by Val McDermid
'And you think Kevin's motive is as strong?' I challenged him.
'We-ell, that depends on how straight you think he is. There's been a lot of argument in this house over the past few weeks about money and contracts. Jett was pissed off with Kevin for signing me up, you know. He wanted your boyfriend.'
'I know,' I said stiffly. That had already tagged Kevin in my mind as a shit. I had to be careful not to let my personal reactions interfere with my professional judgement, something which Neil seemed to be deliberately trying to provoke. 'But I hardly think that would give Kevin a motive for killing Moira.'
'Well, there was a lot more going down between the three of them than that. Moira was convinced that Kevin had been systematically ripping Jett off. She kept egging him on to straighten out his finances, to get Kevin to give him a detailed breakdown of his earnings and his assets. Kevin was being awkward about it. Now, whether that is because he genuinely had something to hide or because Moira just pissed him off and made him stubborn, I don't know. I do know that she was having a hell of a lot of trouble getting her hands on all her back royalties.' That confirmed what Maggie had already told me. Things were beginning to fall into place. Nothing like a bit of corroboration, though.
'There were a lot of rows about touring, too,' Neil added. 'Moira kept telling Jett that he shouldn't be having to do so much touring, that he should be concentrating on short tours of big venues like Wembley and the NEC. Kevin was furious. He seemed to think that she didn't know what she was talking about, and she had no right to interfere after being away for so long. She really was making his life a misery. If I'd been in his shoes, I'd probably have taken a meat axe to her weeks ago.'
Neil certainly wasn't stinting himself when it came to putting the poison in. In spite of my misgivings, I knew I had to milk it for all it was worth. 'Micky?' I asked, leaning over to pour myself the last cup of coffee.
'Micky produced Jett's first four albums, and that was the springboard that put him on the map as a producer.' Neil paused to light another cigarette, and I had time to reflect that he even spoke like a tabloid newspaper. 'But the last two years have seen him plummet from the top of the tree, thanks to the old nose candy.'
'Coke?' I asked.
'The same. Just like Jett, Micky's had too many flops for comfort, and he knows it. The collaboration was supposed to work the old magic and produce a classic album. Till Moira came along, it was shaping up to be classic dross. She encouraged Jett to shout Micky down and go back to their old style. Micky kept ranting that they were five years out of date. But then, as Moira sweetly pointed out, so are most of Jett's fans. She also wasn't scared of badmouthing him over his habit. Given Jett's views on drugs, that was a serious no-no for him.'
'You're not seriously trying to tell me Jett doesn't know about Micky?' That I couldn't believe.
'Yes and no. I mean, theoretically, he probably does. But Micky's very careful to keep it under wraps. You won't ever walk into a room here and find somebody doing a line or two. It's all behind-locked-doors stuff. Everybody goes along with Jett's little fantasies about this being a clean house. Moira was using that as a lever to put pressure on Kevin to make her joint producer. Micky was really running scared.'
'Scared enough to kill her?' I asked. Maybe I'm too naive for this game, but even my naturally suspicious mind was having trouble getting round that idea.
Neil shrugged. 'Coke makes you very paranoid. It's a fact.'
'And the girlfriend? What exactly do you mean?' I demanded.
'I'm presuming you knew Moira had become a dyke, since it was you who tracked her down? Well, she'd been shacked up with some social worker called Maggie over in Bradford. The girlfriend wasn't exactly chuffed as little mint balls when Moira upped sticks and moved in here. According to Moira, Maggie was constantly kicking off about it, sending out ultimata in every post. So, Moira told her it was Good night, Vienna,' Neil replied.
'And you think being given the big E is a motive for murder?' I said sceptically.
'If she thought Moira was packing her in to go back to Jett, yeah. Helluva blow to the ego. And she's the only outsider you could reasonably expect Moira to let into the house.'
And she stood to inherit a substantial amount of money. I could see why Jackson was in love with the idea of Maggie. 'You seemed to think Jett had a motive. But he has an alibi. He was with me, remember?'
'And I am Marie of Romania! Come on, Kate, I know that was all bullshit. And I know you believe he couldn't have had anything to do with it. But just think on. Moira had turned his comfortable life on its head. That might have been OK if they had been lovers. But she wasn't having any, and he really wasn't handling that. I mean, you've heard all his New Age stuff about them being soul mates destined for each other. He wanted them to be together and make babies, for God's sake. Maybe she just turned him down once too often. I mean, the guy has got one helluva quick temper. Maybe he thought that if he couldn't have her, then no one else would. In spite of the front he puts up, he's no pussycat.'
'One big happy family,' I remarked ironically. 'All for one and one for all.'
'I tell you, if I wasn't working for Jett, I could make a fortune with the shit I've picked up round here in the last few weeks.'
I got to my feet. I might still be able to learn more from Neil, but I'd had enough for one helping. 'Thanks for the info,' I said. 'You've given me a lot to think about.' I wasn't bullshitting, either. Neil's reminder of Jett's quick mood changes niggled in my mind like biscuit crumbs in the bed. I almost missed his parting remarks.
