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

you were trying to please me. And if you want one for yourself, I won’t mind.’

      Richard shook his head. ‘You and your bloody morals,’ he commented darkly.

      ‘Oh, come on! Who was it who read me a lecture a couple of months ago about how immoral it is to make tapes of my albums for my friends when it means taking the bread out of the mouths of poor, starving rock stars like Jett?’ I reminded him.

      He grinned. ‘OK, Brannigan, you win. Now, have you seen enough, or do I have to spend the whole day in this dump?’

      I glanced over at the next table. The man had got to his feet, empty-handed, and was heading over towards the door, followed by most of his audience. I guessed the rest of his stock was in his car outside. ‘I’m nearly done,’ I told him. ‘Let’s just tag along with the kids and see what he’s got hiding in his boot.’

      We trailed behind at a discreet distance, and I managed to get a good look as we passed. The boot was full of shell suits in a wide choice of colours, but there were no rolls of watches that I could see. Nevertheless, it had been worth the trip, I pointed out as I drove Richard home. And there was a bonus too. If we pulled off the watches job, we might well be able to interest Sergio Tacchini in doing something similar for them. I’d been surprised to see the suits. I knew that schneid designer clothing was big business, but it was the first time I’d come across it connected, however tangentially, to the Smarts’ business. I said as much to Richard.

      ‘There’s a lot of it about,’ he said, to my surprise. ‘I’ve seen all sorts of stuff on sale at gigs in the clubs. Anyway, I’m glad it worked out. Always happy to oblige the Sam Spade of Chorlton-on-Medlock.’

      Poor sod, I thought. In reality, we live in Ardwick, one of those addresses that makes insurance companies blench. But Richard still believes the propaganda that the property developers came up with to convince us that we were moving somewhere select. ‘Ardwick,’ I corrected him absently. He ignored me and asked what my plans were for the afternoon. ‘Work, I’m afraid. And this evening too, probably. Why?’

      ‘Just wondered,’ he said, too innocently for my liking.

      ‘Tell, Barclay. Or else I’ll tidy your study,’ I threatened.

      ‘Oh no, not that!’ he pleaded. ‘It’s just that I’ve got the chance of a ticket for this afternoon’s match at Old Trafford. But if you were free, I was going to suggest we went to the movies.’

      The scale of the sacrifice made me realize he really does love me. I pulled up at the lights and impulsively leaned across to kiss him. ‘Greater love has no man,’ I remarked as I drove off.

      ‘So will you drop me at that pub opposite the ground? I said I’d meet the lads there if I could make it,’ he asked.

      How could I refuse?

      Moira’s file made fascinating reading. The first interesting nugget came under the heading of ‘Referral’. The entry read, ‘Brought in by unidentified black male, who made donation of £500 and described her as a former employee in need of urgent help.’ It sounded as if Stick had a bigger heart than he wanted anyone to know about. It also explained why he wanted five hundred pounds for his information.

      Moira had apparently reached the point in her addiction where she realized that she wasn’t going to have too many more last chances to kick the smack and change her life. As a result, she’d been a model patient. She had opted to go down the hardest road, kicking the drug with minimal maintenance doses of methadone. After her cold turkey, she had been extremely co-operative, joining in willingly with group therapy and responding well in personal counselling. After a four-week stay at the project, she had signed herself out, but had continued to turn up for her therapy appointments.

      The sting in the tail for me came at the very end. Instead of going to the halfway house after her initial intensive treatment, she had moved in with a woman called Maggie Rossiter. The notes on the file said that Maggie Rossiter was a social worker with Leeds City Council and a volunteer worker at the Seagull Project.

      That was unusual enough to raise my eyebrows. But a separate report by Seagull’s full-time psychiatrist was even more revealing. According to Dr Briggs, Maggie and Moira had formed a highly charged emotional attachment while Moira was still at Seagull. Following her discharge, they had become lovers and were now living together as a couple. In the doctor’s opinion, this relationship was a significant contributory factor in Moira’s commitment to staying off heroin.

      Jett was going to love this, I thought to myself as I made a note of Maggie Rossiter’s address. It’s one thing to know with your head that a lot of whores prefer relationships with women. I can’t say I blame them. If the only men I ever encountered were johns or pimps, I’d probably feel the same way. But when the woman concerned was your former soul mate … That was a whole different ball game.

      I reluctantly called Colcutt Manor to give Jett an up-to-date report, but Gloria informed me gleefully that he was out. No, she didn’t know where he could be reached. No, she didn’t know when he’d be back. Yes, he would be back that night. I was almost relieved that I’d missed him. I felt sure that once he knew I had Moira’s address he’d want to come with me himself. I couldn’t help thinking that would be the messiest possible way to handle things. All that raw emotion would get us nowhere. I settled for typing up a current report and faxed it through to Gloria for her to pass it on to Jett as soon as he returned.

      I copied Moira’s files on to the disc where I was storing Jett’s information, then switched off the computer. The office seemed unnaturally quiet, not just because I was alone in it, but because all the other offices in the building are occupied by sensible people who think working from Monday to Friday is quite enough to be going on with. I locked up behind me and walked down to the ground floor. Luckily, I emerged on Oxford Road just before the afternoon matinee at the Palace Theatre spilled its crowds on to the pavement. I’d left the car at home since parking near the office is impossible thanks to Saturday afternoon theatregoers and shoppers. Besides, the walk would do me good, I’d thought. That was before the rain came on.

      I plodded up past the BBC and headed across to Upper Brook Street. By the time I got home, I was wet through. I hoped Richard had been sitting far enough back in the stands to avoid a soaking. I had a quick shower to warm me up, then I stood in front of the wardrobe wondering which outfit would be the key that would get me across Maggie Rossiter’s doorstep.

      I settled on my favourite Levis and a cream lambswool cowl-necked sweater. Thoroughly inoffensive, making no statement that a lesbian social worker could disagree with, I hoped. I went through to the kitchen to fix myself a plate of snacks from my supermarket blitz, and washed it down with a small vodka and grapefruit juice. I was in no real hurry. I was aiming to get to Maggie’s home in Bradford between six thirty and seven. With any luck I’d catch them before they went out for the evening.

      As it turned out, my timing was diabolical. I found Maggie’s house easily enough, a neat brick terrace in a quiet street only a mile away from the motorway. I parked outside with a sinking heart as I registered that the house was in darkness. I walked up the crazy paved path and knocked on the stripped pine front door anyway. There was, of course, no response.

      As I walked back down the path, a small calico cat rubbed itself against my legs. I crouched down to stroke it. ‘Don’t suppose you know where they’ve gone, do you?’ I asked softly.

      ‘Darsett Trades and Labour Club,’ a deep male voice said from behind me. I nearly fell over in shock.

      I stood up hastily and stared in the direction of the voice. A tall dark hunk was standing by the gate with a box of groceries. ‘I’m sorry?’ I asked inadequately.

      ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, startling you like that,’ he apologized with a smile that lit up twinkling eyes. I shrugged. Eyes like that I’d forgive most things. ‘If you’re looking for Maggie and Moira, they’ve gone to Darsett Trades and Labour Club,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, right,’ I hedged. ‘I didn’t realize they were out tonight. I’ll catch