Dead Beat (3 page)

Suddenly, in the nineties, London was no longer the place to be. If you wanted a decent lifestyle with lots of buzz and excitement packed into compact city centers, you had to be in one of the so-called provincial cities. Manchester for rock, Glasgow for culture, Newcastle for shopping. It was this shift that had brought Richard to Manchester two years before. He’d come up to try to get an interview with cult hero Morrissey and two days in the city had convinced him that it was going to be to the nineties what Liverpool was to the sixties. He had nothing to keep him in London; his divorce had just come through, and a freelance makes his best living if he’s where the most interesting stories are. So he stayed, like a lot of others.

I followed him out of the taxi, feeling like partying for the first time since I’d come home. Richard’s news had given me a real adrenaline rush, and I couldn’t wait for the official confirmation of what he already suspected. We headed straight to the bar for a drink to give Jett and his entourage time to get over to the hotel.

I sipped my vodka and grapefruit juice gratefully. When I became a private eye, I tried to match the image and drink whisky. After two glasses, I had to revert to my usual to take the taste away. I guess I’m not cut out for the “bottle of whisky and a new set of lies” Mark Knopfler image. As I drank, I listened with half an ear while Richard told me how he saw Jett’s autobiography taking shape. “It’s a great rags to riches story, a classic. A poor childhood in the Manchester slums, the struggle to make the music he knew he had in him. First discovering music when his strict Baptist mother pushed him into the gospel choir. How he got his first break. And at last, the inside story on why his songwriting

After twenty minutes of bubbling enthusiasm, I managed to cut in and suggest that we made our way to the party. As soon as we emerged from the lift, it was clear which suite Jett had hired for the night. Already a loud babble of conversation spilled into the hall, overlaying the mellow sounds of Jett’s last album. I squeezed Richard’s hand and said, “I’m really proud of you,” as we entered the main room and the party engulfed us.

Jett himself was holding court at the far end of the room, looking as fresh as if he’d just got out of the shower. His arm was draped casually round the shoulders of a classic Fiona. Her blonde hair hung over her shoulders in a loosely permed mane, her blue eyes, like the rest of her face, were perfectly made up, and the shiny violet sheath that encased her curves looked to me like a Bill Blass.

“Come on, let’s go and talk to Jett,” Richard said eagerly, steering me towards the far side of the room. As we passed the table where the drinks were laid out, a shirtsleeved arm sneaked out from a group of women and grabbed Richard’s shoulder.

“Barclay!” a deep voice bellowed. “What the hell are you doing here?” The group parted to reveal the speaker, a man of medium height and build, running slightly to paunch round the middle.

Richard looked astonished. “Neil Webster!” he exclaimed with less than his usual warmth. “I could ask you the same thing. At least I’m a bloody rock writer, not an ambulance chaser. What are you doing back in Manchester? I thought you were in Spain.”

“A bit too hot for me down there, if you catch my drift,” Neil Webster replied. “Besides, all the news these days seems to happen in this city. I thought I was about due to revisit my old haunts.”

Their exchange gave me a few minutes to study this latest addition to my collection of Journalists Of The World. Neil Webster had that slightly disreputable air that a lot of women seem to find irresistible. I’m not one of them. He looked to be in his late thirties, though a journalist’s life does seem to accelerate aging

My scrutiny was interrupted by his own matching appraisal. “So who’s the lovely lady? I’m sorry, my love, that oaf you came with seems to have forgotten his manners. I’m Neil Webster, real journalist. Not like Richard with his comic books. And you’re …?”

“Kate Brannigan.” I coolly shook his proffered hand.

“Well, Kate, let me get you a drink. What’s it to be?”

I asked him for my usual vodka and grapefruit juice, and he turned to the bar to pour it. Richard leaned past him and helped himself to a can of Schlitz. “You didn’t say what exactly you were doing back here,” Richard pressed Neil as he handed me my drink. I tasted it and nearly choked, both at the strength of the drink and the impact of Neil’s reply.

“Didn’t I? Oh, sorry. Fact of the matter is, I’ve been commissioned to write Jett’s official biography.”

   Richard’s face turned bright scarlet and then chalky white as Neil’s words hit him. I felt a cold stab of shock in my own stomach as I shared his moment of bitter disappointment. “You’ve got to be joking,” Richard said in an icy voice.

