Dead Beat (17 page)

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

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 color, 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 off a Michelob Dry.

“I 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 yogurt 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.

   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 were 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 color of mourning in oriental cultures, but I’ve never encountered the civilization where they show their feelings for the departed in coral and cream jogging suits. I guess Valkyries do things differently.

“I’m busy,” she informed me, opening the back door and heading for the stable block.

“Must be a lot to do,” I said. “Organizing the funeral and all.”

She had the good grace to blush, a reaction that strangely did nothing for her English Rose coloring. She zapped the up-and-over

“That’s being arranged by Moira’s mother. We decided Jett was in no fit state to cope with it,” she informed me.

And Ms. Pollock indubitably will be, I thought, but didn’t say. There was already enough animosity between us. “In that case,” I insisted, following her to the driver’s door of a Volkswagen Golf, “I’m sure you can find a few minutes of your time to answer a few questions.” She climbed in the car, ignoring me, and started the engine. I had to jump back to avoid her rear wheels amputating my toes.

“Bitch,” I yelled as the GTi shot out of the garage, leaving me gagging on her exhaust fumes. I hesitated for a moment, then my anger got the better of me. I raced back to the house, clattered down the hall and jumped behind the wheel of my Nova. I hit the drive at fifty, and reached the gates in time to see Gloria turn right.

By the time I got through the gates, she was out of sight. I put my foot to the floor and screamed down the winding lane, standing on my brakes like a boy racer. I prayed she hadn’t taken one of the narrow lanes that turned off at irregular intervals. I was nearly at the main road when I caught a glimpse of her across the angle of a field. She was heading for Wilmslow.

“Gotcha,” I yelled triumphantly as I shot across the oncoming traffic to make a right turn and get on her tail. I assumed she didn’t know my car, but hung back a little just in case.

She seemed to know where she was going, moving between lanes with no hesitation. Just before she hit the town center, she suddenly swung left without indicating, leaving me to make a hairraising maneuver, cutting up a coach that was really too big to argue with. I found myself in a narrow street of terraced houses. I drove down as fast as I dared, slowing at the junctions to check she hadn’t turned off. I was almost at the end when she headed back down the street, well in excess of the speed limit. I had to swerve to avoid her.

She clearly wasn’t afraid to let me know she’d spotted me. I wrenched the wheel round in a tight turn, hitting the pavement as I went. Another thousand miles off the tires. I screeched back after

I felt like a complete moron when she walked into Sainsbury’s and helped herself to a trolley. I tried to console myself that she’d spotted me and was trying to throw me off the scent again, but by the time she’d reached the breakfast cereals and her trolley was almost full, I had to concede I’d overreacted. I strolled alongside as she grabbed a packet of Weetabix.

“I said I wanted you to answer a few questions,” I remarked casually. She nearly jumped out of her skin, so I added, “Just like Jett invited you to yesterday.”

She was torn between the desire to piss me off in good style, and the sure and certain knowledge that if she did, I’d go straight to Jett, reporting on the merry dance she’d just led me. Her adulation of the boss won. “You’ve got till the check out,” she said, trying to sound tough and almost succeeding.

“It may take longer than that, but I’ll be as quick as I can,” I replied calmly. “Where were you between eleven and two the night before last?”

“I’ve already told the police all this,” she complained, moving ahead down the aisle.

“I’m sure you have. So it should all be clear in your mind.”

Gloria’s blue eyes narrowed in a glare. If looks could kill, the corn-fed chicken would have been well past its sell-by date. “I was in the TV room watching
The Late Show
on BBC2 till quarter to midnight. Then I came into the office to check the answering machine. There were no messages, so I went straight up to bed. I was reading till the sound of the intercom disturbed me.”

“You got there very quickly,” I commented.

“My bedroom is right at the top of the stairs,” she replied defensively.

“I thought you’d have a TV in your room,” I said.

