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before flipping her over and gently setting her down.
    He sashayed to the left of her, then to the right. He twirled all the way round her before catching her hand reeling her in towards him, then unwinding her out again, like some horizontal yo-yo. In all of this time, JayJay had hardly taken two steps under her own steam and their routine had clearly been designed to highlight his talents over hers. She was no Ginger Rogers that's for sure, I thought as, with a final twirl, they came to rest taking their bows in front of audience and camera. The whole thing had lasted six minutes and the crowd hadn't shut up—once. It reminded me of a magic show where the illusion is all done with mirrors. Or as Shakespeare put it, 'full of sound and fury, signifying nothing'.
    Their performance having finished, the camera moved from the two presenters to focus on the contestants. In swirls of jewel coloured satin and chiffon the dancers on the stairs descended to take their turn in the spotlight, circling the stage, their acrobatic and frenzied gyrations bringing gasps from the appreciative audience but only groans from me. The sheer fakery of their rictus smiles together with the doll-like make-up, the skimpy and ridiculous costumes of the women, the black frock coats and glossy gelled hair of the men all left me entirely unmoved. I paused the disc, appalled at the fatuousness of it all.
    I heaved a sigh and took my mug through to the kitchen to refresh my coffee. My problem, I thought, standing at the sink looking out at the brick wall as the kettle boiled, was that I was an anachronism, born in the wrong era, out of my natural time and out of step with the modern world. I enjoyed things that made me old enough to be Holly Danver's grandmother, not a mere twelve years her senior. I liked old films from the heyday of Hollywood in the 1940s, the music of the 60's; not modern movies filled with graphic sex and violence or the current crop of chart toppers - all girl bands and rap artists. KD would no doubt say I was simply old-fashioned, I reflected sipping at my coffee and sitting back down. Whatever, I was too old to change now. I picked up the remote control and forwarded the disc past the still-grinning faces of the contestants. Jaynee and Greg came into shot, smiling and talking to each other. I turned up the sound.
    "Wow, Greg, what a dazzling line-up." Jaynee Johnson's voice rang with an amazement that gave all the appearance of being sincere. "It looks as if we have a bumper crop of fabulous dancers, tonight."
    "You're right, JayJay. The judges are really going to have their work cut out."
    Hell's teeth! Did somebody write this? Were the prize pair following a script or did they just make it up as they went along? I shook my head in sheer disbelief that hundreds of thousands of people watched this drivel every week and, apparently, found it entertaining. I pressed the mute button. The couple continued to mouth soundlessly at each other as I watched. This served two purposes, I discovered. Firstly, I was no longer distracted by the banalities and secondly, I could concentrate on the body language of the two stars which was telling me far, far more. I'm no psychologist but if Greg and JayJay had ever been an item they certainly weren't now. I rewound the disc and watched those last few seconds again. They stood just a fraction too far apart as if one or the other wanted to maintain some distance between them and their heads were tilted fractionally away—even allowing for the cliched drivel they were uttering, this couple were talking at, not to, each other. I paused the disc again while I found my notebook and made a list of questions.
    When I'd done that I sat back and surveyed the page. One thing was becoming increasingly clear. If I was going to delve any deeper into the mystery of JayJay's death then I needed to talk to Greg Ferrari—and soon.

Chapter 4

    As he'd promised, Jim was waiting in the entrance to the Central Library