Dead Beat

by Val McDermid

  I pried him away from the screen not with the temptations of my body but with the offer of a pub lunch. He got up eagerly and went off to his house to have a shower, a shave and a change of clothes. What I had omitted to mention was that this was to be a working lunch. A couple of weeks ago, I had followed one of Billy Smart's customers to a pub on the outskirts of Manchester. I wanted to take a look and see what was going on there. But a woman on her own would be both conspicuous and a target for the kind of assholes who think that a woman alone is desperate for their company. What better camouflage in a trendy young people's fun pub than Richard?

  We took my car, partly on environmental health grounds and partly so that Richard could have a drink. It took about twenty minutes to drive out to the pub in Worsley, a large 1950s tavern with a bowling green and a beer garden that ran down to the canal. The car park told me all I needed to know. Every car had its string of poser's initials - GTI, XR3i, Turbo. I felt like a second-class citizen with a mere SR. Inside was no better. The interior had been completely revamped according to the chapter of the brewery bible headed 'fun pub'. My first impression as we walked through the door was of pink neon and chrome. It looked like a tacky version of every New York bar featured in the teen movies of the last decade. I half-expected to find Tom Cruise throwing bottles around behind the bar.

  I was out of luck. The barman who shimmied up to serve us looked more like a cruiserweight. While Richard ordered the drinks, I took a good look around. The pub was busy for a lunchtime. 'Plenty of Traceys,' Richard commented as he glanced round.

  He wasn't wrong. The women looked as if collectively they might just scrape together enough neurons for a synapse. The men looked as if they desperately wanted to be taken for readers of GQ magazine. One day, I'm going to find a pub where I feel equally comfortable with the staff, the decor, the clientele and the menu. I rate the chances of that as high as coming home to find Richard doing the spring-cleaning.

  Richard handed me my orange juice and soda and I steered him over to a crowded corner of the lounge where I'd spotted my man. I'd briefed Richard on the way so he was happy to oblige. We sat down a few yards away at a table that gave me a good view of what my target was up to. He was sitting at a table with a bunch of eager young men and women around him. There was nothing particularly discreet about his operation. For a start, he was wearing a bright green Sergio Tacchini shell suit. In front of him on the table were half a dozen watches. I could identify the fake Rolexes and Guccis from that distance. Within minutes, all of them had been bought. He appeared to be charging fifty pounds a time, and getting it without a quibble. But he didn't seem to be passing them off as the real thing. Realistically, though, anyone trying that routine would have to be a lot more discreet, dealing one on one to make it look like an exclusive.

  Another half dozen watches appeared from Billy's contact's pockets, and most of them vanished as quickly as the others. He shuffled the remaining two back into his jacket then burrowed under the table. He surfaced with three cellophane packets containing shell suits. Surprise surprise. The suit he was wearing was a schneid.

  'Sometimes this job is a pain in the arse,' I muttered to Richard.

  He looked surprised. 'Did I hear right?' he asked in tones of wonderment. 'Did I hear you say you were less than one hundred per cent thrilled with your life in crime?'

  'Piss off,' I quipped wittily. 'Just look at those shell suits! They're the business. If this wasn't a surveillance operation, I'd be over there right now buying those suits. Take a look at the colours!' I couldn't take my eyes off two of the suits, one gold, one teal blue. I just knew I'd look wonderful in those colours.

  Richard got to his feet. 'Poor old Brannigan,' he teased. 'But I'm not working.' He moved towards the neighbouring table.

  'Richard!' I wailed. A couple of heads turned and I lowered my voice to a piercing whisper. 'Don't you dare!'

  He shrugged. 'Who's to know? Anybody asks you, I bought them for you as a present. You didn't have to know they were copies, did you?'

  'That's not the point,' I hissed. 'I do know. Sit down right now before you blow me out of the water.'

  Richard reluctantly did as I asked him. His face had sulk written all over it. “I thought you wanted one,' he muttered.

  'Of course I do. I also want a Carrier tank watch, but I can't afford the real thing. I dare say if Dennis had offered me a copy before I got involved in this assignment, I'd have bought it. But this job changes things. I'm sorry, Richard, I know 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 uf 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 realise 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 realised 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 apologised 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 realise they were out tonight. I'll catch up with them later.'

  'You a friend of theirs?' the hunk asked.

  'Friend of a friend, really,' I replied, walking down the path towards him. 'I know Maggie from Seagull.'

