Dead Beat

  For once, my luck was holding well. He repeated his suicide run across the lanes again to take the Bradford exit. But this time I was prepared, hiding in the inside lane. I stayed with him in the heavy traffic round the ring road, skirting the city centre and out towards Bingley. Then I lost him. He jumped an amber as it turned red and shot off, leaving me law abiding at the lights. I watched helplessly as he hung a right about half a mile ahead. Of course, by the time I made it to that corner, he was long gone. I drove back to the nearest petrol station in a seriously bad mood and filled up.

  I signalled to turn back in the direction of the motorway, then I changed my mind. What the hell was I playing at? I'd schlepped all the way over the Pennines, taken more risks behind the wheel in one morning than I normally handle in a week, and I was even thinking about leaving it at that? I swear to God, two days in the world of sax 'n' drugs 'n' rock 'n' roll and my brain was getting as soft as theirs.

  I went straight back to the street corner where I'd lost him and started the slow cruise. Within a few yards of the main road, I was in the kind of tangle of narrow streets where the wide-boys operate. Terraced houses, small warehouses, the odd little sweatshop factory, corner grocers converted into auto spares shops, lock-up garages filled with everything except cars. It was the kind of district I'd become familiar with recently, thanks to the Smart brothers. I didn't need a map to have a pretty clear idea of how the streets would be laid out, and I carefully started to quarter them, eyes peeled for the scarlet Jag.

  As it was, I nearly missed it. I was taking it slowly when I caught a flash of red on the edge of my peripheral vision. I'd overshot the narrow alley before it registered properly. I parked up and strolled back along the street. On the corner of the alley, I stopped and glanced down. The Jag blocked the whole alleyway, barely leaving enough room for someone to sidle past it. It was parked outside the back entrance to a two-storey building. I counted from the end of the alleyway down to it, then walked on to the next corner.

  The building had once been a double-fronted shop. Now, the windows were whitewashed over, and the signboards over them were weathered illegible. A Transit van with its doors open was parked outside. I turned the corner and continued my leisurely stroll. Before I drew level, the door opened and a youth waddled uncomfortably in the general direction of the van. He couldn't actually see it since he was struggling to balance four cardboard cartons stacked on top of each other. 'Left a bit,' I suggested.

  He threw a grateful half-smile at me, sidestepped and swivelled on one heel. The top box started to slide, and I moved forward to grab it as it fell.

  'Cheers, love,' he gasped as he leaned forward to tip the boxes into the van. He stepped back, hands on hips, head dropping forward.

  'What you got in there anyway? Bricks?' I said as I stowed the other box for him.

  He looked up at me and gave me the once over. 'Designer gear, love. Top-class stuff. None of your market stall rubbish. Hang on a minute, I'll get you a sample. Just a little thank you.' He winked and headed back to the door. I followed him and stood in the doorway. To my right, cardboard boxes were stacked ceiling high.

  Beyond them, a couple of women stood at long tables, folding shell suits, putting them in plastic bags and filling more boxes with the bags.

  On my left, two machines clattered. The further one seemed to be printing t-shirts, while the other was embroidering shell suits. Before I could get a closer look, the van driver drew everyone's attention to me. 'Oy, Freddy,' he shouted.

  From a small office at the back of the warehouse, my quarry emerged. 'Do what, Dazza?' he asked in a deep voice, the cockney revealing itself even in those couple of words.

  'T-shirt for the lady,' Dazza said, waving an arm at me. 'Saved my stock from the gutter.'

  'Pity she couldn't do the same for you,' Freddy grunted. He gave me an appraising look, then picked out a white t-shirt from a pile on a trestle table by his cubbyhole. He threw it at Dazza, then turned on his heel and pulled his flimsy door shut behind him.

  'I see he's been to the Mike Tyson school of charm and diplomacy,' I remarked as Dazza returned.

  'Don't pay no never mind to Fat Freddy,' he said. 'He don't take to strangers. Here you are, love.'

  I reached out for the t-shirt. I picked it up by the neck and let the folds drop out. His face gazed moodily into mine. Across the chest, in vivid electric blue was the Midnight Stranger logo, straight from the last album and the tour promotional posters. Jett was alive and well and being ripped off in Bradford.

  20

  I sat in the car and stared at the t-shirt. I wasn't quite sure what it amounted to. If Kevin was responsible for official merchandising, there was no reason why he shouldn't farm it out to Fat Freddy, even if some of the guy's other business was well on the wrong side of the legal borderline. What I needed to find out was whether this particular t-shirt was the real thing.

  I also owed Maggie the courtesy of letting her know I didn't need her to do my legwork any longer. I thought of phoning, but decided against it. Face to face, there was always a chance that she'd come across with some more information, and her house was only a twenty-minute drive away.

  The house looked much the same, except that a sheaf of cream and red tulips had suddenly bloomed by the front door. For some reason, it made me think of Moira, something I'd been determinedly avoiding. I didn't think I could get through this job if I allowed myself to dwell on my own anger and the guilty fear that I'd delivered her to her killer. The vivid memory of her singing 'Private Dancer' filled my head. The grip of her voice on my mind didn't make it any easier to walk up the path to face her lover.

