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was a lot of washing up, and I rather hoped to find Karen remembering her obligations. Jill was busy, and the other women – but not Karen. Cursing under my breath, and possibly out loud, I went to find the caterers.
    I found a rebellion.
    Sam explained: Jonty had said probably no party. OK, they could quite see why not. But what was this about everyone having to hang about in this benighted dump when there was enough time to see a little of Birmingham? If indeed, as he personally doubted, there was anything of Birmingham worth seeing. I shrugged, and muttered something non-committal about the police.
    â€˜Jonty says that was your idea. Jesus, calling the bloody cops!’
    I wondered briefly whether to trust him, but decided against it. ‘My boyfriend—’ I stopped. I loathed the term. But surely Sam wouldn’t be politically correct enough to demand the word companion, and whatever else Chris was he certainly wasn’t my partner. ‘My boyfriend’s in the police. The routine rubs off. Probably the fuzz themselves will tell you all you can go.’
    â€˜I wish.’ He stared malevolently at the empty juicer. ‘I wonder what flavour His Nibs’ll want tonight.’ He juggled a couple of mangoes.
    â€˜Phone and find out,’ I said briefly. ‘Seen Karen anywhere?’
    â€˜I told her big bad Auntie Sophie would be after her, so she’s washing up, isn’t she?’
    â€˜Not so as you’d notice. Seen young Peachy Bum anywhere? She could be seeking consolation in his arms.’
    â€˜He’s in the First Aid Room – fainted clean away when he heard what had happened. Any news, by the way?’ All the camp frivolity left his voice.
    I shook my head. ‘And I can’t imagine that it’ll be good when we get it. Poor bugger. Any theories floating around about how it might have happened?’
    â€˜Plenty. And all contradictory. Why don’t you go and have a nose round? You’re Family, after all. You’re entitled.’ He picked up a melon; the conversation was at an end.
    That was exactly what I wanted to do; but there was still the small matter of Karen. Not expecting miracles, I looked back at the washer-uppers – and, to my amazement, there she was, wielding a tea towel as if she’d never done anything else. I would leave well alone.
    As I headed up the steps to the stage I was intercepted by a policewoman. ‘Excuse me, miss, you can’t go up there at the moment – the Health and Safety people are busy. Authorised personnel only.’
    I flapped my pass at her – the one that gave me access to everywhere except the Pyrotechnics Room. She looked impressed, and waved me through.
    There wasn’t much to see; it had the desolate air I associate with a room after a party. A middle-aged woman wearing a hard hat was scaling the lighting gantry; a young man was busy with a tape measure and calculator. A police sergeant watched them with a preoccupied air, but looked round quickly enough when I appeared.
    â€˜I’m Sophie Rivers,’ I said. ‘Andy just wondered—’
    â€˜Not a lot I can tell you,’ he said. ‘Except they don’t seem to have found anything wrong with the guy’s safety harness clips, or the clip points.’
    â€˜So—?’
    â€˜So they’ll no doubt let the management know their findings as soon as they’re ready, Mrs Rivers. If you’ll tell your husband that.’
    Somewhere on my back I took a wrong turning and found myself looping round the deserted building. The acoustic rooms, the practice rooms, they all echoed with the question: who wanted Andy dead? And another question, pounding with each step I took: why, why, why?
    Eventually I made my way back to Andy. Griff, stern and alert, stood outside his door, with another, younger, bullet-headed man.
    â€˜â€™Ave to search you, sweetie.’
    â€˜Stow it. This is Ms