Dead Beat

by Val McDermid

  'I'm busy,' she informed me, opening the back door and heading for the stable block.

  'Must be a lot to do,' I said. 'Organising the funeral and all.'

  She had the good grace to blush, a reaction that strangely did nothing for her English Rose colouring. She zapped the up-and-over garage door with the little black box on her keyring and the door slid quietly open.

  'That's being arranged by Moira's mother. We decided Jett was in no fit state to cope with it,' she informed me.

  And Ms Pollock indubitably will be, I thought, but didn't say. There was already enough animosity between us. 'In that case,' I insisted, following her to the driver's door of a Volkswagen Golf, 'I'm sure you can find a few minutes of your time to answer a few questions.' She climbed in the car, ignoring me, and started the engine. I had to jump back to avoid her rear wheels amputating my toes.

  'Bitch,' I yelled as the GTi shot out of the garage, leaving me gagging on her exhaust fumes. I hesitated for a moment, then my anger got the better of me. I raced back to the house, clattered down the hall and jumped behind the wheel of my Nova. I hit the drive at fifty, and reached the gates in time to see Gloria turn right.

  By the time I got through the gates, she was out of sight. I put my foot to the floor and screamed down the winding lane, standing on my brakes like a boy racer. I prayed she hadn't taken one of the narrow lanes that turned off at irregular intervals. I was nearly at the main road when I caught a glimpse of her across the angle of a field. She was heading for Wilmslow.

  'Gotcha,' I yelled triumphantly as I shot across the oncoming traffic to make a right turn and get on her tail. I assumed she didn't know my car, but hung back a little just in case.

  She seemed to know where she was going, moving between lanes with no hesitation. Just before she hit the town centre, she suddenly swung left without indicating, leaving me to make a hair-raising manoeuvre, cutting up a coach who was really too big to argue with. I found myself in a narrow street of terraced houses. I drove down as fast as I dared, slowing at the junctions to check she hadn't turned off. I was almost at the end when she headed back down the street, well in excess of the speed limit. I had to swerve to avoid her.

  She clearly wasn't afraid to let me know she'd spotted me. I wrenched the wheel round in a tight turn, hitting the pavement as I went. Another thousand miles off the tyres. I screeched back after her, reaching the junction in time to see her continue on her way to Wilmslow. I sat at the corner long enough to see her turn right down the side of Sainsbury's. I followed, and found a space in the car park near the back entrance to the supermarket. I was afraid I'd lost her, but I picked her up by the Pay And Display ticket machine and got back on her tail.

  I felt like a complete moron when she walked into Sainsbury's and helped herself to a trolley. I tried to console myself that she'd spotted me and was trying to throw me off the scent again, but by the time she'd reached the breakfast cereals and her trolley was almost full, I had to concede I'd overreacted. I strolled alongside as she grabbed a packet of Weetabix.

  'I said I wanted you to answer a few questions,” I remarked casually. She nearly jumped out of her skin, so I added, 'Just like Jett invited you to yesterday.'

  She was torn between the desire to piss me off in good style, and the sure and certain knowledge that if she did, I'd go straight to Jett, reporting on the merry dance she'd just led me. Her adulation of the boss won. 'You've got till the check out,' she said, trying to sound tough and almost succeeding.

  'It may take longer than that, but I'll be as quick as I can,' I replied calmly. 'Where were you between eleven and two the night before last?'

  'I've already told the police all this,' she complained, moving ahead down the aisle.

  'I'm sure you have. So it should all be clear in your mind.'

  Gloria's blue eyes narrowed in a glare. If looks could kill, the corn-fed chicken would have been well past its sell-by date. 'I was in the TV room watching The Late Show on BBC2 till quarter to midnight. Then I came into the office to check the answering machine. There were no messages, so I went straight up to bed. I was reading till the sound of the intercom disturbed me.'

  'You got there very quickly,' I commented.

  'My bedroom is right at the top of the stairs,' she replied defensively.

