‘Of course I’m bloody sorry,’ he shouted. ‘She was a bloody great songwriter. Just because she couldn’t do my job doesn’t mean I didn’t respect the way she did hers. She might have been bloody difficult to work with, but at least she gave you something you could get your teeth into in the first place.’ He subsided as quickly as he’d erupted and slouched even deeper in the chair. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Did anyone else come down to the studio while you were there?’
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, screwing up his eyes in concentration. ‘Kevin came in. I’ve been trying to remember if it was once or twice, but I’m not sure. He wanted to hear how it was going, but I wasn’t really in the mood. I was into the music you know? I didn’t have a lot left over for small talk.’
‘Screws your memory up, doesn’t it?’ I said sympathetically.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Charlie. Destroys the short-term memory.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ came the reflex answer.
‘Coke. And I don’t mean the brown fizzy stuff. It’s OK, Micky, I’m not a copper’s nark. I don’t give a shit what you do to yourself. Everybody’s got the right to go to hell in the handcart of their choice. I’m just concerned about finding out what happened to Moira. And if you were out of your box, your evidence on Kevin’s movements isn’t worth a damn,’ I informed him, aware even as I spoke how bloody sanctimonious I sounded. At least I’d managed to restrain myself from dishing out the standard Brannigan anti drugs sermon.
‘So I do the odd line. So what? I’d had a bit, but I wasn’t flying. I just don’t remember if he came in once or twice, OK?’ The belligerent edge was back in his voice.
‘You ever use heroin?’
‘No way. I’ve seen too many talented kids go down that road. No, all I do is a bit of recreational coke.’
‘But you’d know where to get heroin if someone else wanted it?’
He shook his head in wide, disbelieving sweeps. ‘Oh no, you don’t pin that one on me. I don’t deal, not for anybody, not for my nearest and dearest. Personal use, that’s all.’
‘But you’d know where to get it?’ I persisted.
‘I’d have a shrewd idea who to ask. If you work in this business, you get to hear things like that. But if you’re nosing into heroin dealers, I’m not the one you should be asking.’ Micky lit his next cigarette. I was beginning to feel like a herring in a smokehouse. I’d be a kipper before morning if I hung around Micky.
‘So who should I be asking?’
He shrugged, and a malicious gleam crept into his eyes. ‘A certain little lady who’s got nothing better to do with her time. Ask her why she was so fascinated by Paki Paulie at the Hassy the other week.’
He obviously meant Tamar. The description certainly didn’t fit Gloria. And where better to meet a dealer than the Hacienda, full as it always is of kids looking for the next kick? I filed the hint away for further investigation.
‘Have you got any idea who killed Moira?’ I asked.
‘I can’t imagine any of them having the bottle, frankly,’ Micky said contemptuously. ‘Except Neil. That bastard would do anything for a few bob. He must have made a fucking fortune out of her death already, all the stories he’s been selling to the papers. Fucking vulture.’ The venom in his voice was shocking.
‘Sounds like there’s not a lot of love lost between the two of you,’ I observed. When it comes to spotting the obvious, I’m an Olympic contender.
‘Let’s just say he’s not the person I’d choose to write my biography.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s too fond of seeing his name in big letters in the papers. He turned over my brother-in-law, you know. Years ago, it was, but Des’s never recovered. OK, Des was a bit dodgy, he ripped a few people off, but he wasn’t a bad lad, not a proper villain, not when you compare him to those City bastards who rip people off to the tune of millions. Thanks to Neil fucking Webster, Des ended up inside for eighteen months. He used to have his own business, you know, but now he’s just a bloody brickie working for buttons. Tell you what, an’ all,’ Micky continued, his accent losing its classlessness and becoming pure East End, ‘that fucker Webster won’t have given him another thought. I bet he doesn’t even realize why I hate his guts.’
All this was deeply fascinating, but I couldn’t see its relevance. In spite of Micky’s obvious conviction, I couldn’t see Neil cold bloodedly planning murder for the sake of a byline. Before I could divert the conversation down more profitable paths, the door from the house opened and a wave of Giorgio cut through the smoky air.
