My name is Owen Benichones and I first got to know the victim at a party almost 20 years ago.

I was the BBC correspondent in Pakistan trying to work out what was going on in one of the most

complicated political systems on earth. Pakistan's party scene is probably not what you think.

The women tend to wear tasteful dresses and show off jewels, the men sober suits and rakeish smiles.

And despite laws banning alcohol, they devour booze-fueled, salacious gossip.

Some journalists shy away from socialising with contacts believing it compromises their independence.

I never saw it like that. For me, access is key, which is why when I was throwing a party,

I thought, why not ask the former Prime Minister Benizier Bouto? She won't come of course, but

she did. Later in the evening, her convoy swept up to my doorstep just as the other guests were leaving.

She stepped out and everyone turned around and came back in.

Benizier stayed until four in the morning and yes, she was one of those people who dominated the

room, everyone hung on every word, power on a sofa.

This coffee is revolting, she said, you should do something about your cook.

Actually, I'd made it myself. Unimaginable in her world, of course, and then on discovering

I had three children, much the same age as her, she said, my hate coming to Pakistan. They

spent most of their time in Dubai. Maybe if they made friends with yours, it would be better.

Come down to La Kana. We went. It was her ancestral home. And there, she was like a queen.

Sitting on a raised day, a Benizier held court in front of a crowd of supplicants.

In the front row, ranged around her throne, former Cabinet Ministers and her ambassadors to

foreign powers. Then in semi-circles of decreasing status, leaders of her political party,

members of Parliament, provincial and local officials, the staff who ran the house and at the back.

The peasantry. Where are my tablets she demanded, prompting a Filipino maid to rush up,

...