  I rang the bell and waited. Then I knocked and waited. Then I peered through the letter box. No lights, no sign of life. I thought about writing a note and decided to try the neighbours instead. Next door there was someone home. I could hear the operatic screeching five feet from the door. I had no confidence that whoever was inside would hear the doorbell above the earsplitting soprano that was going through my head like cheesewire.

  Abruptly the music stopped, though the ringing in my ears continued. The door opened to reveal the twinkling blue eyes of the neighbour I'd encountered before. He frowned at me, in spite of my smile.

  'Hi,' I said. 'It's Gavin, isn't it?' I amaze myself sometimes.

  He nodded, and the frown deepened into a scowl. 'You're the private eye,' he said. It wasn't a question. Obviously the jungle drums had been busy after my first visit.

  There didn't seem a lot of point in getting into a debate about it. 'That's right. I'm looking for Maggie. I just wondered if you happened to know when she'll be back.'

  'You're too late,' he said.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'The cops took her off about two hours ago. They let her come round and tell me, so I could feed the cat if she's not back. But the policewoman who was with her didn't make any reassuring noises about her getting home in a hurry. Looks like your friends in the cops have gone for the easy option,' Gavin said angrily.

  There were things I wanted to say. Like the cops aren't my friends. Like did she know a good criminal lawyer. Instead, I gambled that Maggie would have picked on a nice, reliable chap like Gavin as the concerned person who would be informed of her whereabouts. So I simply asked, 'Do you know where she's being held?'

  He nodded grudgingly. 'They rang me about half an hour ago. They've got her at Macclesfield cop shop. I asked about lawyers, but they said they would be arranging that with Maggie.'

  'Thanks. I'll make sure she's got a good one.'

  'Don't you think you've done enough?' he said bitterly. There didn't seem much I could say to that, so I turned and walked back down the path.

  I made good time back over the motorway. I'd rung Macclesfield police station from the motorway services. I regretted the impulse as soon as I was connected to Cliff Jackson.

  'I'm glad you rang,' he growled. He didn't sound it. 'I want a word with you.'

  'How can I help, Inspec
tor?' I said. It's a lot easier to sound sweet and helpful when there's forty miles of road between you.

  'There's nothing gets on my threepennies more than people like you who think there's something clever about obstructing the police. One more stroke like this, Ms Brannigan, and you're going to be in a cell. And if you remember your law, under PACE I can keep you there for thirty-six hours before I have to get round to charging you with obstructing my investigation.' Now he'd got that off his chest, I hoped he felt better. I sure as hell didn't.

  'If I knew what you were referring to, Inspector, I might be able to offer you some reassurance as to my future conduct.' He really brought out the lawyer in me.

  'The way you conveniently forgot to mention that Maggie Rossi-ter was not only in the vicinity of Colcutt Manor at the time of Moira Pollock's death but was also out and about in the highways and by-ways of Cheshire at the relevant time,' he snarled.

  'Well, for one thing, Inspector, I wasn't even sure what the relevant time was. The fact that she was in the lane a good hour after Jett and I discovered the body didn't seem especially relevant to me, I have to admit.'

  'Don't try to be clever with me, Ms Brannigan. I'm not making idle threats here. If you interfere with the course of my investigation again, or if I find you've been withholding evidence, I'm going to come down on you so hard it'll make your eyes water. Do I make myself plain?'

  'As the proverbial pikestaff, Inspector.'

  'Right. And I think I'll be wanting another word with you about your version of events around the time of the murder. You seem rather more hazy than I'd expect from someone who thinks she's as sharp as you do. I'd appreciate it if you could come into my office tomorrow morning at nine.'

  Before I could refuse, the line went dead. Going back to Colcutt could only be an improvement on the day.

  'Kate!' Neil exclaimed as I stuck my head round the door of his office. 'Come in!' I'd caught a glimpse of his retreating back as I'd entered the manor and followed him.

  He was standing by his desk pouring a mug of coffee from a Thermos jug. His face had the bleary, unfocused look of a hangover. 'Fancy a cuppa? I've no milk here, I'm afraid.'

  'Black's fine,' I replied. He opened his desk drawer and took out a second mug, which he filled and handed to me.

  'Fancy a little something to keep the cold out?' he asked. I shook my head with a mental shudder, and watched in revulsion as he pulled a bottle of Grouse from his desk drawer and poured a generous slug into his mug. He took a long swallow of the brew, and as it went down, his face seemed to regain definition. 'Aah,' he sighed comfortably. 'That's better.'

  Neil slouched across the room and collapsed into a leather armchair in a corner. 'So,' he said with a crooked smile, 'how's Hawkshaw the Detective getting on? Ready to finger the culprit yet?'

  'Hardly,' I replied, sitting down on the typist's chair in front of the desk. I was in two minds whether or not to tell him about Maggie's arrest. On the one hand, I didn't want to help him earn a shilling out of selling the story. But on the other, I was convinced Jackson was so far off-beam that I wanted him to end up looking like the fool he was. In the end, I decided I wanted to get my own back on Neil more than I did on Jackson, so I kept the news to myself.

