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

‘Perhaps Kevin wants to make sure it’s a whitewash job,’ I tried.

Richard snorted with laughter. ‘You mean he thinks he can keep Neil on a leash? He thinks he can tell Neil exactly what to do and Neil will do it? Shit, he’s in for a rude awakening. Neil will feather his own nest, regardless of Kevin laying down the law.’

‘Yes, but at the end of the day, Neil’s not a rock journalist. You know exactly what stones to turn over, where to start looking if you wanted to dish some dirt, to get behind the headlines to the real story. But Neil doesn’t even know where to start, so to some extent, he’s going to have to go with whatever Kevin feeds him. And they’ve got him right where they want him, you know. According to Jett, Neil’s got an office and everything right there at Colcutt. He’s actually living there while he does the book.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Richard pounced. ‘Looking after number one. And he’s the only one who will come out of this on the up, I’d put money on it. Kevin might think he can control Neil more than he could me, but I’d give you odds that Neil will end up biting the hand that feeds him, just you wait and see.’

‘Sounds like a bad deal for Jett.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time Kevin’s done that. And it won’t be the last.’

That sounded fascinating. And it was a good way to get off Neil and on to the other members of Jett’s entourage. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked sweetly, helping myself to more vermicelli before it all disappeared into the human dustbin.

‘Always seems to me that Jett has to work a lot harder than other people at his level in the business. I’d love to pin Kevin down as to why that is.’

‘Maybe he just likes it,’ I suggested.

Richard shook his head. ‘Not the amount of stuff he does,’ he said. ‘He’s always on the road for a couple of circuits a year. He should be able to get away with one tour, fewer venues, that sort of thing. On top of that, he’s doing an album a year. And even though he hates it, Kevin’s always plugging him into chat shows. He even had him doing local radio slots earlier this year, can you believe it? Jett has hardly had any time off, I mean proper time off, for the last four years. He shouldn’t have to do that. And the tour merchandise – they really push that stuff. There’s nothing laid back about Kevin’s operation, and somebody should be asking why. Maybe it is just bad deals, bad judgement. Or maybe they’re making sure that when they retire they’ll never have to lift a finger again. But if I was Jett, I’d be looking for a new manager.’

I put some of the lyrics down to sour grapes, but I filed the general melody away for future reference. As Richard tore into the spicy pork, I tried another strategy. ‘Couldn’t you go ahead anyway and write the unauthorized biography, warts and all?’ I asked. ‘You must know a lot about the things that Jett wouldn’t necessarily want to make public. Like the split with … Moira, wasn’t it?’

‘Sure, I could spill any amount of beans,’ Richard agreed. ‘But I don’t know if I want to do that. I mean, Jett’s a mate.’

‘He’s got a funny way of showing it,’ I mumbled through a mouthful of beef koon po.

‘It would be the last exclusive I got from him.’

‘There are plenty more people in the rock business who trust you,’ I replied.

‘But an awful lot of them wouldn’t be happy about talking to me if I’d dropped Jett in it,’ Richard reasoned.

‘Surely they’d understand why you’d done it?’ We were going down a side alley that wasn’t taking me any further, but I couldn’t help myself. Offering support to Richard was a lot more important to me than helping Jett.

Richard shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But anyway, there wouldn’t be enough of a market for two books. Jett’s not quite in the international megastar league.’

I got up and helped myself to a bottle of Perrier from the executive drinks fridge Richard keeps in the living room. It had been a birthday present from a friendly roadie who’d stolen it from a Hilton room. ‘What if …’ I said slowly. ‘What if you wrote a story for one of the Sunday tabloids. The things you won’t be reading in Jett’s autobiography, that kind of thing? You must have plenty up your sleeve like that.’

Wonders will never cease. Richard stopped eating. ‘You know, Brannigan, you just might have something there … If I flogged it on the quiet, they could put a staff reporter’s byline on it and that would protect my other contacts.’

