‘All his business gets done at the back door,’ Ricky pulled a face suggestively. ‘What’s he want you for?’

‘To clean his house, I imagine.’

Morris wagged a warning finger. ‘You be careful, Juno.’

I was used to their theatrics but, in spite of myself, I had to ask. ‘Why?’

‘He’s been inside, more than once.’

‘For receiving stolen goods,’ Ricky added in a stage whisper.

‘Really?’ I asked, in what I hoped was a pinch-of-salt type voice.

‘And other stuff,’ Morris added, nodding like an old woman.

‘What other stuff?’

‘Nickolai isn’t his real name either.’ Ricky flicked ash from his cigarette with a shoulder-shrugging elegance any Hollywood movie-queen would envy. ‘It’s short for … Nickoloviza … something longer.’

‘He sounded vaguely Russian on the phone,’ I admitted. ‘Sort of middle European. What other stuff?’ I asked again.

As I didn’t get an answer, I strongly suspected this was just theatrical embellishment, until Morris mouthed the word ‘blackmail’ at me. ‘You make sure he pays you properly.’ He winced as he bit into a biscuit. ‘He’s been a right old chiseller in his time.’

‘I haven’t agreed to work for him yet,’ I pointed out. ‘I’m just meeting him tomorrow.’ I glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘What time’s your concert?’

‘Oh my God! Half past five already!’ Ricky hastily stubbed out his cigarette. ‘And we’re not finished yet!’

‘I’ll finish putting the costumes together,’ I volunteered, ‘if you two want to rehearse.’

‘We do need to run through a couple of things,’ Morris admitted apologetically, hastily gathering up cups and clattering them in the sink. ‘Can you cope, Juno?’

‘Don’t worry. You carry on.’ The concert was a fundraiser for the local hospice. For years Ricky and Morris had performed as a double act. Sauce and Slander, they called themselves. They’d begin the evening with light operatic songs and witty repartee, gradually progress to biting satire and descend into scurrilous filth. They were very, very popular.

Ricky had already disappeared into the music room and commanding chords rang out from the grand piano. ‘C’mon Maurice, get your fat arse in here!’

Morris grinned at me and bustled off to join him.

‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes’ − his mellifluous tones followed me as I climbed back up the stairs − ‘take a tender little hand fringed with dainty fingerettes …’