The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

it wasn't for him we wouldn't have this DVD or Walenski and access to his book. I touched Arthur's arm briefly, felt the swell of his bicep under the jumper. 'No, really. I appreciate what you've done.'

      He shrugged. 'We all have our reasons.'

      Yes, he hoped I'd uncover the real killer. That wasn't my goal at all. Was it?

      Okay, so I wanted to explore the wellspring that the Tough Romantics' creativity sprang from. Four year's of study and I still didn't understand creativity. What drove people to create? What made one person successful and not another? Creativity wasn't enough. Lots of people with talent never made it. You had to be a bit obsessive. You had to make sacrifices.

      What were you willing to give up for success?

      The DVD was playing on Arthur's wide screen and we both turned to it as Genevieve sang I Don't Need You! with Tucker.

      'I always preferred the original version,' Arthur admitted. 'But no one would listen to me.'

      I glanced at him and, for an instant, it was the totally-exposed 18-year-old Arthur who looked back. What drove him to go in to politics? He was too honest. 'I don't get it. Why are you standing for election? You'll be eaten alive.'

      He laughed and, as I watched, 25 years of life seeped back into his eyes. 'You wouldn't believe the things I've seen.'

      And done?

      'I'm going to make a difference, Antonia, and politics is the shortest path to power. I've been laying the foundations for years with my charity work.'

      Arthur was that calculated? How could he be both the boyish idealist and the cynical manipulator?

      'Sometimes to beat people at their own game, you have to play by their rules,' he said.

      Was I part of his game? Was his help all part of a larger plan? I looked to Monty who was watching Arthur like he'd done something interesting.

      Arthur glanced at his watch. 'Damn, nearly two. You'd better go.'

      At that moment, I knew the biscuit dunking was deliberate, one of Arthur's little victories over his wife, and I doubted Pats would ever realise.

      When we got back to One-Eight-One, Monty put the kettle on, while I ran upstairs to set up my laptop and upload the first clip. I wrote a cryptic blog: Promised you something big. Here's a teaser.

      That would set the cat among the pigeons, as Nan would say.

      Speaking of cats, Smokey was nowhere to be seen again; off on rat patrol I guess.

      I ran downstairs, still smiling and checked the snail-mail to see if there was anything for Grace and Scott. Nothing, but there was a manila envelope in the letter box. I scooped it up and ran through to the kitchen.

      'Guess what Monty? The manuscript fairy's been!'

      'What are you waiting for?' He finished stirring a coffee and slid it down the bench to me. 'Open up.'

      I broke the seal and pulled the next chapter out and fanned the pages. Same paper, same faded manual typewriter ribbon. On most of the pages the text had one or two corrections in faded blue biro, but others were completely clean. Obviously freshly typed. Monty joined me at the kitchen bench, his expression almost hungry. I felt the same way.