Dead Beat

  'Come on, supersleuth. It's me you're talking to. Everybody knows you're working on Moira Pollock's murder. I'll admit, I was surprised to find you off your usual white-collar beat, but then I heard on the grapevine that it was you that found the body. Care to go on the record about it?' Alexis's voice was offhand, but her eyes were hard.

  I shook my head. 'No way. Sorry. I can't even confirm what you've just suggested, on or off the record.'

  Alexis shrugged. 'Oh well, it was worth a try. We'll just have to make do with Neil Webster's copy. Not that I've any complaints on that score. It's been remarkably detailed for supposedly official stuff. Would you believe, he's even pitched us into paying him for it? He actually managed to persuade the newsdesk that he wasn't just issuing press releases, but operating as a freelance inside Jett's camp.'

  'Really?' I was interested, in spite of my desire to keep Alexis's nose out of my business for once.

  'You can come upstairs and have a read through it if you want. That'll keep you quiet while I write my copy, because I know you'll want to check it. After all this time, I'd have thought you'd trust me to spell Brannigan,” she grumbled good-naturedly.

  I jumped at the chance. Neil was more accustomed to interrogating people than I was. Maybe there was something in his reports that I'd missed. Either way, as Alexis said, it would pass the time.

  27

  Alexis hadn't exaggerated, for once. Neil's copy was all she'd claimed for it. Dramatic, detailed and accurate. That was what puzzled me. 'Alexis?' I interrupted the rush of her fingers over the keyboard at the next terminal.

  'Mmm?' she paused, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  'Are these stories arranged in the order they came in?'

  'Probably. They arrive in a special directory for electronically transmitted copy, and then whoever is on the newsdesk sends a copy of anything crime related into my electronic desk. The dates on the files refer to the last time I entered it, but the order they're listed in is the order in which they were put there,' she explained, pointing out what she meant with her pen.

  'This first batch of copy from Neil. When did it arrive?' I asked.

  'Not sure. It was waiting in the transmission desk when the day staff came on duty, that's all I know.'

  'What time would that be?'

  'The early newsdesk guy comes in at half-past six. I was in around half-past seven myself that morning. He told me the copy had come in overnight. I helped myself to a printout and went over to Colcutt. Got bloody nowhere, of course. I'm busy telling my desk that nobody's talking, nobody's even reachable, and he seems to think that I can fly over the gates and pick up all the stuff Neil isn't telling.'

  'Poor you,' I sympathised absently. 'Is there any way of telling exactly when Neil's copy arrived in your transmission desk?'

  Alexis ran a hand through her hair. The effect would have frightened small children. 'Not that I know of. Not at this end. Maybe he date-stamps his files, but we don't keep any copy trail that gives that kind of info. That all you wanted to know?'

  I nodded, and she returned to her story. I wondered how exactly I could get the information I needed. It seemed to me that a lot of the details in Neil's copy were only generally known at the manor much later than he'd transmitted them. I needed to know who'd given him that information, for as far as I was aware, it was known only to me, Jett and the killer. If Jett had told him, there was no problem. If it had come from anyone else, then I'd have my killer. Unless, of course, Jett was the killer. God, this was all so complicated. I yearned for a nice, clear set of fraudulent accounts.

  Alexis hit a key with a flourish and swivelled her chair to face me. 'All done. Want a look?'

  I read the copy. It was good. It made Mortensen and Brannigan look efficient and subtle, as opposed to the police, who came out smelling of the stuff you put on roses. I pointed out a couple of minor corrections, to keep Alexis on her toes. Muttering about 'nit-pickers anonymous', she made the changes.

  As I got to my feet, she said, 'When you've got anything to report on Moira's murder, give us a tip-off, eh? And if you're going to point the finger and get the cops to make an arrest, my edition time's ten a.m.'

  I was still smiling when I parked outside the office ten minutes later. I was first in, by five minutes. Shelley looked shocked to find me at my desk when she walked in at five to nine. I winked and said, 'We never sleep.'

  'I can tell,' she replied. 'Next time you kindly grant me a holiday, remind me to borrow those bags under your eyes.'

  I was desperate to get back to the manor and ask more questions, but I knew it would be too early for the night owls. Instead, I decided to ring DI Tony Redfern to ask what they'd found in the Smarts' lock-up.

  Tony sounded almost relieved that someone wanted to talk to him about anything other than the fatal car chase, so he gave me all the details I needed to write my report. I'd only just put the phone down on him when Shelley buzzed me. 'I've got Inspector Jackson on the line for you,' she said. 'He sounds like he's just been stung by a wasp.'

  'Thanks for the warning. Put him through, would you?' My heart sank. The events of the morning had put my appointment with Jackson right out of my mind. Besides, I couldn't imagine what more he thought he could get out of me than he'd done the previous afternoon.

  'Good morning, Inspector,' I greeted him.

  'Why am I speaking to you over the phone instead of face to face?' he demanded.

  'I thought we covered the ground yesterday afternoon, Inspector. Besides, I've been a little busy this morning with your colleagues in the Greater Manchester force. If you'd like to check with Detective Inspector Redfern . . .'

