PI Kate Brannigan Series Books 1-3: Dead Beat, Kick Back, Crack Down

Gloria gave me a look that should have reduced me to a smouldering heap of ashes. Clearly she thought threats were as pleasant a form of communication as I did. ‘Ask Micky about it,’ she finally offered.

‘I’ll do just that,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for your help, Gloria. I’ll mention to Jett how co-operative you’ve been.’ I smiled sweetly and walked away. If I were a store detective, I’d never have let me out of there without a body search. There can’t be that many complete weirdos walking around looking like they’re rehearsing scenes from Inspector Morse in Sainsbury’s in a nice Country Life town like Wilmslow.

Back in the car park, I found that an officious traffic warden had decided to make my day. Peeling off the ticket, I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it on the floor of the car. Clearly Richard’s disgusting motoring habits were beginning to rub off on me. Grumbling quietly in a highly satisfactory sort of way, I eased the car into the traffic and headed back towards Colcutt.

I was stopped at the lights when I spotted Kevin. He was coming out of the bank, and I nearly peeped the horn to let him know I was there. Luckily, my reflexes were a little slow that morning. He was joined immediately by a burly guy in a padded leather body warmer over a navy blue rugby shirt. His Levis were tight enough to show he wasn’t wearing boxer shorts. I grabbed my tape recorder, depressed the record button and said, ‘White male, mid-forties, straight grey hair, thinning on top, neatly cut. Wide mouth, plump cheeks and chin, beer gut.’ The lights changed and I had to go with the flow. What I did see as I drove off, apart from the bulky gold flash of a Rolex on Kevin’s pal’s wrist, was the thick manila envelope that changed hands on the steps of the bank. I could think of a dozen reasons why Kevin should be paying someone off in cash. At least half of them made me feel very uncomfortable indeed.

I swung the car right into a narrow side street and doubled back towards the lights. At the junction, I paused, eyes flicking from side to side, trying to spot Kevin’s contact. I caught sight of him as he rounded the arcade of shops opposite, heading for the leisure centre car park. An impatient driver behind me sounded his horn, so I committed myself to a left turn, then turned off for the leisure centre. I reversed the car into a side turn and waited. I’d made the right gamble, not keeping my quarry in sight every inch of the way. A couple of minutes later, a red XJS shot past my turning. The driver was unmistakably Kevin’s contact. I waited till he’d moved out into the traffic heading back towards Manchester, then I slipped out behind him and took up station a couple of cars behind.

The guy was the worst kind of driver to tail. He was a show-off, determined that everyone sharing the same bit of road as him would see he was a big man with a flashy Jag. Never mind that it was four years old, it was the real thing, not some souped-up piece of Jap crap. I could just hear him laying down the law in the wine bar. I reckoned he and Kevin were probably a pair out of the same box.

He drove like a man with serious sexual problems, cutting people up, overtaking in the craziest places, flashing his lights like the Blackpool illuminations. Interestingly, I drove no differently from normal, and I was never in any danger of losing him. As we shot through the lights on the dual carriageway at Cheadle, he made a kamikaze run across three lanes of traffic to hit the motorway intersection. I said one of those words that men like my dad think women shouldn’t know and followed, praying he wasn’t keeping too close an eye on his rear-view mirror.

Out on the motorway he let rip. He either wasn’t a local or he didn’t give a toss about the video cameras mounted every couple of miles along the motorway to catch the speeders. I was forced into the kind of driving that terrifies me, never mind the rest of the drivers on the road, zooming right up behind lorries, nipping into the outside lane to overtake, then cutting back in as soon as I was clear of their front bumper. It made for an interesting journey.

Then the volume of traffic built up and things got a little less traumatic. By the time we were heading east on the M62, I had stopped sweating and started breathing again. I slid Sinead O’Connor into the cassette deck and had a little wonder to myself about my friend in the XJS with the envelope full of readies. He looked definitely iffy to me, but not the sort of bad lad who carries out hits. On the other hand, he might well know a man who could … As we headed up Hartshead Moor, I checked my fuel gauge and started sweating again. I’d be OK if Bradford was the destination. I might just make Leeds. But if we were heading for Wakefield or Hull, I’d be making the acquaintance of the AA man.

