by Val McDermid
I pasted a smile on my tired face. ‘Why’s that, Tamar?’
‘Celebration. World and his dog all celebrating the fact that we’ve finally got one bastard track that everyone’s happy with. Jett’s actually managed to write something that hasn’t put the entire household to sleep.’ She hiccuped and pulled away from me to head unsteadily towards the din. ‘Whoops,’ she muttered. ‘Not supposed to say that to the hired help. Anyway, what exactly are you doing here?’ she added, pirouetting so that her sequinned jacket sparkled, and fixing me with a bleary stare.
‘Jett wanted to see me,’ I said. Well, it was more or less true.
‘About burglar alarms? At this time of night? Today?’ Then the incredulity vanished from her voice, replaced by suspicion. ‘You’re not really installing a new alarm, are you?’
I shrugged. It wasn’t my job to tell her my business. Apart from the rules of confidentiality, if Jett hadn’t told her what I was doing, I certainly wasn’t about to bring her wrath down on my head. ‘That fucking bitch,’ she swore under her breath. She tossed her expensively tousled hair back from her forehead and stormed down the hall. Curious, I followed her back towards the front door and into the office, where Gloria sat at her word processor, apparently doing the housekeeping accounts, judging by the pile of bills beside her. She glanced up at Tamar, then coolly carried on typing.
‘You told me she was here to sort out a burglar alarm,’ Tamar accused Gloria, a mottled flush rising from her neck to her cheeks.
Gloria’s fingers didn’t even falter. ‘And that’s what I’ll tell you now if you ask properly instead of barging in here like a spoilt child,’ she said primly. She stopped typing and ran a hand over her blonde hair, pulled back so tightly that in the light from her desk lamp it looked like it had been painted on.
‘She’s looking for Moira, isn’t she?’ Tamar raged.
‘Why don’t you ask Jett? He’ll tell you anything he wants you to know,’ Gloria replied insultingly. I almost wished Tamar would flatten her. It would have made my day, and I wouldn’t mind betting I wouldn’t have been alone.
Instead, Tamar, who seemed to have sobered up under the influence of so much adrenalin, pushed past me and went back up the hall at a speed I wouldn’t have believed possible on four-inch stilettos. I threw a vague smile in Gloria’s direction and followed her. The cabaret was worth the trip.
I caught up with Tamar on the threshold of what looked like it had once been a Regency ballroom. The plaster swags were still in place. But everything had been painted gold and black. It would have given the National Trust an apoplexy, or a surfeit, or one of those other things they were always dying of way back then. There were no Regency bucks there tonight, however, just a couple of dozen ageing rockers with a fascinating array of bimbettes on their knees, arms or various other parts of their anatomy. It was hard to tell in the dim light.
Jett was leaning on the gilded mantelpiece, his arm round Kevin in a friendly sort of way. As we approached, I could see the unfocused look of a man who is on his way to being seriously drunk. It was quite an achievement for someone who had been in the studio just over an hour before. It must have been some track he’d just laid down. Tamar landed like a cloudburst on his parade.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she was looking for Moira?’ she hissed.
Jett turned away from us and stared bleakly at the wall. Tamar grabbed his arm and repeated her question. Kevin quickly moved behind her, gripped her tightly above both elbows and stepped back. She had no choice but to move with him. Using the same grip, he turned her round and frogmarched her out of the door. She was so astonished she didn’t say a word till they were halfway across the room. But then her yells caused less of a stir than a mugging in Moss-side. As far as everyone else was concerned, it was just a bit of good clean fun.
I moved closer to Jett. ‘You wanted a report,’ I said. ‘I’m making progress. I know where she was a few months ago. By tomorrow night, I should have a current address.’
He turned his head to face me. When I got a whiff of the alcohol on his breath, I wished he hadn’t bothered. ‘Is she all right?’ he slurred.
There wasn’t a way to soften the blow. I called it like I saw it. ‘She might be. She was on the streets, Jett. She was doing smack as well. But she’d checked into a clinic to clean herself up. Like I say, I’ll know more tomorrow. I’ll fax you a full update in the morning.’ He didn’t look like he was in the mood for details now.
He nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. I felt like the last of the great party poopers as I trudged across the room. I found Tamar halfway up the stairs, just where they split into two. Tears had done serious damage to her make-up. She looked like an aerial shot of a war zone. ‘Don’t bring her back,’ she pleaded with me. ‘You’ll spoil everything.’
I sat down beside her. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said, pushing herself upright. She ran a hand through her hair like a tragedy queen. ‘Your kind never do. You just create havoc and walk away. Well, I’m telling you nobody wants Moira back. Not even Jett, not deep down. He doesn’t want her back out of love, or out of his desperation to make a good album. He wants her back so he can play the lead in the parable of the prodigal son,’ she complained cynically. ‘The thing he needs most of all right now is to feel good about himself, and she’s the perfect vehicle. I mean, where’s the kick in getting it on with me? I don’t need saving, I don’t need putting on track in my karmic journey. Moira’s a fucking godsend, literally.’
She looked as if she was going to say more, but Kevin appeared at the head of the stairs. ‘For God’s sake, Tamar, pull yourself together. I don’t bloody want it any more than you do. But at least if you keep him happy, maybe he won’t fall for her shit again. OK?’
He glared at me as he came downstairs. ‘Thanks for your contribution to the celebrations,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Have you found her yet?’
I shook my head.
‘Good,’ he commented bitterly. ‘Take as long as you like. I’d rather pay your exorbitant fees for six months than have her back here.’ That made me realize just how serious Kevin was about Moira.
Tamar sighed and headed upstairs. I followed Kevin down to the hall, in time to see Gloria lock her office behind her and head towards the ballroom. Good old Gloria. Nothing could make everyone’s life a misery like her literal interpretation of the boss’s instructions. Now she’d be able to toddle off and offer the hero a shoulder to cry on. He sure as hell wouldn’t be getting any offers of comfort from Tamar tonight.
10
I dropped the tape off in Shelley’s in-tray and headed home, determined to have some time to myself. I was in luck. Richard had gone to sit in on an Inspiral Carpets rehearsal session. The first time he’d come home talking about the band, I couldn’t believe my ears. Thought he’d finally started taking an interest in interior design. Silly me.
After a languid bath, I booted up the computer. Until I met Bill, I’d always thought people who played computer games were intellectual pygmies. But Bill introduced me to role-playing adventures, so different from arcade shoot-em-ups that I can hardly bring myself to mention them in the same breath. The way the games work is that the player takes on the role of a character in the story, explores locations, achieves tasks, and solves complex puzzles. A really good game can take me up to a couple of months to complete. From there, I discovered strategy simulations, and that was the end of my relationship with the television set. Can’t say it shows signs of missing me.
I loaded up Sierra’s Leisure Suit Larry and spent a bawdy hour as the eponymous medallion man in the white polyester suit, looking for love in all the wrong places, from a whore’s boudoir to a filthy toilet. I’ve played the game half a dozen times, but it’s one of the old favourites I always go back to whenever I want to relax rather than stretch my mind on a fresh set of puzzles. By the time I went to bed, I was feeling more laid back than any carpet, inspiral or otherw
ise. I almost didn’t mind when the alarm went off at six, catapulting me into another wonderful day of chasing the Smarts. We’d been to Glasgow and back by mid-afternoon, when I abandoned them to the delights of a late lunch in Chinatown and headed back to the office with a takeaway pizza, calabrese with onion and extra cheese. Shelley gave me a filthy look as the smell filled her office, so I skulked off to my own cubbyhole where I tried to type up my surveillance report without getting mozzarella on the keys.
The drive back to Bradford to the strains of Tina Turner almost seemed relaxing after the stresses of chasing Billy and Gary up the motorway. But I couldn’t afford to let myself become too confident. The hardest part of the day still lay ahead. I sat in the car till half-past seven, then walked up the path to the Seagull Project. I rang the bell and waited.
