Dead Beat (15 page)

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

“What time is it?” he asked incongruously.

I glanced at my watch. “Five to twelve.”

Jett got to his feet and swallowed most of his tea in a oner. “I told them all to be in the blue room at twelve. I knew you’d be here. You have an intuitive spirit. I knew you’d know I needed you.”

I refrained from pointing out that it had more to do with the office answering machine than my psychic powers. “I’m going to have to talk to you about the last six weeks, Jett,” I protested as he walked out of the room.

“You’re going to have to talk to all of us about the last six weeks,” he said over his shoulder as I followed him. “I just want them all to know they have to co-operate with you. They can be as bloody-minded as they like with the cops, but it’s me that puts the bread in their mouths and they’ll do what I tell them.”

It was strange to see how quickly his natural authority had returned to him. I couldn’t believe it was my agreeing to work for him that had done the trick. If he was capable of such mercurial mood shifts, maybe my initial assessment of his innocence had been way off-beam.

Jett threw open the drawing room door just on the stroke of twelve. They were all there except Neil. None of them looked as if they’d had much sleep. Equally, none of them looked like they’d shed too many tears.

As I entered behind Jett, Kevin groaned. “Oh God, Jett, I told you to leave her out of this. We don’t need an extra nosy parker round here. The cops have already turned this place into a goldfish bowl.”

“He’s right, Jett,” Gloria chipped in. “You need to come to terms with your grief. Having her around the place isn’t going to help.”

Jett threw himself into a spindly-legged chair. Miraculously, it withstood the impact. “I can’t be doing any grieving while I know Moira’s killer is under my roof, eating my food and drinking my booze. Kate’s here to find out which one of you is my enemy. Any of you that doesn’t want to be part of my team, you can go now. But you want to stick around, then you co-operate with Kate one

Kevin cast his eyes up to heaven and muttered, “Give me strength!” I knew exactly how he felt. Melodrama was never my favorite art form. But it was Tamar who was right on the ball. She crossed the room and hugged him. “Whatever you need is all right by me, Jett.” I tried not to vomit, but it was hard.

Before anyone else could chip in with their tuppence worth, Neil came in. “Sorry I’m late, Jett,” he apologized. “I’ve been issuing full press statements to all the nationals, and it took longer than I thought.”

“Enter stage left, the in-house vulture,” Micky sneered.

“Somebody’s got to handle them,” Neil replied mildly. “Better that it’s someone who can string two sentences together.”

“Meaning what?” Micky demanded belligerently.

“My God, can’t you two stop bickering for once? Have some respect for the dead,” Tamar shouted. Her shameless hypocrisy left me gasping, but no one else seemed to notice. Micky mumbled an apology and walked over to the window to watch the rain falling.

“You on the payroll, then?” Neil asked me
sotto voce
. I nodded. He smiled conspiratorially. “Glad I’m not the only one making a shilling out of Moira’s death.”

I’d only been there an hour and already I was heartily sick of the lot of them. Some jobs should come stamped with a government health warning. Something like: “You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

I decided it was time to start asking questions. But in the great tradition of the best-laid plans, I was thwarted by the arrival of Inspector Jackson and his merry men. Jackson marched in as if he’d taken a long lease on the place. He’d found time for a fresh suit and shirt, though the tie was the same. Maybe it held some Masonic significance I didn’t recognize. Hot on his heels was an older man, who moved to Jackson’s side and announced, “Good day, ladies and gentlemen. I am Detective Superintendent Ron Arbuthnot and I will be in overall charge of this inquiry. I know some of you have given my officers initial statements, but we will be requiring you for further interviews in the course of the day. Please arrange

As soon as he’d gone, Jackson turned on me. “Have you got some kind of death wish, Brannigan?” he hissed as he took me by the arm and led me to the door. “I’ve already thrown you out of here once. Is business so bad you’ve got to come touting?”

“I was invited here,” I told him through clenched teeth. “Get your hands off me. Now.”