That was enough to open the floodgates. I knew that when he was sober in the cold light of morning, Richard would have changed his mind about plastering Jett across the front pages of the gutter press. But by the time we made our amorous way to bed a couple of hours later, as far as Jett and his entourage were concerned, I had picked Richard’s brains as clean as he’d picked the salt and pepper ribs.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_07b0a4d4-fbf8-57ad-891a-269124b4361a)

The following morning, the sun was shining and I was full enough of the joys of spring to cycle into work. I was in the office even before Shelley, keying in all the information Richard had unwittingly given me the night before. I couldn’t imagine how it could be relevant, but I’d rather have it neatly stored in my database just in case. It’s a hell of a lot more reliable than my memory, especially when you consider how many brain cells shuffle off this mortal coil with every vodka and grapefruit juice. God help me if my computer ever gets the taste for Stolichnaya.

A few minutes after nine, Shelley put a call through to me. It was my friendly neighbourhood copper. Derek’s a career constable. He doesn’t like the hassle that his seniors have to live with, so he tries to keep his head down whenever promotion is suggested. He does, however, like the vice squad. It makes him feel virtuous and he likes the perks. I’ve yet to meet a thirsty vice cop.

‘Hi, Kate,’ Derek greeted me cheerfully. ‘I popped round to the house, but I couldn’t get a reply, so I thought I’d try a long shot and call you at the office.’

‘Very funny,’ I replied. ‘Sorry I missed you, but some of us have to work long hours keeping the streets safe.’

He chuckled. ‘With your respect for the police, Kate, you really should have stuck to being a lawyer. Any road, I’ve got what you wanted. Your young lady does indeed have a record. First was five years ago. Soliciting. Fifty pound fine. There are three others for soliciting, ending up with two years’ probation just over a year ago. There’s also Class A possession charge. A small amount of heroin, personal use. She got a three hundred pound fine for that, but the fine must have been paid because there’s no record of a warrant for non-payment.’

I scribbled frantically to keep up with his sad recital of what had become of the talented writer of Jett’s best lyrics. ‘What address have you got?’

‘I’ve got as many addresses as there are offences. All in the Chapeltown area of Leeds.’

Just what I needed. I didn’t know Leeds well, but I knew enough to know that this was bedsitterland. The kind of area where junkies and prostitutes rub shoulders with the chronically poor and students who try to convince themselves there’s something glamorous about such Bohemian surroundings. It isn’t an easy belief to sustain, especially after the murderous depredations of the Yorkshire Ripper ten years ago. I copied down the three latest addresses as Derek read them out at dictation speed. I had no real hopes of them but at least I now knew that when Moira had fled from Jett she’d headed over the Pennines. It was a start.

I thanked Derek and promised to drop his money in that evening. It looked like I was going to have to go over to Leeds, which meant I wouldn’t be looking after the Smart brothers for another day. That didn’t worry me as much as it perhaps should have, because they’d followed an identical pattern on the two previous Thursdays. The days I still needed to keep watch were Mondays and Tuesdays when they did most of their irregular deliveries. I knew if Bill was worried about their surveillance he could bring in one of the freelances that we occasionally use for routine jobs when we’re overstretched. The extra cash we were making on Jett would more than cover the outlay.

Before I left, I gave Josh a quick call to see if his computer searches had come up with anything. Like Derek, all he had for me was bad news. When she left Jett, Moira had had a five-star credit rating. Within two years of her departure, she’d run up a string of bad debts that made me wince. She owed everybody – credit cards, store accounts, hire purchase, two major bank loans. There were several County Court judgements against her, and a handful more still pending. The court hadn’t been able to find her to serve the papers. That really filled me with confidence. But it also explained why she’d not been staying at any one address for too long.

I left the office by half-past nine and cycled home, where I changed into a pair of jogging pants that were past their best and a green Simply Red road crew sweatshirt, one of the few donations from Richard that hadn’t been despatched straight back next door. If I was going down those mean streets, then I wanted to make damn sure I looked a bit mean myself. I pulled on a pair of hi-top Reeboks and a padded leather jacket that was a bit scuffed round the edges. I picked up the last bottle of mineral water from the fridge and threw a packet of fresh pasta with yesterday’s sell-by date into the bin. I made a mental note to hit the supermarket on my way home.

I didn’t want to risk getting snarled up in the crosstown traffic, so I took the longer but faster motorway route out to the western edge of the C-shaped almost-orbital motorway and picked up the M62 to cross the bleak moors. Within the hour, I was driving out of Leeds city centre north into Chapeltown, singing along with Pat Benatar’s Best Shots to lift my spirits.

