Clean Break

by Val McDermid

  “That doesn’t give me a lot of scope on a date with a fella, does it?”

  “Exactly. Now, what was it you wanted?”

  “You still got your contact in Telecom accounts?” I asked her.

  “You bet. Like the song says, once you have found her, never let her go. What are you after?”

  “I want the itemized bills for the last six months on three numbers,” I said. “One Manchester, two Liverpool. How much is that going to rush me?”

  “It’s usually fifty quid a throw. I’ll ask her if she’ll give you the three for a hundred and twenty. You want to give me the numbers, I’ll pass them on?”

  I read the three numbers over to her. “Soon as poss,” I said.

  “If I catch her now, she’ll fax them to you when she gets home tonight. That do you?”

  “It’ll have to.”

  “Is this something I should know about, KB? I mean, I’m the woman you were pumping last night about mysterious deaths in Manchester and Liverpool.”

  I chuckled. “If I said it was a completely unrelated matter, would you believe me?”

  “Girl, if the Pope himself told me it was a completely unrelated matter, I wouldn’t believe him. You’ve got no chance. You want to share this with me?”

  “Do your own investigations,” I told her.

  “I’ll catch up with you later. Have fun with the insurance man. I’ll expect a full report tomorrow.”

  “Only paying clients get full reports,” I laughed. I replaced the receiver and swung my feet up on to the desk. A vague shape was forming in my mind, but there were still too many questions that needed answering. Not least of them was the one Gail Morton

  I was still worrying at that point when Paul called back. “DJH Portraits,” he said. “Desmond Halloran. One-man band. He used to work with another guy, doing the usual weddings, babies and pets. But he fancied himself as a bit of an artist, so he set up on his own, doing specialist portrait work. I’m told his stuff is really good, but the problem is that using the kind of processes he does is very labor intensive, as well as costing a fair bit on the chemicals. He was keeping his head above water to begin with, but the way the recession’s been biting, nobody’s got the cash to spare for fancy photographs that come in at five hundred quid a throw. My contact says he reckons he must be running at a loss these days. That what you wanted to hear?”

  “Smack on the button,” I said.

  “This wouldn’t have something to do with the fact that his wife has just popped her clogs, would it?” he asked eagerly, ever the boy detective.

  “Now, Paul, you know I never divulge confidential client information.”

  “I know. Only, my mate, he says Desmond only kept afloat because his wife’s business was a raging success and she subsidized him. He was wondering how Desmond’s going to go on now.”

  Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place. “Thank you, Paul,” I said. “Send me an invoice.” It was a long shot, but if Desmond Halloran was having an affair with Gail Morton and they wanted to ditch their partners and run off together, they’d need something to live on. Quite a big something, if my impressions of Gail were accurate. But if Desmond divorced Mary, she’d doubtless hang on to the kids and to her business, leaving Desmond potless. And I suspected that Desmond potless was a lot less attractive to Gail than Desmond loaded.

  Before I could do anything more, the door to my office opened and Della walked in. She looked at me, eyes reproachful, and gently shook her head. “Running out on Cliff Jackson I could

  She didn’t need to say any more. I could beat myself up. She was right. When I start letting my friends down, I know my life’s starting to spin out of control. I got to my feet. “I’m sorry,” I said inadequately. “You’re right. You deserve better.”

  “Shall we go?”

  I nodded. On the way out, Shelley said, “Sorry, Kate. I can lie to most people, but not to the rest of the team.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “I’m the one in the wrong. You better phone Ruth and tell her to meet me at … where, Della?”

  “Bootle Street,” Della said.

  “Oh, and Shelley? I think I might be a while. Better ring Michael Haroun at Fortissimus and tell him I need a rain check tonight.”

  I followed Della out to the waiting police car. I knew I was damn lucky not to be under arrest. I just didn’t feel like I could risk walking under ladders.