“I do. But it doesn’t have stereo speakers and there was a band

I shook my head. “It’s a long way short of being all, Gloria. Why did you hate Moira so much?”

“I didn’t hate her,” she blurted out. The woman standing next to her having the mental washing-powder debate was so riveted she began to follow us before she was withered by Gloria’s hard stare and her muttered, “Do you
mind
?”

A few feet further on, she said, “I just didn’t like the effect she had on everyone. We were all happy here together before she arrived. Since she got here, everyone’s been bickering. And whatever anyone else says, she made Jett edgy with her constant demands. Everything had to be just the way she wanted it.”

“So you’re not exactly sorry she’s dead?”

Gloria banged her fabric conditioner on the side of the trolley. “That’s not what I said!” she flared. “Just because I didn’t think she was good for Jett doesn’t mean I’m not upset about the way she died. I know you don’t like me, Miss Brannigan, but don’t think you can pick on me!”

I felt a pang of sympathy for her then. She was too young to be setting herself up as the devoted handmaiden to the great man. She should have been out there enjoying life, not stuck with a bunch of piranhas who fed off each other’s emotions and talents. I mean, for God’s sake, who sends a qualified secretary round the supermarket these days? Apart from anything else, it would be cheaper to hire a woman from the village.

“How long have you been with Jett?” I asked, hoping to defuse her anger.

“Three years and five months,” she replied, unable to keep a note of pride out of her voice. “I was working at his record company, and I heard he needed a secretary. Of course, the job has grown a lot since I took over. Now I organize his schedule completely.”

This time my sympathy was all for Jett. Again, I switched the subject, hoping to catch her off guard. “When I told you about

Gloria refused to meet my eyes. “Everyone knew she’d been a drug addict,” she mumbled. “It was the obvious conclusion. We all knew she’d be back on the drugs again as soon as she got half a chance.”

“And did you help to give her that half a chance?” I demanded, leaning over Gloria to study the assorted nuts, so close I could smell her fresh lemony perfume.

“No!” she cried desperately.

“Somebody did, Gloria,” I insisted.

“Well, it wasn’t me. You’ve got to believe me,” she pleaded. “If she was doing drugs, she was doing it of her own free will. Why else would she steal my syringes?”

   I just stood staring at Gloria, who looked back at me with a mixture of triumph and defiance in her eyes. “What do you mean?” I finally gasped.

“Somebody has been stealing my syringes over the last four weeks or so,” she said.

“What syringes?” I almost howled in my frustration. The snacks section had never seen drama like this.

“I’m a diabetic. I have to inject myself with insulin. I keep a supply of disposable syringes in my room. On three or four occasions, I’ve noticed that there were a couple missing. I have to keep a close eye on them, because I daren’t run out.”

I took a deep breath. “So why did you assume that Moira was responsible?”

She shrugged. The shopping was forgotten now. We’d gravitated to the end of the aisle, and neither of us was showing any inclination to hit the soft drinks.

Gloria dropped her voice and said, “Well, who else would want needles except a drug addict? And in spite of what you might think about the rock business, nobody in the house is a junkie. Jett just wouldn’t stand for it. He’s got very strict views on the subject. I know some of the others sneak away and do some coke, but none of them are stupid enough to get into heroin. Especially after what happened when Moira got hooked.”

“Any other reason why you were sure it was Moira?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing, they’d never gone missing before she moved in. Then one day I came upstairs and caught her with her hand on my doorknob. She said she’d just knocked to see if she

“And did she borrow a book?”

“Yes,” Gloria acknowledged reluctantly. “The new Judith Krantz.”

“Was she in the habit of borrowing books from you?”

Gloria shrugged. “She’d done it a couple of times.”

“And did she know you were a diabetic?” I asked.

“There’s no secret about it. She never actually discussed it with me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

The next question was obvious, though I knew she wouldn’t like it. That was just tough luck. “Who else comes into your room either regularly or occasionally?” I demanded.