We arrived at the Apollo just as the support band were finishing their first number. We’d have caught the opener if they hadn’t left the guest list in the hands of an illiterate. One of the major drawbacks to having a relationship with a rock writer is that you can’t put support bands to their traditional use of providing a background beat while you have a few drinks before the act you came to hear gets on stage. Rock writers actually listen to the support band, just so they can indulge in their professional one-upmanship with lines like, “Oh yes, I remember Dire Straits when they were playing support at the Newcastle City Hall,” invariably to

The bar at the Apollo reminds me of a vision of hell. It’s decorated in a mosaic of bright red glitter, it’s hot and it reeks of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. I elbowed my way through the crowd and waved a fiver in the air till one of the nonchalant bar staff eventually deigned to notice me. At the Apollo, they specialize in a minuscule selection of drinks, all served at blood heat in plastic tumblers. It doesn’t matter much what you order, it all seems to taste much the same. Only the colors vary. I asked for a lager, which arrived flat and looking like a urine sample. I sipped tentatively and decided that seeing is believing. As I pushed my way back towards the door, I saw someone who made me stop so suddenly that the man behind me cannoned into me, spilling half my drink down the trousers of the man next to me.

In the chaos of my apologies and my pathetic attempts to wipe up the spilled beer with a tissue from my handbag, I took my eyes off the source of my surprise. When I managed to make my embarrassed escape, I looked over to the corner where he’d been standing. But it was now occupied by a threesome I’d never seen before. Gary Smart, brother and partner of Billy, had vanished.

I stared round the crowded bar, but there was no trace of him. He’d been standing with a tall, skinny man who’d had his back to me. I didn’t hear a word of their conversation, but their body language suggested a business deal. Gary had been putting some kind of pressure on the other man. It certainly hadn’t looked like a pleasant, concertgoers’ chat about which of Jett’s albums they liked best. I cursed silently. I’d missed a great chance to pick up some interesting info.