Dead Beat (28 page)

I wished I could have been a fly on the wall in Jackson’s office. The news that someone had actually done what he’d been longing to do since the beginning of the case must have provoked a serious conflict of interest. “Well, of course it’s connected,” I heard Bill protest. “They were discussing the murder at the time of the attack … How do I know? Because I was listening at the door, man! Look, why don’t you just get over here and we can sort it all out then?”

Richard, ignoring Bill’s conversation, was fussing over me. “Thank God we were there,” he kept repeating.

Losing patience, I said, “It had nothing to do with God and everything to do with the fact that I told you to be there.” They had been my insurance policy; Richard crouching in the conservatory, Bill lurking in the hall. Arrogant I may be, stupid I’m not.

Richard grinned. “I thought that came to the same thing? You and God?”

“They’re on their way,” Bill interrupted, saving me the bother of having to think up a witty reply. “Inspector Jackson doesn’t sound like a happy man.” A muffled shout from under him indicated that Jackson wasn’t the only one.

   It took a couple of hours to sort everything out. They’d made Bill stop sitting on Kevin, and he’d immediately burst into a loud tirade of complaint. Jackson had shut him up briskly and removed him in a police car to Bootle Street nick. By the time he’d taken statements from all three of us, he grudgingly admitted that the assault on me gave him enough to hold Kevin while he made further inquiries into his financial background. I could see the whole episode hadn’t improved his attitude to the private sector.

After he left, Richard found a couple of carefully hoarded bottles of Rolling Rock, his all-time favorite American beer. He and Bill toasted each other, boasting cheerfully about their rescue as small boys the world over will do. I poured myself a stiff vodka and said sweetly, “Don’t you think we should save the celebrations for when we’ve nailed the murderer?”

They stopped in mid-swig and stared blankly at me. “I thought that was what we’d just done?” Richard said. “You said Kevin had done it.”

“That’s what I said. But now I’m not so sure.”

Richard gave one of those sighs that seem to come from his socks. “I don’t get it,” he complained. “Two hours ago, you were accusing the guy of murder. Now you’re not so sure?”

Bill shook his head, a wry smile lurking in his beard. “OK, Kate, let’s have it.”

I explained my theory, and he got to his feet, muttering about no rest for the wicked. “Let’s go, then, Kate,” he said resignedly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can I come too?” Richard asked plaintively.

“You’ll be bored out of your tree,” Bill told him. “But you’re welcome to come along if you want.”

“You can always make the coffee,” I added wickedly. I knew how to turn him off. And much as I love Richard, I didn’t want him kicking his heels in boredom while we worked. I mean, would you take a four-year-old to the office with you?

My strategy worked. Richard shrugged and said, “I think I’ll just stay home. I suppose I could earn myself a few bob putting out the story of Kevin’s arrest. I mean, even if you think he didn’t do it, he’s still down the nick, isn’t he?”

“Good thinking. Why should Neil Webster be the only one making a shilling out of Moira’s murder?” I teased.

He poked his tongue out at me and gave me a farewell hug before he disappeared into the gloom of the conservatory.

“You think you can do it?” I asked Bill.

He shrugged. “Don’t know till I try, do I? It won’t be easy, but it shouldn’t be impossible.”

“Well, what are we hanging round here for?”

   Bill’s attempts at hacking still hadn’t borne fruit by midnight, when the phone rang. From force of habit, I picked it up. “Mortensen and Brannigan,” I announced automatically.

“Is that Kate Brannigan?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“That’s right. And you are?”

“My name is David Berman. I’m Kevin Kleinman’s solicitor. I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the day, but my client was most insistent that I speak with you. Would it be possible for me to come round to your office? I’m only a couple of minutes away.” His voice was soft and persuasive.

“Can you hold a second?” I asked him. I pressed the mute button and said, “Kevin’s solicitor wants to come round. I don’t think he’s just after a decent cup of coffee.”

Bill’s eyebrows rose like a pair of blond caterpillars. “Let’s see what the man has to say,” he said. Sometimes I think I’d kill to be that laid back.

