‘What’s it to you? She’s reliable, if that’s what you’re worried about. She’d never miss a show.’
I exchanged a look with Jane. Subterfuge wasn’t helping. It would have to be truth, whether it alarmed this girl or not. ‘Can we come in?’ I said. ‘Please. There is more afoot here than I would like to explain to you from the doorstep.’
The wariness was back, but the girl opened the door wider for us, albeit with ill grace. We followed her into a tiny, and untidy, kitchen, with a single dingy window overlooking a ragged patch of garden. ‘I can’t offer you tea,’ she said. ‘Kettle’s broken.’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, taking a seat at a cheap IKEA table.
‘Tanna.’
‘Tanna, one of the models contracted for my show was murdered last night.’ I gave that a second to sink in. ‘Melly was the last