Neil laughed. “Quite a surprise, isn’t it? I’d have thought he’d have gone for a specialist. Someone like you,” he added, twisting the knife. “But Kevin wanted me. He insisted.” He shrugged disarmingly. “So what could I say? After all, Kevin’s an old friend. And he’s the boss. I mean, nobody manages a top act like Jett a dozen years without knowing what’s right for the boy, do they?”

Richard said nothing. He turned on his heel and pushed his way through the growing crowd round the bar. I tried to follow, but Neil stood in my way. “I don’t know what’s rattled his cage, but why don’t you just let him cool down,” he said smoothly. “Stay and tell me all about yourself.”

Ignoring him, I moved away and headed towards Jett. I could no longer see Richard’s dark head, but I guessed that’s where he’d be. I reached Jett’s couch in time to hear Richard’s angry voice saying, “You as good as promised me. The guy’s a wasted space. What the hell were you thinking?”

The adulatory crowd that had been eagerly congratulating Jett and trying to touch the hem of his garment had fallen back under the force of Richard’s onslaught. He was towering threateningly above Jett, whose Fiona looked thrilled to bits by the encounter.

Jett himself looked upset. His honey-sweet voice sounded strained. “Richard, Richard. Listen to me. I wanted you to do the book. I said that all along. Then out of the blue, Kevin dumps this guy on me and tells me I have to play ball, that he knows who’s the

Richard had listened in silence, his face a tight mask of anger. I’d never seen him so upset before, not even when his ex-wife was being difficult about his access to Davy. I reached his side and gripped his right arm. I know what he’s like when he’s angry. The holes in the plasterboard walls of his hall bear eloquent testimony to his frustrations. I didn’t think he’d hit Jett, but I didn’t want to risk it.

He stood and stared at Jett for what seemed like an eternity. Then he spoke slowly and bitterly. “And I thought you were a man,” was all he said. He tore his arm out of my grip and plunged into the crowd towards the door. Only then was I aware that the room had fallen silent, every ear in the place tuned in to their conversation. I glared around, and slowly the buzz of conversation built again, even louder than before.

I desperately wanted to chase after Richard, to hold him and make useless offers of comfort. But more pressingly, I needed to know what my part in this whole charade was. I turned back to Jett and said, “He feels very let down. He thought you asked me here tonight to celebrate a book deal with us.”

Jett had the grace to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, Kate, I really am sorry. I feel like a piece of shit over this, believe me. I wanted to tell Richard myself, not let him hear it from someone else. I know he’d have done a good job, but my hands are tied. People don’t realize how little power guys like me actually have.”

“So why did you want me here tonight?” I demanded. “To keep Richard under control?”

Jett shook his head. He half-turned his handsome head to the Fiona. “Tamar,” he said, “why don’t you get yourself another drink?”

The blonde smiled cattily at me and poured herself off the couch. When we were reasonably private, Jett said, “I’ve got a job for you. It’s something that’s very important to me, and I need to be able to trust the person I give it to. Richard’s told me a lot about you, and I think you’re the right one. I don’t want to tell you about

“Are you kidding?” I flashed back. “After the way you’ve just humiliated Richard?”

“I didn’t think you were the kind of lady who let personal stuff get in the way of her work.” His voice was velvet. To an old fan, irresistible. “I heard you were too good for that.”

Flattery. It never fails. I was intrigued, in spite of my anger. “There’s a lot of stuff Mortensen and Brannigan don’t handle,” I hedged.

He looked around him, trying to appear casual. He seemed satisfied that no one was in earshot. “I want you to find someone for me,” he said softly. “But not a word to Richard, please.”

That reminded me how angry I was on Richard’s behalf. “Mortensen and Brannigan always respect client confidentiality,” I said, sounding stuffy even to my ears. God knows what the king of thirtysomething rock was making of it all.

He grinned, flashing a display of brilliant white teeth at me. “Come to the manor tomorrow about three,” he said, not expecting any more problems.

I shook my head. “I don’t know, Jett. We don’t usually touch missing persons.”

“For me? As a personal favor?”

“Like the one you’ve just done Richard?”

