The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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      'About how the band became famous?' His Australian accent was still detectable, deliberately so I guessed. 'That's a coincidence. I'm working with a ghost writer on my autobiography. My agent is negotiating a movie option right now.'

      Bullshit! I longed to kick him. Instead I cleared my throat and persevered. 'I wanted to ask you a few questions about the early years.'

      'Sure. Ahh, Pia and Genevieve.' His reminiscent smile said, What man wouldn't be happy to boast of his past loves, especially when he was bedding them both at the same time?

      I played along. 'Is it true the three of you were lovers?'

      He shrugged. 'AIDS was only just rearing its ugly head. We were young. The girls didn't mind sharing me. What can I say? I didn't argue.' He smiled like the arrogant prick he was. Let the interviewer fill in the gaps. It was better left to the imagination.

      I bristled. It was clear I wasn't going to get anything fresh out of Tucker. I wanted to pierce his bubble. 'A three-way love affair must have caused a lot of tension?'

      'Some, but it had its consolations.' He sipped his drink, eye suggestively downcast. He must have done this act a thousand times.

      'Enough tension to drive someone to murder Genevieve James?' I struck. 'The night she was killed she went back to tell the band that she was leaving. The Tough Romantics were about to sign a recording deal. Who murdered Genevieve, Mr Tucker?'

      'Pete O'Toole.' He didn't miss a beat. 'Everyone knows that.'

      'If Genevieve had left the Tough Romantics as she planned, would the band have survived? Arthur once said she was twice the singer Pia was.'

      Tucker dropped the languid pose, sitting forward. 'Look, Veevie was a silly little bitch who got herself killed. Girls like her end up as roadkill every day. So she could play guitar and sing a bit, but she had no formal training and she thought she knew it all. That made her as bad as a no-talent. If she had lived she would have ended up as Mrs Somebody with three kids and a mortgage. End of story.'

      Anger ignited me. I drew breath to let him have it.

      'Fuck!' Tucker jumped up to avoid the arc of Monty's spilling coffee.

      'Sorry man. Missed the table.' Monty's apology was a parody that only I got. He set the cup upright on the coffee table. 'Lucky it was nearly empty.'

      'Hannah!' Tucker yelled, but his publicist was already running over with a damp towel.

      She sponged his designer pants. 'It's only a couple of drops, Mr Tucker. I'll get them dry-cleaned after the interview.'

      While Tucker allowed himself to be mollified, Monty sent me a warning look. What did he think I was, rash?

      When the publicist hurried off with the towel I cleared my throat. 'Whether Genevieve was an asset to the band or not, she didn't leave, she was murdered and, with the ensuing publicity, the Tough Romantics flourished. Would you and Pia be where you are today, if she had lived?'

      'Since we can't go back and change the past, we'll never know, will we?' His flat blue eyes were hard and cold like the wet slate they resembled.

      Slimy bastard. I held his gaze and took a gamble. 'I think you know what really happened the night Genevieve James died. Why don't you tell me and get it off your chest?'

      'Christ! You are one pushy bitch. I don't have to put up with this. Hannah?' Tucker called, but his publicist wasn't in the room. He sprang to his feet, pale and sweating. 'Get out of here.'

      I rose. Tucker's belligerence faltered as Monty came to his full height. What I wouldn't give to be tall and black like Monty.

      'I'm going, Mr Tucker,' I said. 'But consider this, I am also going to make this documentary. You can be interviewed and give your side of the story along with Pia and Arthur, or you can watch it on TV with the fans.'

      His hands curled into fists as if he wanted to punch me.

      'Yes?' Hannah returned, sweating on his call.

      I gestured to her. 'Your publicist has my number. Call me if you want to talk.' I walked out.

      Monty didn't say anything as we went down stairs and got in the car. He was still not commenting when we parked down the road from Walenski's place. As I opened the car door Monty caught my arm.

      I waited.

      He just looked at me, intelligent black eyes asking a silent question.

      'It's okay, I've calmed down. I won't spoil my chance of getting a hold of Walenski's book,' I said and he let my arm go. I climbed out, slamming the door. The delicious smell of baking wafted across the road from a patisserie. Monty joined me and we headed up the grey street together. 'But you can't deny he was an arrogant prick!'

      'And I thought you had a monopoly on arrogance.'

      I stopped.

      Seeing my expression, Monty laughed outright. The bastard.

      Okay so I am a little in-your-face but marriage to Nathan taught me that attack is often the best defence.

      Monty was watching me, a smile on his lips. I detected a thread of worry in his dark eyes. Apart from Nan, I wasn't used to people worrying about me. It made me feel trapped, yet he was right and I had to be honest.

      I grinned ruefully. 'Point taken. I could have handled Tucker better. It's just I couldn't stand him talking about her like that.'

      'Who, Genevieve?' He paused. 'Since when do you have an emotional investment in a girl who's been dead 25 years?'

      I swallowed. He was right. I closed my eyes and had a flash of the 'Veevie' Arthur had known, running down the hallway laughing. With it came a rush of emotion: it was love, for her, and frustration because she couldn't see how I felt. I ran after her, down the stairs, caught up with her in the dim kitchen. We sat at the table having a deep and meaningful. She searched my face, wanted something from me, something vitally important.

      'What's wrong, Antsy?' Monty's large hands settled on my shoulders, his voice concerned, intimate.

      'Nothing.' I brushed his hands away.

      'Bit of a nervous tic you've got there.' He gestured to my hands.

      I stopped scratching immediately. 'Just a dream, that's all. A dream.'

      He took a step back. 'I never remember my dreams.'

      Perversely, I regretted brushing him off. 'Not even bad dreams? How can you not remember your dreams? Since coming here I've been having this dream where my ex-husband is coming after me.' I was babbling. As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

      Monty stepped closer. I felt trapped and glanced up to the flat. Now that I could see the stairs in daylight I was glad the first time we'd climbed them in the dark. 'Hope Walenski's in. Come on.'

      On the first floor landing I knocked on the door with the inverted B and waited. My stomach rumbled. 'We should have brought some pastries from the bakery.'

      'As a burnt offering?'

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