For once, my luck was holding well. He repeated his suicide run across the lanes again to take the Bradford exit. But this time I was prepared, hiding in the inside lane. I stayed with him in the heavy traffic round the ring road, skirting the city centre and out towards Bingley. Then I lost him. He jumped an amber as it turned red and shot off, leaving me law abiding at the lights. I watched helplessly as he hung a right about half a mile ahead. Of course, by the time I made it to that corner, he was long gone. I drove back to the nearest petrol station in a seriously bad mood and filled up.

I signalled to turn back in the direction of the motorway, then I changed my mind. What the hell was I playing at? I’d schlepped all the way over the Pennines, taken more risks behind the wheel in one morning than I normally handle in a week, and I was even thinking about leaving it at that? I swear to God, two days in the world of sax ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ rock ‘n’ roll and my brain was getting as soft as theirs.

I went straight back to the street corner where I’d lost him and started the slow cruise. Within a few yards of the main road, I was in the kind of tangle of narrow streets where the wide-boys operate. Terraced houses, small warehouses, the odd little sweatshop factory, corner grocers converted into auto spares shops, lock-up garages filled with everything except cars. It was the kind of district I’d become familiar with recently, thanks to the Smart brothers. I didn’t need a map to have a pretty clear idea of how the streets would be laid out, and I carefully started to quarter them, eyes peeled for the scarlet Jag.

As it was, I nearly missed it. I was taking it slowly when I caught a flash of red on the edge of my peripheral vision. I’d overshot the narrow alley before it registered properly. I parked up and strolled back along the street. On the corner of the alley, I stopped and glanced down. The Jag blocked the whole alleyway, barely leaving enough room for someone to sidle past it. It was parked outside the back entrance to a two-storey building. I counted from the end of the alleyway down to it, then walked on to the next corner.

The building had once been a double-fronted shop. Now, the windows were whitewashed over, and the signboards over them were weathered illegible. A Transit van with its doors open was parked outside. I turned the corner and continued my leisurely stroll. Before I drew level, the door opened and a youth waddled uncomfortably in the general direction of the van. He couldn’t actually see it since he was struggling to balance four cardboard cartons stacked on top of each other. ‘Left a bit,’ I suggested.

He threw a grateful half-smile at me, sidestepped and swivelled on one heel. The top box started to slide, and I moved forward to grab it as it fell.

‘Cheers, love,’ he gasped as he leaned forward to tip the boxes into the van. He stepped back, hands on hips, head dropping forward.

‘What you got in there anyway? Bricks?’ I said as I stowed the other box for him.

He looked up at me and gave me the once over. ‘Designer gear, love. Top-class stuff. None of your market stall rubbish. Hang on a minute, I’ll get you a sample. Just a little thank you.’ He winked and headed back to the door. I followed him and stood in the doorway. To my right, cardboard boxes were stacked ceiling high. Beyond them, a couple of women stood at long tables, folding shell suits, putting them in plastic bags and filling more boxes with the bags.

On my left, two machines clattered. The further one seemed to be printing t-shirts, while the other was embroidering shell suits. Before I could get a closer look, the van driver drew everyone’s attention to me. ‘Oy, Freddy,’ he shouted.

From a small office at the back of the warehouse, my quarry emerged. ‘Do what, Dazza?’ he asked in a deep voice, the cockney revealing itself even in those couple of words.

‘T-shirt for the lady,’ Dazza said, waving an arm at me. ‘Saved my stock from the gutter.’

‘Pity she couldn’t do the same for you,’ Freddy grunted. He gave me an appraising look, then picked out a white t-shirt from a pile on a trestle table by his cubbyhole. He threw it at Dazza, then turned on his heel and pulled his flimsy door shut behind him.

‘I see he’s been to the Mike Tyson school of charm and diplomacy,’ I remarked as Dazza returned.

‘Don’t pay no never mind to Fat Freddy,’ he said. ‘He don’t take to strangers. Here you are, love.’

I reached out for the t-shirt. I picked it up by the neck and let the folds drop out. His face gazed moodily into mine. Across the chest, in vivid electric blue was the Midnight Stranger logo, straight from the last album and the tour promotional posters. Jett was alive and well and being ripped off in Bradford.