  'I'm Gavin,' he said. 'I live next door. We would have been going with them tonight except that we've got people coming for dinner. Still, I'm sure there will be plenty more chances to hear Moira sing in public'

  My heart jolted. Moira was singing? I swallowed hard and spoke before Gavin's helpful garrulity gave out. 'I didn't know it was tonight,' I improvised.

  'Oh yeah, the big night. Her first engagement. She's going to be a big success. I should know, I hear her rehearsing enough!'

  I smiled politely and thanked him for his help. 'I'll catch them another time,' I said, getting back into my car. Gavin sketched a half-wave from under his box and turned into the next house. I pulled out my atlas. I groaned. Darsett was a good twenty miles away. With a sigh, I headed back towards the motorway.

  12

  Within three minutes of entering Darsett Trades and Labour Club, I knew that not even double rates could compensate me for spending Saturday night there. I don't know enough about the northern club circuit to know if it's typical, but if it is, then my heartfelt sympathy goes out to the poor sods who make their living performing there. The building itself was a 1960s concrete box with all the charm of a dead dog. I parked among an assortment of old Cortinas and Datsuns and headed for the brightly lit entrance.

  Being a woman, I already had problems on my hands. In their infinite wisdom, working men's clubs don't allow women to be members in their own right. Strange women trying to get in alone are a complete no-no. The doorman, face marked with the blue hairline scars of a miner, wasn't impressed with my story that I was an agent there to see Moira perform, not even when I produced the business card that carefully doesn't specify what Mortensen and Brannigan are. Eventually, he grudgingly called the club secretary, who finally agreed to let me in, after informing me at great length that I would not be able to purchase alcoholic beverages.

  I regretted this rule and the fact that I was driving as soon as I crossed the threshold. The only way to make an evening at Darsett Trades and Labour Club tolerable was to be so pissed I wouldn't notice it. The bar, on my left, was brightly lit, packed and already blue with smoke. It sounded like a riot was in progress, an impression increased by the rugby scrum at the bar.

  I carried on through double doors under a blue neon sign that said Cabaret Room. Like the bar, the room shimmered under the glare of lights and the haze of cigarette smoke. It was crammed with small, round tables, two-thirds of which were occupied with chattering groups of men and women. Their gaiety was infectious, and I mentally ticked myself off for my patronising response to the club.

  At the far end of the room was a small stage. A trio of electronic organ, drums and bass were listlessly playing 'The Girl From Ipanema'. No one was listening. I looked around intently, trying to pick out Maggie in the crowd. At first, I couldn't see any woman on her own, but on the second sweep of the room, I spotted her.

  She was standing in the shadows right at the edge of the room about halfway back. Her clothes as much as her isolation marked her out. Unlike the other women in the room apart from me, she wasn't dressed up to the nines in teetering heels and a bright dress. Maggie wore jeans, a chambray shirt and a pair of trainers. From where I was standing, it looked like she had also avoided the cosmetic excesses of the rest of the room. She was about my height, with curly, shoulder-length pepper and salt hair. She was carrying about ten pounds overweight, but she looked sturdy rather than flabby.

  For a moment,
I toyed with the idea of making the first approach to her, but decided against it. I suspected she'd leap immediately to Moira's defence and give me the elbow without actually weighing up what I had to say, and I couldn't blame her for that. Even if I'd been going to approach her, I was cut off at the pass. The organist finished the Stan Getz piece with a flourish and played a fanfare. A burly man leapt on to the stage and peppered the audience with a few risque jokes, then announced, 'Ladies and animals, put your hands together for tonight's star attraction, a young lady who's going all the way to the top. Let's hear it for Moira Moore!'

  With another fanfare on the organ, he vanished into the wings. The band played the opening chords of 'To Be With You Tonight' and Moira walked out on to the stage. As she moved forward into the fixed spotlight, she looked nervously from side to side, as if searching for an escape route that wasn't there. She was wearing a tight blue lurex dress which came to just above her knees. She looked painfully thin.

  As the band finished the intro, Moira leaned forward to the mike and began to sing. To say I was astonished would be putting it mildly. Could this really be the woman who'd been happy to take a back-seat, lyricist's role because her voice wasn't up to scratch? OK, she didn't have the silky richness of Jett, but by any other standards Moira's was quite a voice. Slightly husky, almost bluesy, she hit the notes perfectly, and the nerves that were obvious in her body language didn't transmit themselves into her singing. Even the louts in the audience shut up to listen to Moira sing.