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

Jett’s new home couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the area where he’d grown up, I reflected as I pulled up before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. To get to this part of Cheshire from the centre of Manchester, you have to drive through the twitching heart of Moss-side, its pavements piled with the wares of the secondhand furniture dealers. Not the only kind of dealer you spot as you drive through the Moss. I’d been glad to get on to the motorway and even more glad to turn off into the maze of country lanes with their dazzling patches of spring bulbs.

I wound down the window and pressed the entryphone buzzer that controlled the security system on the gates. At the far end of the drive, I could just make out the honey-coloured stone of Colcutt Manor. It looked impressive enough from here. The entryphone quacked an inquiry at me. ‘Kate Brannigan,’ I announced. ‘Of Mortensen and Brannigan. I have an appointment with Jett.’

There was a pause. Then a distorted voice squawked, ‘Sorry. I have no record of that.’

‘Could you check with Jett, please. I do have an appointment.’

‘Sorry. That won’t be possible.’

I wasn’t exactly surprised. Rock stars are not widely renowned for their efficiency. I sighed and tried again. This time the voice said, ‘I will have to ask you to leave now.’

I tried for a third time. This time there was no response at all. I shouted a very rude word at the entryphone. I could always turn round and go home. But that would have hurt my professional pride. ‘Call yourself a private eye, and you can’t even keep an appointment?’ I snarled.

I reversed away from the gates and slowly drove along the perimeter wall. It was over seven feet high, but I wasn’t going to let a little thing like that put me off. About half a mile down the lane, I found what I was looking for. Some kind of sturdy looking tree grew beside the wall with a branch that crossed it about a foot above. With a sigh, I parked the car on the verge and slipped off my high-heeled shoes, swapping them for the Reeboks I always keep in the boot. I stuffed the heels in my capacious handbag. I’d need them at the other end, since I was trying to impress a new client with my professionalism, not my ability to run the London marathon. Incidentally, it’s one of life’s great mysteries to me how men survive without handbags. Mine’s like a survival kit, with everything from eye pencil to Swiss Army knife via pocket camera and tape recorder.

I slung my bag across my body and slowly made my way up the tree and along the branch. I dropped on to the top of the wall then let myself down by my arms. I only had about a foot to drop, and I managed it without any major injury. I dusted myself down and headed across the tussocky grass towards the house, avoiding too close an encounter with the browsing cattle. Thank God there wasn’t a bull about. When I got to the drive, I swapped shoes again, wrapping my Reeboks in the plastic bag I always keep in the handbag.

I marched up to the front door and toyed with the idea of ringing. To hell with that. Whoever had refused me entry previously wouldn’t be any better disposed now. On the off chance, I tried the handle of the massive double doors. To my surprise, it turned under my hand and the door swung open. I didn’t hang about thanking whoever is the patron saint of gumshoes, I just walked straight in. It was an awesome sight. The floor was paved with Italian terrazzo tiles, and ahead of me was an enormous staircase that split halfway up and headed in two different directions. Just like a Fred Astaire movie.

As I started to cross the hall, an outraged voice called from an open doorway near the entrance, ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ The voice was followed in short order by a blonde woman in her mid-twenties. She was strictly average in looks and figure, but she’d made the most of what she’d got. I took in the eyelash tint, the make-up so subtle you had to look twice to make sure it was there, and the tan leather jumpsuit.

‘I’m here to see Jett,’ I said.

‘How did you get in? You’ve no right to be here. Are you the woman at the gate a few minutes ago?’ she demanded crossly.

‘That’s me. You really should get someone to look at your security. We’d be happy to oblige.’

‘If you’re trying to drum up business, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m sorry, Jett can’t see anyone without an appointment,’ she insisted with an air of finality. The smile she laced her reply with had enough malice to keep a gossip columnist going for a year.

For the third time, I said, ‘I have an appointment. Kate Brannigan of Mortensen and Brannigan.’

