I think, somewhat nervously, I can make a contribution to the debate that has followed Michael Jackson’s shocking premature death. Inevitably, all the old unanswered questions have surfaced: his mental health, his trial on charges of sexually abusing children. Was he . . . ? Did he . . . ? There are no authoritative answers, but the story I have to tell may shed some light on his true nature.

Back in 1987, my legal representative in London was contacted by a man claiming to represent Michael Jackson. He wanted to know my movements over the coming months so that, given Michael’s global itinerary, we might set a time and a place somewhere in the world when he and I might meet. “Meet about what?” asked my flabbergasted lawyer. He was told that “Michael” wanted to talk about staging a new and different touring show.

When this was relayed to me, I strongly suspected the hand of Ken Campbell, the comedian,, who had “done me” once before. It had to be a hoax.

Two days later my lawyer had a more insistent call from someone purporting to be Michael Jackson’s manager, a Frank DiLeo, who reeled off a touring schedule that seemed to be going everywhere except the UK. Surely he must be bona fide? The manager mentioned that Michael was “aware” of my staging of a crazy experimental musical enterprise called Starlight Express and wanted to “share ideas”.

I was scheduled to be in Sydney rehearsing a new production of Les Misérables at the same time that the superstar was doing some concerts there at the Parramatta stadium. “So we could meet in Sydney then,” I said, still convinced Ken would be gleeful that I was falling for one of his setups yet again.

Just before I left for Australia, the late Bill Fournier, my lawyer, asked me if he could tell the Jackson management the name of my Sydney hotel. Despite my cries that this was proof positive a prank was under way, Bill insisted these approaches were genuine. “But why do they want the name of my hotel?”

“Because,” said Bill, in all solemnity, “Michael Jackson says he wants to stay in the same place as you so you can meet up a few times while he’s in Australia.”

Several days after I arrived at the Regent hotel, overlooking Sydney harbour bridge, I heard two assistant managers excitedly confirming that Jackson’s entourage had booked the entire top two floors of this 30-storey building. Curiouser and curiouser. Eventually, towards the end of my Les Misérables rehearsals, the Jackson circus arrived and soon after that, still with Bill as the go-between, a meeting time was arranged.

Getting into the Jackson apartment, even by invitation, resembled a heist at the Bank of England. Each stage of my progress involved being questioned by countless people and being asked countless times for my “picture ID”.

As all was duly confirmed by walkie-talkie, I inched closer to the presence: from the penultimate floor to the top floor, to the adjacent corridor, to the door of the apartment, to a small vestibule inside and finally to a vast and empty lounge with almost floor-to-ceiling windows and one of the most breathtaking views in the world.

Occasionally, figures clad entirely in white moved noiselessly in soft white slippers through the apartment. It felt like keeping vigil at an intensive care unit.

The silence was total.

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