Dead Beat

  His concern for Moira was overwhelming. I hid my contempt and simply said, 'Nevertheless, they want to see everyone. The blue drawing room,' I added as I left him.

  The hall had suddenly begun to resemble a police station. The scene-of-crime team had arrived with their cameras and fingerprint cases. Half a dozen uniformed constables were being directed to search the outside of the house and the grounds, to check for any signs of a break-in and to cover all exits. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me, so I slipped past them and crossed the hall. I headed down the corridor to Neil's domain. According to Gloria, he'd been given an office on the ground floor near the dining room.

  I knocked on his door and heard him call, 'Come in, open all hours.' I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. The wood panelling obviously deadened any noise from outside. The small room looked remarkably like Richard's study. I wondered if journalists are born untidy or if they think the appearance of complete chaos is a necessary part of the image. Neil sat at the eye of the storm of paper, facing a computer screen, a small tape recorder beside him. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. 'Kate! Glad you could find the time to pop in on a humble scribe. Sorted out your business with Jett?'

  'I'm afraid this isn't just a social call,' I said. 'I've been asked to come and fetch you.'

  His hooded eyes half-closed as a guarded expression crossed his face. 'Fetch me?' he queried. 'Who wants me?'

  'The police,' I said.

  I could see the muscles in his jaw clench. 'What's all this about, Kate,' he forced out in a light tone.

  'Bad news. Moira's dead.'

  His eyes opened wide in horror. 'Oh no!' he exclaimed. 'Moira? Dead? How? What happened? Has there been an accident?' His questions spilled out, the professional habit attaching itself to his obvious personal shock.

  'No accident, I'm afraid. Look, Neil, you'd better get along to the blue drawing room. The police want to see everyone who was in the house. They'll be able to fill you in on the details.'

  'You mean, it happened here?'

  'Why? Where did you think it had happened?'

  'I don't know. She said something earlier about going down to the village to see someone. I suppose I assumed she was attacked on her way back or something. Oh God, poor Jett. He must be in a hell of a state.' At last, someone had finally spared a thought for the boss. Neil jumped to his feet and pushed past me to the door. 'The blue room, you said?' he demanded as he pulled it open.

  'That's right,' I replied as I followed him.

  As I re-emerged in the hall, a plain clothes policeman pounced. 'Kate Brannigan?' he demanded.

  'That's me,' I agreed.

  'You didn't tell us you're a private investigator,' he accused.

  'No one asked me,' I replied, unable to resist. I don't know why I get this urge to be a smartass round coppers.

  'The inspector wants to see you right now,' he told me, steering me down the hall into a smaller room next to the blue drawing room. It was wood panelled and stuffed with leather chairs. It looked like I've always imagined a gentlemen's club to be. A small writing desk had been moved away from the wall, and behind it sat a slim, dark-haired man in his mid thirties, his eyes indistinct behind a pair of glasses with tinted lenses. He was the last man in England wearing a pale blue shirt with white collar and cuffs under his dark blue suit. His striped tie was neatly knotted. He didn't look as if he'd been called out of bed in the middle of the night, but equally, he didn't look crumpled enough to have been on duty.

  'I'm Inspector Cliff Jackson,' he introduced himself. 'And you must be our elusive private eye.'

  'Good morning, Inspector,' I replied politely. 'I'm Kate Branni-gan, of Mortensen and Brannigan.'

  'I know exactly who you are, Miss Brannigan,' he countered, a note of irritation in his gravelly Lancashire voice. 'What I want to know is why you felt it necessary to go round interfering with witnesses.'

  'I haven't been interfering with anyone,' I returned. 'If you mean rounding up the inhabitants, I was simply doing what your sergeant asked.'

  'As you well know, he wouldn't have let you near one of them if he'd known the way you earn a living.'

  'Inspector, if anyone had bothered to ask what I do, I'd have been happy to tell them. Don't give me a bad time because one of your lads didn't do his job properly. I really don't want to fall out with you.'

  'That's the first sensible thing you've said so far,' he grumbled as he made a note on his pad. We went through the formal routine that prefaces the taking of a statement, then he pushed his glasses up and massaged the bridge of his nose with surprisingly well-manicured fingers. 'So, what were you doing here tonight?' he asked.

  'It was a social call. We did a job for Jett some time ago, and he told me to drop in whenever I was passing. So I did.' It sounded thin, even to me, but I could only hope he thought I was a bit starstruck.

  'You were just passing at this time of night?' he challenged sarcastically, letting his glasses slip back into place. 'You normally drop in on people this late?'

  'Of course not,' I countered. 'But I knew Jett keeps late hours. I'd been working and I was wide awake, so rather than go home and bounce off the walls I thought I'd stop off for a coffee. Besides, it wasn't that late when I got here. It can't have been that much after midnight.'

  He clearly wasn't happy with the scenario, but he didn't have anything to contradict it yet, so he let it go for now. I outlined the version of events I'd agreed with Jett, hoping he'd remembered what he was supposed to say. I had plenty of time to think between sentences, since the detective who'd collared me was carefully writing it into a statement.