  Chapter 24

  It seemed to take longer to recount Richard and Kate’s excellent adventure than it had taken to experience it. Asking the questions were Inspector Mellor from the Art Squad, who remembered me from our earlier encounter at Henry’s, and Geoff Turnbull from the Drugs Squad, who thankfully owed me one on account of information received in a previous investigation that had provided him with a substantial feather in his cap. Della sat in on the interview, probably to make sure my brief didn’t change my mind and persuade me to opt for the Trappist approach.

  Even so, by the time I’d answered everyone’s questions, it was past midnight. I’d come clean about all of my nefarious activities, on the advice of Ruth Hunter, my nonpareil criminal solicitor and, incidentally, one of the tightknit group of my female friends which Richard refers to as the Coven-ment—witches who run the world. “After all,” she pointed out drily, “all your law-breaking took place outside their jurisdiction, and I rather think the Italian police are going to have enough to worry about without bothering you with such trivial charges as assault, kidnap, false imprisonment, burglary, data theft, concealing a body, and failing to report a murder.”

  Ruth, Della and I ended up eating steak in one of the city’s half-dozen casinos. The great advantage with them is that they stay open late and the food’s cheap. It’s supposed to act as an incentive to make people gamble. I don’t know how effective it is; most of the gamblers that night were Chinese, and none of them looked like a juicy steak was on their agenda. Not as long as the roulette wheels were still spinning. “Cliff Jackson’s still going to want to talk to you,” Della pointed out after we ordered.

  “I know. His goons were sitting on my doorstep this morning.”

  Ruth groaned. “What now, Kate? Haven’t you broken enough laws for one week?”

  “That’s not why Cliff Jackson’s after me,” I said stiffly. “It’s just that I’ve been doing his job for him, and now I’ve tracked down his saboteurs, he probably wants to know who the real murderer is.”

  Della and Ruth both choked on their drinks. “Oh ye of little faith,” I complained. “Anyway, I want to stay out of his way until I’ve got the whole thing done and dusted. If I leave the job half done, he’ll only mess it up and arrest the wrong person. He’s got form for it.”

  “Isn’t it about time you went back to white-collar crime and left the police to deal with these dangerous criminal types?” Ruth demanded. “It’s not that I think you’re incapable of looking after yourself. It’s just that you keep involving Richard, and he’s really far too accident-prone to be exposed to these kinds of people.”

  “I don’t want to discuss Richard,” I said. “Anyway, Della, what have Mellor and Turnbull been doing for the last forty-eight hours with the info I handed them on a plate?”

  “Luckily, Geoff’s already had dealings with his opposite numbers in Europe about organized drug trafficking, so he was able to cut through a lot of the bureaucratic red tape. It turns out his Italian oppos have been taking a long hard look at Gruppo Leopardi and its offshoots, so the info you brought out of there has slotted in very nicely. You were right, by the way. They’ve been organizing art robberies all over Europe, not just in the UK, and using the art works as payment for drug shipments,” Della said. “With the data you stole, it looks like they’ll be able to set up a sting that will pull in some of the big boys, for a change.”

  “What about Nicholas Turner?” I asked.

  Della fussed with a cigarette and her Zippo. “They found his body in the van, where you left it. A couple of t
he lads went over to Leeds this morning and spoke to his wife. She’s denying all knowledge of anything shady, of course. She’s going for the Oscar as the grieving wife of a legitimate art and antiques dealer. Grieving she may well be, but nobody believes for a minute she’s as innocent as she wants us to think. Apart from anything else,

  “He still didn’t deserve to die,” I said.

  Ruth shrugged. “You take the money, you take the risks that go with it. How many lives have been destroyed by the drugs Turner was involved in supplying? Half the people I defend owe not a little of their trouble to the drug scene. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over Turner, Kate.”

  I didn’t.

  Jackson’s goons were on my doorstep again the following morning. I figured that by now he’d probably be staking out the office as well. I rang Shelley. “Have you got company of the piggy variety too?”

  “Of course, sir. Did you want to talk to one of our operatives?”

  That told me all I needed to know. “Is it Jackson himself or one of his gophers?”