After a few minutes, I heard feet thundering down the stairs and the door was opened by Andy. He looked surprised to see me. ‘I’ve come for the meeting,’ I told him. ‘I know I’m early, but I was in the area, and I thought I could wait inside rather than go to the pub on my own.’ I gave him the full hundred-watt smile.
He shrugged and said, ‘I don’t see a problem with that. Come on in. You can wait in Jude’s office.’ I followed him through and sat down, pulling a Marge Piercy novel out of my bag and trying to look as if I were settled for the evening.
‘Help yourself to a coffee,’ he said, gesturing towards a tray containing all the paraphernalia for brewing up. ‘Someone’ll come down for you when we’re ready. I’m afraid it’ll be about three quarters of an hour at least.’
‘Thanks,’ I said absently, already appearing immersed in my book. I waited till I heard his footsteps reach the top of the stairs, then I counted a hundred elephants. I put my book away and moved quietly across the room. I inched the door open and listened. There was a distant hum of conversation, too low to make out individual voices.
I pulled the door further open and stuck my head into the hall. If I’d seen anyone, I was looking for the loo. But the coast was clear. There was no one in the hall or on the stairs. I crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me, and moved quickly across the hall and down the side of the stairs towards the room where the records were kept. I paused outside the door.
My hands were slippery with nervous sweat, so I wiped them on my trousers before taking an out-of-date credit card from my pocket. I’m not bad at picking locks, thanks to Dennis the burglar, but with a simple Yale, the old credit card trick is quicker and leaves fewer traces if you’re an amateur like me. I turned the door handle with one hand, and with the other, I slid the card between the door and the lintel. At first, it wouldn’t budge and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down between my shoulder blades. I took the card out, took three deep breaths, listening all the time for noise from upstairs, then tried again.
This time, the lock slipped back and the door opened. I hurried into the room and closed the door behind me, flipping up the catch to double-lock it. I leaned against the door and found myself panting. I forced myself to breathe normally and took stock of my surroundings. First, I examined the filing cabinets. I soon found a drawer marked ‘Clients. O-R’. It was locked.
Fortunately, the Seagull Project didn’t just hand out charity. It had clearly been on the receiving end as far as the elderly filing cabinets were concerned. With new cabinets, you actually have to pick the locks. But with ones of this vintage, I could forget about the set of lock-picks I’d bought from Dennis. I inched the cabinet away from the wall and pushed the top, tipping it back. Cautiously, keeping it in place, I crouched down and slipped my hand underneath. I groped around till I found the lock bar and pushed it upwards. The sound of the bar releasing the locked drawers was sweet to my ears. I carefully let the cabinet down and pushed it back into place. It had taken me nearly five minutes. I flicked hastily through the files and found a cardboard folder marked ‘Pollock, M’. I pulled it out. It was worryingly slim and when I opened it I discovered why. It contained only one sheet of paper. My heart sank as I read it. ‘Moira Pollock. File transferred to computer 16th February.’
I swore under my breath and turned to the computer. The perfect end to a perfect day. I switched it on and sat down. As I’d expected, it wanted a password. I tried Seagull. No luck. Then Andrew. It’s amazing how many people are stupid enough to use their own names as security passwords. Andy wasn’t one of them. I thought hard. My next try had to be right. Like copy-protected games, most security programs only give you three attempts before they crash. I sat and stared into the screen, desperately racking my brains for inspiration.
Then it came to me. I crossed my fingers, said a swift prayer to the gods of the New Age and typed in JONATHAN. ‘Thank you, Richard Bach,’ I said softly as the menu appeared before me.
Once I was into the program, it didn’t take me long to find Moira’s records. I didn’t have time to plough through them all then and there, but realizing I might have to steal some data from the computer, I’d taken the precaution of bringing a couple of blank floppies with me. I quickly made two copies of the file to be on the safe side, pocketed the discs and switched off the computer. So much for the Data Protection Act. I checked my watch and saw that it was nearly ten past eight. Time to get a move on.
At the door, I paused and listened. It seemed quiet, so I carefully released the lock catch and opened the door. I stepped into the hall with a sigh of relief and pulled the door to behind me. The noise of the lock snapping home sounded like a thunderclap. I didn’t wait to see if that’s how it sounded to anyone else. I raced down the hall and out of the front door. I didn’t stop running till I got to the car.
