Dead Beat

  'Tamar hated her on sight, of course. Her and Jett have been having this on-off relationship for a few months now, and I guess she saw Moira as a threat. Moira couldn't stand her, thought she was just a stupid bimbo, and she told me she used to wind her up by flirting with Jett when Tamar was around. But there was nothing in it. She told me that, and I believe her. I trust. . .' she gulped. T trusted her.'

  'What about Kevin? How did he take it?' I probed.

  'She said he wasn't thrilled, but that she wasn't surprised because the idea of parting with any money, even if it's not his own, gives him a physical pain. She said if he gave you his shit for fertiliser he'd want the roses. And there was a lot of money coming to her. All those years of royalties from the first three albums.'

  'Did she get the money?' I suspected I knew the answer before I asked the question.

  'Not yet. Kevin said it was tied up in some account where he had to wait three months before he could get access to it.'

  I'd been right. Moira had died before she'd cost anyone a penny. I wondered if anyone would ever be able to untangle things now she was dead. 'Do you happen to know if she left a will?' I asked.

  Maggie's mouth twisted into an ironic smile. 'Jett tell you to ask that? Yes, she left a will. We both made wills in favour of each other about two months ago.'

  'Do you mind if I ask you why?'

  'Because a friend of mine was killed in a car crash and she hadn't left a will. The house was in her name, and her family kicked her lover out on the street the day before the funeral. Gay couples don't have any rights. We have to make our own. That's why we made the wills. At that point, Moira didn't even think she had anything to leave,' Maggie said bitterly.

  But when she'd died, it had been a different picture. I knew I'd want to come back to this, but I needed to hear more from other people before I'd have any useful leverage. So I changed the subject. 'Surely Micky was pleased? He must have been happy that they were all working together again, just like the good old days?'

  'You'd have thought so, wouldn't you? But not according to Moira. She said he was always nit-picking. She thought he wanted to take all the credit for Jett's great comeback album - they hadn't worked together for the last four, you see.'

  'I'm beginning to wonder why she stuck it,' I remarked.

  'I wondered myself. But she really enjoyed the work she was doing with Jett. She loved the writing. And she was even doing some of the backing vocals. She kept telling me that when the money came rolling in, I could give up work and we'd go and live in the sun somewhere.' Maggie's face crumpled and she pulled a soggy handkerchief out of her pocket. She blew her nose. 'If she hadn't been doing it for us, maybe she'd never have been tempted to stay.'

  'Had you seen her much in the last few weeks?' I asked.

  'Not really. She hasn't been home at all. We had a couple of weekends in a hotel in Manchester. Jett had gone to Paris with Tamar, and he'd given her some money and told her to show me a good time.' Her eyes lit up, then the light died. 'We had a good time, too,' she said softly.

  'Why did you go to Colcutt this week?' I asked.

  She looked at me in surprise. 'What do you mean?'

  'I saw you. I was driving the car that nearly ran you over in the early hours of the morning. The landlady at the Colcutt Arms told me you'd been staying there. I just wondered, you know? With you two not having seen very much of each other lately.' I let my words hang in the air. Maggie was no fool. She must have realised it would only be a matter of time before the police would be at her door.

  'Now I see why you wanted to talk to me,' she accused. 'You really are trying to pin it on me.'

  I shook my head. 'Maggie, I'm not trying to pin it on anybody. I'm trying to find Moira's killer.'

  'If that's true, you'd be better off back in Colcutt,' she said angrily. 'Someone there had it in for her. That's why I went over to see her, to try to persuade her to come home with me.'

  'What do you mean?' I asked. My antennae were quivering. I had the feeling we were really getting somewhere at last.

  'Someone there wanted her dead. They'd already tried once.'

  17

  I took a deep breath and said very slowly, 'What do you mean, they'd already tried?'

  'I don't know how much you know about heroin addiction,' Maggie replied.

  'Lay person's knowledge only. Assume I'm ignorant.' 'OK. Coming off is hell. But once an addict is off, they often get a strange kind of confidence that one little hit wouldn't do any harm. Like the smoker who's been stopped for three years and fancies a fag at a party. Only with heroin addicts, that can be fatal a lot faster than with smokers. Anyway, someone at Colcutt Manor kept leaving a set of works in Moira's room. Every couple of days, she'd come upstairs to find a nice little hit sitting there waiting for her.' Maggie stopped dead, her anger making her voice a growl.

  'That is evil,' I breathed.

  'So now you see why I wanted her to leave. So far, she'd just flushed the smack down the loo and shoved the syringes in the bin. But sooner or later there was going to come a time when she'd be low, when she couldn't ring me up for reassurance, when she was going to go for it. I couldn't stand the thought of it.'

  I swallowed hard. Now for the nasty question. 'So why did you leave when you did? In the middle of the night like that?'

  Maggie rolled another cigarette while she pondered my question. I couldn't help feeling she was using me as the rehearsal for the harder interrogation she knew was on the horizon. 'We'd had a drink together that evening in the pub. Moira promised me that her work would be over in another two weeks and then we'd go on holiday together. She said she could hold out, and begged me not to make her choose. I gave in, God help me.

