by Val McDermid
Dennis picked up his glass and strolled over to the table, with me in his wake. 'All right, Paulie?' he said.
'Dennis,' Paulie acknowledged with a regal nod.
'How's business?'
'Not good. It's the interest rates, you know?' Paulie replied, twitching his mouth into a smile. That was all I needed. A smack dealer with a smart mouth.
'A word, Paulie,' Dennis said softly.
'Dennis, you can have as many words as you want.' Paulie's urbanity was firing on all four cylinders now, but it wasn't polished enough to cover the quick flicker of concern in his eyes.
'You heard about Jack the Smack?' Dennis asked innocently. Paulie's eyebrows rose. He clearly knew all about Dennis's little vigilante action. 'Bad time for accidents in your line of business,' Dennis went on conversationally. 'State of the health service these days, nobody in their right mind'd want to end up in hospital.'
Paulie's protection seemed to gather himself together and shifted forward in his seat. 'You want to . . .' was all he got out before Paulie snapped, 'Shut it.' He turned back to Dennis and said, “I hear what you're saying, Dennis.'
Dennis gestured towards me with his glass. 'This is a friend of mine. She's looking for some information. She's not the law, and if you're straight with her, there's no comeback.'
Paulie looked directly at me. 'How do I know I can trust you?'
'The company I keep,' I answered.
Dennis put his glass down and cracked his knuckles dramatically. Paulie's eyes flicked from me to Dennis and back again. I took a photograph of Tamar out of my bag. It was one I'd clipped from the papers that morning, with Jett cut out of it. 'Has this woman ever bought anything from you?'
He barely glanced at it and shrugged. 'Maybe. How do I know? I serve a lot of punters.'
'I can't believe you've got a lot of punters like this, Paulie. Natural blonde, doesn't dress out of a catalogue, accent like Princess Di? Come on, you can do better than that.'
Paulie picked up the picture and studied it. 'I seen her down the Hassy,' he finally conceded.
'How much did you sell her, then?' Dennis butted in, thrusting his face forwards till it was only inches from the dealer's.
'Who said I sold her anything? Shit, man, what is this? You joined the drugs squad?'
Dennis's head snapped back, like a cobra ready to strike. Before he could complete the manoeuvre that would spread Paulie's nose over his face, the dealer shouted, 'Wait!' Dennis paused. The sound level in the room had dropped to an ominous level. A sheen of sweat had appeared above Paulie's top lip. His hand fluttered at his bodyguard who was straining at an invisible leash. 'It's OK,' he said loudly.
Gradually, the noise picked up. Paulie wiped his face with a paisley silk handkerchief. 'OK,' he sighed. 'About a month ago, this tart came up to me in the Hassy saying she wanted some smack. She didn't seem to know what she wanted or how much. She told me she wanted it for a coming home present for a friend, enough for a dozen hits. I thought she was full of shit, but what the hell? I don't give a monkey's what they do with it. So I sold her ten grammes. I never saw her again. And that's the truth.'
I believed him. It wasn't so much the threat of Dennis breaking his nose that had changed his mind. It was the thought of what would happen to him if the O'Brien brothers came looking for him. Even bodyguards have to sleep.
The thing that bothered me was that Dennis's methods hadn't bothered me. Maybe I'd been reading the wrong books. Perhaps tonight I should tuck myself up with an Agatha Christie and a few balls of pink wool.
26
I was thirty pages into The Murder At The Vicarage when Richard breezed in through the conservatory. 'Sorry to interrupt you while you're working,' he teased. I put the book down as he sat down beside me and pulled me into his arms. It was a long kiss, as if to make up for the little time we'd spent together in the previous few days.
'Fancy an early night?' Richard whispered.
'That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me today,' I replied, snuggling into him. 'How in God's name do you manage to put up with your job? If I had to spend my time with assholes like that lot, I'd slit my wrists.'
'You just tune it out. I always treat it like I'm watching Dynasty or the South Bank Show. You know, it's either glitz or pretension. I never let myself believe it's the real world. Sometimes I feel like David Attenborough, sitting in a hide watching the habits of a strange species,' he told me. 'It's fascinating. And I like most of the music, so I try to forgive them their worst excesses.'
'Like murder?'
'Maybe not murder,' he conceded. 'Though I'd have to say I think that someone like Jett is a bigger contributor to the quality of life than your average copper.'
'He's not contributing much to the quality of my life right now. This job is mission impossible. A house full of people and not a decent alibi among them. And everybody has some kind of a motive. Except for Neil, who seems to be the only person who had a vested interest in her staying alive.'
Richard snorted. 'Him? I wouldn't put it past him to have bumped her off just to stir up a bit of scandal for his book.'
'That's outrageous!' I protested. 'Besides, she was an important source for him on Jett's early days in the business.'
'Yeah, well maybe he milked her dry then bumped her off. From what I hear, he's been talking to the world since she died.' Richard sounded mean and spiteful, which isn't like him.