He reluctantly let me go, then opened the door and tried to usher me through it. I stood my ground. Jett called, “You OK, Kate? The lady’s a friend, Inspector. I want her here.”

Jackson turned to Jett and flashed an insincere smile. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Franklin. We have some questions for Miss Brannigan, and after that, we’ll be needing to talk to you again. Perhaps it would be better if she came back tomorrow.”

Jett glared at Jackson. I wasn’t sure if that was on my account or because Jackson had used his real name. Jett doesn’t like to be reminded of its patriotic overtones. Let’s face it, which of us outside the Tory Cabinet would like to be saddled with Winston Gladstone Franklin?

“It’s OK, Jett,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning, OK?” There were things I wanted to do, and none of this lot were going anywhere. They would keep. Maggie Rossiter might not be so keen to talk if I waited till she’d got her emotions under control.

   I was in the Colcutt Arms by half past twelve. It turned out that the only questions Jackson had for me related to what I was doing back at the manor and what I’d done for Jett in the past, nudge nudge, wink wink. I didn’t like his innuendoes, and suspected he was trying to needle me into an admission of some sort. Obviously, he’d got no more change out of Bill than he had out of me. At least he wasn’t challenging my version of the discovery of the body yet.

It wasn’t just relief that drove me to the local pub. I was after information. I spotted the members of Her Majesty’s Gutter Press in the lounge bar, and gave it a body-swerve. What the saloon bar lacked in creature comforts it made up for by the complete absence of journos. If I was going to go into my chatty passing-motorist act, I didn’t want an audience.

The harried barmaid who served me seemed as glad to escape from them as I was. She bustled through from the lounge when I pressed a bell on the bar and pushed a strand of bottle blonde hair from her forehead. She was in her forties, and looked shell-shocked to find herself in the throes of a lunchtime rush.

“Busy today,” I said sympathetically as she poured me a St. Clement’s.

“You’re not wrong,” she replied. “Ice?” I nodded. “Last time we were this busy of a dinner time was Boxing Day.”

“Bad business up the road,” I remarked as I sipped my drink. She was happily leaning against the bar, relieved to escape the clodhopping probings of the press. I hoped my questions fitted in the category of Great British Pub Gossip.

“That poor woman!” she exclaimed. “Do you know, she was in here last night with a friend of hers, sitting in a corner of my lounge

My ears pricked up at the news of Moira’s meeting in the pub, but I didn’t want to pounce too eagerly. “I sometimes wonder if it’s all the security that attracts them,” I responded, playing along with the Passing Vagabond theory. “You know, like a challenge or something.”

“Well, all I can say is we’ve never had any trouble in this village till we had so-called rock stars living here.” Her mouth pursed, revealing a nest of wrinkles she’d have been mortified to see in a mirror.

“Do they come in here much?” I asked casually.

“One or two of them. They’ve got a journalist living up there, writing some book about Jett, he’s never out of here normally. I don’t know when he gets his writing done. He’s in here for a couple of hours most dinner times and he gets through half a dozen pints every session. Not that I’m complaining—I’m glad of the custom in the winter months. Sometimes I wonder why we bother opening up in the middle of the day. What we take across the bar hardly covers the electricity,” she grumbled.

“Nice place, though,” I complimented her. “Been here long?”

“Five years. My husband used to be a mining engineer, but we got tired of living abroad, so we bought this place. It’s hard work, especially doing the bed and breakfast, but it’s better than living with a load of foreigners,” she replied. Before I could ask more, the bell from the lounge summoned her.

To ensure her return, I called, “Do you do food?”

“Just sandwiches.”

I ordered a round of roast beef, and when she returned, I said, “It must have been a shock for you, one of your regulars getting murdered.”

“Well, she wasn’t exactly a regular. She’s been in a few times the last couple of days when her friend was staying here. But she’d only been in the once before that, with a crowd of them. The only way

I could believe her. I remembered only too well how the police inspector in one of the nearby Cheshire towns had defended his policy of arresting any blacks he saw on the street by announcing, “None of them live around here so if they’re walking our streets they’re probably up to no good.”

