Tamar was lying on one of the twin beds wearing a pair of silk lounging pajamas. She hadn’t noticed my entrance because she was glued to the television, watching a video of 9½ Weeks. A pair of headphones were clamped to her head as she studied Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke indulging in the ultimate nice work if you can

She pulled the headphones off and snapped the bedside lamp on. More gilt horror.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, walking into my bedroom?” she snapped.

“Sorry to butt in on you,” I apologized insincerely.

“So you bloody should be. What are you doing here, anyway?”

I was beginning to get the message. Maybe I should change my deodorant. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you,” I said.

She scowled and pushed her tangled blonde hair back from her face. “OK,” she sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. “Message received and understood. He means it this time.” She walked across the room and dramatically pulled open a wardrobe door. “I was getting pissed off with having to be a little goody two shoes anyway. I’m too old to be sneaking off to the loo every time I want a joint.” She rattled the hangers noisily.

Then she turned back to me and shouted, “So what are you hanging around for? Enjoying the cabaret, are you? My God, he didn’t have to send you to do his dirty work.”

Crossed wires are, in my experience, the kind that provide most illumination. Unfortunately, it looked like this set had finally shortcircuited. “I think we’re at cross purposes, Tamar. It’s not Jett who asked me to come and get you. It’s the police.”

“The police?” The puzzlement on her face looked genuine. “What d’you mean?”

“Like I said, I’ve got some bad news. Moira’s dead,” I said.

It was as if I’d pressed the freeze-frame button. Tamar stopped dead, her face immobile. At first, she said nothing. Then a slow smile curled her lips. “Well, what a shame,” she said sarcastically. “I suppose she just couldn’t stay away from the stuff.”

Tamar might have been a blonde, but I was far from convinced that she was dumb. And if she was guilty, she was choosing a very clever way of hiding it.

“You’re right off track,” I commented. “Moira’s been murdered. In the rehearsal room.”

That got a reaction. Tamar flushed scarlet. “I … I don’t understand,” she whispered.