  “I’m afraid our principal isn’t in the office at present.”

  I’ll say this for Shelley, nothing fazes her. “There should have been an overnight fax for me,” I said. “Can you stick it in an envelope and have it couriered round to Josh’s office? I’ll pick it up there.”

  “That’s no problem, sir. I’ll have Ms. Brannigan call you when she comes back to the office. Goodbye now.”

  Whoever said blondes have more fun obviously didn’t garner the experience wearing a wig. I went through the disguise-forbeginners rigmarole again and made my exit through Richard’s bungalow, pausing long enough to do a quick inventory of his wardrobe. If he’d been back, he hadn’t taken any significant amount of clothing with him. His laptop was gone, though, which meant he was planning to be away long enough to get some work done.

  I arrived at Josh’s office ten minutes after the fax, and settled down at an empty desk to plow through the phone numbers. It was a long, tedious process of crosschecking, made worse by the fact that Alexis’s contact had come up with a more detailed breakdown of calls than the customer receives. The fax she’d sent listed every

  There was one other curious thing. A Warrington number cropped up on both bills. I checked the dates. Every Monday, a call a few minutes long was logged on one bill or another. It appeared most often on Desmond’s office bill, but it was there half a dozen times on the Cob and Pen’s account too. Of course, I had to ring it, didn’t I?

  “Warrington Motorway Motel, Janice speaking, how may I help you?” the singsong voice announced.

  “I’m meeting someone at the motel today. Can you give me directions?”

  “Certainly, madam. Where are you coming from?”

  “Manchester.”

  “Right. If you come down the M62 and take junction nine, you go left as you come off the motorway and right at the first roundabout. We’re the first turning on the left, just after the bridge.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.” If I had my way, Janice was going to be a lot more helpful before the day was out.

  There was nothing to mark out the Warrington Motorway Motel from the dozens of others that sprang up around the motorway network in the late Eighties. A two-story, sprawling red-brick building with a low-pitched roof, a car park and a burger joint next door, it could have been anywhere between the Channel Tunnel and that point on the edge of the Scottish highlands where the motorways run out. Rooms for around thirty quid a throw, TV but no phone, no restaurant, bar or lounge. Cheap and cheerless.

  Late morning wasn’t a busy time behind the reception desk. Janice—or someone who’d stolen her name badge—looked pleased at the sight of another human being. The reception area was so small that with two of us present, it felt intimate. On the way over, I’d toyed with various approaches. I’d decided I was too

  I dropped one of my cards on the desk halfway through Janice’s welcome speech. Her pert features registered surprise, followed by an air of suppressed excitement. “I’ve never met a private detective before,” she confided, giving me the wide-eyed once-over. I hoped I wasn’t too much of a disappointment.

  I followed the card with a photograph of Gail I’d persuaded Alexis to lend me. “This woman’s a regular here,” I stated baldly. “She comes here once a week with the same bloke.”

  Janice’s eyes widened. “I’m not supposed to release information about guests,” she said wistfully.

  I leaned on the desk and smiled. “Forgive me being so personal, Janice, but how much do they pay you?”

  Startled, she blurted out the answer without thinking. “A hundred and seventy pounds a week.”

  I opened my bag and took out the five hundred I’d counted out on the way. I placed it on the desk and pushed it towards her. “Nearly three weeks’ money. Tax free. No comebacks. I don’t even want a receipt.”

  Her eyes widened. She stared at the cash, then at me, consternation clear in her face. “What for?”

  “All I want to know is how often they come and how long they stay. I want to know when they’re due here next. Then I want to book the room next door. Oh, and five minutes in their room before they arrive. There’s no reason why anyone should know you’ve helped me.” I nudged the money nearer to her.

  “It’s for a divorce, isn’t it?” she said.

  I winked. “I’m not supposed to release information either. Let’s just say this pair shouldn’t be doing what they’ve been doing.”