I reopened the channels of communication and said, “That

“The time has come, the walrus said,” Bill muttered in cryptic response as he tried out another password. I left him to it and put on a fresh pot of coffee before I went downstairs to meet David Berman.

When I got downstairs, a prosperous-looking yuppie was waiting on our doorstep. Dark gray self-stripe suit, pale blue shirt and a subdued paisley pattern silk tie. Not a crease anywhere, except in his trousers, and that could have sliced salami. His dark hair was fashionably slicked back and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He smiled confidently at me as I struggled with the four locks on the plate glass doors.

As soon as I opened them, his hand was thrust towards me. The handshake was cool, with the carefully measured amount of pressure that gives the message, “I could crush your hand if I wanted to, but who needs to be macho among friends?”

“Miss Brannigan? Pleased to meet you. David Berman,” he said cheerfully. “I really appreciate you making time for me at this hour of the night.”

He followed me up the stairs, avoiding small talk in a way that I found slightly unsettling. I suspected it was deliberate. I showed him into the main office, and offered him coffee. Bill didn’t even look up from his screen, though I caught Berman peering nosily through the door of his office.

I sat down at Shelley’s desk and said, “What makes you think we can help, Mr. Berman?”

“It’s a little difficult,” he admitted. “I am well aware of the alleged attack earlier this evening, and I can appreciate that you might not be inclined to listen to what I have to propose.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Your client tried to strangle me tonight. He’s right off my Christmas card list. But I’m always happy to listen. You’d be amazed the things you can pick up that way.”

He smiled. He was meant to. “I take your point, Miss Brannigan,” he acknowledged. “It’s my understanding that you have been retained by one of my client’s artistes to uncover the identity of the murderer of Moira Pollock. Is that correct?”

Why do lawyers always ask questions they know the answers to? It was one of the things that made me decide I preferred being a private investigator. Maybe you don’t always come across as omniscient, but at least you get the occasional stimulating surprise. “Quite right,” I reassured him.

He gave a curt nod. “And I understand that you made certain allegations against my client in this matter?”

“Right again.” Had it really been worth trekking downstairs for this?

“My client has instructed me to pass certain information on to you, without prejudice,” he said solemnly, as if he were handing me a gift of immense value and corresponding responsibilities. His glasses had slipped down, and he peered at me through them like a judge thirty years his senior.

“Indeed,” I replied. All this legalese was causing serious linguistic regression.

“You alleged that my client had knowledge of the crime at a time when only the murderer could have known it. My client denies this strenuously, and has asked me to ascertain the source of this false information so that he can refute it,” he said earnestly.

I should know better than to be surprised by the deviousness of lawyers. “It sounds like you’re looking for information rather than handing it out,” I told him. “If your client is a murderer, would it not be rather irresponsible of me to identify a witness against him?” More linguistic contagion.

“My client is going to be charged with attempted murder,” Berman replied tartly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I don’t think he’ll be in a position to pose a risk to anyone. The point is that my client strongly denies possessing the aforementioned information at the time you allege. He denies vigorously passing that information on to anyone, and believes he can produce witnesses to all his conversations up to the time when he returned to his room.”

I felt a prickle of interest. Berman’s words suggested there might be some corroboration of my fresh suspicions. Before I could reply, Bill’s voice rang through the office like a demented
Sun
journalist. “Gotcha!” he cried.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled as I jumped to my feet and shot through the door. “Have you cracked it?” I asked eagerly.

“Just a matter of time now. I’ve hacked into the accounts section, and it’s just a case of working out how the files are organized and searching them,” Bill said triumphantly.

I hugged him. People need hugs, especially when they’ve just saved your life then made your day. Then, aware of David Berman’s gaze, I returned to the outer office, this time closing the door behind me. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Bill’s just cracked something we’ve been working on for a while now. If I can just go back to what you were saying. Has Kevin given you any account of what he said to whom?”

