He covered his disappointment with a wry grin. “Anybody should have been murdered up there, it should have been that piece of shit,” he complained. “OK, Brannigan. You got it. Any help I can give you, it’s yours. So why don’t you take me right back to the beginning and tell me how you tracked Moira down. Surely you can at least give me that teensy weensy exclusive?”

I grinned back at him. One day I’m going to learn how to put up a resistance to his charms. With any luck, it’s a long way off.

Chapter   18

There was still a policeman at the gates of Colcutt Manor when I arrived the following morning. But half past ten was too early for the press, who, judging by the number of cars in the pub car park, had invaded the guest rooms of the Colcutt Arms and were still sleeping off their expense account excesses.

It was also too early for the household. Now the bulk of the police had left, life was slowly returning to normal. The kitchen was empty, as was the blue drawing room, the television room, the dining room, the billiard room and Neil’s office. I was beginning to feel like a National Trust curator on a rainy Wednesday as I trudged back to the hall. This time, one of the crew of the Marie Celeste had appeared.

Gloria was just walking out of her office when she heard my heels clattering on the terrazzo tiles and turned sharply round. “Oh, it’s you,” she said with her usual grace and charm. She ignored me and carried on walking, closing the door behind her.

Undaunted, I followed her down the hall to the rear porch. As she pulled on a tan leather blouson, she eyed me warily, and I returned the compliment. I know that white is the color of mourning in oriental cultures, but I’ve never encountered the civilization where they show their feelings for the departed in coral and cream jogging suits. I guess Valkyries do things differently.

“I’m busy,” she informed me, opening the back door and heading for the stable block.

“Must be a lot to do,” I said. “Organizing the funeral and all.”

She had the good grace to blush, a reaction that strangely did nothing for her English Rose coloring. She zapped the up-and-over

“That’s being arranged by Moira’s mother. We decided Jett was in no fit state to cope with it,” she informed me.

And Ms. Pollock indubitably will be, I thought, but didn’t say. There was already enough animosity between us. “In that case,” I insisted, following her to the driver’s door of a Volkswagen Golf, “I’m sure you can find a few minutes of your time to answer a few questions.” She climbed in the car, ignoring me, and started the engine. I had to jump back to avoid her rear wheels amputating my toes.