I turned in my chair to watch Tamar sweep across the room in her silk pyjamas. Without a word of greeting, she made for the fridge. She bent over to peer inside, then slammed it shut with an air of bad temper. She started for the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen and caught Micky’s eyes on her. ‘Stop letching, sleazeball,’ she threw at him on her way to the Weetabix.
Micky scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the room, grabbing his coat as he went. Thanks a bunch, Tamar, I thought to myself as I watched her tip two bars into a bowl and drench them with sugar. On her way back to the fridge, I remarked, ‘Sleep well?’
‘What the hell business is it of yours?’ she grumbled as she poured milk on her cereal and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. If she was always this charming first thing in the evening, it wasn’t so surprising that Jett preferred to wake up alone.
‘You can always tell good breeding,’ I said airily. ‘Plebs like me, we can never aspire to the courtesy of the moneyed classes.’
To my surprise, she spluttered with laughter, spraying the worktop with gobbets of coconut matting. ‘OK, I’m sorry, Kate,’ she conceded. It was the first time I’d seen a side of her that explained why Jett had put up with her for more than five minutes. ‘I’m always a complete shit until I’ve had something to eat. I think I get low blood sugar in the night. I guess all this business over Moira is just making it worse. And breakfast with Bonzo there was a prospect too dire for words.’ Her upper-class drawl exaggerated her words, made them seem more amusing than they were.
‘So what’s the daughter of a baronet doing among the Neanderthals, then?’ I asked, trying to pick up the tone of her own remarks. Richard’s background info was still coming in handy.
She gave an ironic smile. ‘Depends who you want to believe. According to my mother, I’m indulging in a belated teenage rebellion, having a bit of rough before I settle down. According to the lovely Gloria, I’m a gold-digger who likes having her name linked in the gossip columns with Jett. According to Kevin, I was useful in the early days because I kept Jett amused, but now I’m a pain because we keep rowing.’
‘And according to you?’
‘Me? I’m still here because I’m crazy about the guy. I’ll admit that when I first met him, I thought he might be fun to play with for a while. But that changed. In a matter of days, that changed. I’m here because I love him and I want to make it work. In spite of all the efforts of his so-called friends to put a spanner in the works,’ she added, with an edge of bitterness that nullified the light tone of her earlier remarks.
‘Was Moira one of those?’ I asked, getting up to make myself some coffee.
She nodded. ‘In spades. Sorry, an unfortunate turn of phrase, but maybe not so inaccurate. She treated me like a brainless bimbo to the point where I felt like having my degree framed and hung on my door. Did you know I have an upper second in modern languages from Exeter?’ she asked defensively. I waved an empty mug at Tamar and she nodded. ‘Black, one sugar. Moira seemed to think that since I wasn’t a black, working-class musician then I could have nothing to offer Jett. It was ironic. She didn’t want him any more, but she was damned if she was going to let anyone else be part of his life.’
I was almost beginning to feel sorry for Tamar myself. Then I remembered the displ
ay in the drawing room the previous morning, and how insincere I’d instinctively felt it to be. ‘Well, she won’t be around to throw any more spanners,’ I responded heartlessly.
‘And if I’m being honest, I’d have to say I’m glad. If I’d heard one more sentimental conversation about “our roots” I think I’d have screamed. But I didn’t kill her. You can’t get away from the fact that they made good music together. And I wouldn’t have taken that away from him. I know how much his work means to him.’ Tamar stirred her coffee demurely. I nearly believed her. Then I remembered Micky’s hints and their implications. Someone had been shoving heroin at Moira, and it looked like Tamar. I decided to wait till I had more evidence to hit her with, rather than waste the talkative mood she was in today. It hadn’t escaped me that the reason for her co-operation might be nothing more than a desire to stay in Jett’s good books.
‘I hate to be a bore, but I have to ask you what you were doing on the night Moira was killed,’ I said. ‘I know you’ll have run through it already with the police, but I have to go through the motions.’ I gave what was supposed to be a winning smile.
