Читать книгу PI Kate Brannigan Series Books 1-3: Dead Beat, Kick Back, Crack Down - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 29

I just stood staring at Gloria, who looked back at me with a mixture of triumph and defiance in her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ I finally gasped.

‘Somebody has been stealing my syringes over the last four weeks or so,’ she said.

‘What syringes?’ I almost howled in my frustration. The snacks section had never seen drama like this.

‘I’m a diabetic. I have to inject myself with insulin. I keep a supply of disposable syringes in my room. On three or four occasions, I’ve noticed that there were a couple missing. I have to keep a close eye on them, because I daren’t run out.’

I took a deep breath. ‘So why did you assume that Moira was responsible?’

She shrugged. The shopping was forgotten now. We’d gravitated to the end of the aisle, and neither of us was showing any inclination to hit the soft drinks.

Gloria dropped her voice and said, ‘Well, who else would want needles except a drug addict? And in spite of what you might think about the rock business, nobody in the house is a junkie. Jett just wouldn’t stand for it. He’s got very strict views on the subject. I know some of the others sneak away and do some coke, but none of them are stupid enough to get into heroin. Especially after what happened when Moira got hooked.’

‘Any other reason why you were sure it was Moira?’ I asked.

‘Well, for one thing, they’d never gone missing before she moved in. Then one day I came upstairs and caught her with her hand on my doorknob. She said she’d just knocked to see if she could borrow a book, but I wasn’t falling for that. I knew by then what she was after.’

‘And did she borrow a book?’

‘Yes,’ Gloria acknowledged reluctantly. ‘The new Judith Krantz.’

‘Was she in the habit of borrowing books from you?’

Gloria shrugged. ‘She’d done it a couple of times.’

‘And did she know you were a diabetic?’ I asked.

‘There’s no secret about it. She never actually discussed it with me, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

The next question was obvious, though I knew she wouldn’t like it. That was just tough luck. ‘Who else comes into your room either regularly or occasionally?’ I demanded.

I was right. ‘Just what are you trying to suggest?’ Gloria flashed back, outraged.

‘I’m not trying to suggest anything. I asked a straightforward question, and I’d appreciate a straightforward answer.’

Gloria pointedly turned away from my stare. ‘No one uses my room except me,’ she mumbled. ‘Moira was the only person apart from the cleaner who’s been in there.’

I took pity on her. I couldn’t see being madly in love with Jett as an emotionally rewarding pastime, and I didn’t want to rub in the fruitlessness of her passion. ‘Given that it wasn’t a drug overdose that killed her, have you any ideas about who might have wanted rid of Moira?’

‘How should I know?’ Gloria snapped.

‘I would have thought there was no one better placed to have a few theories,’ I replied. ‘You’re right at the nerve centre of the household. You’re in Jett’s confidence. I can’t imagine there’s much goes on around here that you don’t know about.’ When in doubt, flatter.

Gloria rose to the bait. ‘If I had to choose one person, I’d pick Tamar,’ she bitched right back at me. ‘If Jett wasn’t such a nice guy, she’d have been out of here weeks ago. They’ve been rowing for ages, and when Moira arrived, Tamar’s nose was put right out of joint. Jett needs a woman who understands him, who really appreciates how demanding his work is. But Tamar just wants to have a good time, and Jett’s just the means to that end for her. When Moira turned up, he saw how many of his needs weren’t being met by Tamar, and it was obvious he didn’t have much time for her any more. And now Moira’s dead, Tamar’s been all over him, trying to get back in his good books.’

It was a long speech for Gloria, and her efforts to make it sound objective rather than vitriolic would have been funny under any other circumstances. I nodded sagely, and said, ‘I see what you mean. But do you really think she’s capable of a crime of violence like that?’

‘She’s capable of anything,’ Gloria retorted. ‘She saw her position under threat, and I think she acted on the spur of the moment to protect herself.’

‘What about the others? Micky? Kevin?’ I inquired.

‘Kevin wasn’t thrilled that she was back. He was worried about the press getting hold of the details of her past and using that to smear Jett. And she was always chasing him about money, as if he was trying to do her out of her share, which is just ridiculous. I mean, if Kevin was dishonest, Jett would have found out and got rid of him years ago. He had nothing to fear from Moira’s silly allegations, so why would he kill her? All her murder’s achieved is to stir up the very stuff he wanted kept quiet,’ Gloria informed me.

‘And Micky?’

‘You wouldn’t be very thrilled if someone who had been out of the business for years came along and started telling you how to do your job, would you? She was very pushy, you know. She had her own ideas and God help anyone who didn’t go along with them. I felt really sorry for Micky. She was always pushing Jett into taking her side over the album, and he was so scared that she’d take off again that he went along with her. But Micky wouldn’t have killed her. I mean, she might have been driving him demented, but she couldn’t do his career any damage,’ Gloria stated. She pointedly made for the check-out queue. In her eyes, she’d clearly decided she’d told me all I was going to get.

I cut round in front of her, making her brake sharply. ‘One last question,’ I promised. ‘You said cocaine was the drug of choice around Colcutt. Who uses it?’

‘It’s not my place to say,’ she replied huffily, her eyes on the display of cookery books beside us.

‘If you don’t tell me, someone else will. And if no one else will, I’ll just have to go to Jett,’ I retaliated, fed up with fencing.

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.