by Val McDermid
“Nice one,” I said. “You going to give me his number?” I copied down Alexis’s information and stuck the Post-it note on my phone. “Thanks.”
“Is that it? What about ‘I owe you one’?”
Nobody’s ever accused Alexis of being a shrinking violet. “I don’t. You’re paying me back for your exclusive last night.”
“OK. You free for lunch?”
“Doubt it, somehow. What about tonight? Richard and I are going to the multi-screen. Do you two want to join us?”
“Sorry, we’ve already booked for Blade Runner at the Cornerhouse.”
Typical. “Don’t forget your Foucault,” I said.
I was halfway out of my chair, destination coffee machine, when the phone rang again. Suppressing a growl, I grabbed it and injected a bit of warmth into my voice. “Good morning, Kate Brannigan speaking.”
“It’s Trevor Kerr here.”
I wished I hadn’t bothered with the warmth. “Hello, Mr. Kerr. What news?”
“I could ask you the same thing, since I’m paying you to investigate this business,” he grumbled. “I’m ringing to let you know that my lab people have come up with some results from the analysis I asked them to carry out.”
Not a man to give credit where it’s due, our Mr. Kerr. I stifled a sigh and said, “What did they discover?”
“A bloody nightmare, that’s what. About half the samples they tested aren’t bloody KerrSter.”
“Cyanide?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
“No, nothing like that. Just a mixture of chemicals that wouldn’t clean anything. Not only would they not clean things, there are certain surfaces they’d ruin. Anything with a sealed finish like floor tiles or worktops. Bastards!” Kerr spat.
“Are these common chemicals, or what?”
“Ever heard of caustic soda? That’s how bloody common we’re talking here.”
“So cheap as well as common?” I asked.
“A lot bloody cheaper than what we put in KerrSter, let me tell you. So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded pugnaciously.
“Your killer’s a counterfeiter,” I said, ignoring his belligerence. “Either they’re trying to wreck your business or else they’re simply after a quick buck.”
“Even I’d got that far,” he said sarcastically. “What I want you to do is find these buggers while I’ve still got a business left. You hear what I’m saying, Miss Brannigan? Find these bastards, or there won’t be a pot left to pay you out of.”
Chapter 8
Sometimes I wonder how clients managed to go to the bathroom before they hired us. Trevor Kerr was clearly one of those who think once they’ve hired you, you’re responsible for everything up to and including emptying the wastepaper bins at night. He was adamant that it was down to me to go and see the detectives investigating the death of Joey Morton, the Stockport publican, to inform them that the person who was sabotaging Kerrchem’s products was probably the one they should be beating up with rubber hoses. Incidentally, never believe the politicians and top coppers who tell you that sort of thing can’t happen now all interviews are tape recorded. There are no tape recorders in police cars or vans, and I’ve heard of cases where it’s taken three hours for a police car to travel two inner city miles.
I wasn’t relishing telling some overworked and overstressed police officer how to run an inquiry. If there’s one thing your average cop hates more than becoming the middle man in a domestic, it’s being put on the right track by a private eye. I was even less thrilled when Kerr told me who the investigating officer was. Detective Inspector Cliff Jackson and I were old sparring partners. The first time one of my cases ended in murder, he was running the show. He hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory, twice arresting the wrong person before the real killer had eventually ended up behind bars, largely as a result of some judicious tampering by Mortensen and Brannigan. You’d think he’d have been grateful. Think again.
I drove out to the incident room in Stockport. The one time I’d have welcomed being stuck in traffic, I cruised down Stockport Road without encountering a single red light. My luck was still out
He didn’t get up when I was shown into his office. He hadn’t changed much; still slim, hair still dark and barbered to within an inch of its life, eyes still hidden behind a pair of tinted prescription lenses. His dress sense hadn’t improved any. He wore a white shirt with a heavy emerald green stripe, the sleeves rolled up over his bony elbows. His tie was shiny polyester, in a shade of green that screamed for mercy against the shirt. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” he greeted me ungraciously.
“Nice to see you too, inspector,” I said pleasantly. “But let’s not waste our time on pleasantries. I wanted to talk to you about Joey Morton’s death.”
“I see,” he said. “Go on, then, talk.”
I told him all he needed to know. “So you see,” I concluded, “it looks like someone had got it in for Kerrchem, and Joey Morton just got in the way.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture. It didn’t erase the frown he’d had since I first walked through the door. “Very interesting, Miss Brannigan,” he said. “I take it you’re planning to pursue your own inquiries along these lines?”
“It’s what I’m paid to do,” I said.
“This is a possible murder inquiry,” he said sententiously. “There’s no place for you poking around in it.”
“Inspector, in case you’ve forgotten, it was me that came to you. I’m trying to be helpful,” I said, forcing my jaw to unclench.
“And your ‘help’ is duly noted,” he said. “It’s our job now. If you interfere with this investigation like you did the last time, I’ll have no hesitation in arresting you. Is that clear?”
I stood up. I know five foot three isn’t exactly intimidating, but it made me feel better. “I’ll do my job, Inspector. And when I’ve done it, I’ll tell you where you can find your killer.”