I tried to show him he was just talking out of blind prejudice, explaining that Kevin had asked Neil to handle all the press liaison. 'So of course he's had to talk to people.'
'It's not just all the copy he's been flogging,' Richard replied, still peeved. 'He's been doing the hard sell on this biography too, telling people that there's going to be stuff in there that no one else even guessed at before.'
I was puzzled. I remembered Neil telling me that his biggest problem with the book was that there were no new, exciting revelations. However, that had been before Moira had reappeared on the scene. 'Maybe he's just talking it up,' I suggested.
T don't think so. I suppose he could just be trying to cash in on the interest in Moira's death by trying to stitch up a serialisation deal sight unseen, but most feature desks won't play unless they've got a bloody good idea what they're getting for their money. Everybody's under the cosh financially these days. The golden age when you could talk a story up and still get paid when the end product didn't match up to expectations is long gone. The emperor's new clothes trick just doesn't work any more. Now they want to talk to the tailor.' Richard shifted away from me and got up. 'I need a beer,' he said, heading for the kitchen.
While he was off examining his collection of exotic beers of the world, I thought about what he'd said. I still couldn't believe he seriously thought Neil would have killed Moira for a few headlines. But I know from Richard that there is still big money to be made in the seedy world of newspaper exposes. I began to wonder just what Moira had told Neil. I'd have to ask him some more questions. The trouble with this investigation was that I just didn't know the right things to ask. It wasn't like insurance fraud or software piracy, where I knew who knew exactly what I needed to know. I was floundering, and I knew it.
Richard came back with a can of Budweiser and leaned against the door jamb. 'Am I drinking this on the couch, or are you still in the market for an early night?'
An hour later, I felt different again. It's amazing how good sex with someone you love puts everything back into proportion. If I didn't discover who had killed Moira, it wouldn't be the end of the world. I'd have given it my best shot, and that was all anyone could demand from me. Richard wouldn't think any the less of me, and I sure as hell wasn't going to beat myself up for not being clairvoyant.
I pulled my arm out from under Richard's shoulders as I felt the tingle of pins and needles. It disturbed his little post-coital reverie and he turned on his side to plant a soft kiss on my nipple. I felt warm and languorous, and kind of sorry for Miss Marple.
'What's happening about your schneids case, by the way?' Richard asked, with all his usual tact and sensitivity.
'You pick your moments, don't you?' I complained. 'The police and the Trading Standards guys are planning another raid some time in the next few days, I think. They probably won't tell us till it's all over, if they even bother then. They're a bit embarrassed about us doing their work for them.'
'So they should be. You'd think they'd be a bit more grateful that you're there to hand them the stuff on a plate.'
'It doesn't work like that. There's still a fair few of them who think that proper coppers shouldn't be spending their time on things like trade mark infringements,' I told him ruefully.
'Well, they can't catch burglars or car thieves. They should be glad somebody's doing something that gets a conviction or two.'
Sometimes I think Richard's spent so long in the cloud cuckoo land of rock that he's lost touch with the real world. But what he'd said about schneids had reminded me of something I wanted to ask him. 'Is there a lot of schneid merchandising around on the rock scene just now? You know, sweatshirts and all that?'
'You wouldn't believe the half of it,' he assured me. He was wrong. After the day I'd had, nothing would stretch my credulity. 'It's an epidemic. Top name acts are losing a fortune from it. Do you know, sometimes the schneid gear even ends up on sale at the official stall at gigs? God knows how they get away with it.'
My ears pricked up. 'You mean, it's an inside job?'
'Depends. It can be done one of two ways. Either they hire a couple of kids locally to run the stall and they're doing it as a bit of private enterprise, if the schneids are good enough. Or else somebody high up in the organisation is slipping them in and not putting them through the books. I don't really know how it would work, but that's the word on the street.'
I needed the answer to one more question. 'Do you happen to know if Jett's been having any problems like that?'
'If he wasn't, he'd be unique. But I don't know for sure. Why don't you ask him?'
I did just that. I rolled over, picked up the phone and dialled Jett's private line. Tamar answered, and called to Jett that it was for him. A couple of moments later, he was on the line.
'Hi, Jett. Just a quick query. You know you told me Moira thought you were having problems with merchandising rip-offs? I mean copycat versions of your tour t-shirts and sweatshirts, that kind of thing? Did she give you anything specific?'
'Well, she didn't exactly, but there was a load of fake stuff around on the last tour. I got Kevin to call in the cops, but they apparently couldn't find anything. But what's that got to do with Moira?'
'It may have nothing to do with her murder at all, but I believe she had some information connecting the fake merchandise to someone who works for you,' I said cautiously.
There was a long silence from the other end of the phone. I almost thought we'd been cut off when Jett finally said, 'She should have come straight to me. She knows I wouldn't stand on for that. Do you know who it was?'
'Not yet,' I stalled.
'Well, find out, and when you do, you let me know. You hear?'
'Will do, Jett. Good night.'
He put the phone down. Before I untucked the receiver from my chin, I heard the sound of another phone clicking into place. Interesting. Someone had been listening in.