  'I thought you'd have a TV in your room,' I said.

  “I do. But it doesn't have stereo speakers and there was a band performing that I wanted to listen to. And before you ask, I didn't see anyone except Kevin. He came into the TV room and watched the band with me, then he left. Now, if that's all, I've got stuff to do.'

  I shook my head. 'It's a long way short of being all, Gloria. Why did you hate Moira so much?'

  'I didn't hate her,' she blurted out. The woman standing next to her having the mental washing-powder debate was so riveted she began to follow us before she was withered by Gloria's hard stare and her muttered, 'Do you mind?'

  A few feet further on, she said, “I just didn't like the effect she had on everyone. We were all happy here together before she arrived. Since she got here, everyone's been bickering. And whatever anyone else says, she made Jett edgy with her constant demands. Everything had to be just the way she wanted it.'

  'So you're not exactly sorry she's dead?'

  Gloria banged her fabric conditioner on the side of the trolley. 'That's not what I said!' she flared. 'Just because I didn't think she was good for Jett doesn't mean I'm not upset about the way she died. I know you don't like me, Miss Brannigan, but don't think you can pick on me!'

  I felt a pang of sympathy for her then. She was too young to be setting herself up as the devoted handmaiden to the great man. She should have been out there enjoying life, not stuck with a bunch of piranhas who fed off each other's emotions and talents. I mean, for God's sake, who sends a qualified secretary round the supermarket these days? Apart from anything else, it would be cheaper to hire a woman from the village.

  'How long have you been with Jett?' I asked, hoping to defuse her anger.

  'Three years and five months,' she replied, unable to keep a note of pride out of her voice. 'I was working at his record company, and I heard he needed a secretary. Of course, the job has grown a lot since I took over. Now I organise his schedule completely.'

  This time my sympathy was all for Jett. Again, I switched the subject, hoping to catch her off guard. 'When I told you about Moira, you seemed convinced that she was doing drugs. Why did you think that?'

  Gloria refused to meet my eyes. 'Everyone knew she'd been a drug addict,' she mumbled. 'It was the obvious conclusion. We all knew she'd be back on the drugs again as soon as she got half a chance.'

  'And did you help to give her that half a chance?' I demanded, leaning over Gloria to study the assorted nuts, so close I could smell her fresh lemony perfume.

  'No!' she cried desperately.

  'Somebody did, Gloria,' I insisted.

  'Well, it wasn't me. You've got to believe me,' she pleaded. 'If she was doing drugs, she was doing it of her own free will. Why else would she steal my syringes?'

  19

  I just stood staring at Gloria, who looked back at me with a mixture of triumph and defiance in her eyes. 'What do you mean?' I finally gasped.

  'Somebody has been stealing my syringes over the last four weeks or so,' she said.

  'What syringes?' I almost howled in my frustration. The snacks section had never seen drama like this.

  'I'm a diabetic. I have to inject myself with insulin. I keep a supply of disposable syringes in my room. On three or four occasions, I've noticed that there were a couple missing. I have to keep a close eye on them, because I daren't run out.'

  I took a deep breath. 'So why did you assume that Moira was responsible?'

  She shrugged. The shopping was forgotten now. We'd gravitated to the end of the aisle, and neither of us was showing any inclination to hit the soft drinks.

  Gloria dropped her voice and said, 'Well, who else would want ne
edles except a drug addict? And in spite of what you might think about the rock business, nobody in the house is a junkie. Jett just wouldn't stand for it. He's got very strict views on the subject. I know some of the others sneak away and do some coke, but none of them are stupid enough to get into heroin. Especially after what happened when Moira got hooked.'

  'Any other reason why you were sure it was Moira?' I asked.

  'Well, for one thing, they'd never gone missing before she moved in. Then one day I came upstairs and caught her with her hand on my doorknob. She said she'd just knocked to see if she could borrow a book, but I wasn't falling for that. I knew by then what she was after.'