I tried to slam the door behind me, but it had one of those hydraulic arms. Instead of a satisfying crash, I ended up with a twisted wrist. I was still fizzing when I got back to the car, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Down the Thai boxing
I like the gym. It’s a no-frills establishment, which means I tend not to run into clients there. As well as the boxing gym, it’s got a weights room and basic changing facilities. The only drawback is that there are never enough showers at busy times. Judging by the number of open lockers, that wasn’t going to be a problem today. I emerged from the women’s changing room in the breeze-block drill hall to find my mate Dennis O’Brien lounging in a director’s chair in his sweats. He was reading the Chronicle, his mobile phone, cigarettes and a mug of tea strategically placed on the floor by his feet. Dennis used to be a serious burglar, the kind who turn over the vulgar suburban houses of the nouveau riche. But it all came on top for him when a young lad he’d brought in to help him with a big job managed to drop the safe on Dennis’s leg as they were making their getaway. He left Dennis lying on the drive with a broken ankle. By the time the cops arrived, he’d crawled half a mile. When he got out of prison three years later, he swore he was never going to do anything that would get him taken away from his kids again. As far as I know, he’s kept his word, with one exception. The lad who abandoned him still walks with a limp.
It was Dennis who got me into Thai boxing. He believes all women should have self-defense skills, and when he discovered I’d been relying on nothing more than charm and a reasonable turn of speed, he’d dragged me down to the gym. His daughter’s been a finalist in the national championships for the last three years running, and he lets her beat me up on a regular basis, just to remind me that there are people out there who could cause me serious damage. As if I need reminding after some of the crap I’ve been through in recent years.
Now he’s out of major league villainy and into “a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of ducking and diving,” Dennis has taken to using the gym as his corpora
te headquarters. I don’t suppose the management mind. All the locals know Dennis’s Draconian views on drugs so his presence keeps the gym clear of steroid abuse. And there are never any fights outside the ring. He’s not known in South Manchester as Dennis the Menace for nothing.
I checked out a couple of black lads working the heavy bags at the far end of the room. They were too far away to overhear. “Your backside will start looking like Richard’s car if you carry on like that,” I said, smiling over the top of his paper.
“At last, someone worth sparring with,” Dennis said, bouncing to his feet. “How’s it hanging, kid?”
“By a fingernail,” I said, bending over to start my warm-up exercises. “What do you know?” I glanced over at Dennis, who was mirroring my movements.
He looked glum. “Tell you the truth, Kate, I’m in the shit,” he said.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Remember that nice little earner I told you about a while back? My crime prevention scheme?”
How could I forget? Dennis’s latest scam involved parting villains from large wads of money by persuading them they were buying a truckload of stolen merchandise from him. Dennis would show them a sample of the goods (bought or shoplifted from one of the dozens of wholesalers down Strangeways) and arrange a handover the following day in a motorway service area. Only, once the punters had swapped their stash for the keys to the alleged wagonload and Dennis’s car was a distant puff of exhaust, the crooks would discover that the keys he’d handed them didn’t open a single truck on the lorry park. Crime prevention? Well, if Dennis was taking their money off them, they wouldn’t be inciting anyone else to steal something for them to buy, now would they?
“Somebody catch up with you?” I gasped between sit-ups.
“Worse than that,” he said gloomily. “I set up a meet at Anderton Services on the 61. Ten grand for a wagon of Levis. Everything’s going sweet as a Sunday morning shag when it all comes on top. All of a sudden, there’s more bizzies than you get on crowd control at a United/City match. I legged it over the footbridge and dived into the ladies’ toilet. Sat there for two hours. I went back over just in time to see the dibble loading my Audi on to a tow truck. I couldn’t fucking believe it, could I?” Dennis grunted as he did a handful of squat thrusts.
“Somebody tip them off about you?” I asked, fastening a body protector over my front.
“You kidding me? This wasn’t regular Old Bill, this was the Drugs Squad. They’d only been staking the place out because they’d had a tip a big crack deal was going down. They see somebody handing over a wad of cash, and they jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“So what’s happening?” I asked, pulling the ropes apart and climbing into the ring.
Dennis followed me and we began to circle each other cautiously. “They lifted my punter and accused him of being a drug baron.” He snorted. “That pillock couldn’t deal a hand of poker, never mind a key of crack. Any road, he’s so desperate to get out of the shit he’s drowning in that he coughs the lot. Next morning, they’re round my house mob-handed. The wife was mortified.”
“They charging you?” I asked, swinging a swift kick in towards Dennis’s knee.
He sidestepped and twisted round, catching me over the right hip. “Got to, haven’t they? Otherwise they come away from their big stakeout empty-handed. Theft, and obtaining by deception.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. Dennis might have been clean as far as the law is concerned for half a dozen years now, but with his record, he was looking at doing time. I feinted left and pivoted on the ball of my foot to bring my right leg up in a fast arc that caught Dennis in the ribs.
“Nice one, Kate,” he wheezed as he bounced back off the ropes.
“Bit of luck, your punters might decide it would be bad for their reputations if they weigh in as witnesses when it comes to court.” It wasn’t much consolation but it was all I could think of.
