“We were actually second from the bottom of the bill,” said Daniel.

I asked Daniel whether he played anything other than the piano.

“I do a mean Gibson electric,” he said.

“How would you like to play with a man who is almost a jazz legend?” I asked.

“How can you ‘almost’ be a jazz legend?” asked Max.

“Shut up, Max,” said James. “The man’s talking about his father. You are talking about your father?”

There was a pause—it was common knowledge that my dad had lost his lip. It was Daniel who put it together. “He’s switched instruments, hasn’t he?” he asked.

“Fender Rhodes,” I said.

“Is he any good?” asked Max.

“He’s going to be better than me,” said Daniel.

“Lord Grant,” said James. “How cool is that?”

“That’s pretty cool,” said Max. “Do you think he’ll agree?”

“I’ll find out,” I said. “I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you,” said Daniel.

“Don’t thank me, man,” I said. “Just doing my job.”

So, the jazz police to the rescue. If my dad said yes—which I thought he probably would. The Arches Club was in Camden Lock, just down the road from my flat, so logistics would be easy. I decided to let Mum organize the rehearsals—she might enjoy that.

It was only after I’d agreed to see what I could sort out that I realized I’d never heard my father play before an audience. The irregulars were so pleased that James was moved to offer to buy me a pint, several pints in fact, but I was driving so I stuck to just the one. It was just as well because ten minutes later Stephanopoulis called me.

“We’re turning over Jason Dunlop’s flat,” she said. “We’ve found some things I’d like you to take a look at.” She gave me an address in Islington.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said.

*  *  *

JASON DUNLOP lived in the half-basement flat of a converted early-Victorian terrace on Barnsbury Road. In previous eras the servants’ quarters would be fully underground, but the Victorians, being the great social improvers they were, had decided that even the lowly should be able to see the feet of the people walking past the grand houses of their masters—hence the half basement. That and the increased daylight saved on candles, a penny saved is a penny earned and all that. The interior walls had been painted estate-agent white and were devoid of decoration, no framed photographs, no reproduction Manets, Klimts, or poker-playing dogs. The kitchen units were low-end and brand-new. I smelled buy-for-lease and recently too. Judging by the half-emptied packing cases in the living room, I didn’t think Jason had lived there long.

“A messy divorce,” said Stephanopoulis as she showed me around.

“Has she got an alibi?”