She tossed her long plait over her shoulder and her cornflower blue eyes narrowed. ‘You could be the Princess of Wales and you still wouldn’t get past me without an appointment. Look for yourself,’ she added, thrusting an open desk diary at me.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or -four, but she had all the steely intransigence of the Brigade of Guards. I glanced at the page she was showing me. As she’d said, there was no appointment marked down for me. Either Jett had forgotten to mention it to her, or she was deliberately trying to keep me away from him. I sighed and tried again. ‘Look, Miss …’

‘Seward. Gloria Seward. I’m Jett’s personal assistant. I’m here to protect him from being troubled by people he doesn’t want to see. All his appointments go through me.’

‘Well, I can only assume he forgot to mention this to you. The arrangement was only made last night after the concert. Perhaps it slipped his mind. Now, can I suggest that you pop off and find Jett and confirm our arrangement with him?’ I was still managing to be sweet reason personified, but the veneer was beginning to wear thin.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Jett’s working and can’t be disturbed,’ she smirked.

It was the smirk that did it. Beyond her, I could see the cool marble hall beckoning me. I pushed past her and I was halfway to the nearest door before she’d even realized what was going on. As I strode down the hall, not pausing to admire the paintings or the sculptures dotted around, I could hear her shrieking, ‘Come back here. You’ve got no right …’

I opened the first door I came to. It was a square drawing room done out in watered blue silk and gilt. Very country house and garden. A stereo system heavily disguised as a Queen Anne cabinet was blasting out Chris Rea’s Road To Hell album. The only sign of life was reclining on a blue silk sofa that looked too delicate for anything heftier than Elizabeth Barrett Browning in her last days. There was nothing tubercular about Tamar, however. She looked like she’d had more than the three hours’ sleep I’d managed, that was for sure. She glanced up at me from the magazine she was reading and said, ‘Oh, it’s you again.’

She was wearing a cobalt blue shell suit that clashed so violently with the furnishings it hurt my head to look at her. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Where’s Jett?’

‘The rehearsal room. Straight down the hall, down the passage at the back and first right.’ Before she’d even finished talking, she’d returned to her magazine, her foot tapping in time to the music.

I emerged in the hall to find a furious Gloria standing guard outside the door. ‘How dare you!’ she exploded.

I ignored her and set off to follow Tamar’s directions. Gloria chased after me, plucking ineffectually at my jacket sleeve. When I got to the door of the rehearsal room, I shook off her arm and said, ‘Now you’ll see whether or not I’ve got an appointment.’

Chapter 5 (#ulink_5d566b4a-2b0b-5c3a-ac37-b2d30b2e1d19)

I opened the door and walked in to hear a man shouting, ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You just don’t need anyone else to …’

At the sound of the door, he whirled round and fell silent. There were two other men in the room. Neil Webster was sitting in a canvas director’s chair with an air of fascinated satisfaction. Jett was leaning against a white grand piano with a sulky expression on his face. The third man, the shouter, I recognized at once. I’d seen him talking to Jett at the dinner where we’d met. Richard had told me he was Kevin Kleinman, Jett’s manager.

Before any of us could say anything, Gloria erupted into the room and shoved past me. I couldn’t believe the transformation in her. She’d altered from the dragon at the gates to a sweet little kitten. ‘I’m so sorry, Jett,’ she purred. ‘But this woman just forced her way in. I tried to stop her, but she just pushed past me.’

Jett shrugged away from the piano with an exasperated sigh. ‘Gloria, I told you I was expecting Kate. Christ, how could you have forgotten?’

The effect of Jett’s words on Gloria was out of all proportion to their sting. She blushed scarlet and almost seemed to cringe out of the room, muttering apologies. To Jett, not to me. Her exit did nothing to diminish the air of awkwardness in the room. With an almost palpable effort, Jett turned the full force of his charm on me and smiled. ‘Kate,’ he said. ‘I’m really glad you could make it.’

My reply was drowned by Neil, who called across, ‘You’re really going to be doing all of us a big favour, Kate. I can’t tell you how pleased I am for Jett that you’re going to sort this business out.’