“Never mind their reputation, it wouldn’t be too good for their health,” he said darkly. “Anyway, I’ve got one or two things on the boil. Just a bit of insurance in case I do go down. Make sure Debbie and the kids don’t go without if I’m away.”
I didn’t ask what kind of insurance. I knew better. We worked out in silence for a while. I was upset at the thought of only seeing Dennis with a visiting order for the next couple of years, but there was nothing I could do to help him out, and he knew that as well as I did. Even though we have more attitudes in common than
After fifteen minutes of dodging each other round the ring, we were both sweating. I lost concentration for a moment, which was all it took. Next thing I knew, I was on my back staring at the strip lights.
“Sloppy,” Dennis remarked.
I scrambled up to find him leaning on the ropes. I could have knocked the wind out of him with one kick. Or maybe not. I’ve come into contact with that rock-hard diaphragm before. “Got a lot on my mind,” I said.
“Anything I can help with?” he asked. Typical Dennis. Didn’t matter how much crap of his own he had to sort out, he was still determined to stay in the buddy role.
“Maybe,” I said, slipping between the ropes and heading for the neat stack of scruffy towels on a shelf.
Dennis followed me, and we sat companionably on a bench while we talked. I gave him a brief outline of the Kerrchem case. “You know anybody who’s doing schneid cleaning fluid?” I ended up.
He shook his head. “I don’t know anybody that stupid,” he said scornfully. “There’s not nearly enough margin in it, is there? And it’s bulky. Costs you a lot to shift it around, and you can’t exactly set up a street-corner pitch with it, can you? There was a team from Liverpool tried schneid washing powder a couple of years back. They’d done a raid on a chemical firm, nicked one of their vans to do the getaway. There were a couple of drums of chemicals in the back, and they decided not to waste it so they printed up some boxes and flogged it on the markets. Nasty stuff. Took the skin off your fingers if you tried hand-washing. Mind you, there weren’t any of them ‘difficult’ stains left. That’s because there wasn’t a lot of clothes left.”
“So you don’t reckon it’s any of the usual faces?”
Dennis shook his head. “Like I said, you’d have to be stupid to
“An ex-employee? A competitor?” Even though it’s a long way removed from his world, it’s always worth bouncing ideas off Dennis.
Dennis shrugged. “You’re the corporate expert. Is this the kind of stunt big business pulls these days? I’d heard things were getting a bit tough out there, but bumping people off is a bit heavy for a takeover bid.”
“So an ex-employee, you reckon?”
“That’s where I’d put my money. Stands to reason, they’re the ones with a real grudge, and there’s no comeback. And what about them thingumabobs … what do they call it? When they give you the bullet and make you sign a bit of paper saying you can’t go off and sell their secrets to the opposition?”
“Golden handcuffs,” I said ruefully. I was slipping. That should have been one of the first half-dozen questions I asked Trevor Kerr.
“Yeah well, nobody likes being stuck in a pair of handcuffs, don’t matter whether they’re gold or steel,” Dennis said with feeling. “It was me, I’d feel pretty cheesed. Specially if I was one of them boffins whose expertise goes out of date faster than a Marks and Spencer ready meal.”
I stretched an arm round his muscular shoulders and hugged him. “You’re a pal, Dennis.”
“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “That it? You consulted the oracle?”
“That’s it. Unless you know an international gang of art thieves.”
“Art thieves?” he asked, sounding interested.
“They’ve been working all over the country, turning over stately homes. They go for one item and crash in through the nearest door or window. No finesse, just sledgehammers. Straight in and out. Obviously very professional. Sound like anybody you know?”
I glanced at my watch. “No, got to run.” Whatever else happened
“See you around, kid,” Dennis said, walking off.
“Yeah. And Dennis …”
He looked over his shoulder, the changing room door half open.
“If there’s anything I can do …”
Dennis’s smile was as crooked as his business. “You’ll know,” he said.
Back at the car, I hit the phone. Sheila the Dragon Queen tried to tell me Trevor Kerr was in a meeting, but she was no match for my civil servant impersonation. I had good teachers; I once devoted most of my spare time for six months to screwing housing benefit out of a succession of bloody-minded officials.
“Trevor Kerr,” the phone barked at me.
“Kate Brannigan here. I’ve spoken to the police, who were very interested in what I had to tell them about the fake KerrSter,” I said. “They said they would investigate that angle.”
“You pulled me out of a production meeting to tell me that?” he demanded.
“Not only that,” I said mildly. It was an effort. If he carried on like this, I reckoned there was going to be a five percent surliness surcharge on Trevor Kerr’s bill.
“What, then?”
“You mentioned you’d had a round of redundancies,” I said.
“So?”
“I wondered if anyone who’d gone out the door had been subject to a golden handcuffs deal.”
There was a moment’s silence. “There must have been a few,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s standard practice for anybody working in research or in key production jobs.”
“I’ll need a list.”
“You’ll have one,” he said.
“Have it faxed to my office,” I replied. “The number’s on the card.” I cut the connection. That’s the great thing with mobile phones. There are so many black holes around that nobody dares accuse you of hanging up on them any more.
