01.Dead Beat

by Val McDermid

  As soon as he’d gone, Jackson turned on me. ‘Have you got some kind of death wish, Brannigan?’ he hissed as he took me by the arm and led me to the door. ‘I’ve already thrown you out of here once. Is business so bad you’ve got to come touting?’

  ‘I was invited here,’ I told him through clenched teeth. ‘Get your hands off me. Now.’

  He reluctantly let me go, then opened the door and tried to usher me through it. I stood my ground. Jett called, ‘You OK, Kate? The lady’s a friend, Inspector. I want her here.’

  Jackson turned to Jett and flashed an insincere smile. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Franklin. We have some questions for Miss Brannigan, and after that, we’ll be needing to talk to you again. Perhaps it would be better if she came back tomorrow.’

  Jett glared at Jackson. I wasn’t sure if that was on my account or because Jackson had used his real name. Jett doesn’t like to be reminded of its patriotic overtones. Let’s face it, which of us outside the Tory Cabinet would like to be saddled with Winston Gladstone Franklin?

  ‘It’s OK, Jett,’ I said reassuringly. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning, OK?’ There were things I wanted to do, and none of this lot were going anywhere. They would keep. Maggie Rossiter might not be so keen to talk if I waited till she’d got her emotions under control.

  16

  I was in the Colcutt Arms by half-past twelve. It turned out that the only questions Jackson had for me related to what I was doing back at the manor and what I’d done for Jett in the past, nudge nudge, wink wink. I didn’t like his innuendoes, and suspected he was trying to needle me into an admission of some sort. Obviously, he’d got no more change out of Bill than he had out of me. At least he wasn’t challenging my version of the discovery of the body yet.

  It wasn’t just relief that drove me to the local pub. I was after information. I spotted the members of Her Majesty’s Gutter Press in the lounge bar, and gave it a body-swerve. What the saloon bar lacked in creature comforts it made up for by the complete absence of journos. If I was going to go into my chatty passing-motorist act, I didn’t want an audience.

  The harried barmaid who served me seemed as glad to escape from them as I was. She bustled through from the lounge when I pressed a bell on the bar and pushed a strand of bottle blonde hair from her forehead. She was in her forties, and looked shell-shocked to find herself in the throes of a lunchtime rush.

  ‘Busy today,’ I said sympathetically as she poured me a St Clement’s.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ she replied. ‘Ice?’ I nodded. ‘Last time we were this busy of a dinner time was Boxing Day.’

  ‘Bad business up the road,’ I remarked as I sipped my drink. She was happily leaning against the bar, relieved to escape the clod-hopping probings of the press. I hoped my questions fitted in the category of Great British Pub Gossip.

  ‘That poor woman!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you know, she was in here last night with a friend of hers, sitting in a corner of my lounge bar! And next thing you know, she’s murdered in her own home. You’re not safe anywhere these days. You’d think with all the security they’ve got up there they’d be all right. I said to my Geoff, it’s like Fort Knox up there, and they’re not safe. Makes you wonder.’

  My ears pricked up at the news of Moira’s meeting in the pub, but I didn’t want to pounce too eagerly. ‘I sometimes wonder if it’s all the security that attracts them,’ I responded, playing along with the Passing Vagabond theory. ‘You know, like a challenge or something.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is we’ve never had any trouble in this village till we had so-called rock stars living here.’ Her mouth pursed, revealing a nest of wrinkles she’d have been mortified to see in a mirror.

  ‘Do they come in here much?’ I asked casually.

  ‘One or two of them. They’ve got a journalist living up there, writing some book about Jett, he’s never out of here normally. I don’t know when he gets his writing done. He’s in here for a couple of hours most dinner times and he gets through half a dozen pints every session. Not that I’m complaining—I’m glad of the custom in the winter months. Sometimes I wonder why we bother opening up in the middle of the day. What we take across the bar hardly covers the electricity,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Nice place, though,’ I complimented her. ‘Been here long?’

  ‘Five years. My husband used to be a mining engineer, but we got tired of living abroad, so we bought this place. It’s hard work, especially doing the bed and breakfast, but it’s better than living with a load of foreigners,’ she replied. Before I could ask more, the bell from the lounge summoned her.

  To ensure her return, I called, ‘Do you do food?’

  ‘Just sandwiches.’

  I ordered a round of roast beef, and when she returned, I said, ‘It must have been a shock for you, one of your regulars getting murdered.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t exactly a regular. She’s been in a few times the last couple of days when her friend was staying here. But she’d only been in the once before that, with a crowd of them. The only way I knew it was her was with her being black. Not that I’m racist,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s just that we don’t get many of them round here.’

  I could believe her. I remembered only too well how the police inspector in one of the nearby Cheshire towns had defended his policy of arresting any blacks he saw on the street by announcing, ‘None of them live around here so if they’re walking our streets they’re probably up to no good.’

