Where her mother’s love life, or more correctly sex life, was concerned, Liselle stood back. Her mother had always gravitated from man to man, never staying with any of them longer than five minutes. Her temper when in drink generally put them off. But this didn’t seem to deter Victor, which was one thing in his favour with Liselle. As she walked out of the studios in Abbey Road and went over to the coffee shop opposite, she bumped into a big black man.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

The man touched his cap and walked on. Liselle forgot about him and carried on over the road to get her coffee.

She didn’t see the black man get into a large black Roadster just down the road and carry on watching her from there.

Kerry began to sing. Everything was quiet, as if a funeral was about to take place, and as she sang the opening bars of her song, Victor Sanderson sighed with contentment.

This was talent on a grand scale.

Kerry still sang the blues with a deep throaty voice, but had emerged with a sound all of her own over the last twenty years. She was up there now among the greats and her voice was a guaranteed seller. When people thought of singers, great singers, they thought of Ella, of Billie, and of Kerry Cavanagh. Her voice had wafted through dusty dance halls and expensive night spots all through the war, and she had emerged bigger than ever. Now Victor Sanderson was going to see that she didn’t go the way of Billie Holiday and her counterparts. He was going to watch her like a hawk, an investment that would make him more money than he dreamed of. On top of all that, though secondary to it, she was a great looker, and great in bed when she was sober enough. It was no hardship to him, looking out for her.