I wrung his hand between my own. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ I said. ‘I knew you were on the guest list, but I had no idea whether you were even still—’

‘Alive?’

‘Well...’

‘I am, as you can see, alive as ever I was. And sprightly with it too.’ He handed me a bottle wrapped in brown paper. ‘Something rather special in there for you,’ he said with a wink. ‘Martian sherry. Picked it up upon my travels between the planets. I’ll tell you all about them later, if you want. But for now I suppose I should get down to the job in hand.’

‘The drinking?’ I asked.

‘The MCing, dear boy. The sadly departed Doveston had engaged me as Master of Ceremonies. Did you not know?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid that the big portfolio had a lot of very small print. I must have missed some of it.’

‘Then as to the matter of my fee?’

‘Charge whatever you like, I’m easy. Oh and, Professor, I have something of yours downstairs. A certain box, bound in human skin. I’m sure you’d like it back.’

‘Like it back?’ Professor Merlin laughed. ‘The box was never mine in the first place. I think the Doveston bought it at a jumble sale. He asked me to weave a story around it to wind up young Norman. For reasons of his own, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That certainly makes sense.’

‘And isn’t that the self-same Norman there in the trilby hat? Excuse me while I go and say hello.’

And with that he was gone into the crowd, leaving me to shake new hands and offer new hellos.

Now, one of the other problems with holding a big celebrity bash is the gatecrashers. There will always be certain other celebrities whom you haven’t invited who feel it is their divine right to be there. And even with all the security I had, I felt sure that there’d be one or two of the buggers doing their best to sneak in. I’d ordered the guards to fire upon anyone they caught trying to scale the perimeter fence and already they’d managed to gun down David Bowie and Patsy Kensit. I had every confidence that by the end of the evening the world would be free of Michael Jackson too.

‘Hi,’ said a squeaky voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought Bubbles too.’

I grinned through gritted teeth. ‘No problem at all, Michael,’ I said. ‘The chef will look after Bubbles.’

‘He always has his own place at the table.’

‘Michael,’ I said. ‘Bubbles will have his own place in the table.’

Norman came tottering over.

‘Oooooh, hello,’ said Michael. ‘You look nice.’

Norman cleared his throat. ‘Here,’ he whispered to me. ‘Did you see that? Did you see how I got on with Sigoumey? I’m taking her out for lunch tomorrow.’

‘I’m very impressed,’ I said.

‘That’s nothing. Hey, look over there. It’s Come-here-and-poke-my—bowels.’

‘Who?’

‘Camilla Parker-Bowles.’

‘Norman,’ I said. ‘Although I find this a good deal more amusing than Brentford rhyming slang, my bet is that you won’t be able to keep it up for very long.’

‘I will you know. I’m on Viagra.’ Oh how we laughed.

Norman tottered off once more and then a voice said, ‘Psst.’

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘No. Psst. Come over here.’

I turned to see Michael standing in an alcove and beckoning to me with his foolish glove.

Hello, I said to myself What’s this?

‘Come over here and hurry.’

I sauntered over. ‘What is it you want?’ I asked.

‘It’s me,’ said Michael.

‘I know it’s you,’ I said.

‘No. It’s me. Lazlo.’ And Lazlo lifted up a corner of his face. ‘Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.’

‘By God,’ I said. ‘You certainly had me fooled. You really are a master of disguise.’

Michael’s face smiled crookedly. ‘It’s a bit of a cheat, really,’ said Lazlo. ‘The guards shot the real Michael trying to shin over the fence.

‘Then there is a God,’ I said.

‘The guards dumped his body in the woods. I couldn’t resist the opportunity, so I sort of—’

‘You sort of what?’

‘Sort of flayed his body and put on his skin.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ I said. ‘I thought you were going to say something really disgusting.’

‘How dare you! But listen, we must talk. I know who the murderer is. But I also know a lot more than that. It’s a global conspiracy. The end of civilization as we know it is only a few hours away. The Secret Government of the World is going to take over, the minute all the computers crash. They’ve been planning it for years. We have to stop them.’

‘Now hold on,’ I said. ‘Let’s just flip back a bit here. Who is the murderer?’

‘It doesn’t matter about that.’

‘It does. It really does.’

‘It does not. What matters is that we warn everyone.

‘No no,’ I said. ‘What matters most is that you tell me who the murderer is.’

‘That’s not important, we— ‘It bloody is important. I’m paying your wages, you bastard. Tell

me who the murderer is and tell me now.

‘Oh all right,’ said Lazlo. ‘The murderer is...’ And then he paused.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘The murderer is.

‘The murderer is...‘ And Lazlo clutched at his throat. ‘Oh shit,’ he said.

‘O’Shit? Is that an Irish name?’

‘Urgh,’ gasped Lazlo. ‘I’ve been shot in the throat with a poisoned dart.’

‘Well, don’t worry about that now. Just tell me the name of the murderer.’

But did he tell me?

Did he bugger.

He just dropped down dead on the floor.

Now, you know that panicky feeling you get when you’re hosting the biggest celebrity bash of the century and the party’s hardly got started yet and the private detective you’ve hired to track down the killer of your bestest friend gets shot in the throat by a poisoned dart and he just happens to be wearing the skin of the world’s most famous pop star?

You don’t?

Well, no, I suppose it doesn’t happen all that often.

Celebs were already beginning to stare. One of their own was down in a corner and this always draws a good crowd.

‘Ooh-er,’ they went, ‘what’s happened to Michael?’

‘Michael’s fine,’ I told them. ‘Michael’s fine. He’s just had too much brown ale. You know what he’s like.’

I tried to lift Lazlo onto his feet. I don’t know why. To pretend that he hadn’t been shot in the throat by a poisoned dart, I suppose. You don’t always behave altogether rationally under these circumstances.

I succeeded in getting him into a kneeling position. But my attempts at doing much more were being sorely hampered by Bubbles the chimp, who had become amorously involved with my left leg.

‘Get off, you stupid ape,’ I told him, kicking out and struggling. At which point Lazlo’s head sort of toppled forward into my crotch and Michael’s hair got all entangled with my belt buckle.

At which point the staring celebs began to applaud. Drawing an even bigger crowd.

Happily with Norman amongst it.

‘Blimey,’ said Norman. ‘This is one for the album.’

‘Don’t just stand there,’ I shouted. ‘Give me a hand.’

‘No thanks,’ said Norman. ‘It’s not really my thing. And anyway, I’ve just got Camilla warmed up.’

‘Come here, you bloody fool.’

Norman clip-clopped over on his stack-soled shoes.

‘He’s dead,’ I whispered to him.

‘Then there is a God.’ And Norman laughed. ‘What’s really happened?’

‘He’s really dead, look at him. Get off me, Bubbles!’

‘Really dead?’ Norman gaped and gazed. ‘Well, if he’s really dead, then I think what you’re doing to him is in very bad taste. And in front of all these people and everything.’

If I’d had a spare hand, I’d have clouted Norman with it. ‘It isn’t Michael Jackson,’ I whispered, teeth all clenched and left leg kicking. ‘It’s Lazlo Woodbine.’