  ‘Her friend must have been in a hell of a state when she heard the news,’ I tried, checking the gender of the friend. I was pretty sure it must have been Maggie, but it would be nice to make sure. I took a bite out of the sandwich. Even without the information about Moira’s visit, the trip had been worthwhile. The bread was fresh and crusty, the meat pink, sliced wafer thin and piled thick, with a generous smear of horseradish. I nearly choked on it when I heard her reply.

  ‘I don’t even know if she has heard the news,’ the landlady replied. ‘When I got up this morning, there was an envelope on the hall table with the money she owed and a note saying she’d had to leave early. I knew she was checking out today, but I didn’t expect her to be off at the crack of dawn.’ She sounded slightly aggrieved, as if she’d been done out of a good piece of drama.

  ‘You mean she just cleared off in the middle of the night? Funny, that,’ I remarked, trying not to sound like a private eye who’s one happy step ahead of the police.

  ‘No, not the middle of the night. She didn’t actually leave till about half-past six. Our bedroom’s at the back, you see. The car woke me up, and I got up because I thought she might have gone off without paying. I didn’t even know about the murder myself then.’ She clearly saw nothing suspicious in Maggie’s behaviour, and I was grateful for that. There would be at least one suspect I’d get to before the police.

  ‘Perhaps she had a phone call or something,’ I hazarded.

  ‘Not while she was here,’ the landlady replied positively. ‘I’d have known. I think she probably just woke up early and decided to get an early start. To be honest, I was surprised she wasn’t staying at the manor. Their friends don’t usually put up here.’

  I could have come up with a couple of good reasons why Maggie Rossiter hadn’t been willing to accept Jett’s hospitality, but I wasn’t about to share them. I finished my sandwich, exchanged a few routine complaints about the weather, and set off for Leeds.

  It was still drizzling when I pulled up outside Maggie’s terraced house. Crossing the Pennines hadn’t worked its usual trick of transforming the weather. Through the drift of rain, the house looked miserable and unwelcoming. There were no lights on to combat the gloom. Mind you, if my lover was lying dead in a morgue somewhere, I don’t think I’d feel like a hundred watt glare.

  Maggie took her time answering the door. I’d just decided she wasn’t home when the door opened. When she saw me, she started to close it again. I moved forward quickly enough to
insinuate my shoulder in the gap.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ she demanded feebly, her voice cracked and shaky.

  ‘We need to talk, Maggie,’ I said. ‘I know it’s the last thing you feel like, but I think I can help.’

  ‘Help? You do resurrections?’ Her voice was bitter, and tears shone in her red-rimmed eyes. My professional satisfaction at getting to her first withered in the face of her obvious grief.

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed Moira,’ I told her.

  ‘What’s the use? It’s not going to bring her back, is it?’ Maggie rubbed her eyes impatiently with her free hand, as if she hated showing me her humanity.

  ‘No, it’s not. But you’ve got to grieve. You know that. And finding out what happened is the first step in the process. Maggie, let me come in and talk to you.’

  Her straight shoulders seemed to sag and she stood back from the door. It opened straight on to her living room, and I sat down before she could change her mind. Behind me, Maggie closed the door firmly and went through to the kitchen. I could hear the sound of a kettle being filled. I took the chance to take stock of the room. It was large, occupying most of the ground floor of the house. One of the alcoves by the chimney breast held an assortment of books, from science fiction to sociology texts. The other held a small TV and a stereo system with a collection of tapes, CDs and LPs. The only decoration on the walls was a large reproduction of Klimt’s Judith. The room contained two sofas and, in the bay, a small pine dining table with four chairs. It looked like home, but only one person’s idea of it.

  She came through with a pot of tea on a tray with two mugs, a bottle of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘I’ve got this terrible thirst. I can’t seem to stop drinking tea,’ she said absently as she poured. Her hair looked dishevelled, as did the sweatshirt and jeans she was wearing. The room was unbearably warm, the gas fire on full, yet Maggie shivered as she lifted her mug to her lips.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing how hollow it would sound, but feeling the need nevertheless. ‘I hardly knew her, but I liked what I did know.’

  Maggie walked over to the window and stared out at the silent rain falling on the grey roofs. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Kate,’ she observed. ‘I am not going to discuss my feelings with you. I have friends for that. I’ll tell you anything I can about what happened after she left with you that night, but our feelings for each other and the way I feel right now is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ I said, feeling like I’d been reprieved. After Jett’s histrionics, I didn’t know how much more I could take.

  She turned back into the room and sat on the other sofa, as far from me as it was possible to be. ‘I suppose Jett’s hired you to discover I did it?’ she challenged.

  ‘I’m working for Jett, but he hasn’t pointed the finger at anyone. I think he’s still too upset to have given it much thought. It was him who found the body, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she sighed. ‘You should never have tried to find her. If Jett had let the past rest in peace, she’d still be here now.’

  I couldn’t deny it. And I saw no point in trying to justify my own part in the process. ‘Suppose we go back to the beginning and work forward?’ I asked. ‘What happened after I took her over to see Jett?’