  After we'd exhausted the subject of the discovery of the body, Jackson asked plenty of questions about the household and their movements, but I didn't have any answers. Frustrated, he gave up on that line and asked, "What was the nature of this job your firm did for Jett?'

  I'd hoped we wouldn't get to that till I'd had a chance to discuss the matter with Bill. I took a deep breath and recited, 'The nature of our business is confidential. I am afraid that is a private matter between Mortensen and Brannigan and our client.'

  Jackson pushed his glasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. It looked like he had a sinus headache, and I began to feel the slight stirrings of sympathy. He wouldn't be getting much sleep over the next few days unless they got a very lucky break. However, my sympathy didn't override my professional ethics.

  'You are withholding information that could be material to a murder inquiry,' he sighed.

  I was waiting with bated breath for him to say something, anything, that wasn't a cliche. I was destined for another disappointment.

  'I don't have to tell you that it's an offence to obstruct the police. Frankly, I could do without the hassle of charging you, Miss Brannigan, but you make it very tempting.'

  'I could do without the hassle too, Inspector. If it's any help, the answer will be the same whether you charge me or not.' I tried not to sound as defiant as I felt. A night in the cells would be both uncomfortable and bad for business.

  'Get her out of my sight, Sergeant Bradley,' Jackson said, getting to his feet. 'Get her to sign her statement first,' he continued as he crossed the room and left.

  The sergeant proffered the sheets of my statement and I read through it quickly. It never ceases to amaze me that no matter what you actually say in a police statement, it always comes out in a strangulated officialese. In spite of the jargon, Sergeant Bradley appeared to have got the gist of what I'd said, so I signed dutifully.

  I was escorted back to the hall, where Jackson was earnestly talking to the uniformed sergeant. When he saw me, he scowled and said, 'Miss Brannigan's leaving now, sergeant. Get one of the lads to see her off the premises. And I mean right off.' Then he turned to me and said, 'I don't want you discussing the circumstances of this case with anyone. And I don't just mean the press. I mean you are not to talk to anyone about the method or timing of this incident. Is that und
erstood?' I nodded. Then he added. 'We'll let you know when we want to see you again. And keep your nose out. Leave this to the professionals.'

  I'd be only too happy to do just that, I thought as I drove down the drive. But somehow, I had the feeling Jett wasn't going to give me that option.

  It was just after three a.m. when the electronic gates opened silently before me and I drove out into the lane, waving goodbye to the patrol car that had followed me down the drive. I slowed down as I approached Colcutt village, searching in the glove box for something more soothing than Tina Turner. As I hit the bend, a figure appeared in my headlights. It froze momentarily, then disappeared into the darkness of the verge.

  I braked the car to a halt and jumped out. I ran back the few yards to where the figure had disappeared. There was no trace of anyone. The only sound to break the silence of the night was the soft mutter of my engine. I might have been dreaming, but I didn't think so. I had only seen Moira's lover once, but I'd have recognised Maggie Rossiter anywhere.

  15

  When people find out what I do for a living, they always ask if it's dangerous. They usually seem disappointed when I confess that the hardest thing to deal with is lack of sleep. I get very ratty if I'm kept away from my bed. I'd been asleep for a mere four hours after my run-in with Jackson when the phone rang insistently.

  I picked up the phone. 'Who is it?' I growled.

  'Good morning to you, too,' Shelley replied. 'Bill wants to talk to you. Are you coming in or do you want to speak to him now?'

  'Both,' I replied. Bill's no stickler for regular office hours, and he knows me well enough to know that if I'm not in the office at nine there's a good reason. So for him to get Shelley to roust me out of bed, it had to be important.

  'Kate,” his voice boomed in my ear as Shelley connected us. 'What's this you've been up to now?'

  'How did you get to hear about it?' I asked wearily, climbing out of bed and heading for the kitchen.

  'The news about Moira was on the radio this morning, and I got into the office to find a string of increasingly hysterical messages from Jett and a demand for a meeting from a pompous asshole called Inspector Cliff Jackson. It didn't take a lot of working out,' he reported.

  'What did Jett want?'

  'You, basically. A lot of moaning about why did you run out on him when he needed you and instructions to get yourself back over there asap. I think you'd better come in and brief me on what's been going on before we decide whether we want to have any further involvement. OK?' It was the nearest Bill was ever going to get to a direct order.

  Twenty minutes later, I was filling him in. When I got to the bit about the story I'd concocted for the police about the body's discovery, he shifted uneasily in his chair. 'I don't think that was one of your brightest moves, Kate,' he complained.

  'I know. But anything else made Jett look like the killer.'

  'And how do you know he wasn't?' Bill challenged me.

  'I saw the state he was in. It wasn't the kind of reaction I'd expect from a man who had just killed his so-called soul mate. It was more like he couldn't believe it till someone else had confirmed it. Besides, if I'd told the truth, Jett wouldn't have been cluttering up our answering machine all night. He'd be down the nick in an interrogation room.' I knew it sounded weak even as I told it, but the strength of my own gut feeling about Jett's innocence didn't allow for compromise.

