She was due in at 8.00pm, ostensibly to view 'an expansive residence in Howth', according to her publicist, Art Carehue. But her itinerary seemed to include a great many chat show appearances and promotional activities for one merely on a house-hunting expedition.

Already, the airport was filling with expectant fans, eager to catch a glimpse of their pop icon.. Security staff milled about the floors, largely unconcerned by a handful of rowdy teenagers. Indeed, their lack of concern only heightened the feeling that they were preoccupied with greater events. Something big, as Chief Security Officer Brentwood liked to say, was going down.

Brentwood had waited throughout his undistinguished career for that elusive ‘big heist’. But the laid back attitude with which he frequently discussed those ‘big heists’ led anyone who knew him to believe that he dealt with such events on a daily basis.

Years of role-playing were finally paying off as he now strolled around calmly, unaffected by nerves or apprehension. The pop star was due in at any moment, together with her vast entourage... and the drugs upon which she was rumoured to so heavily rely.

Customs officers O’Brien and Darcy were ready and waiting as the Hollywood vanguard arrived. The screams of the fans rose in sudden excitement, and fell just as rapidly in disappointment, as the American party made their entrance. Not the great lady herself, but an outrageously dressed P.A., who teetered on high heels worthy of her employer and momentarily fooled the fans.

Long blonde hair tumbled over well-padded shoulders, to give rise to another short-lived cheer. But, like the matching flowing locks accompanying it, this head of hair belonged to a very male Scandinavian bodyguard, who was said to double as her keep-fit trainer after hours.

Several lackeys, heavily laden with luggage, formed the main body; and with them, almost escaping attention, came the star herself. Legs that stretched luxuriously from floor to hip. A figure that curved voluptuously from hip to neck. The face of an angel that so perfectly crowned the aforementioned assets. Miss Chelsea James - Pop Star, Pin-up and Personality.

Miss Chelsea James; the face of an angel, the voice of a devil, as she now screeched hysterically at the two hapless figures who rushed along in her effortless wake.

Manager Buzz Goldstein was being held personally responsible for the length of the journey between J.F.K. and Dublin. Art Carehue quite rightly bore the blame for the photographers allowed to snap a jet-lagged Chelsea James alighting from the plane. It had not, apparently, been a good flight.

O’Brien and Darcy viewed the approaching army in awe. Brentwood lurked in their shadow with unstifled eagerness. And Chelsea James, clutching an appallingly tatty toy cat to her ample breast, came to a standstill at their post and glowered with unadulterated fury.

‘Simply a routine search, Miss James,’ Brentwood informed her officiously, as Carehue and Goldstein muscled in protectively.

‘Just what is the God-damn meaning of this?!’ Chelsea demanded, clearly not needing the services of those who now clustered around her in support. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m due to appear on the Late Late Show in less than two God-damn hours. One minute late and I’ll sue.’

‘I can assure you that the delay will be kept to the minimum,’ Brentwood soothed, as O’Brien and Darcy began to sift through an abundance of silk underwear. Their search, however, gave rise to nothing but high temperatures.

Brentwood’s gaze fell on the grubby toy cat.

‘An unusual travelling companion, Miss James,’ he observed.

She drew the cat more tightly to her bosom. ‘It belonged to my poor dear Snookums. It goes everywhere with me.’

O’Brien and Darcy lowered their heads respectfully, successfully concealing their smirks. But it seemed that Brentwood knew nothing of the legendary guitarist, whose name had been linked to Chelsea’s before his untimely drug-related death. The thought of the rock impresario going by the nickname of Snookums now all but doubled up the two customs officers, who appeared to be praying fervently for his soul.

‘May I see it?’ Brentwood asked bluntly.

‘No you may not. It’s personal.’

‘Merely a routine inspection. You may have it straight back.’

She turned in panic to Goldstein. ‘Don’t just stand there, you God-damn idiot! Do something! You can’t let them take Snookums’ cat!’

‘It will only be for a moment or two,’ Brentwood insisted firmly, pulling the cat from her grasp.