  Maggie sighed again. She pulled a small tin out of her pocket and with trembling fingers rolled a cigarette. ‘She rang the morning after. She said that she and Jett had had a long talk.’ A half-smile flickered across her lips as she went on. ‘She’d learned the hard way not to take any prisoners. She went in there with an agenda, and she wasn’t prepared to make any compromises. She said she’d work with him on the songs for his new album, and if that worked out, then she’d consider future collaborations. But that was it. No going back to their old relationship. She wanted a room of her own, all the back royalties that were due to her, and a new deal for the new album. She wanted a percentage share of the profits as well as her songwriting royalties. After all, he’d be doing well out of it too.’ Maggie paused, looking to me for a response.

  ‘It doesn’t sound unreasonable to me. I’d guess that Jett could afford it,’ I agreed.

  ‘Jett was over the moon, according to Moira. He said she’d have to work out the money details with Kevin, but it was fine by him. She was laughing, you know? She said he’d got into all this New Age stuff, and kept telling her they were soul mates and must be together. She’d told him that only extended to work and he could forget sex. Then he went all huffy and started on about spiritual love. She was very funny about it all.’ Memories overwhelmed Maggie suddenly and she looked away.

  Awkwardly, I said, ‘I liked her sense of humour, too. Maggie, did she say anything about the reactions of the others at the manor to her arrival?’

  Maggie relit her cigarette and took a deep drag. ’Not then. But she had plenty to say later. Only Neil seemed really pleased that she was there. He seemed to think she’d be able to fill in any gaps from the early days. I know he talked to her about what it was like before Jett hit the big time. She said Gloria was always trying to bust up their conversations. She wanted to come across as the only significant person in Jett’s life. Pathetic, really.

  ‘Tamar hated her on sight, of course. Her and Jett have been having this on-off relationship for a few months now, and I guess she saw Moira as a threat. Moira couldn’t stand her, thought she was just a stupid bimbo, and she told me she used to wind her up by flirting with Jett when Tamar was around. But there was nothing in it. She told me that, and I believe her. I trust…’ she gulped. ‘I trusted her.’

  ‘What about Kevin? How did he take it?’ I probed.

  ‘She said he wasn’t thrilled, but that she wasn’t surprised because the idea of parting with any money, even if it’s not his own, gives him a physical pain. She said if he gave you his shit for fertilizer he’d want the roses. And there was a lot of money coming to her. All those years of royalties from the first three albums.’

  ‘Did she get the money?’ I suspected I knew the answer before I asked the question.

  ‘Not yet. Kevin said it was tied up in some account where he had to wait three months before he could get access to it.’

  I’d been right. Moira had died before she’d cost anyone a penny. I wondered if anyone would ever be able to untangle things now she was dead. ‘Do you happen to know if she left a will?’ I asked.

  Maggie’s mouth twisted into an ironic smile. ‘Jett tell you to ask that? Yes, she left a will. We both made wills in favour of each other about two months ago.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you why?’

  ‘Because a friend of mine was killed in a car crash and she hadn’t left a will. The house was in her name, and her family kicked her lover out on the street the day before the funeral. Gay couples don’t have any rights. We have to make our own. That’s why we made the wills. At that point, Moira didn’t even think she had anything to leave,’ Maggie said bitterly.

  But when she’d died, it had been a different picture. I knew I’d want to come back to this, but I needed to hear more from other people before I’d have any useful leverage. So I changed the subject. ‘Surely Micky was pleased? He must have been happy that they were all working together again, just like the good old days?’

  ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? But not according to Moira. She said he was always nit-picking. She thought he wanted to take all the credit for Jett’s great comeback album—they hadn’t worked together for the last four, you see.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder why she stuck it,’ I remarked.

  ‘I wondered myself. But she really enjoyed the work she was doing with Jett. She loved the writing. And she was even doing some of the backing vocals. She kept telling me that when the money came rolling in, I could give up work and we’d go and live in the sun somewhere.’ Maggie’s face crumpled and she pulled a soggy handkerchief out of her pocket. She blew her nose. ‘If she hadn�
��t been doing it for us, maybe she’d never have been tempted to stay.’

  ‘Had you seen her much in the last few weeks?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. She hasn’t been home at all. We had a couple of weekends in a hotel in Manchester. Jett had gone to Paris with Tamar, and he’d given her some money and told her to show me a good time.’ Her eyes lit up, then the light died. ‘We had a good time, too,’ she said softly.

  ‘Why did you go to Colcutt this week?’ I asked.

  She looked at me in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you. I was driving the car that nearly ran you over in the early hours of the morning. The landlady at the Colcutt Arms told me you’d been staying there. I just wondered, you know? With you two not having seen very much of each other lately.’ I let my words hang in the air. Maggie was no fool. She must have realized it would only be a matter of time before the police would be at her door.

  ‘Now I see why you wanted to talk to me,’ she accused. ‘You really are trying to pin it on me.’

  I shook my head. ‘Maggie, I’m not trying to pin it on anybody. I’m trying to find Moira’s killer.’

  ‘If that’s true, you’d be better off back in Colcutt,’ she said angrily. ‘Someone there had it in for her. That’s why I went over to see her, to try to persuade her to come home with me.’