  'Afterwards, we went up to my room and made love. She left about eleven, saying she was going back to work with Jett. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I know it sounds pathetic, but I had a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach that something terrible was going to happen. Eventually, I got up and went for a walk. Then I saw all those police cars up at the manor and I panicked. Whatever was going on, I knew I would only be in Moira's way if I turned up on the doorstep, so I went back to the pub. That's when you nearly ran me over.' Maggie lit her cigarette and ran a hand through her greying curls.

  'I tried to ring from the phone in the pub, but it was constantly engaged. I didn't know what else to do, so I set off for home. Moira knew I was coming home today, and I knew she'd call me as soon as she could. The first I knew she was dead was when I heard the news on Radio One at half-past nine.' She couldn't hold the tears back any longer, and they streamed down her face. Her shoulders shook.

  I got up and tentatively put a hand on her arm, but she shook me off and huddled into a ball. Feeling helpless, I retreated to the sofa. While I waited for her to compose herself, I thought about what I'd heard. It sounded incredibly thin to me. I couldn't imagine any circumstances in which I'd behave as Maggie had done unless I was running from something. But equally, I couldn't see why she'd have killed Moira if she was telling the truth about their relationship.

  After a few minutes, Maggie managed to find the strength from somewhere to dry her tears, clear her throat and look me in the eye. 'I didn't kill her. I'd have cheerfully killed the bastard who was trying to destroy her with the smack, but not Moira. Never Moira.'

  Her denial was vehement. But I've heard good performances before. I didn't have enough information to try to get beyond that right now, but if I uncovered it, I'd be back. This was one case where I couldn't let sentiment get in the way. 'I believe you,' I said, almost convinced. 'Is there anything else, however trivial, that Moira said that might shed some light on what happened?'

  Maggie got up and poured herself another mug of tea. She leaned against the table, eyebrows twisted in concentration. 'There was one thing,' she said uncertainly.

  'Yes?' I asked expectantly.

  'It's probably nothing, but last night in the pub, she asked me about one of the guys she used
to know in Bradford. A bloke called Fat Freddy. She wanted me to ask around and see what he was into just now that might be connected to Jett in some way,' Maggie said hesitantly.

  'Did she say why?'

  Maggie shrugged. 'To be honest, I wasn't paying a lot of attention. She said something like, she'd seen him talking to someone from the manor who shouldn't be mixing with small-time villains like Fat Freddy.'

  The whiff of red herring was getting pretty strong. If I'd been trying to divert suspicion away from myself, that was exactly the kind of unprovable line I'd come up with.

  'Did she say who it was she'd seen with this Fat Freddy?' I asked cautiously.

  Maggie shook her head. 'I'm sorry, she didn't. She said she wanted to find out what the connection was before she said anything more.'

  I felt frustrated. Why couldn't Maggie have shown a bit more interest in something other than her own relationship with Moira? Had she no natural curiosity? If I'd dropped something like that on Richard, he'd have been on it like a rat up a drain, demanding chapter and verse on everything I'd seen and heard. 'What do you know about Fat Freddy?' I asked without much hope.

  'He's a bit of a wide-boy. Moira knew him from when she was working in Bradford. She told me he was into buying and selling -whatever came along. I met him once. Moira bought a couple of jogging suits from him.'

  'Would you know where to find him?'

  Maggie pulled a face. 'Not really. Why? Do you think it might be important?'

  'Yes, I do. I don't know how yet, but it could be.'

  'OK. I'll see if I can find out what he's up to and get in touch with you. It's what Moira asked me to do.'

  I tried not to show my surprise at her co-operation, and fished a card out of my wallet. I wrote my home number on the back. 'If you remember anything more or come up with something on Fat Freddy, give me a call any time, day or night.' I got to my feet. 'Thanks for being so helpful. I know it can't have been easy.'

  'Believe me, the worst is yet to come. And I'm not talking about the police.' Maggie's face had frozen into a cold mask. 'There's no framework for grief when you're gay.'

  'I'm sorry,' I said inadequately.

  'Spare me the bleeding-heart liberal shit,' Maggie flashed back, suddenly angry. 'Just leave me alone.'

  It wasn't hard to do exactly as she asked.

  I spent what was left of the afternoon back at the office. I'd recorded my notes on tape on the way back from Leeds, so I didn't even have that to keep me occupied. I hate those spells in an investigation where everything is stalled. I didn't want to go back to the manor for another confrontation with Jackson. I'd rather wait till tomorrow, when the police presence would have eased off, and the initial shock would have worn off for the inhabitants.

  So I did the paperwork on the Smart brothers that had been hanging over me for the last couple of weeks since our clients had passed our dossier on to the police. I was providing them with more details on my surveillance, so they'd be fully prepared for the raid they were planning for some unspecified date in the future when they got their act together. I ploughed through my diary for the relevant weeks, and there, in the middle of it all, I found the notes of my search for Moira. I couldn't help agreeing with Maggie that it was a pity I'd ever found her. Bill had been right. Missing persons' jobs produce more trouble than they're worth.

