“My God, can’t you two stop bickering for once? Have some respect for the dead,” Tamar shouted. Her shameless hypocrisy left me gasping, but no one else seemed to notice. Micky mumbled an apology and walked over to the window to watch the rain falling.

“You on the payroll, then?” Neil asked me sotto voce. I nodded. He smiled conspiratorially. “Glad I’m not the only one making a shilling out of Moira’s death.”

I’d only been there an hour and already I was heartily sick of the lot of them. Some jobs should come stamped with a government health warning. Something like: “You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

I decided it was time to start asking questions. But in the great tradition of the best-laid plans, I was thwarted by the arrival of Inspector Jackson and his merry men. Jackson marched in as if he’d taken a long lease on the place. He’d found time for a fresh suit and shirt, though the tie was the same. Maybe it held some Masonic significance I didn’t recognize. Hot on his heels was an older man, who moved to Jackson’s side and announced, “Good day, ladies and gentlemen. I am Detective Superintendent Ron Arbuthnot and I will be in overall charge of this inquiry. I know some of you have given my officers initial statements, but we will be requiring you for further interviews in the course of the day. Please arrange

As soon as he’d gone, Jackson turned on me. “Have you got some kind of death wish, Brannigan?” he hissed as he took me by the arm and led me to the door. “I’ve already thrown you out of here once. Is business so bad you’ve got to come touting?”

“I was invited here,” I told him through clenched teeth. “Get your hands off me. Now.”

He reluctantly let me go, then opened the door and tried to usher me through it. I stood my ground. Jett called, “You OK, Kate? The lady’s a friend, Inspector. I want her here.”

Jackson turned to Jett and flashed an insincere smile. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Franklin. We have some questions for Miss Brannigan, and after that, we’ll be needing to talk to you again. Perhaps it would be better if she came back tomorrow.”

Jett glared at Jackson. I wasn’t sure if that was on my account or because Jackson had used his real name. Jett doesn’t like to be reminded of its patriotic overtones. Let’s face it, which of us outside the Tory Cabinet would like to be saddled with Winston Gladstone Franklin?