I didn’t like leaving the Seagull Project minus their new volunteer. But at least I’d managed to avoid the collective meeting. Besides, I figured that now she’d flown the nest, Moira might need my help more than them.
I arrived home just as Richard was leaving. When he saw me, his face lit up in my favourite cute smile and he leapt across the low fence that separates our front gardens. He pulled me into his arms in a comforting hug. Until I tried to relax into him, I hadn’t realized how tense I still was after my burglary at Seagull.
‘Hey, Brannigan!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d given you up for dead. Come on, get your glad rags on and we’ll go and paint the town.’
It was a tempting offer. I didn’t keep the full range of software at home that we have in the office, and I knew that I couldn’t read the disc I’d copied at the Seagull Project with what I had on my machine. I certainly couldn’t face going into the office this late. Besides, it was Friday night and I felt entitled to time off for bad behaviour. ‘Sounds like a good game,’ I agreed.
I took a quick shower and blissfully pulled on a pair of clean toffee-coloured silk trousers that were my bargain of the year—a tenner in a reject shop. I added a cream camisole and a linen jacket, and half an hour after I got home, I was climbing into the passenger seat of Richard’s hot pink Beetle convertible. I wriggled uncomfortably, then pulled out a handful of scrunched up papers from under me and tossed them on to the rest of the detritus in the back seat.
‘This car’s a health hazard,’ I grumbled as I kicked Diet Coke cans, old newspapers and cigarette packets aside in a bid to find some floor space for my feet.
‘It’s my office,’ he replied, as if that was some kind of reason for driving round in a dustbin.
‘You leave it sitting around with the top down, and somebody’s going to come along and mistake it for a skip. You’ll come out one morning to find a mattress and a pile of builder’s rubble in it,’ I teased him, only half-joking.
Luckily for my eardrums, Richard was having a night off, so we avoided anywhere with live music. We ended up dancing the night away at one of the city’s more intimate clubs. Afterwards, we went for a late Chinese, so it was after three when we finally crawled into bed, hungry for one thing only. And I don’t mean sex.
11
I woke around noon to the electronic
music of a computer game, and found Richard sitting naked in front of the screen playing Tetris. It’s a game that sounds simple, but isn’t. The object is to build a solid wall out of a random succession of differently shaped coloured bricks. Sounds boring, but the game has outsold every other computer game ever invented. Richard, like half the high-powered traders in the City, is addicted to it. Unlike the City superstars, however, Tetris is about Richard’s limit when it comes to computers.
I pried him away from the screen not with the temptations of my body but with the offer of a pub lunch. He got up eagerly and went off to his house to have a shower, a shave and a change of clothes. What I had omitted to mention was that this was to be a working lunch. A couple of weeks ago, I had followed one of Billy Smart’s customers to a pub on the outskirts of Manchester. I wanted to take a look and see what was going on there. But a woman on her own would be both conspicuous and a target for the kind of assholes who think that a woman alone is desperate for their company. What better camouflage in a trendy young people’s fun pub than Richard?
We took my car, partly on environmental health grounds and partly so that Richard could have a drink. It took about twenty minutes to drive out to the pub in Worsley, a large 1950s tavern with a bowling green and a beer garden that ran down to the canal. The car park told me all I needed to know. Every car had its string of poser’s initials—GTI, XR3i, Turbo. I felt like a second-class citizen with a mere SR. Inside was no better. The interior had been completely revamped according to the chapter of the brewery bible headed ‘fun pub’. My first impression as we walked through the door was of pink neon and chrome. It looked like a tacky version of every New York bar featured in the teen movies of the last decade. I half-expected to find Tom Cruise throwing bottles around behind the bar.
I was out of luck. The barman who shimmied up to serve us looked more like a cruiserweight. While Richard ordered the drinks, I took a good look around. The pub was busy for a lunchtime. ‘Plenty of Traceys,’ Richard commented as he glanced round.