I cruised slowly around the dirty streets, attracting some equally dirty looks when the whores who were already out working moved forward to proposition me, only to discover a woman driver. I found the last address that Derek had given me without too much difficulty. Like so many of the Yorkshire stone houses in the area, it had obviously once been the home of a prosperous burgher. It was a big Victorian property, standing close to its neighbours. Behind the scabby paintwork of the window frames there was an assortment of grubby curtains, no two rooms matching. In front of the house, what had once been the garden had been badly asphalted over, with weeds sprouting through the cracks in the tarmac. I got out of the car and carefully set the alarm.

I climbed the four steps up to a front door that looked as if it had been kicked in a few times and examined an array of a dozen bells. Only a couple had names by them, and neither was Moira’s. Sighing deeply, I rang the bottom bell. Nothing happened, and I started working my way systematically up the bells till I reached the fifth. I heard the sound of a window being opened and I stepped back and looked up. To my left, on the first floor, a black woman wearing a faded blue towelling dressing gown was leaning out. ‘What d’you want?’ she demanded aggressively.

I debated whether to apologize for troubling her, but decided that I didn’t want to sound like the social services department. ‘I’m looking for Moira Pollock. She still living here?’

The woman scowled suspiciously. ‘Why d’you want Moira?’

‘We used to be in the same line of business,’ I lied, hoping I looked like a possible candidate for the meat rack.

‘Well, she ain’t here. She moved out, must be more’n a year ago.’ The woman moved back and started to close the window.

‘Hang on a minute. Where would I find her? Do you know?’

She paused. ‘I ain’t seen her around in a long while. Your best bet’s that pub down Chapeltown Road, the ‘ambleton. She used to drink there.’

My thanks were drowned by the screech of the sash window as the woman slammed it back down. I walked back to the car, shifted a large black and white cat which had already taken up residence on the warm bonnet, and set off to find the pub.

The Hambleton Hotel was about a mile and a half away from Moira’s last known address. It was roadhouse style, in grimy yellow and red brick with the mock-Tudor gables much beloved by 1930s pub architects. The inside looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since then. Even at half-past eleven in the morning, it was fairly lively. A couple of black men were playing the fruit machine, and a youth was dropping coins into a jukebox which was currently playing Jive Bunny. By the bar was a small knot of women who were already dressed for work in short skirts and low-cut sweaters. Their exposed flesh looked pale and unappetizing, but at least it lacked the bluish tinge that ten minutes’ exposure to the cold spring air would lend it.

I walked up to the bar, aware of the eyes on me, and ordered a half of lager. Something told me that a Perrier wouldn’t do much for my cover story. The blowsy barmaid looked me up and down as she poured my drink. As I paid, I told her to take one herself. She shook her head and muttered, ‘Too early for me.’ I was taken aback. Before I could ask her about Moira, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I tensed and turned round slowly. One of the black men who’d been playing the fruit machine was standing behind me with a frown on his face. He was nearly six feet tall, slim and elegant in chinos and a shiny black satin shirt under a dove grey full length Italian lambskin coat that looked like it cost six months of my mortgage. His hair was cut in a perfect flat-top, accentuating his high cheek bones and strong jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell minty breath-spray as he leaned forward into my face and breathed, ‘I hear you been looking for a friend of mine.’

‘News travels fast,’ I responded, trying to move away from his hot breath, but failing thanks to the bar behind me.

‘What d’you want with Moira?’ There was a note of menace in his voice that pissed me off. I controlled the urge to kick him across the bar and said nothing as he leaned even closer. ‘Don’t try telling me you’re on the game. And don’t try telling me you’re a cop. Those fuckers only come down here mob-handed. So who are you, and what d’you want with Moira?’

I know when the time for games is past. I reached into my pocket and produced a business card. I handed it to the pimp who was giving me a severe case of claustrophobia. It worked. He backed off a good six inches. ‘It’s nothing heavy. It’s an old friend of hers who wants to make contact. If it works out, there could be good money in it for her.’

He studied the card and glared at me. ‘Private Investigator,’ he sneered. ‘Well, baby, you’re not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.’