  Suddenly, her hand snaked out and the dosh disappeared faster than a paper-wrapped prawn off Richard’s plate. She tapped Gail’s photograph with a scarlet fingernail. “She’s been coming here with this bloke for about a year now. They always book as Mr. and Mrs. Chester. It’s usually a Wednesday. They arrive separately, usually about half past two. I don’t know when they leave, because I go off at half past four.”

  I nodded, as if this was exactly what I’d expected to hear. “And when are they booked in next?”

  “I think you’ve dropped lucky,” she said, consulting her screen. “Yeah, that’s right. They’ve got a room booked today.” She looked up at me, smirking. “I bet you knew that, didn’t you?”

  Again, I winked. “Maybe you could let me into the room they’ll be in, then book me in next door?”

  Eagerly, she nodded. Funny how excited people get when they feel like they’re part of the chase. “I’ll give you their key,” she said. “But bring it back quick as you can.”

  I picked up the key and headed for the lift. Room 103 was a couple of doors down the corridor from the lift. The whole floor was eerily silent. I let myself in, and gave the room a quick scan. I could have drawn it from memory, it was so similar to every motel room I’d ever camped out in. Because I hadn’t been able to get into the office to pick up proper surveillance equipment, I’d had to rely on what I could pick up from the local electronics store. A small tape recorder with a voice-activated radio mike hadn’t made much of a dent in my payoff from Turner. I took out my Swiss Army knife and unscrewed the insipid seascape from above the bed. I stuck the mike to the back of the picture with a piece of Elastoplast, then screwed it back on to the wall. There was a gap of about a quarter of an inch between the picture and the hessian wallpaper, but I didn’t think Gail and Desmond were there for the décor.

  I quickly checked the mike was working, then I was out of there. I returned the key to Janice and went over to the burger joint for supplies. I settled down in my room with a giant cheeseburger, fries, a large coffee and a bag of doughnuts. I stuck the earpiece of the tape recorder in my ear and waited. I couldn’t believe myself. I felt like I was playing the starring role in the worst kind of clichéd private-eye drama; staking out the seedy motel for the couple indulging in illicit sex. All I needed was a snap-brimmed trilby and a bottle of bourbon to feel like a complete idiot.

  While I was waiting, I rang Michael Haroun. “Sorry about last night,” I said. “I was helping the police with
their inquiries.”

  “They arrested you?”

  “Behave. They only wanted a friendly chat. They were just a little insistent about having it right that minute.”

  “My God, you like to sail close to the wind, don’t you?”

  “My yachting friends tell me that’s where you have to be if you want to travel fast,” I said. What was it about this man that brought out the portentous asshole in me?

  “So is this a social or professional call?” he asked.

  “Purely social. I wanted to offer you dinner tomorrow as a penance for cancelling yesterday.”

  “You cook, as well as everything else?”

  “I do, but that’s not what I had in mind. How does the Market sound?”

  “Fabulous. My favorite restaurant in town. What time?”

  “I’ll see you there about half past seven,” I promised. To hell with Barclay.

  The feeling of well-being that I got from talking to Michael didn’t last long. There’s nothing more boring than sitting around in a featureless motel room waiting for something to happen. Patience and I aren’t normally on speaking terms, so I always get really edgy on jobs like this. It’s not so bad doing a stakeout in the car; at least I can listen to the radio and watch the world go by. But here, there was nothing to do but stare at the walls.

  The monotony broke around twenty past two. My earpiece told me that the door to the next room had closed. At once, I was on the alert, my free ear pressed to the wall. I heard the toilet flush, then, a few minutes later, the door closed again. There was a mumble of what sounded like greetings and endearments, irritatingly incomprehensible. At a guess, they were still in the passage by the bathroom, rather than in the room proper.

  More mumblings, then gradually, I could make out what they were saying.

  “… taking a risk,” a man’s voice said.

  “You said what I told you to, didn’t you?” Gail’s voice. Unmistakably.

  “Yeah, I told my mother I needed some time on my own, that I was going for a drive and would she look after the kids.”