Clean Break

by Val McDermid

  A quick sortie in the garage revealed that the keys for all the vehicles were hanging on the board where Gianni had deposited his set earlier. I settled on the van, on the basis that it was the least memorable of the three. I opened the door, threw my bag on the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. I was just about to stick the key in the ignition, when something stopped me.

  I don’t believe in sixth sense or second sight or seventh sons of seventh sons. But something was making the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and it wasn’t love at first sight. I took a deep breath and looked over my shoulder into the back of the van.

  At once I wished I hadn’t. There’s only one thing comes in a six-feet-long, heavy-duty black bag with a zipper up the front. It didn’t take many of my detective skills to decide that I’d probably solved the mystery of Nicholas Turner’s disappearance.

  I was out of the van in seconds. I stood in the garage, leaning against the wall for support, my breath coming fast, clammy sweat in my armpits. The combination of shock and exhaustion was making my limbs tremble. I don’t know how long I stood there like that, frozen in horror, incapable of movement, never mind decisive action. It’s one thing to think somebody might be dead. It’s another thing entirely to find yourself sitting in a van with their mortal remains. Especially when you’re the one who’s responsible for their present state.

  It was only fear that got me moving again. Hanging around the Villa San Pietro was about as clever a move as a mouse going

  I thought about waking Della and bringing her up to speed so we could do it through official channels, but by the time we’d got the wheels of justice rolling, there would be no evidence of murder at the villa, the body would be miles away, and even if it did eventually turn up, there would be nothing to connect it to Gianni and his boss.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the back of the van. Before I did anything else, I needed to be sure it really was Turner in the bag. Gingerly, I reached out for the tab of the zip and pushed it away from me. It wouldn’t budge. I could feel my stomach begin to turn over as I gripped the slick, rubberized bag with one hand and forced the zip down. A few inches was all I needed. Nicholas Turner’s eyes stared up at me out of a face gray in the stark fluorescent light of the garage. I gagged and whipped round just in time for the contents of my stomach to miss the van and hit the floor. I stood there, hands on my knees, throwing up till my stomach and throat were raw. Shaking and sweating, my fingers slippery on the body bag, I managed to pull up the zip. Turner’s face showed no signs of how he had met his end, but I’d have been willing to bet it hadn’t been a brain tumor.

  I don’t remember how I managed it, but somehow I got back behind the wheel and drove out of the garage. All I could think of was getting out of there and putting some distance between me and the Villa San Pietro. I hurtled down the drive, punching the

  I left the van parked on the verge by the villa turn-off and jogged the couple of kilometers back to the pensione. There was no sign of the BMW. So much for expecting Richard to see sense and come back. I drove the Merc back up the valley, past the van, looking for somewhere to stash it. About a kilometer further on, there was a cluster of houses and a mini-market. I left the car just off the main road and half jogged, half staggered back to the van. I didn’t pass another car the whole hour.

  I turned the van round and headed back towards Sestri Levante. I reckoned I needed to leave the van somewhere no one would notice if it was parked for a few days. I thought about finding some remote forest track in the mountains, but I vetoed that. It would be difficult to find the right place in the dark, it would be impossible for me to remember where it was with pinpoint accuracy, and it wouldn’t be easy for me to make my way back to the Merc. I didn’t want to leave it parked on a street, because I didn’t know how long it was going to take to get anyone to listen to my tale, and after a day or two in Italian sunshine, the van wasn’t going to smell too appetizing. What I needed, ideally, was an underground car park where no one would pay attention.

  Either I needed a big city, or a swanky resort where people left their cars in the hotel car park for a few days. The solution popped out of my memory just as the autostrada junction hove into sight. The picture postcard village of Portofino, star of a thousand jigsaw puzzles, its harbor lined with picturesque houses painted every color of the ice-cream spectrum. I’d been there a couple of years before with Richard, and remembered the big car park, half underground, where tourists left their cars to avoid completely choking the center of the former fishing village.