'You sound like you're surprised by the catalogue of motives. Listen, I thought journos were backstabbers till I got into rock. Just don't run into any of them in a dark alley.'
With Neil's gypsy warning ringing in my ears, I stood in the hall and wondered which one of Moira's enemies I should go after next. Before I could take another step, the pager went off. In the echoing stillness of the hall at Colcutt Manor it sounded like the four-minute warning. I pulled it out of my pocket and hit the button that silenced it. The message said, 'Back to base. Double Urgent.'
That's not the kind of message you argue with. Not if your boss is a foot taller than you.
21
I made it back to the office in record time. The driver of the traffic car I'd zipped past at 110 m.p.h. had clearly been convinced he'd been hallucinating since he didn't get on my tail with sirens blasting. I dumped the car on a single yellow outside the chemist's shop, left the note that says, 'picking up urgent prescription' on the dashboard and hit the stairs running.
I burst through the outer door, red-faced and sweating. Very chic. Shelley looked me up and down and shook her head in a mockery of disapproving motherhood. "Three deep breaths,' she told me. 'Then you're wanted in there.' She gestured with her head at Bill's closed office door.
'What's going on?' I demanded in a stage whisper. I know just how thin the walls in this place are.
'The cops raided Billy Smart's warehouse this morning. The place was clean as a whistle,' Shelley replied, her voice so low I had to lean close and risk my crowns on her Rasta beads.
'Oh shit,' I sighed. 'So who . . .?'
'Bill's having a post-mortem with Clive Abercrombie from the jewellers' group and DI Redfern. He's been stalling them till you got here.'
Some days I wish I did something simple for a living. Like brain surgery. I flashed a hopeless smile at Shelley, made a throat-cutting gesture and headed for the Spanish Inquisition.
Tony Redfern was sitting on the broad window sill, looking more like a depressed golden retriever than ever. Wavy blond hair, soulful brown eyes, drooping mouth. For all I knew, a wet nose too. He nodded gloomily as I entered. Clive Abercrombie leapt smartly to his feet and inclined his head towards me, every inch the Eton and New College gentleman. You'd never have guessed he was actually educated at a secondary modern in Blackpool followed by Salford Tech.
'Sorry to drag you back, Kate,' Bill said. 'But we really did n
eed your expertise here.' Translation: Someone's going to come out of this looking like a prize asshole, and it's not going to be us.
'I was only down the road. Just routine,' I said.
Tony grinned. 'Giving Cliff Jackson a headache, so I hear.'
'The feeling's mutual, Tony,' I replied, returning the grin. I've known Tony since he was a DS on the burglary squad. He's one of the few coppers I have any professional respect for. 'Is there some kind of a problem with the Smarts?'
'That would be one way of putting it,' said Clive, stuffy as ever. 'It would appear that when Inspector Redfern and his colleagues from the Trading Standards department executed their warrant on Mr Smart's warehouse premises, they drew a blank.' See what I mean? You'd never guess.
I looked questioningly at Tony. He nodded, looking as if he'd just lost the five closest members of his family. 'He's not wrong. We'd had a team watching the place all day, and not a sausage came out that front door. There's no back entrance, no side entrance. The place was clean, Kate. Billy and Gary stood there watching us with a grin on their faces like a pair of Cheshire cats. I don't know where you got your info, but it's a duffy.'
I couldn't believe it. 'We were hoping you would be able to furnish us with some explanation, Miss Brannigan,' Clive said icily. 'You had mounted surveillance personally for some time, I believe.'
'Over a period of four weeks, to be precise,' Bill weighed in. 'Averaging a sixteen-hour day. You were sent our detailed reports, including photographs, Clive.' There was a warning note in Bill's voice. I hoped Clive was alert to it. It's hell getting bloodstains out of grey carpet.
T don't understand it,' I said, going for the note of genuine puzzlement. 'Unless they've changed warehouses. But there's no reason why they should.' I frowned. 'Tony, how long have you had someone on them? Could they have cottonned on and shifted the gear?'
Tony shook his head. 'Nice try, Kate. But we didn't move on them till yesterday morning, and all we did was put a team outside the warehouse. They couldn't have cleared the stuff since then.'
'Perhaps there is a leak inside your organisation, Mr Mortensen?' Clive suggested.
I thought Bill was going to explode. He leaned forward in his chair, put his rather large hands flat on the desk and snarled, 'No way, Clive. If there is a leak, it's not from here. People in glass houses, Clive. I've always wondered how the thieves knew exactly which cupboard wasn't wired.'
Clive looked petulant. 'That's an outrageous suggestion,' he complained. 'Besides, it was your company that installed the alarm system.'
'Bickering isn't going to get us anywhere,” I said, my reflexes geared as ever to stopping the boys squabbling. But I couldn't help feeling Clive had a point about a leak. Unless there had been a tip-off, I couldn't see how Billy and Gary had got away with it. And until I did, Mortensen and Brannigan were going to be the fall guys, that much was clear. 'Look, something has clearly gone down here that needs looking into. Will you give me twenty-four hours to see what I can come up with?'
Clive looked triumphant. 'This will of course be at your own expense?'
Bill scowled. 'I don't see why it should be.'
