Hilda’s office was in Greek Street, above an Italian café that had been there for ever. I went through the side door and up a narrow flight of steps that could just as easily have found itself in a haunted house. This was a successful agency with several big-name writers, but it always felt cramped and old-fashioned. My books were not on display in the reception area. A young receptionist behind an antique desk greeted me with a smile.

‘I’m here to see Hilda Starke,’ I told him.

‘And you are?’

She’d only been my agent for four years. I told him my name and he rang through. ‘Yes. She’s expecting you. You know where to find her?’

‘Yes. I think I can find the way.’

As I approached the door at the back of the building, there was a sound that I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard before. Hilda was laughing. I think, occasionally, I’d seen her smile when she was reading the bestseller lists, but she usually focused on whatever business was at hand and left any sense of merriment outside the door. I knocked and went in.

Hilda was not alone. Hawthorne was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, holding a cup of coffee. Both of them were wearing suits and I suddenly felt very scruffy in T-shirt, jeans and trainers. It took me a moment to remember that Hawthorne was now represented by Hilda. It seemed like an age had passed since he’d told me that he had come to an agreement with her. What were the two of them doing here together? And why did they need me?

‘You look well,’ Hilda said. She herself was showing off a luminescent suntan from her recent holiday in Barbados. ‘Have you started your book about Alderney yet?’

‘You know I’m working on Moonflower Murders,’ I told her. I sat down in the other empty chair. ‘Did you see my play?’ I asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I had tickets to the Saturday matinée. I was going to take the whole office, but when we got to the theatre they said it had closed that very day.’ She sniffed. ‘At least we got our money back.’

‘What is this about?’ I asked, a little tetchily.

‘How are you doing, mate?’ Hawthorne looked across at me. He was unusually cheerful too. ‘I was just telling Hilda about the murder of Harriet Throsby.’

‘Yes. You know, for once I actually got it right!’ I hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but it was true. When I’d left his dressing room, I’d named Tirian Kirke as the killer.

‘You didn’t exactly,’ Hawthorne returned. ‘You only thought it was him because he’d refused to do your drama on TV.’

‘Well, I didn’t trust him. I was right about that.’ While I’d been in France, I’d had time to think about what had happened and now I couldn’t stop myself asking, ‘Why did they all gang up on me, Hawthorne? I mean, Jordan said I agreed with him when he was making his threat to kill Harriet. Ewan said the same. Olivia told you I threatened her mother. And Sky Palmer said I’d seen Harriet’s address in the magazine. None of that was true!’