I caught Kevin’s scowl at Neil before he too turned to me and gave a forced smile. ‘Kate hasn’t made any decision yet, if I understand it correctly,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should wait and see what she decides before we start dishing out the congratulations.’

I hadn’t been too impressed by Kevin when I’d first seen him, and the second meeting wasn’t improving my opinion. His average height and build were diminished by his lousy posture and rounded shoulders, and when he walked his feet seemed to slide over the floor. His thin brown hair was receding fast, emphasizing the sharpness of his features. Richard had told me he’d had a nose job, but looking at the finished product I found that hard to believe. Judging by his outfit – a soft brown leather blouson over a toffee-coloured cashmere crew neck and a pair of Levi 501s, he was doing his damnedest to ignore the fast approaching fortieth birthday. Aware of my scrutiny, he moved over to me and extended his hand. ‘You must be the lovely Kate. I’ve heard so much about you from Richard. I’m Kevin, I take care of business for Jett.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I lied.

‘I want to make it perfectly clear that whether or not you take on this job for Jett, it’s vital that you do not mention outside this room what we discuss today. In the wrong hands, that information could do Jett a great deal of damage,’ Kevin smarmed, holding on to my hand for fractionally too long. I had to fight the impulse to wipe it on my trouser leg.

‘I’ve already told Jett that our confidentiality is guaranteed. We wouldn’t have so many corporate clients if we had loose mouths.’ My reply came out sharper than I intended and I noticed Neil smiling wryly.

‘Fine, fine, I just wanted to be sure we understood each other,’ Kevin oozed.

I deliberately walked away from him and crossed the room to Jett. ‘Do you want to tell me why you’ve asked me here?’

He nodded and, taking my arm, he steered me across the room to a group of chairs round a low table. I took the chance to look around the large room. It was the size of a tennis court and was obviously a recent addition to the beautiful eighteenth-century mansion Jett had bought five years before. In one corner was a built-in bar, the only thing in the place that looked tacky. The long windows that looked out over the house’s adjoining parkland had heavy shutters that could be drawn across to improve the room’s acoustics. As well as the piano, there were banks of synthesizers, a few guitars, both acoustic and electric, a drum kit and an array of other percussion instruments. It was an impressive sight and I said so.

Jett smiled. ‘It’s not bad, is it? I’ve turned part of the cellars into a recording studio. I mean, for a man who can’t tell Château Margaux from Country Manor, it was a hell of a lot of wasted space.’

Kevin walked across to join us. Jett ignored him and leaned on the bar, staring intently into my eyes. ‘I want you to find someone for me. I knew as soon as we met that I could trust you, Kate. I had the feeling that we’d met before. In a previous life.’

My heart sank. I really wasn’t in the mood for some rehashed New Age philosophy. The last thing I needed right now was a loop for a client.

‘It’s the flux. When I really needed someone to do this job for me, our paths crossed. I realize this isn’t the kind of thing you usually take on, but you have to do this one.’ Jett patted my hand.

‘So tell me about it,’ I stalled, sipping my drink.

‘When I started out, I had a partner. I suppose you know about that, huh? Moira was my soul mate, the one person I was meant to be with. We wrote all the songs on the first two albums together, we were magic. But we blew it. I didn’t look after her needs, and she couldn’t take the pressures without my support. So she went. I was too full of my success to realize what a fool I was to let her go. And she left enough of her energy with me for me to keep going a long time without noticing how much I’d needed her.’ His eyes were shining with tears, but Jett showed no embarrassment at baring his soul in front of so motley a crew.

‘I don’t need to tell you that I’ve run out of that energy. My last two albums have been shit.’ He looked up defiantly at Kevin, who shrugged. ‘You know it’s true. I just can’t cut it any more. It’s not just my music. It’s my whole life. That’s why I need you to find Moira for me.’

I congratulated myself silently on having guessed correctly. ‘I don’t know, Jett,’ I hedged. ‘Missing persons takes a lot of time. And if Moira doesn’t want to be found, no amount of work will bring her back to you.’