I stepped in again. They were like a pair of stags in the rut. 'The reward when the Smarts are convicted will more than pay for a day of my time,' I said sweetly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tony grin.
'I can't pull my team off,' he said, 'but I won't pursue any active line for another twenty-four hours.' It wasn't much, but it was a small concession. At least I wouldn't be falling over PC Plod on every street corner.
Now the deal was struck, our guests couldn't get out of the door fast enough.
'The guy's a toad,' Bill grumbled loudly as the door closed behind them. I knew he didn't mean Tony. 'None of us is in Billy Smart's pocket. So, what are we going to do?'
'To be honest, I'm not sure. I thought I'd just go walkabout and see what I can dig up. The Smarts are going to be on their guard after last night, so God knows if I'll get anywhere. But I had to say something to stop Clive sniping away at us.'
Bill nodded. 'Noted and appreciated. What are you going to do about the murder investigation? D'you need anything from me?'
'Cliff Jackson and his merry men have pulled in Maggie Rossiter. It might be worth checking whether she's sorted with a good lawyer. If not, maybe you could give Diana Russell a bell? Jackson also wants to see me tomorrow morning, but I can handle it. Other than that, put it on hold. If Jett calls, tell him I'm pursuing some leads among the people she was hanging out with before she came back to the manor. OK?'
'No problem. I really am sorry to have dragged you back like that, but it was one of those situations where you have to put on a show of strength. Besides, if you hadn't been there, that shithead Clive would have spent the whole time putting the knife into you.'
I knew Bill had enough on his plate right now without having to put up with Clive whingeing for England, so I gave him a reassuring smile and said, 'As my grannie always said, if they're talking about me, they're leaving some other poor soul alone. I'll let you know when I get somewhere, OK?'
He looked relieved. 'Thanks, Kate. And, by the way - Clive's full of shit. I know you did that job properly. If anyone fucked up, it wasn't you.'
Now all I had to do was prove that.
I spotted Tony Redfern's surveillance team on my first pass of the Smarts' warehouse. In that area, any child over two and a half would have clocked them straight off. Newish Cavalier, base model, with a whiplash radio aerial. Two clowns in suits trying to look tough. Pathetic. They blended in like Dolly Parton in a Masonic lodge.
I cruised round the block. Tony had been right about the absence of other obvious exits. The Smarts' warehouse was flanked by two others. All three of them backed on to one big warehouse that was now a tyre and exhaust outlet, staffed by a constantly changing team of no-hopers in really practical sunshine yellow overalls. I slowed down, but studying the Fastfit premises told me nothing.
I pulled up near the corner and studied the layout in my rear-view mirror. As I watched, a Transit van reversed into Fastfit's loading area. The driver opened his door and got out. For some reason, I wasn't too surprised to see it was Gary Smart.
Three minutes later, my car was in one of Fastfit's bays, while I did the foreman's head in with a series of inquiries about the prices of tyres, shock absorbers and exhausts for my Nova. And my boyfriend's Beetle. And my dad's Montego. And, incidentally, while I got a good look at what Gary was up to.
Cardboard cartons about the size of a case of wine were being unloaded from the back of the van, then carried down between the stacks of tyres to the foot of a flight of wooden steps leading up to the exhaust storage area. I began to see a tiny glimmer of light.
Stopping the foreman in mid-sentence, I thanked him profusely, and climbed back behind the wheel. I couldn't help admiring Billy Smart's forward planning. I drove about half a mile through the back streets before I found what I was looking for. I took my camera case out of the boot and walked into the block of council flats and headed for the lifts. I was in luck. I had to wait nearly three minutes, but at least the lift was working. I got in, trying to breathe through my mouth only, and got out on the top floor.
It took me a moment to get my bearings, then I chose my door. I knocked politely, and breathed a sigh of relief when an elderly woman answered the door. It opened three inches on the chain and she looked out suspiciously. 'Yes?' she said.
I gave her the uncertain smile. 'I'm terribly sorry to trouble you,' I started. 'I'm a photography student at the Poly and I'm doing a project for my finals. I've got to get photographs of the Manchester city centre skyline from lots of different angles, and this block is just perfect for me. I know it's a terrible imposition, but I wondered if I could possibly step out on your balcony for five minutes to do some pictures?' I looked hopeful.
She looked suspicious and craned her neck to see past me. I stepped back obligingly so she could see I was alone. 'I could pay you
a small fee,' I said, deliberately sounding reluctant.
'How small?' she asked belligerently.
'I could manage ten pounds,' I replied hesitantly, taking my wallet from my pocket and opening it.
The money made her decision for her, and I could see why as soon as I stepped inside. The whole place was threadbare - carpets, curtains, furniture. Even her cardigan was darned on the elbows. There was a pervasive smell of staleness, as if fresh air cost as much as every other commodity that made life worth living. I didn't like deceiving her, but consoled myself that it was in a good cause, and besides, she was a tenner richer than she'd been this morning.
She offered me a cup of tea, but I declined and waited patiently while she unfastened the two locks on the balcony door. Maybe she'd been watching too much television and really believed in Spiderman.