  I drove into Portofino just after 5.00 a.m. It’s probably the only

  I walked on round the harbor and found a bench that overlooked the bay. Using my bag as a pillow, I put my head down and managed to doze off. Strange dreams featuring Gianni’s chef’s knife and bodies that climbed out of bags and into passenger seats prevented it from being a restful sleep, but I was so exhausted that even the nightmares couldn’t wake me up. The sound of a pleasure steamer’s hooter jerked me into wakefulness just after eight, and I staggered back into the village, bought myself a couple of sandwiches and a cappuccino from a café and headed for the pleasure boat.

  I don’t remember much about the sail. I was too jittery from lack of sleep and the horrors of the night. I kept nodding off, and starting awake, nerves jangling and eyes staring in paranoia. I couldn’t stop thinking about Turner’s wife and those two daughters. Not only had they lost a husband and father, but they were going to find out about it in a blitz of police and media activity.

  In spite of the fact that arriving on dry land brought me nearer to the enemy, I was glad to be off the boat. Somehow, I felt more in control. In Sestri, I found the tourist office and discovered where I could catch a bus up the valley. The next one left in twenty minutes, and I was first on it, complete with brand-new sun hat. I sat at the back, slouched low in my seat. As Casa Nico approached, I put my sunglasses on and pulled the hat forwards. The bus was so much higher off the road than a car would have been that I was able to look right down on Casa Nico. As the bus rounded the bend beyond the pensione, I looked back. Parked behind the building,

  I got off at the next stop and walked cautiously past the alley where I’d left the Merc. It was still there, and no one seemed to be watching it. I doubled back behind the houses and came up the alley from the far end. I crept into the car, not even slamming the door shut until I had the engine running. Then I shot out on to the main road and headed up the valley, away from Casa Nico and the Villa San Pietro, my foot hard on the accelerator, my eyes on the rear-view mirror. As I joined the autostrada, I wondered how long Gianni would stake out the pensione. It was worth the loss of my overnight bag not to have him on my tail.

  Nigel Mansell couldn’t have got to Milan airport faster than I did that day. I dumped the car with the local Hertz agent and headed for the terminal. I’d just missed a flight to Brussels, but there was one to Amsterdam an hour later. If I could only stay awake, I could pick up Bill’s Saab in Antwerp, catch the night ferry from Zeebrugge and be home the following morning some time. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to feel British soil under my feet.

  I had half an hour to kill in the international departure lounge. I thought I’d better give Shelley a ring before she decided tracking me down was a job for Interpol. She answered on the first ring, and I could hear relief in her voice. I knew then it must be bad, since Shelley never lets on that anything’s beyond her competence.

  “Thank God it’s you,” she said. “Where are you? You’ve got to get back here. There’s been another death.”

  Chapter 20

  I nearly dropped the phone. My first thought was, how the hell had Shelley found out about Nicholas Turner? Her voice cut through my panic. “Kate? Are you still there? I said there’s been another death involving KerrSter.” This time round, I heard the whole sentence.

  “Oh fuck,” I groaned.

  “Where are you? Trevor Kerr is reading me the riot act every ten minutes. I�
�ve managed to stall him so far, but if you don’t speak to him soon, he’s threatening to sack us and go to the press saying the reason for the second death is your dereliction of duty,” Shelley continued, her voice betraying an agitation I’d never heard from her before.

  “I’m at Milan airport. On the way to Amsterdam, en route for Antwerp. I’ll have to leave Bill’s car in Belgium and get a flight straight back to the UK. When did this happen?”

  “This morning. An office cleaner. They found her dead beside a new drum of KerrSter. It looks like another case of cyanide poisoning, according to Alexis. Incidentally, she wants to talk to you too.”

  I glanced over at the gate. They hadn’t started boarding us yet. “Is Kerr still in his office?”

  “He was five minutes ago,” Shelley said. “He’s had the Merseyside police all over his factory this afternoon.”