  'And did she borrow a book?'

  'Yes,' Gloria acknowledged reluctantly. 'The new Judith Krantz.'

  'Was she in the habit of borrowing books from you?'

  Gloria shrugged. 'She'd done it a couple of times.'

  'And did she know you were a diabetic?' I asked.

  'There's no secret about it. She never actually discussed it with me, if that's what you're getting at.'

  The next question was obvious, though I knew she wouldn't like it. That was just tough luck. 'Who else comes into your room either regularly or occasionally?' I demanded.

  I was right. 'Just what are you trying to suggest?' Gloria flashed back, outraged.

  'I'm not trying to suggest anything. I asked a straightforward question, and I'd appreciate a straightforward answer.'

  Gloria pointedly turned away from my stare. 'No one uses my room except me,' she mumbled. 'Moira was the only person apart from the cleaner who's been in there.'

  I took pity on her. I couldn't see being madly in love with Jett as an emotionally rewarding pastime, and I didn't want to rub in the fruitlessness of her passion. 'Given that it wasn't a drug overdose that killed her, have you any ideas about who might have wanted rid of Moira?'

  'How should I know?' Gloria snapped.

  'I would have thought there was no one better placed to have a few theories,' I replied. 'You're right at the nerve centre of the household. You're in Jett's confidence. I can't imagine there's much goes on around here that you don't know about.' When in doubt, flatter.

  Gloria rose to the bait. 'If I had to choose one person, I'd pick Tamar,' she bitched right back at me. 'If Jett wasn't such a nice guy, she'd have been out of here weeks ago. They've been rowing for ages, and when Moira arrived, Tamar's nose was put right out of joint. Jett needs a woman who understands him, who really appreciates how demanding his work is. But Tamar just wants to have a good time, and Jett's just the means to that end for her. When Moira turned up, he saw how many of his needs weren't being met by Tamar, and it was obvious he didn't have much time for her any more. And now Moira's dead, Tamar's been all over him, trying to get back in his good books.'

  It was a long speech for Gloria, and her efforts to make it sound objective rather than vitriolic would have been funny under any other circumstances. I nodded sagely, and said, 'I see what you mean. But do you really think she's capable of a crime of violence like that?'

  'She's capable of anything,' Gloria retorted. 'She saw her position under threat, and I think she acted on the spur of the moment to protect herself.'

  'What about the others? Micky? Kevin?' I inquired.

  'Kevin wasn't thrilled that she was back. He was worried about the press getting hold of the details of her past and using that to smear Jett. And she was always chasing him about money, as if he was trying to do her out of her share, which is just ridiculous. I mean, if Kevin was dishonest, Jett would have found out and got rid of him years ago. He had nothing to fear from Moira's silly allegations, so why would he kill her? All her murder's achieved is to stir up the very stuff he wanted kept quiet,' Gloria informed me.

  'And Micky?'

  'You wouldn't be very thrilled if someone who had been out of the business for years came along and started telling you how to do your job, would you? She was very pushy, you know. She had her own ideas and God help anyone who didn't go along with them. I felt really sorry for Micky. She was always pushing Jett into taking her side over the album, and he was so scared that she'd take off again that he went along with her. But Micky wouldn't have killed her. I mean, she might have been driving him demented, but she couldn't do his career any damage,' Gloria stated. She pointedly made for the check-out queue. In her eyes, she'd clearly decided she'd told me all I was going to get.

  I cut round in front of her, making her brake sharply. 'One last question,' I promised. 'You said cocaine was the drug of choice around Colcutt. Who uses it?'

  'It's not my place to say,' she replied huffily, her eyes on the display of cookery books beside us.

  'If you don't tell me, someone else will. And if no one else will, I'll just have to go to Jett,' I retaliated, fed up with fencing.

  Gloria gave me a look that should have reduced me to a smouldering heap of ashes. Clearly she thought threats were as pleasant a form of communication as I did. 'Ask Micky about it,” she finally offered.

