“Ten minutes. You hear about Moira Pollock?” I nodded. “I’m doing a piece for the Sunday Tribune—you know, wringing their withers, lots of color, plenty of topspin. Be right with you.”

I left him to it. True to his word, ten minutes later he joined me in the conservatory, where I was watching the rain on the glass making rivers against the darkness. Richard threw himself into a basket chair and popped the top off a Michelob Dry.

“I have a confession to make,” I announced.

Richard’s eyebrows rose and he gave me his cute smile. “You wore the same clothes two days running? You forgot to hoover the lounge before you went out this morning? You ate a yogurt that was two days past its sell-by date?”

I don’t know who told him he was funny. It certainly wasn’t me. “This is serious,” I explained.

“Oh, shit! You left a ring round the bath!” he teased.

Sometimes I wish I lived with a grown-up.

“Moira Pollock didn’t just turn up on Jett’s doorstep out of the blue,” I announced bluntly. It was the only way to get his attention.

“How d’you know that?” he demanded, suddenly serious now his professional world was involved.

“Because it was me who drove her there.”

I had the momentary satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop. “You what?” he exclaimed.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you about it at the time. Jett swore me to secrecy, with particular reference to you. He hired us to find Moira for him. So I did. And now he’s hired me to find Moira’s killer.”

I’d dropped my bombshell, and it seemed to have left Richard momentarily speechless. He just stared at me, mouth open like a drunken actor who’s forgotten his lines. Eventually, he closed his mouth, swallowed hard and said, “You’re at the wind-up.”

“Never been more serious.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “So how come you’re telling me now? How come client confidentiality goes out the window at this precise moment?”

“Because when murder’s on the agenda, I’m entitled to grab all the extra help I can get,” I explained.

“Shee-it,” he drawled. Then the journalist in him jumped out like a jack-in-the-box. “That’s great. You’ll be able to give me the inside track on the story.”

I shook my head wonderingly. “That’s not the idea, Richard. We’ll happily pay you a consultancy fee, but I don’t let the cat out of the bag for anyone except my client. And besides, whatever I could give you would be old hat anyway. Your old mate Neil Webster is sitting there in Colcutt Manor, feeding the world what it wants to hear, straight from the horses’ mouths.”