He winced. “OK, OK. Point taken. Look, Kate, I’m truly sorry about that. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to Richard and raised his hopes without clearing it with Kevin. When it comes to things like contracts, he’s the man who makes the decisions. He keeps me right. In the business side of things, he’s the boss. But this other thing, it’s personal. This is really important to me, Kate. Listening to what I want won’t cost you anything. Please,” he added. I had the feeling it was a word he’d lost familiarity with.

Wearily, I nodded. “OK. Three o’clock. If I can’t make it, I’ll ring and rearrange it. But no promises.”

He looked as if I’d taken the weight of the world off his shoulders. “I appreciate it, Kate. Look, tell Richard what I said. Tell him I’m really sorry, would you? I’ve not got so many

I nodded and pushed my way through the crowds. By the time I’d reached the door, Jett and his problems were at the back of my mind. What was important to me now was helping Richard through the night.

   When the alarm went off the following morning, Richard didn’t even stir. I slid out of bed, trying not to disturb him. If how I felt was any guide, he’d need at least another six hours’ sleep before he returned from Planet Hangover. I headed for the kitchen and washed down my personal pick-me-up. Paracetamol, vitamins C and B complex and a couple of zinc tablets with a mixture of orange juice and protein supplement. With luck, I’d rejoin the human race somewhere around Billy Smart’s house.

I had a quick shower, found a clean jogging suit and picked up a bottle of mineral water on the way out of the front door. Poor Richard, I thought as I slipped behind the wheel of the car and drove off. I’d caught up with him in the foyer, kicking his heels for want of a better target while he waited for a taxi. He’d been grimly silent all the way home, but as soon as he’d had half a pint of Southern Comfort and soda, he’d started ranting. I’d joined him in drink because I couldn’t think of anything else to do or say that would make it better. He’d been shat on from a great height, and that was an end to it. It didn’t make me feel any better about having agreed to Jett’s request for a meeting, but luckily Richard was too wrapped up in his own disappointment to wonder why it had taken me so long to catch up with him.

I drove through the pre-dawn deserted streets and took up my familiar station a few doors down from Billy’s house. It always amazes me that people don’t pick up on it when I’m staking them out. I suppose it’s partly that a Vauxhall Nova is the last car anyone would expect to be tailed by. The 1.4 SR model I drive looks completely innocuous—the sort of little hatchback men buy for their wives to go shopping in. But when I put my foot down, it goes like the proverbial shit off a shovel. I’ve followed Billy Smart to the garage where he swaps his hired cars every three days, I’ve tailed him in his Mercs and BMWs all over the country, and my confidence

Luckily, I didn’t have long to hang around before Billy appeared. I sat tight while he did his routine once-round-the-block drive to check he had no one on his tail, then I set off a reasonable distance behind him. To my intense satisfaction, he followed the same routine he’d used on the previous Wednesday. He picked up brother Gary from his flat in the high-rise block above the Arndale shopping center, then they went together to the little back-street factory in the mean area dominated by the tall red-brick water tower of Strangeways Prison. They stayed in there for about half an hour. When they emerged they were carrying several bulky bundles wrapped in black velveteen, which I knew contained hundreds of schneid watches.

I had to stay close to their hired Mercedes as we wove through the increasing traffic, but by now I knew their routine and could afford to keep a few cars between us. True to the form of the last two weeks, they headed over the M62 towards Leeds and Bradford. I followed them as far as their first contact in a lock-up garage in Bradford, then I decided to call it a day. They were simply repeating themselves, and I already had photographs of the Wednesday routine from my previous surveillance. It was time for a chat with Bill. I also wanted to talk to him about Jett’s proposition.

I got back to the office towards the end of the morning. We have three small rooms on the sixth floor of an old insurance company building just down the road from the BBC Oxford Road studios. The best thing I can find to say about the location is that it’s handy for the local art cinema, the Cornerhouse, which has an excellent cafeteria. Our secretary Shelley looked up from her word processor and greeted me with, “Wish I could start work at lunchtime.”

I was halfway through a self-righteous account of my morning’s work when I realized, too late as usual, that she was winding me up. I stuck my tongue out at her and dropped a micro-cassette on her desk. It contained my verbal report of the last couple of days. “Here’s a little something to keep you from getting too bored,” I said. “Anything I should know about?”