  Before I left the office, I helped myself to a couple of Raymond Chandlers and a Dashiell Hammett from Bill's bookcase. I was going to need all the help I could get, and somehow I had the feeling that wandering down to Waterstone's for a book on how to solve a murder wasn't going to be a lot of use.

  I got home just after six. For once, my heart sank when I saw Richard's car outside the house. I wasn't looking forward to telling him about the secrets I'd been keeping. But I couldn't hide my involvement in the murder investigation, not without moving out while it went on. There would be too many incoming phone calls and answering-machine messages from people connected to the case.

  I decided to get it over with as quickly as possible, so I poured myself a drink and crossed the conservatory. Halfway across, Jett's first album hit me right between the ears. Richard's living room was empty, so I followed the music down to his study. He was so absorbed in the screen of his word processor that he didn't hear me enter.

  Over his shoulder, I read, 'Moira got her second chance at the dream ticket just six weeks ago when she turned up at Jett's luxury mansion, a world away from the mean streets where they started off.' I don't know, even the journalists I trust can't get their facts right.

  I tapped him gently on the shoulder and he glanced up at me with a distracted smile. 'Hiya, Brannigan.'

  I leaned over and kissed him. 'Busy?'

  'Ten minutes. You hear about Moira Pollock?' I nodded. 'I'm doing a piece for the Sunday Tribune - you know, wringing their withers, lots of colour, plenty of topspin. Be right with you.'

  I left him to it. True to his word, ten minutes later he joined me in the conservatory, where I was watching the rain on the glass making rivers against the darkness. Richard threw himself into a basket chair and popped the top of a Michelob Dry.

  T have a confession to make,' I announced.

  Richard's eyebrows rose and he gave me his cute smile. 'You wore the same clothes two days' running? You forgot to hoover the lounge before you went out this morning? You ate a yoghurt that was two days past its sell-by date?'

  I don't know who told him he was funny. It certainly wasn't me. 'This is serious,' I explained.

  'Oh, shit! You left a ring round the bath!' he teased.

  Sometimes I wish I lived with a grown-up.

  'Moira Pollock didn't just turn up on Jett's doorstep out of the blue,” I announced bluntly. It was the only way to get his attention.

  'How d'you know that?' he demanded, suddenly serious now his professional world was involved.

  'Because it was me who drove her there.'

  I had the momentary satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop. 'You what?' he exclaimed.

  'I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you about it at the time. Jett swore me to secrecy, with particular reference to you. He hired us to find Moira for him. So I did. And now he's hired me to find Moira's killer.'

  I'd dropped my bombshell, and it seemed to have left Richard momentarily speechless. He just stared at me, mouth open like a drunken actor who's forgotten his lines. Eventually, he closed his mouth, swallowed hard and said, 'You're at the wind-up.'

  'Never been more serious.'

  He looked at me suspiciously. 'So how come you're telling me now? How come client confidentiality goes out the window at this precise moment?'

  'Because when murder's on the agenda, I'm entitled to grab all the extra help I can get,' I explained.

  'Shee-it,' he drawled. Then the journalist in him jumped out like a jack-in-the-box. 'That's great. You'll be able to give me the inside track on the story.'

  I shook my head wonderingly. 'That's not the idea, Richard. We'll happily pay you a consultancy fee, but I don't let the cat out of the bag for anyone except my client. And besides, whatever I could give you would be old hat anyway. Your old mate Neil Webster is sitting there in Colcutt Manor, feeding the world what it wants to hear, straight from the horses' mouths.'

  He covered his disappointment with a wry grin. 'Anybody should have been murdered up there, it should have been that piece of shit,' he complained. 'OK, Brannigan. You got it. Any help I can give you, it's yours. So why don't you take me right back to the beginning and tell me how you tracked Moira down. Surely you can at least give me that teensy weensy exclusive?'

  I grinned back at him. One day I'm going to learn how to put up a resistance to his charms. With any luck, it's a long way off.

  18

  There was still a policeman at the gates of Colcutt Manor when I arrived the following morning. But half past ten was too early for the press, who, judging by the number of cars in the pub car park, had invaded the guest rooms of the Colcutt Arms and wer
e still sleeping off their expense account excesses.

  It was also too early for the household. Now the bulk of the police had left, life was slowly returning to normal. The kitchen was empty, as was the blue drawing room, the television room, the dining room, the billiard room and Neil's office. I was beginning to feel like a National Trust curator on a rainy Wednesday as I trudged back to the hall. This time, one of the crew of the Marie Celeste had appeared.

  Gloria was just walking out of her office when she heard my heels clattering on the terrazzo tiles and turned sharply round. 'Oh, it's you,' she said with her usual grace and charm. She ignored me and carried on walking, closing the door behind her.

  Undaunted, I followed her down the hall to the rear porch. As she pulled on a tan leather blouson, she eyed me warily, and I returned the compliment. I know that white is the colour of mourning in oriental cultures, but I've never encountered the civilisation where they show their feelings for the departed in coral and cream jogging suits. I guess Valkyries do things differently.