“Her friend must have been in a hell of a state when she heard the news,” I tried, checking the gender of the friend. I was pretty sure it must have been Maggie, but it would be nice to make sure. I took a bite out of the sandwich. Even without the information about Moira’s visit, the trip had been worthwhile. The bread was fresh and crusty, the meat pink, sliced wafer thin and piled thick, with a generous smear of horseradish. I nearly choked on it when I heard her reply.

“I don’t even know if she has heard the news,” the landlady replied. “When I got up this morning, there was an envelope on the hall table with the money she owed and a note saying she’d had to leave early. I knew she was checking out today, but I didn’t expect her to be off at the crack of dawn.” She sounded slightly aggrieved, as if she’d been done out of a good piece of drama.

“You mean she just cleared off in the middle of the night? Funny, that,” I remarked, trying not to sound like a private eye who’s one happy step ahead of the police.

“No, not the middle of the night. She didn’t actually leave till about half past six. Our bedroom’s at the back, you see. The car woke me up, and I got up because I thought she might have gone off without paying. I didn’t even know about the murder myself then.” She clearly saw nothing suspicious in Maggie’s behavior, and I was grateful for that. There would be at least one suspect I’d get to before the police.

“Perhaps she had a phone call or something,” I hazarded.

“Not while she was here,” the landlady replied positively. “I’d have known. I think she probably just woke up early and decided to get an early start. To be honest, I was surprised she wasn’t staying at the manor. Their friends don’t usually put up here.”

I could have come up with a couple of good reasons why Maggie Rossiter hadn’t been willing to accept Jett’s hospitality, but I wasn’t about to share them. I finished my sandwich, exchanged a few routine complaints about the weather, and set off for Leeds.

   It was still drizzling when I pulled up outside Maggie’s terraced house. Crossing the Pennines hadn’t worked its usual trick of transforming the weather. Through the drift of rain, the house looked miserable and unwelcoming. There were no lights on to combat the gloom. Mind you, if my lover was lying dead in a morgue somewhere, I don’t think I’d feel like a hundred-watt glare.

Maggie took her time answering the door. I’d just decided she wasn’t home when the door opened. When she saw me, she started to close it again. I moved forward quickly enough to insinuate my shoulder in the gap.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” she demanded feebly, her voice cracked and shaky.

“We need to talk, Maggie,” I said. “I know it’s the last thing you feel like, but I think I can help.”

“Help? You do resurrections?” Her voice was bitter, and tears shone in her red-rimmed eyes. My professional satisfaction at getting to her first withered in the face of her obvious grief.

“I’m trying to find out who killed Moira,” I told her.

“What’s the use? It’s not going to bring her back, is it?” Maggie rubbed her eyes impatiently with her free hand, as if she hated showing me her humanity.

“No, it’s not. But you’ve got to grieve. You know that. And finding out what happened is the first step in the process. Maggie, let me come in and talk to you.”

Her straight shoulders seemed to sag and she stood back from the door. It opened straight on to her living room, and I sat down before she could change her mind. Behind me, Maggie closed the door firmly and went through to the kitchen. I could hear the sound of a kettle being filled. I took the chance to take stock of the room. It was large, occupying most of the ground floor of the house. One of the alcoves by the chimney breast held an assortment of books, from science fiction to sociology texts. The other
Judith
. The room contained two sofas and, in the bay, a small pine dining table with four chairs. It looked like home, but only one person’s idea of it.

She came through with a pot of tea on a tray with two mugs, a bottle of milk and a bowl of sugar. “I’ve got this terrible thirst. I can’t seem to stop drinking tea,” she said absently as she poured. Her hair looked dishevelled, as did the sweatshirt and jeans she was wearing. The room was unbearably warm, the gas fire on full, yet Maggie shivered as she lifted her mug to her lips.