  'I trust your instincts, Kate. But the cops sure as hell won't. We'll have to make damn sure they don't find out the truth. And I suppose that means you'll have to stay close to whatever's going on,' he added. He chewed his beard restlessly, a sure sign that he's worried.

  'At least Jett seems to want that,' I tried. It wasn't much of a consolation, but it was the only one I could see right then.

  'Jett might, but I don't,' Bill flashed back. 'We don't do murders, Kate. We do white-collar crime. We're not geared up to compete with the police on something like this. Besides, I'm not happy about putting you in the front line when there's someone out there killing people.'

  'I can handle myself,” I replied huffily.

  'I know you can. It's the other poor fuckers I'm worried about,” he said with a tired smile. 'Seriously, though. I really wish you hadn't got us involved. But now we are, you'd better brief me fully.'

  I gave him a quick resume of events, leaving out only my glimpse of Maggie. I don't know why I held that back; maybe I was worried about her being the obvious scapegoat, even to a supposedly new man like Bill.

  'Jackson wanted to know the nature of the job we did for Jett,' I finished up. 'I hid behind client confidentiality.'

  'You did right. Leave Jackson to me. You'd better have a listen to Jett's messages then get yourself over to Colcutt.'

  It was after eleven when I drew up outside the electronic gates. Half a dozen cars were parked along the verge, and I recognised a couple of national newspaper reporters. The news of Moira's death had broken too late for that morning's editions, but they were determined to make up for lost time. As I pulled up to speak to the police constable, who looked cold and miserable in the thin drizzle of rain, car doors suddenly opened and the pack descended. Luckily, Jett had had the sense to tell the police I should be admitted. He'd also remembered to leave me the security code for the gate in one of his messages. I was halfway through the gates before the first journalist reached me. I put my foot down and left him shaking off the spray from my tyres.

  At the house, another freezing copper let me in. There was no one in sight, but the constable on duty at the door of the rehearsal room grudgingly told me that Jett was in the kitchen. I found him there alone, slumped at an old pine farmhouse table, a mug of tea sitting in front of him. He barely glanced at me when I crossed the room to the kettle. I put it on to boil and picked up his mug. Nothing like making yourself at home. His untouched tea was stone cold, so I made us both fresh.

  'You shouldn't have gone,' he greeted me. 'I wanted you here.'

  T didn't have any choice,' I explained patiently, like I would to Davy, Richard's five-year-old. 'The cops bounced me as soon as they found out who I was.'

  Jett lifted his mug to his lips, but lowered it untasted. His skin had taken on a strange dullness, the colour of slate. His eyes were bloodshot, but not puffy with tears. 'You liked her, didn't you?' he asked.

  'Moira? I hardly knew her, but yes, I liked what I saw of her. She had courage, and a sense of humour,' I replied.

  He nodded, as if I'd confirmed something. 'That's why I want you to find out who killed her. Somebody in this house, somebody I trusted, took her life away. You're going to find out who.'

  I felt like I'd stumbled on to the set of an episode of Murder, She Wrote. I took a deep breath and tried to bring the conversation down to earth. 'Don't you think you should leave this to the police? They've got the manpower and the facilities to investigate murder, Jett. I haven't.'

  He warmed his hands on the mug. 'You don't understand, Kate. This isn't going to be solved by fingerprints and alibis. This is going to be solved by understanding people. The Old Bill, they didn't know Moira. And they sure as hell don't understand any of us. The people in this house, we don't talk the same language as these cops. Not even Mr Respectable Kevin. But you're different. You live with Richard, you know this life. You can speak to them, make them open up like they won't to the Old Bill.' It was a long speech for a man as close to the edge as Jett obviously was. He leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut.

  'I don't know, Jett. I've never had to investigate a murder before.'

  His eyes opened abruptly and he stared at me, brows drawn down in a scowl. 'Listen, Kate. To those cops, I'm just a piece of black shit. A rich piece, but still shit. Moira was just a junkie hooker to them. They'd love to pin this on me and walk away, because that would fit. I grew up in the Moss, I know how their minds work. I don't trust them and they sure as hell won't trust me. There's only you between me and the nick, Kate, and I need your help to stay out of i
t.' His bottom lip thrust out defiantly.

  I pushed my mug away and reached out for his hand. 'OK, Jett. No promises, but I'll give it my best shot.'

  He clasped my hand in both of his. There were tears shining in his eyes. 'That's good enough for me.' A single tear trickled down his cheek and he brushed it away as impatiently as if it were a troublesome fly.

  'What happened after I left?' I asked.

  'They kept us all shut up together till gone four o'clock. Didn't leave us alone for a minute, though. They had a kid copper keeping his ears open. That guy Jackson, he told me to say nothing about how I found her, or anything else. They all wanted to know, though,' he added bitterly.

  'They'll be hoping they can trip up the killer,' I explained. 'You know, someone knowing more than they're supposed to.' Amazing that the police still rely on that after they spent three years barking up the wrong tree on the Yorkshire Ripper investigation because of a hoax tape that revealed details only the killer should supposedly have known.