  “I’ll call him and stall him,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve had all this shit to deal with on your own. If it’s any consolation, this trip’s been a nightmare. I’ve already had one close encounter with death today. I’m not sure if I’m up to another one.”

  “You’re all right?” Shelley demanded anxiously.

  “I wouldn’t pitch it that high. I’m in one piece, which is more than I can say for Turner.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, sounding stricken.

  “Look, it’s OK. Let me talk to Kerr. I’ll call you from Amsterdam. There’s a flight gets in to Manchester about half-seven tonight. See if you can get me a seat on it. I don’t care if it’s business class, club class or standing in the toilet, just get me on it.”

  “Will do. I’ll hang on here till I hear from you,” she promised. “For God’s sake, be careful.”

  It was a bit late for me to take heed of that warning. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for battle, and rang Trevor Kerr. Not even my powers of imagination had prepared me for his onslaught. For two straight minutes he ranted at me, with a string of obscenities that would have won him admiration on the football terraces but didn’t do a lot for me. I made a mental note to bump that surliness surcharge up to ten percent. When he paused to regroup for a second outpouring, I cut in decisively. “I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult day, but you’re not the only one,” I said grimly. “I have been pursuing my inquiries into your problem as fast as I can. I’ve made a lot of progress, but I needed a crucial piece of information that I’ve not been able to get hold of yet. Now, I’m meeting someone in an hour’s time who can tell me what I need to know,” I continued, raising my voice to cut through his crap.

  “Bullshit!” he hollered like a bear with its leg in a gin. “You’ve been doing fuck all. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you this fucking minute.”

  “Because if you do, some other private eye with half my talent is going to have to start from square one because you’ll have to sue me to get one single scrap of the information I’ve already uncovered.”

  That silenced him for all often seconds. “I’ll tell the police you’re withholding information,” he blustered.

  “Tell them. Inspector Jackson knows me well enough to realize that shoving me in a cell won’t make a blind bit of difference to what I have to say for myself.”

  “You can’t treat me like this,” he howled, the ultimate spoilt bully.

  “If you want us to discuss this like reasonable adults, you can meet me this evening in the bar of the Hilton at the airport at eight o’clock,” I said. “Otherwise, I’m taking my bat and ball home, Mr. Kerr.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my fellow passengers disappearing through the gate. “It’s up to you,” I said, replacing the phone.

  The flight to Amsterdam seemed never ending. I stared gloomily out of the window, feeling more guilty than a Catholic in bed with a married man. My meddling had cost Nicholas Turner his life. Meddling I’d done while I should have been nailing down my suspicions about the product-tampering racket. If I’d done that job properly, the culprits would be answering Inspector Jackson’s questions now and maybe the woman who had died would still be alive. I should never have taken Trevor Kerr’s case on when I was in the middle of another demanding investigation. But I had to be smart, prove to the world that I was twice as good as any reasonable private investigator needed to be. I’d been trying to show Bill that I was more than capable of being left to run the agency single-handed. All I’d done so far was get two people killed.

  Not only that, but I’d fractured my relationship with Richard, perhaps beyond repair this time. All because I was determined to be the big shot, doing things my way. I began to wonder why I was bothering to go back. On my present form, the only people I’d be keeping satisfied were the undertakers. I had the best part of nine grand in my bag, a car waiting at Antwerp. In all my working life, I’ve never been closer to running away.

  When it came to the crunch, I couldn’t do it. Call it duty, call it stubbornness, call it pure bloody-mindedness. Whatever it was, it propelled me off that plane and over to the check-in desk for the flight to Manchester. Shelley had come up trumps. I was booked on a seat in business class. I had ten minutes to give her a quick ring and tell her I was meeting Kerr at the airport hotel. Slightly reassured, she told me again to take care. She was warning the wrong person.