He stared at it with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. It did not have that worn, threadbare appearance of a much-loved teddy bear. But rather, a misshapen, half-chewed appearance of a thoroughly abused toy cat. One ear was torn in two pieces, while the other was missing completely. The thing had no eyes or mouth. What little remained of the stuffing was insufficient for the sagging neck and limbs. The tail was bald and... well... chewed. The visions that it conjured up in the minds of O’Brien and Darcy were both distasteful and imaginative.

As Brentwood examined the cat, Chelsea became increasingly agitated, screaming at him to be careful; the toy was priceless, beyond replace.

It was also beyond repair. The seam of the gusset was open and the stitches loosened readily at the intrusion of Brentwood’s prying fingers.

‘Aha!’ he declared triumphantly, removing a small sealed bag from the sparse stuffing. ‘What have we here?’

‘It’s the squeaker!’ wailed Chelsea. ‘You’ve pulled out its squeaker, you God-damn animal! I’ll sue!’

Brentwood, unconvinced, pressed the bag between his fingertips. It immediately emitted a piercing 'mee...' before lapsing into silence once more.

‘It used to meow,’ Chelsea sobbed. ‘Snookums broke it, playing rough.’

O’Brien and Darcy coughed violently.

Undeterred, Brentwood returned his attention to the open seam.

‘Aha!’ he declared afresh. ‘So what do you suppose this is?’

Chelsea let out a faint cry and collapsed into the arms of her bodyguard. O’Brien and Darcy stared in disbelief at the bag Brentwood held aloft. A clear plastic bag, filled with a fine greyish-white powder.

‘Now you’ve really gone too far!’ Goldstein stormed, attempting to snatch the offending article.

Chelsea came to her senses once more and made a grab for the bag. Both she and Goldstein missed; her long manicured fingernails stabbing into his outstretched palm.

‘God-damn...’

‘Jesus H. Christ...’

Brentwood began to open the bag.

‘No!’ wailed Chelsea. ‘That’s Snookums...’

‘I don’t care whose it is,’ Brentwood interrupted, ‘it happens to be in your possession.’ He licked his finger, ready to dip it into the contents.

Chelsea screamed and fell back into the bodyguard’s arms.

‘You fool!’ Goldstein protested. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re doing!’

Brentwood’s finger re-surfaced and he licked it, as though savouring a sherbet Dip-Dap. His face suddenly contorted in disgust and he shot his tongue out rapidly, trying to shake off the coating.

‘Snookums!’ screeched Chelsea, making a final desperate grab for the bag. As her fingers curled round it, Brentwood tightened his grip and pulled it back. Everyone watched in stricken silence as the bag tore apart and the powder floated lightly out in a cloud.

‘SNOOKUMS!’

The dust cloud was not heading swiftly for the floor, but instead floating strangely heavenward.

‘My God! The air-conditioning system!’ cried Goldstein, looking up.

‘The evidence!’ cried Brentwood.

‘Snookums!’ wailed Chelsea.

‘You fool!’ Goldstein snapped, dragging Brentwood across the desk by his tie. ‘That wasn’t heroin. Those were ashes. Have you any idea who that is, getting sucked up into the air-conditioning?’

O’Brien and Darcy went white. ‘Not... not...’

‘Snookums,’ said Goldstein sombrely, ‘may he rest in peace.’

‘Wow!’ said O’Brien and Darcy together. ‘The greatest rock guitarist of our time. What an end.’

Goldstein shot them a puzzled glance.

‘My Snookums,’ Chelsea sobbed in resignation, ‘I guess you really are gone now. Best friend I ever had. There’ll never be another like you. I miss you, honey.’ She dabbed her eye with a tissue; as did O’Brien, Darcy and Brentwood.

‘I don’t know what to say, Miss James,’ Brentwood said in a choked voice.

Chelsea flashed him a sorrowful smile, then turned away.

‘Your luggage, Miss James,’ added the misty-eyed O’Brien and Darcy, handing the bags to one of the lackeys.

They watched the star and her cortege walk bravely away.

‘There’ll never be another guitarist like you,’ said Darcy softly, looking up.

‘There’ll never be another Rottweiller like my Snookums,’ said Chelsea James, as she buried her head on Goldstein’s shoulder.