  'I'll do just that,' I replied. 'Thanks for your help, Gloria. I'll mention to Jett how co-operative you've been.' I smiled sweetly and walked away. If I were a store detective, I'd never have let me out of there without a body search. There can't be that many complete weirdos walking around looking like they're rehearsing scenes from Inspector Morse in Sainsbury's in a nice Country Life town like Wilmslow.

  Back in the car park, I found that an officious traffic warden had decided to make my day. Peeling off the ticket, I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it on the floor of the car. Clearly Richard's disgusting motoring habits were beginning to rub off on me. Grumbling quietly in a highly satisfactory sort of way, I eased the car into the traffic and headed back towards Colcutt.

  I was stopped at the lights when I spotted Kevin. He was coming out of the bank, and I nearly peeped the horn to let him know I was there. Luckily, my reflexes were a little slow that morning. He was joined immediately by a burly guy in a padded leather body warmer over a navy blue rugby shirt. His Levis were tight enough to show he wasn't wearing boxer shorts. I grabbed my tape recorder, depressed the record button and said, 'White male, mid-forties, straight grey hair, thinning on top, neatly cut. Wide mouth, plump cheeks and chin, beer gut.' The lights changed and I had to go with the flow. What I did see as I drove off, apart from the bulky gold flash of a Rolex on Kevin's pal's wrist, was the thick manila envelope that changed hands on the steps of the bank. I could think of a dozen reasons why Kevin should be paying someone off in cash. At least half of them made me feel very uncomfortable indeed.

  I swung the car right into a narrow side street and doubled back towards the lights. At the junction, I paused, eyes flicking from side to side, trying to spot Kevin's contact. I caught sight of him as he rounded the arcade of shops opposite, heading for the leisure centre car park. An impatient driver behind me sounded his horn, so I committed myself to a left turn, then turned off for the leisure centre. I reversed the car into a side turn and waited. I'd made the right gamble, not keeping my quarry in sight every inch of the way. A couple of minutes later, a red XJS shot past my turning. The driver was unmistakably Kevin's contact. I waited till he'd moved out into the traffic heading back towards Manchester, then I slipped out behind him and took up station a couple of cars behind.

  The guy was the worst kind of driver to tail. He was a show-off, determined that everyone sharing the same bit of road as him would see he was a big man with a flashy Jag. Never mind that it was four years old, it was the real thing, not some souped-up piece of Jap crap. I could just hear him laying down the law in the wine bar. I reckoned he and Kevin were probably a pair out of the same box.

  He drove like a man with serious sexual problems, cutting people up, overtaking in the craziest places, flashing his lights like the Blackpool illuminations. Interestingly, I drove no differently from normal, and I was never in any danger of losing him. As we shot through the lights on the dual carriageway at Cheadle, he made a kamik
aze run across three lanes of traffic to hit the motorway intersection. I said one of those words that men like my dad think women shouldn't know and followed, praying he wasn't keeping too close an eye on his rear-view mirror.

  Out on the motorway he let rip. He either wasn't a local or he didn't give a toss about the video cameras mounted every couple of miles along the motorway to catch the speeders. I was forced into the kind of driving that terrifies me, never mind the rest of the drivers on the road, zooming right up behind lorries, nipping into the outside lane to overtake, then cutting back in as soon as I was clear of their front bumper. It made for an interesting journey.

  Then the volume of traffic built up and things got a little less traumatic. By the time we were heading east on the M62, I had stopped sweating and started breathing again. I slid Sinead O'Connor into the cassette deck and had a little wonder to myself about my friend in the XJS with the envelope full of readies. He looked definitely iffy to me, but not the sort of bad lad who carries out hits. On the other hand, he might well know a man who could . . . As we headed up Hartshead Moor, I checked my fuel gauge and started sweating again. I'd be OK if Bradford was the destination. I might just make Leeds. But if we were heading for Wakefield or Hull, I'd be making the acquaintance of the AA man.