By the time the helicopter landed in the garden of the massive villa, I was snoring, nose pressed against the window, mouth hanging open, neck twisted at an awkward angle, Graham’s elbow in my ear. When I woke up I thought for a second I must still be dreaming, because there, looking in at me with an amused smile warming his familiar features, was the man himself: the legendary Bill Strummer. He was wearing a battered denim jacket, faded jeans and a hat, which made him look more like a cowboy than a rock star. He seemed as soft and stylish as an old leather sofa: there was something about him that was instantly welcoming. But there was nothing either soft or welcoming about the woman standing, stiffly protective, at his side. She nodded and threw a forced smile at Sally, baring her teeth like a Rottweiler about to attack. This had to be Tessa Whittam. As Gregor released the door locks, Bill stepped forwards to help Angelica out. Gregor looked embarrassed, Tessa seemed plain angry, but Bill oozed pity from every pore.