  'I'm a busy man, Miss Brannigan, and I'm in the middle of a murder inquiry. When I make appointments, I expect them to be kept.'

  His dignity had obviously taken more of a bruising than I'd realised after Kevin's entry yesterday. Time to smarm. 'I appreciate that, Inspector. Perhaps we could make it another time?'

  'How soon can you get round here?'

  'I'm really sorry, Inspector. But I'm tied up for the rest of the day. Perhaps tomorrow?'

  'Tomorrow morning, same time,' he snapped. Obviously he didn't feel he could push it. I suppose I should have felt relieved I wasn't actually a suspect.

  'That's a date,' I promised. 'Sorry about today, it went clean out of my mind with the other business. By the way, have you charged Maggie Rossiter yet?'

  There was a silence. Then he said stiffly, 'Miss Rossiter was released at eight-thirty this morning.' The line went dead.

  Surprise, surprise. They'd had their hands on Maggie for thirty-six hours and they hadn't been able to manufacture enough of a case to hang on to her. I flicked open my notebook and called her number. She answered on the third ring. 'Maggie? Kate Brannigan here. I've just heard that you'd been released, and I wanted to tell you how pleased I was.'

  She cut in, her voice remote and cool. 'Yes, well, I owe that to Moira.'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'My next-door neighbour, Gavin, picked up the post this morning. He noticed a letter to me in Moira's handwriting. It was posted second class the night she was killed. She must have dropped it in the box on her way to meet me. She was like that, you know. Thoughtful, romantic, even. Take it from me, it's not the letter of someone who's splitting up with her lover.'

  'So Gavin got it to your solicitor, did he?'

  'That's right. He's got a friend with a fax machine, so he opened it and sent it straight over to my solicitor. She brought it round to the police station right away.'

  And of course, with no motive, the police case collapsed. They had nothing at all to base a charge on. No wonder Jackson was looking for someone to kick.

  'Thank God that's over,' I said.

  'Don't be too sure,' she replied glumly. T got the distinct impression that they haven't given up on the idea of pinning it on me. Let's face it, if they can't stick it on the dyke or the black, they'll be less than happy. I'd make sure you're covering your client'
s back, if I was you, Kate.'

  The phone went dead, before I even had the chance to tell her about Fat Freddy. I decided I'd try her again in the evening, once she'd had a bit of time to get used to being home alone again. I used the rest of the morning to type up a report for Bill and our clients about the morning's events. It was a sorry ending to a successful investigation.

  I was putting a new pack of microcassettes in my handbag when I caught sight of the detailed info Josh had faxed me about Moira's financial problems. In the recent chaos, I'd completely forgotten to look at it. I smoothed it out and started to read.

  The very first debt, for £175, caught my eye immediately. The County Court judgement on it dated from a few months after she'd left Jett. The creditors were an outfit called Cullen Holdings in Bradford. The name rang a vague bell. I went through to Shelley's office for the Bradford phone directory and looked it up. There was no listing for Cullen Holdings, but there was a listing for The Cullen Clinic. That was what had rung the bell. Before I'd joined Bill full-time, I'd done a company search on The Cullen Clinic for a client in the same line of business who was looking for traces of financial shenanigans. Or any other kind of dirt.

  Shelley found the relevant records disc and I loaded it into my computer. The Cullen Clinic was owned by Dr Theodore Donn. In spite of the title, he was no medical man. His degree was a Ph.D. in electrical engineering from Strathclyde University. He'd set up The Cullen Clinic for one reason only. To make money out of abortion. He'd been running the clinic at a substantial profit for nearly ten years. He'd even survived a Department of Health inquiry into the connection between his business and a pregnancy advisory service owned by his sister, which referred their unhappily pregnant clients to The Cullen Clinic for terminations. Very cosy. And they'd sued Moira Pollock for the non-payment of a bill incurred just a week after she'd left Jett.

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I couldn't believe that Jett had known about that when he hired me to find her. If he'd found out after she'd come back, it gave him one hell of a motive. I knew his rigidly hostile views on abortion. I'd seen how mercurial he could be. I'd seen his rages. And above all, this crime was spontaneous, panicky and angry.

  I changed discs, just to confirm what Josh's printout had told me, and called up Moira's medical records from the Seagull Project. Halfway down the page, there it was. VAT. Voluntary Assisted Termination. She must have been going through hell. Hooked on smack, pregnant, alone. It was a miracle she'd survived as well as she had. And all the more of a crime that someone had killed her when she'd finally got her life back together.

  I leaned back in my chair and thought. If I'd been able to find out about Moira's abortion, the chances were that Neil could have too. Good journalists use exactly the same kinds of sources that investigators do. The only question for me was if Neil's sources in the financial sector were as efficient as mine. And if he'd told Jett about his discovery. That could be just the kind of scandal he'd been looking for to sell his book. Whether he'd still be getting any co-operation from Kevin and Jett if he'd told them he planned to use material like that was another matter entirely. It was time to ask Neil Webster a few more questions.

