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dance, as well, though you wouldn’t think it to look at me now. No Fred Astaire, but I was a decent hoofer in my time. It’s all I can do to take three steps now. My trouble always was, my feet were too small for my weight. Put too much strain on them. If I were to show you, it would make you weep, I give you my word.’
    Slider sat opposite him and tried to fix his attention. ‘I understand you’ve got something to tell me about Phoebe Agnew.’
    ‘Well, not exactly, but I thought you’d be sure to want to speak to me, as we were so close, so I came straight here as soon as I heard about it.’ The blue eyes wavered swimmingly. ‘I suppose it
is
true? There’s no mistake?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. How did you hear about it?’ Slider asked.
    ‘I picked up a
Standard
at the station, and there it was – just a paragraph at the bottom of the front page. It didn’t give her name, just said a well-known journalist had been found dead in a flat in West London, but, call me Mystic Meg, I just had an awful
premonition
about it. So I went straight to the nearest telephone and called the
Ham and Ful
news desk, and of course they knew all about it. One of our own had been first on the scene. My God, what a way to find out! I thought I was going to faint, right there in the railway station. I’m still not feeling quite myself.’
    ‘It must have been a shock,’ Slider said kindly. The unnatural-looking tan, he had discovered, was make-up after all. Medmenham might well be pale under it: he certainly had a look of strain.
    ‘It was,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, that’s another reason I came straight here. I didn’t want to go home. Is that silly of me?’ He gave a little nervous laugh.
    ‘Understandable,’ Slider said.
    ‘I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to go back there again. She – she isn’t
still there
, is she?’
    ‘No. The body’s been removed.’
    ‘The body! Oh dear!’ His lips began to tremble and his face threatened to collapse, but he said, ‘No, I must stay calm. Can’t blub in front of the police.’ He drew out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and carefully applied it to his eyes and lips. ‘And I want to
help
,’ he added, emerging. ‘Poor, darling Phoebe! Who could have done such a thing?’
    ‘Your editor said you weren’t at work today,’ Slider said.
    ‘My editor? You mean Martin? He doesn’t edit
me
, love,’ Medmenham said with sudden vigour. ‘Barely literate, like most of the staff, but then that’s the progressive education system for you. Gender awareness and finger-painting, oh yes, but reading and writing –
oubliez le
! And as for grammar—’
    ‘But I understood you were a reporter for the
Ham and Ful
?’
    He looked shocked. ‘Oh, not a
reporter
! I do the reviews. Books, theatre, TV. And the interviews and articles – everything on the arts side. Not the music scene – that’s
very
different. Very cliquey. I don’t have the in. But I’m virtually the arts editor, otherwise. I used to be on the stage, of course, so I’ve got the contacts. I come from a long line of theatricals. My parents were in variety. I first went on as a Babe in the Wood at the age of six. Golden curls I had then, if you’ll believe me! I’ve done a bit of everything. From panto to musicals, Shakespeare to Whitehall farce. But I went over to the writing side when my feet let me down. It’s not only that I can’t dance any more, I just couldn’t stand on stage for three hours every night. You wouldn’t believe how it takes it out on the feet, acting. It’s not a thing anyone talks about, really.’
    ‘Tell me how you first met Phoebe Agnew,’ Slider said.
    ‘Ooh, that would be – let me think – thirteen, fourteen years ago. Nineteen eighty-five, was it? Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth! My lord, doesn’t the
tempus
fuge when you take your eye off it? Time flies like an arrow – but fruit flies like a banana, as they say! Anyway, I met Phoebe at a Labour