Tamar ran a hand through her tousled hair and pulled a face. ’Borring is right. OK. I’d been shopping in town all afternoon, then I met my sister Candida for a coffee in the Conservatory, you know, just off St Anne’s Square. I got back around half-past seven. I bumped into Jett and Moira in the hall on their way down to the studio. Jett said they’d be about half an hour, and I decided to cook dinner.
‘I did steaks in brandy and cream sauce with new potatoes and mangetout, and Jett and I ate in the TV room. I drank most of a bottle of burgundy, Jett had his usual Smirnoff Blue Label and Diet Coke. We watched the new Harrison Ford movie on video, then I went upstairs and had a bath. Jett came up and joined me just after ten. We made love in my room, then he went off downstairs some time after eleven. He said he was going to do some work with Moira. I couldn’t sleep, so I read for a while then I started to watch the video. That’s when you walked in.’
It all came out a bit too pat. I used to have a boyfriend who continually confounded me by his ability to remember the most trivial remarks weeks later. So when he lied to me, his stories were always so detailed it never crossed my mind to doubt their veracity. When I think of that, I thank God that Richard can barely recall what he ate for dinner the night before. Unless it impinges on his professional life, information passes through Richard’s head without leaving a trace. But Tamar was trying to impress me very forcibly with her candour and her excellent memory. I didn’t trust her an inch.
I tried the tired old question. ‘So who do you think killed Moira?’
Tamar’s eyes widened. ‘Well, it wasn’t Jett. But then, you know that, don’t you?’ she added, her voice heavy with irony.
‘Leaving Jett aside, you must have given the matter some thought,’ I pressed her.
She got to her feet and dumped her dishes in the dishwasher. With her back to me, she said, ‘Gloria is a very stupid woman, you know. Stupid enough to think she’s bright enough to get away with murder, if you understand me.’ I caught the reflection of Tamar’s face in the kitchen window. There was a tight smile on her lips.
She turned back to face me, her expression wiped clean. ‘Why don’t you ask her what she was doing running upstairs just before one o’clock?’
I could feel the pulse in my throat. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I heard someone running upstairs. I was coming through from my bathroom, so I stuck my head round the door. I saw Gloria’s door closing. What was she up to? You’re the detective. Maybe you should ask her.’
23
Tamar swept off to make herself fit for company after that final pleasantry, leaving me rejoicing at the prospect of another friendly little chat with Gloria. Luckily, I didn’t have to scour the shopping centres of the north west for her. She was in her office, beating up her word processor as if the keyboard had my face on it.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I said. ‘I just wondered where I might find Kevin.’
‘He’s got a suite in the west wing,’ she said pompously, not even breaking her rhythm. ‘Bedroom, bathroom, lounge and office. Turn left at the top of the stairs, then left again. The office is the double doors on the right. But you probably won’t find him there at this time of day. He’s more likely to be out and about.’
‘Thanks. Oh, one other thing. When I asked you about your movements, you didn’t mention that you’d gone downstairs again after you went up to bed.’
That brought her frenzied typing to a halt. ‘I never did,’ Gloria denied vehemently, her chin thrust out like a defiant child. ‘Anyone who says I did is a liar.’ She’d gone that ugly puce again.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked mildly.
Her lips seemed to tighten and shrink. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ she challenged.
‘No. I simply wondered if it might have slipped your mind.’
‘It couldn’t have slipped my mind if I’d never done it, could it?’
I shrugged and said, ‘See you around, Gloria.’ I walked slowly up the stairs, pondering on her reaction. If I were Neil, I’d be laying odds of 2-1 that she’d been lying. Which meant one of two things. Either she was the killer, or she thought she was protecting the killer. And the only person I could imagine Gloria protecting was Jett.
