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you want to see them. You have carte blanche around here.’
    â€˜I’m flattered.’
    â€˜Don’t be, just get the truth.’
    â€˜I’ll try,’ I said.
    â€˜Enjoy your evening.’
    â€˜I’m sure I will.’
    â€˜ I’m sure you will. Just one other thing.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Someone else wants to see you.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Guy called Pascall. Corporate lawyer. One of the guys I told you about who came in from LA. Big deal, or at least he thinks so. He’s in the Surrey Suite. Can you go up and see him?’
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜Now.’
    I looked at my watch. 5.45. ‘Sure.’
    â€˜And be nice. What he thinks matters, unfortunately.’
    â€˜I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t expect anything less. See you.’ And he hung up.

4
    I put down the phone, put on my jacket and went calling on the big-deal lawyer. I knocked on the door of the Surrey Suite at 5.55 precisely.
    â€˜Come,’ said a voice. It was the second best offer I’d had all day, so I did.
    I opened the door and went in. The room was dark, except for one spot lamp in the far corner behind a high-backed chair, lit and angled to throw it into silhouette. In the chair, almost invisible, sat someone.
    So this is the bloody lawyer, I thought. If he was into ego trips, no wonder the real stars were such painful fuckers. I walked across the room towards him, hoping that he hadn’t placed anything in the way as a booby trap.
    â€˜Mr Sharman, welcome,’ said a disembodied American voice as I got closer. That was reassuring. At least I knew I was in the right place. ‘Do sit down.’ There was a low chair on my side of him. It was perfectly placed so that whoever sat there had to look up at the speaker, and sit with the spot right in their eyes. This guy had obviously done some research into behavioural psychology.
    I moved the chair slightly and sat down. So had I. If he’d been that good he’d’ve had the chair nailed to the floor. He made no comment, just said, ‘You may smoke if you wish.’
    I took out a cigarette. There was an ashtray on the arm of the chair.
    â€˜My name is Pascall,’ he said. ‘Louis Pascall. I am a partner in the company that handles the legal affairs of Pandora’s Box. When I heard what had happened to Danny, naturally I came straight here. I told Roger I wanted no police involvement. I also told him to use his best endeavours to protect the band. He hired extra men from Premiere, and you.’ He didn’t exactly sound thrilled skinny about that. ‘Naturally, I asked him why.’
    â€˜Naturally,’ I said.
    â€˜He mentioned that you had done a job for Mark McBain.’
    I nodded.
    â€˜I made further enquiries and the name Salvatore Cassini was mentioned.’
    Salvatore Cassini, Jo’s father. The name swept over me like a black wave. Josephine Cassini. Little Jo. The woman I’d loved and lost in a car-bomb explosion meant for me. It all happened because I was looking into the financial affairs of Mark McBain, rock star. A victim of the sixties. Ripped off by his management company and living the life of a virtual recluse in a huge house in Surrey.
    But the people who’d planted the bomb had picked on the wrong woman to kill. Her father was a very heavy-duty Family man, with a capital ‘F’. And in more ways than one, if you catch my drift. Cassini had sent his only son and a couple of soldiers to sort out the bombers. But things had gone badly wrong for all of us, and everyone involved had died except for McBain and me.
    â€˜I’m familiar with the name,’ I said.
    â€˜Do you know him personally?’ Pascall asked.
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘You?’
    â€˜We’ve never met, but the family still has outstanding connections. An acquaintance of mine filled me in on the whole story. Apparently a