Berman compressed his lips, then said, “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Then it seems to me we’re at an impasse. You can’t tell me what he said, and I can’t tell you who’s making the claim.”

“It’ll all come out eventually,” he said persuasively. “You must be aware that if my client is charged, we will have to be told the names of the witnesses against him. It would surely be in everyone’s interest to clear the name of an innocent man so that the search for the guilty party can go on. If my client is charged, this thing will drag on for months, and people’s memories will start to fade. When he is eventually cleared, it may be too late to trap the real killer.”

It was a good argument. As I picked up my bag and told Bill I was going to Bootle Street with Berman, I tried to convince myself that it was the strength of his case that had persuaded me. After all, I thought sanctimoniously, even though Kevin was Mr. Sleaze in my eyes, if I had wrongly accused him, I owed it to him to sort it out. Deep down, I knew otherwise. I had a theory, and I wanted to prove it to my own satisfaction.

   It was nearly three when I got back to the office. After a lot of verbal ping-pong, with David Berman as the ball, I had obtained some very interesting material. As a result, I’d spent half an hour persuading Cliff Jackson that what I had to say to him was worth listening to. Credit where it’s due, once he’d explained to me

I found Bill leaning back in his chair, a look of deep satisfaction on his face as he puffed away on a Sherlock Holmes pipe filled with some noxious continental tobacco. “Any news?” he asked me.

I told him where we were up to, and he smiled. He looked just like the Big Bad Wolf, his lips pulled back over teeth that gripped the pipe stem. Then he showed me what he’d dug up.

We were making plans until four. This time, everything was going to go like clockwork. This time, I wasn’t going to end up with a necklace of bruises. Meanwhile, I had things to do. Unfortunately, sleep wasn’t one of them.

   Jett was waiting for me on the steps when I arrived at half past four. His shoulders were hunched and his face had a tight, pinched look around the mouth and nose. “You still going ahead with this showdown?” he greeted me.

“It has to be done, Jett,” I told him as we walked into the empty hall together.

“Why? They arrested Kevin. The word is he tried to kill you because you found out he killed Moira.” His tone was aggressive.

“I’m sorry, Jett. He did attack me.”

“No need for
you
to be sorry. You were just doing the job, like I asked you to. I’m the one should be sorry. I trusted that man with my life. And now I find out he killed the woman I cared for more than anything in the world. So why d’you have to put us through more?”

Jett hurried ahead of me into the blue drawing room. I followed more slowly, wondering how to placate Jett without giving too much away. He was pouring himself a hefty drink when I entered. “Help yourself,” he told me. With a moody scowl on his face, he moved over to the spindly-legged chair and threw himself into it again. If I’d been the man from the Pru, there’s no way I’d have insured it.

I poured myself a weak vodka and topped it up with orange juice, in the absence of my usual. I didn’t think this was a good time to demand a grapefruit juice. I positioned myself in front of the grate, where some logs were smoldering half-heartedly.

Jett took a gulp of his drink and started to say something. He was interrupted by a knock at the door, which opened before either of us could say, “Come in.” Cliff Jackson barged in with a face

“Never mind that,” Jackson grunted. “Just what is going on here, Brannigan? You tell me last night that Kleinman was the killer, you set him up to assault you so we’ve got something to stick on him, then you leave messages all over town telling me to get up here if I want to find out the truth about Moira Pollock’s murder. What the hell are you playing at?”

Jett got to his feet and shot me an angry look. “You didn’t tell me he was coming,” he protested. “This was supposed to be between us.” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a complacent smile spreading across Gloria’s face.

“What exactly was supposed to be between you?” Jackson demanded, rounding on Jett.

“Mind your own fucking business, pig,” Jett yelled back at him. Jackson flushed dark scarlet and opened his mouth to retaliate.

“If we could all stop shouting at each other, I’ll happily explain,” I interjected forcefully.

“I’m all ears,” Jackson snarled. “It better be good. I can feel an overwhelming desire to charge someone with wasting police time.” I was impressed, I have to admit it. It made me wonder just how much of his routine bloody-mindedness was an act too.