I followed Gloria’s instructions to the letter, but there was no reply when I knocked on the double doors. I tried each handle in turn. They moved, but both doors were locked. On the off chance that someone had been careless, I tried the pair of them together. The doors swung apart, the small gilt bolt in one grazing the pile of the carpet. Oh dear, someone hadn’t fastened it properly. I remedied the oversight, carefully sliding the bolt into place as I shut the doors behind me. The lock clicked sharply into place. The Ramblers’ Association would have been proud of me.
The contents of Kevin’s office were a set of cliches that sat in that beautifully proportioned room like a Big Mac on Sèvres china. The walls were mushroom—sorry, taupe!—decorated with framed gold discs and photographs of Kevin with everyone from Mick Jagger to Margaret Thatcher. There was a Georgian repro stereo cabinet, and lots of those tricksy little repro low-level cupboards and sets of drawers. His desk was roughly the size of a championship snooker table. On top of it, two telephones flanked a Nintendo console. Naff toys for mindless boys. I laid a small bet with myself that he couldn’t get beyond level two of Super Mario Brothers. Behind the desk was an executive swivel chair upholstered in glossy chestnut leather, and against the walls there were a couple of those deep sofas that leave your feet waving in the air like a toddler.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but that’s never stopped me before. I started with the desk itself. It held few surprises. Top drawer, pens and executive gadgets, right down to the aerobasic calculator. (I only knew what it was because they sell them in the Science Museum’s mail order goodie book, and I’m a catalogaholic.) Second drawer, scratch pads and packs of adhesive memos with album and record company logos on them. Also, black leather desk diary and telephone book. Bottom drawer, current issues of the music press, and men’s mags from the navel-gazing Esquire to the nipple-gazing Penthouse.
I turned my attention to the nasty furniture. The unit immediately behind the desk looked like it had two drawers. But when I pulled it open, I realized they were fakes, disguising a file drawer. I quickly flipped through it, but as far as I could tell, it was a file of routine correspondence with record companies, promoters and tour venues. There was nothing at all relating to merchandising. The second looked more promising, if only because it was locked. I was assessing my chances of getting into it undetected when my worst nightmares came true. I heard voices outside the door.
It’s amazing how quickly your mouth can get really dry. I straightened up as the key fumbled noisily into the lock. There weren’t too many options. Under the desk was a sure way to be discovered inside thirty seconds. No room behind the sofas
. That only left the door on the far wall. It could lead to a cupboard or a bedroom. As I shot across the room, grateful for the ostentation that had required ankle-risking deep-pile carpet, I prayed it wasn’t locked. I yanked the door open and hit the threshold running. I hauled the door shut behind me, in time to see the office door opening.
Gloria’s voice reached me across the office and through the door. ‘If you’d just like to take a seat, Inspector, Mr Kleinman will be back in about ten minutes. If you see that Miss Brannigan, would you tell her that? She was looking for him a few minutes ago, but she’s obviously found something more interesting to do than wait. Can I get you some tea?’
‘No thanks, Miss. The constable and me are awash with tea. We’ll keep an eye out for Miss Brannigan, though.’ There was no mistaking that voice. It grated like an emery board on my nails. Cliff Jackson was sitting on the other side of the door, in the room I’d illegally entered not quarter of an hour before.
I looked around the room I’d registered subconsciously was a bathroom. That old villain Lord Elgin would have had it away on his toes with the whole room. Walls, floor and even the ceiling were marble. Not that cold, white marble with the grey veins. This was soft, pinky, with dark red veins running through it like a drinker’s nose. The bath looked as if it had been hollowed out of a single lump of the stuff, with monstrous gold dolphins for taps. You could never be sure you’d got it really clean, that was for sure.
Luckily for me, there was another door on the far side. I slipped off my heels and tiptoed across the room. That was where my luck ran out. The door wouldn’t budge. I crouched down, applying my eye to the crack. Situation hopeless. It was bolted on the far side. That left me two alternatives. Either I could sit it out and hope that no one would be caught short. Or I could brazen it out. If I was going to do that, better sooner rather than later. It would be a lot easier to talk my way out of it before Kevin arrived and started asking awkward questions about what I was doing in his office.