? What’s going on?”

“Moira’s been killed,” I blurted out before anyone else could speak.

Kevin missed a step and almost tumbled to the foot of the stairs, just catching himself in time on the banister. “You what?” he gasped. “There’s got to be some mistake. Gloria, what’s she playing at?”

“I don’t know, Kevin. I just came downstairs and found her here.”

“No mistake, I’m afraid,” I interrupted. “I’ve seen the body. You’d better go and sit with Jett. He’s in the drawing room.”

Kevin shook his head like a man who thinks he’s trapped in a bad dream and moved across the hall towards the door. Gloria took a couple of steps after him, then hesitated. The policemen conferred almost inaudibly, then the younger one stepped back towards the front door. “I’ll have to ask you not to leave the building, sir,” he said to Kevin.

“Listen, sonny, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got an artiste to look after,” he said self-importantly. “I’ve got a right to be here. Why don’t you ask her what the hell she’s doing on the premises? She’s the outsider here,” he complained sharply, pointing to me.