The older policeman looked exasperated. All he wanted to do was get to the murder scene before the CID arrived and started treating him like a turnip. At this rate, he’d end up looking like a complete wally who hadn’t even managed to keep tabs on the occupants of the house. Ignoring Kevin’s histrionic gesture, he said, “Miss, if you could just show me the way?”

I led him to the door. Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me across the threshold again. I handed him the key and nodded at the door. “In there. I checked for a pulse, but there wasn’t one.”

“Touch anything else, miss?” he asked as he unlocked the door.

“No.” I leaned against the wall as he let himself in. All I wanted was to climb back into bed and pull the duvet over my head. It didn’t seem to be an available option. Wearily, I pushed myself back into action. Apart from the young constable, whose radio was crackling like an egg in a hot frying pan, the front hall was empty. I didn’t feel up to Kevin and Gloria, so I sat on the bottom step of the stairs and wondered gloomily why I’d already stuck my neck out to protect Jett. He wasn’t a friend, simply a client who’d paid his bill promptly. I know that’s rarer than a socialist at a Labour Party meeting, but it still wasn’t reason enough for my quixotic behavior.

The sound of the intercom brought Gloria scuttling back from the drawing room. This time, the door opened to reveal two plain clothes officers, a uniformed sergeant and an inspector. They hadn’t wasted any time. They had a brief conference with the officer on the door, and the CID disappeared in the direction of the rehearsal room. The inspector went off to the drawing room. The

I shrugged and Gloria pursed her mouth in a self-satisfied smirk. She didn’t care if it took murder to keep me in my place. Then she rattled off efficiently, “Jett is in the drawing room with his manager, Mr. Kleinman. Mr. Webster, Jett’s official biographer, will either be in his office or in bed. Miss Spenser, Jett’s companion, is in her room upstairs.”

“Thank you,” the officer interjected, desperately trying to keep up with her flow. He scribbled on for a moment then said, “And you ladies are …?”

“I’m Gloria Seward, Jett’s personal assistant and private secretary. And this is Kate Brannigan,” she added, her tone spelling out that I was an insignificant menial, there to make up the numbers. I held my tongue. The time to reveal my profession would come soon enough. Once they knew I was a private eye, it would be straight into quarantine for me, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.