Chapter 20 (#ulink_ab25ed82-4b10-54f1-a956-08ca8d6d95e2)

I sat in the car and stared at the t-shirt. I wasn’t quite sure what it amounted to. If Kevin was responsible for official merchandising, there was no reason why he shouldn’t farm it out to Fat Freddy, even if some of the guy’s other business was well on the wrong side of the legal borderline. What I needed to find out was whether this particular t-shirt was the real thing.

I also owed Maggie the courtesy of letting her know I didn’t need her to do my legwork any longer. I thought of phoning, but decided against it. Face to face, there was always a chance that she’d come across with some more information, and her house was only a twenty-minute drive away.

The house looked much the same, except that a sheaf of cream and red tulips had suddenly bloomed by the front door. For some reason, it made me think of Moira, something I’d been determinedly avoiding. I didn’t think I could get through this job if I allowed myself to dwell on my own anger and the guilty fear that I’d delivered her to her killer. The vivid memory of her singing ‘Private Dancer’ filled my head. The grip of her voice on my mind didn’t make it any easier to walk up the path to face her lover.

I rang the bell and waited. Then I knocked and waited. Then I peered through the letter box. No lights, no sign of life. I thought about writing a note and decided to try the neighbours instead. Next door there was someone home. I could hear the operatic screeching five feet from the door. I had no confidence that whoever was inside would hear the doorbell above the earsplitting soprano that was going through my head like cheesewire.

Abruptly the music stopped, though the ringing in my ears continued. The door opened to reveal the twinkling blue eyes of the neighbour I’d encountered before. He frowned at me, in spite of my smile.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s Gavin, isn’t it?’ I amaze myself sometimes.

He nodded, and the frown deepened into a scowl. ‘You’re the private eye,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. Obviously the jungle drums had been busy after my first visit.

There didn’t seem a lot of point in getting into a debate about it. ‘That’s right. I’m looking for Maggie. I just wondered if you happened to know when she’ll be back.’

‘You’re too late,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The cops took her off about two hours ago. They let her come round and tell me, so I could feed the cat if she’s not back. But the policewoman who was with her didn’t make any reassuring noises about her getting home in a hurry. Looks like your friends in the cops have gone for the easy option,’ Gavin said angrily.

There were things I wanted to say. Like the cops aren’t my friends. Like did she know a good criminal lawyer. Instead, I gambled that Maggie would have picked on a nice, reliable chap like Gavin as the concerned person who would be informed of her whereabouts. So I simply asked, ‘Do you know where she’s being held?’

He nodded grudgingly. ‘They rang me about half an hour ago. They’ve got her at Macclesfield cop shop. I asked about lawyers, but they said they would be arranging that with Maggie.’

‘Thanks. I’ll make sure she’s got a good one.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ he said bitterly. There didn’t seem much I could say to that, so I turned and walked back down the path.

I made good time back over the motorway. I’d rung Macclesfield police station from the motorway services. I regretted the impulse as soon as I was connected to Cliff Jackson.

‘I’m glad you rang,’ he growled. He didn’t sound it. ‘I want a word with you.’

‘How can I help, Inspector?’ I said. It’s a lot easier to sound sweet and helpful when there’s forty miles of road between you.

‘There’s nothing gets on my threepennies more than people like you who think there’s something clever about obstructing the police. One more stroke like this, Ms Brannigan, and you’re going to be in a cell. And if you remember your law, under PACE I can keep you there for thirty-six hours before I have to get round to charging you with obstructing my investigation.’ Now he’d got that off his chest, I hoped he felt better. I sure as hell didn’t.

‘If I knew what you were referring to, Inspector, I might be able to offer you some reassurance as to my future conduct.’ He really brought out the lawyer in me.

‘The way you conveniently forgot to mention that Maggie Rossiter was not only in the vicinity of Colcutt Manor at the time of Moira Pollock’s death but was also out and about in the highways and by-ways of Cheshire at the relevant time,’ he snarled.

‘Well, for one thing, Inspector, I wasn’t even sure what the relevant time was. The fact that she was in the lane a good hour after Jett and I discovered the body didn’t seem especially revelant to me, I have to admit.’

‘Don’t try to be clever with me, Ms Brannigan. I’m not making idle threats here. If you interfere with the course of my investigation again, or if I find you’ve been withholding evidence, I’m going to come down on you so hard it’ll make your eyes water. Do I make myself plain?’

‘As the proverbial pikestaff, Inspector.’