  'I've only just started my inquiries,' I said. 'And if Gloria's anything to go by, I'd have more joy panning for gold in the Mersey than extracting information out of you lot.'

  Neil pulled a face. 'I don't envy you the lovely Gloria. But if it's good gossip you're after, you've come to the right place. My encyclopaedic knowledge of the occupants of Colcutt Manor is entirely at your disposal. Fire away.' My relief must have shown in my face, for Neil chuckled. 'Bit of a shock to the system, eh, finding someone who actually wants to talk.'

  'Just a bit,' I said. 'Before we get down to the serious gossip, though, I have to do the proper detective bit. You know, where were you on the night of, etc'

  He lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke with an appreciative smile. 'Eat your heart out, Miss Marple. Well, I'd been nattering to Kevin earlier, then about ten I went down the local pub for a few sherbets before closing time. I must have got back about half-past eleven, then I came through here and did a couple of hours' work, transcribing tapes and knocking them into shape. I went up to bed around half-past one. Didn't see a soul, before you ask.' It was hard to gauge his truthfulness from his hooded eyes. Like most journalists I know, he'd carefully cultivated the appearance of total sincerity to encourage the public to fly in the face of all the evidence and trust him.

  I asked a few more questions, and soon elicited the fact that he hadn't seen Moira in the pub. Presumably she and Maggie had gone up to her room before he'd arrived. I decided to change to a more profitable line of questioning. 'So, if you were a gambling man, who would you be putting money on?'

  His eyes crinkled up in concentration for a moment, then he rattled off the odds: '2-1 Tamar, 3-1 Gloria and Kevin, 7-2 Jett, 4-1 Micky and 10-1 the girlfriend.'

  I couldn't help smiling. I hadn't expected such a literal answer. 'And what about you?'

  Neil stroked his moustache. 'Me? I'm the dark horse. An outsider in more ways than one. You'd have to put me down at 100-1. After all, I was the only one who had nothing to gain and everything to lose from her death.'

  I was intrigued. On the face of it, what he said was plausible. But since my only experience of murder is in the pages of Agatha Christie, that made him number one suspect in my book. I said as much.

  He roared with laughter, and got up to refill his mug. This time, the tot of whisky was noticeably smaller. 'Sorry to disappoint you, Kate,' he remarked, 'but I meant what I said. Moira was the best possible source for early material on Jett. I mean, we all know how showbiz biogs steer well clear of scandal. And Jett's life has been well-documented. The only genuinely new angle I could hope for was finally lifting the lid on what happened between Jett and Moira all those years ago. I couldn't get an on-the-record word out of anybody about the reasons for the partnership splitting up. Her arrival on the scene was a godsend. She was willing to talk, and we'd only just begun to get into it. So I had a vested interest in her being around to talk to me. Forget the doctrine of the "least likely person".'

  'OK. So you didn't have a motive. But you obviously think the others did. Suppose you run them past me?' I flipped my bag open and on the pretext of getting my notebook out, I switched on my tape recorder. I'd meant to tape all my interviews, but finding a strategy to deal with Gloria had driven the thought from my mind.

  Neil stretched out in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle, revealing odd socks above his scuffed leather loafers. 'First, Tamar,' he said, a note of relish in his tone that made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Life with Richard has shown me that journalists are the biggest bitches on two legs, but I still can't get off on listening to them dishing the dirt. 'They were on the rocks long before you found Moira. She'd actually taken a walk a week or two before that gig when I met you, but when Jett didn't chase her, she came back off her own bat. If he hadn't been so distracted with the work on the album, she'd have been on her bike a long time ago. But she was putting a lot of work in on making herself indispensable. When Moira turned up, Tamar could see all that good work going down the tubes.'

  'What d'you mean, good work? All I've seen her do so far is doss around,' I interrupted.

  Neil grinned. 'I mean, "Yes, Jett, no, Jett, three bags full, Jett". And all those evenings in the kitchen rustling up tasty little gourmet dinners for her hard-working man. Not to mention the horizontal work. Once Moira arrived, she used to wind Tamar up something rotten, flirting with Jett whenever Tamar was around. As long as Moira was around, Tamar was living on borrowed time. And hell hath no fury. But now Moira's gone, Tamar's wasting no time consolidating her position. As you no doubt noticed for yourself yesterday.'

  'I can't see Tamar choosing a tenor sax as her murder weapon,' I objected.

  Neil crushed out his cigarette. 'All the more reaso
n for her to use it,' he countered. 'Though I agree it is a bizarre image.'

  We both paused for a moment to contemplate the idea. For me, it didn't work, but judging by the satisfied smirk on Neil's face, he was having less trouble with it. 'Next,' I demanded. 'Gloria at 3-1.'

  'Obvious motive. She is obsessive about Jett. Madly in love with him, and all she is to him is a housekeeper with word-processing skills. She didn't approve of Moira's presence, reckoned she was disruptive and ultimately bad news for Jett, trapping him in a time warp. And if she thought Moira was going to spill any dirt on her idol, Gloria would have a double motive for getting her out of the way,' Neil summed up with an air of having said all there was to be said on the subject.