  They had that evening’s Chronicle on the plane. CLEANER’S MYSTERY DEATH hit me like a stab in the guts. Even though she’d died in Liverpool, Mary Halloran had made the front page in

  The pathologist must have been quick off the mark, I thought. Not to mention in possession of a nasty, suspicious mind. After Joey Morton’s death I’d checked my reference shelves, which had confirmed what I’d already thought—death by cyanide’s a real pig to diagnose. It happens almost instantaneously, and there’s not much to see on the pathologist’s slab. Maybe a trace of frothing round the mouth, possibly a few irregular pink patches on the skin like you get with people who suck too long on their car exhausts. If you get the body open quickly, there might be a faint trace of the smell of bitter almonds in the mouth, chest and abdominal cavity. But if you don’t get your samples pdq, you’re knackered because the cyanide metamorphoses into sulphocyanides, which you’d expect to find there anyway. The only reason they’d picked up on it right away in Joey’s case was that the barman who discovered his body noticed the smell and happened to be a keen reader of detective fiction.

  The Merseyside police were being pretty cautious, and there was a stonewalling quote from Jackson, but reading between the lines, you could see they were talking to each other already. Trevor

  By the time the plane landed, I could have done with a couple of lines of speed. I’d had a stressful couple of days with almost no sleep, and the coffee I’d been mainlining in the air was starting to give me the jitters rather than simply keeping me awake. I was just in the mood for Trevor Kerr.

  I reclaimed my bags by ten to eight and pushed them through customs on a trolley, like a sleepwalker. Halfway down the customs hall, I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a voice say, “Step this way, madam.” I looked up blearily at the customs officer, inches away from tears. The last thing I needed right now was to explain my bizarre assortment of possessions, ranging from a box of maps to a wad of cash and a radio receiver.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Just follow me, please,” he said, leaving me no choice. We walked across the hall to a door on the far side. I was aware of several curious stares from my fellow passengers. The customs man showed me into a small office and closed the door behind me. Leaning against the wall, exhaling a mouthful of smoke, stood Detective Chief Inspector Della Prentice, a wry smile on her lips. Her chestnut hair was loose, hanging round her face in a shining fall. Her green eyes were clear, her skin glowing. She’d clearly had more than two hours’ sleep in the last thirty-six. I hated her.

  “You look like you had a rough flight,” she said.

  “The flight was fine,” I told her, slumping into one of the room’s plastic bucket chairs. �
��It’s just the last two days that have been hell.”

  “Anything to do with the collected works that was waiting on my desk this morning?” she asked.

  I groaned. “More than somewhat. I realize it won’t have made a word of sense to you, but I needed to send it somewhere safe.”

  “Come on,” Della said, shrugging away from the wall. “I’ll drive you home and we’ll talk.”

  “I’m meeting a client at the Hilton,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Two minutes from now. On a totally unrelated matter,” I added.

  Della looked concerned. “You sure you’re up to that?”

  I laughed affectionately. “The copper in you never quite goes off duty, does it? I’m in a fit state for you to give me the third degree, but let me near a client? Oh no, I’m far too knackered for that.”

  Della gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. “I can’t imagine that your client’s planning to run you a hot bath laden with stimulating essential oils or to cook you a meal while you luxuriate with a stiff Stoly and grapefruit juice. And if he is, maybe I should call Richard and let him know the competition’s hotting up.”

  My head fell into my hands. “Not one of your better ideas, Della,” I sighed.

  “Oh God, you’ve not been checking out the insurance man’s endowments, have you?” she giggled.

  “Thank you, Alexis,” I said, getting wearily to my feet. “And thank you for your confidence in me, Della. Come on, then. You can give me a lift over to the Hilton so I can talk to the client. Then you can take me home and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  One of the good things about having the cops meet you at the airport is that they get to park right outside the door without the traffic wardens turning their windscreens into scrapbooks. We drove across to the Hilton in blissful silence, and I left Della in reception with strict instructions to get me out of there in no more than ten minutes.