It all fitted. Moira had told Maggie that she'd seen someone from the manor talking to Fat Freddy. Fat Freddy was doing schneids of Jett's gear. Kevin had handed Fat Freddy an envelope on the steps of the bank. And the only person at the manor in a position to exploit that relationship was Kevin.
Then I remembered something that hadn't registered at the time. When Kevin had appeared on the landing after the police arrived, he'd been suited up. Not even his tie had been loosened. Now, I know people who fall into bed with their clothes on, but Kevin didn't strike me as one of them.
'Penny for them, Brannigan,' Richard said. The sound of his voice startled me. I'd almost forgotten he was there.
I lay down beside him and thought about sharing my ideas with him. By the time I'd decided it wouldn't be a bad idea, his soft, regular breathing told me that the only information I'd be getting into his head would be subliminal. Richard was out for the count.
I couldn't believe it when the phone woke me up yet again. Blearily, I disentangled myself from Richard and grabbed the phone, checking the clock. Five past seven. This was getting silly.
'Kate Brannigan,' I barked.
'AH right, kid? Sorry to wake you. It's Alexis here.'
She didn't need to announce herself. I'd recognise Alexis Lee's voice anywhere. The combination of Scotch, cigarettes and Liverpool have produced a unique Scouse growl. Alexis is the crime reporter on the Manchester Evening Chronicle, and we've done each other a few favours in the past. I didn't count waking me up as one of them.
'What the hell is so urgent you need to call me at this time in the morning?' I moaned as I dragged myself into a sitting position. Richard mumbled in his sleep and turned over. Lucky bastard.
'Jack, known as Billy, and Gary Smart,' Alexis said. 'A little bird told me you could give me the SP on their little operation.'
'You woke me up for that? Listen, Alexis, I can't tell you a damn thing about the Smarts. If it's not already subjudice it soon will be.'
'I thought you were half a lawyer, Kate. You should know you can't charge dead men.'
'You what?'
'The cops raided their warehouse in the early hours. Billy and Gary did a runner in a hired Porsche. They got as far as Mancunian Way, then Gary lost it and they went off the elevated section. Car ended up the thickness of a club sandwich on Upper Brook Street. I'm surprised you didn't hear the bang round your place. Anyway . . .'
'Hang on a minute,” I protested. “I need to take this in. So they're both dead? You're sure?'
'Believe me, Kate, I saw the wreckage. A gerbil would have struggled to make it out alive. So that's why I'm picking your brains. I thought it would make a nice little plug for Mortensen and Brannigan. Efficiency in contrast to the boys in blue.'
'Look, Alexis, I'd love to help, but I've not even had a cup of coffee yet.'
'No problem. Get some clothes on and meet me in the office canteen in quarter of an hour. Breakfast on me.'
People think private eyes are hardnosed. They sure as hell don't know any journalists. I sighed and bowed to the inevitable. Better than having Alexis round here discussing my latest case with Richard. 'Make it half an hour.'
Now I knew I was never going to have to visit another disgusting greasy spoon on the tail of Billy and Gary Smart, bacon, eggs and fried bread held a strange appeal, even in the subterranean gloom of the Chronicle canteen. I tucked into breakfast while Alexis filled in the gaps in our telephone conversation. I couldn't believe how bright and bouncy she was at that time in the morning. And she'd been up a couple of hours before me, after a tip-off from a contact in the police control room.
I first met Alexis a week after I started working for Bill. One of her contacts had told her there was a new woman PI in town, and she'd come along to try to persuade me into a profile in the paper. I'd refused, not wanting to run the risk of being recognised on the job. But we'd hit it off, and over the years she'd become the kind of friend I could go shopping with and count on to tell me when an outfit made me look like a candidate for Crafts. And her girlfriend Chris is the best architect in town. I know - I've got the conservatory to prove it.
But this morning, she wasn't interested in my latest discoveries in skin care. She was being professional. Her untamable mop of thick black hair was growing more unruly by the minute as she ran one hand through it while taking notes with the other. After half an hour, she knew almost as much about the Smarts as I did.
The surprise of her news had worn off, and I'd begun to feel sorry for Billy and Gary. OK, they'd been villains, but they hadn't been the kind of villains who cause individuals pain. They hadn't been burglars, or armed robbers or k
illers. They hadn't deserved to die like that just for ripping off a few big companies who would barely notice the hole in their balance sheets. I said as much to Alexis, albeit off the record.
'Yeah, I know. We're going to run a reaction piece about the number of people who die as a result of police chases. It's well out of order. Mind you, I think I'm going to have to give Richard a warning,' Alexis added, her blue eyes giving a twinkle as she smiled. I swear she practises that twinkle in front of the mirror to charm cops and victims of crime alike.
'A warning? What about?'
'Well, there seems to be a lot of death and destruction hanging around you these days.' Alexis lit a Silk Cut and blew a plume of smoke over her shoulder. She's always had interesting manners.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' I lied. I drained my polystyrene cup of coffee-flavoured dishwater and tried to look innocent.