  It was lunchtime for the world, breakfast time at the manor when I arrived. The atmosphere in the kitchen was less than welcoming. Jett looked up from the toast he was buttering to say hello, but no one else paid me a blind bit of notice. Kevin and Micky were sitting opposite Jett, both leaning forward earnestly over their cups of coffee. Tamar was shovelling down Weetabix, spluttering between mouthfuls that Jett ought to listen to Kevin and Micky, that they were right.

  'Right about what?' Jett was paying me to poke my nose in, after all.

  Micky's brow corrugated in a simian frown. Kevin delivered one of his ingratiating smiles and said, 'We've just been telling Jett, the best thing for him is to get back to making music. Take his mind off things, let him work through his grief.'

  'How near is the album to completion?' I asked.

  'It'll never be finished now,' Jett replied morosely. 'How can I even think about it?'

  A look of irritation was chased off Kevin's features by a spuriously sympathetic expression. 'Hey, I know you feel like that now, but you should think of this as a tribute to Moira. A way of making her spirit live on.' I had to hand it to Kevin. He was shrewd when it came to manipulating Jett.

  Jett looked doubtful. 'I dunno, seems like bad taste, and her not even in her grave yet.'

  'That's just her body, Jett, you know that. Her spirit's free now. No fear, no hate, no pain, nothing to worry about. She came back because she wanted you to make music together. You owe it to her to finish that work.' I cast my eyes heavenwards at Kevin's words. God, I'd be glad when this job was over.

  Gloria swept into the room and headed straight for the kettle. 'The police have released the rehearsal room,' she announced. 'We can use it whenever we want.'

  Jett shuddered. 'No way. Kevin, I want my instruments moved out of there and up to my sitting room.'

  'But what about the piano? And the synths?'

  'Them too. If I'm going to work, I can't do it in that room, with all the negative energies from her death.'

  Kevin nodded in resignation. 'There's a couple of road crew live locally. I'll get them over to sort it out.' He got to his feet and left, followed at a trot by Micky. Gloria finished making her herbal tea and turned to glare at Tamar, who was helping herself to a slice of Jett's toast. If I had my breakfast in an atmosphere like that, I'd be sucking Rennies for the rest of the day.

  'While you're all here, can I ask when it was that you knew how Moira had been killed?' Time to get to work.

  Gloria looked uncertainly at Jett. Tamar covered her toast with strawberry jam and said, 'The first I knew was after I got up that morning. Jett was the only one who knew, and he wasn't in the mood for talking. Besides, PC Plod was standing over us in the drawing room till well after four o'clock. It really wasn't the atmosphere for cosy chats about murder methods.'

  'Gloria?' I asked.

  “I knew before I went to bed,' she admitted reluctantly. “I went to my office after they told us we could go to bed, and I overheard one of the policemen saying he'd never seen anyone battered to death with a saxophone before.'

  I couldn't disprove it, and she couldn't prove it. 'Did you discuss it with anyone else?'

  'Of course not,” she retorted, back on her dignity.

  'And was there anyone else in your office with you?'

  'No. I just wanted to make sure everything was locked up securely before I went to bed.'

  'Jett, did you discuss the method of Moira's death with anyone at all apart from me?'

  He shook his head. 'Kate, I was too fucked up for conversation. No way did I want to talk about it. Also, you told me to keep my mouth shut, so I knew there had to be a good reason for it.'

  I thanked them all, and went off in search of Neil. He was in his office, battering the keyboard of his computer as if it were an old manual typewriter. I winced as I perched on the edge of his desk. 'I can see you're not exactly familiar with the leading edge of modern technology,' I said sarcastically.

  He paused and grinned. 'I know exactly as much as I need to do the job,' he said.

  'And if all else fails, read the manual?'

  'You got it in one,' he replied, still smiling.

  'It's a shame,' I said. 'I always feel sorry for people who don't use their machines to their full potential.'

  'How do you mean?' he asked, finally intrigued enough to give me his full attention.

  'Well, for example, you must have a comms setup here to send your copy, am I right?'

  'You mean the modem and the Hermes Link?' he asked.

  That answered one question. Now I knew which electronic mail service he was hooked into. 'That's right,' I said. 'But have you ever used bulletin boards and public domain software?'

  He looked at me as if I had lapsed into Mandarin. 'Sorry, Kate, I haven't a clue what you're
on about.'

  I explained at mind-numbing length about communicating with other users through bulletin boards, about capturing free software programs over the phone lines, and about game-playing via modems. He looked just as dazed and confused as I'd intended. 'I bet you don't even do the things that make it easy on yourself, like date-stamping your files.'

  That earned me a blank look. 'Pardon?'

  'You date-stamp your files, that way you can check when they were sent and what mailbox they were sent to. A great come-back when people haven't paid you and claim they never had the copy.'

  'Oh, right,' he said blankly.

  'You want me to show you?' I asked, sidling over beside him. 'Just connect yourself to Hermes and I'll show you how.'