Dead Beat (4 page)

Shelley shook her head, and the beads she has plaited into her hair rattled. I wondered, not for the first time, how she could bear the noise first thing in the morning. But then, since Shelley’s mission in life is keeping her two teenage kids out of trouble, I don’t think there are too many mornings when she wakes with a hangover. There are times when I could hate Shelley.

Mostly I find myself in her debt. She is the most efficient secretary I have ever encountered. She’s a 35-year-old divorcée who somehow manages to look like a fashion plate in spite of the pittance we pay her. She’s just under five feet tall, and so slim and fragile-looking that she makes even me feel like the Incredible Hulk. I’ve been to her cramped little two-up, two-down and in spite of living with a pair of teenagers, the house is spotlessly clean and almost unnaturally tidy. However, Richard has pointed out to me more than once that I am a subscriber to the irregular verb theory of language—“I have high standards, you are fussy, she is obsessive.”

She picked up the cassette and slotted it into her own player. “I’ll have it for you later this afternoon,” she said.

“Thanks. Copy in Bill’s system as well as mine, please. Is he free?”

She glanced at the lights on her PBX. “Looks like it.”

I crossed the office in four strides and knocked on Bill’s door. His deep voice growled, “Come in.” As I shut the door behind me, he looked up from the screen of his turbo-charged IBM compatible and grunted, “Give me a minute, Kate.” Bill likes things turbo-charged. Everything from his Saab 9000 convertible to his sex life.

There was a fierce frown of concentration on his face as he scanned the screen, tapping the occasional key. No matter how often I watch Bill at his computers, I still feel a sense of incongruity. He really doesn’t look like a computer boffin or a private investigator. He’s six foot three inches tall and resembles a shaggy blond bear. His hair and beard are shaggy, his eyebrows are shaggy over his ice blue eyes, and when he smiles his white teeth look alarmingly like the ones that are all the better to eat you with. He’s a one-man EU. I still haven’t got the hang of his ancestry, except that I know his grandparents were, severally, Danish, Dutch,

He went on to take a first in computer sciences at UMIST. While he was working on his Ph.D., he was headhunted by a computer software house as a troubleshooter. After a couple of years, he went freelance and became increasingly interested in the crooked side of computers. Soon, his business grew to include surveillance and security systems and all aspects of computer fraud and hacking. I met him towards the end of the first year of my law degree. He had a brief fling with my lodger, and we stayed friends long after the romance was over. He asked me to do a couple of legal jobs for him—process serving, researching particular Acts of Parliament, that sort of thing. I ended up working for him in my vacations. My role quickly grew, for Bill soon discovered it was easier for me to go undercover in a firm with problems than it was for him. After all, no one ever looks twice at the temporary secretary or data processor, do they? I found it all infinitely more interesting than my law degree. So when he offered me a full-time job after I’d passed my second year exams, I jumped at the chance. My father nearly had a coronary, but I appeased him by saying I could always go back to university and complete my degree if it didn’t work out.

Two years later, Bill offered me a junior partnership in the firm, and so Mortensen and Brannigan was born. I’d never regretted my decision, and once my father realized that I was earning a helluva lot more than any junior solicitor, or even a car worker like him, neither did he.

Bill looked up from his screen with a satisfied smile and leaned back in his chair. “Sorry about that, Kate. And how is Billy Smart’s circus today?”

“Sticking to the pattern,” I replied. I brought him quickly up to date and his look of happiness increased.

“How long till we wrap it up?” he asked. “And do you need anything more from me?”

“I’ll be ready to hand over to the clients in a week or so. And no, I don’t need anything right now, unless you want to get a numb

Bill got up from his chair and stretched. “It’s not our usual field,” he said eventually. “I don’t like missing persons. It’s timeconsuming, and not everyone wants to be found. Still, it might be straightforward enough, and it could lead us into a whole new range of potential clients. Plenty of schneid merchants around in the record business. Go and see what he wants, Kate, but make him no promises. We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to sleep on it. You look as if you could do with a good night’s sleep. These all-night rock parties are obviously too much for you these days.”

I scowled. “It’s nothing to do with partying. It’s more to do with mounting surveillance on a hyperactive insomniac.” I left Bill booting up his Apple Mac and headed for my own office. It’s really only a glorified cupboard containing a desk with my PC, a second desk for writing at, a row of filing cabinets and three chairs. Off it is an even smaller cupboard that doubles as my darkroom and the ladies’ toilet. For decoration, I’ve got a shelf of legal textbooks and a plant that has to be replaced every six weeks. Currently, it’s a three-week-old lemon geranium that’s already showing signs of unhappiness. I have the opposite of green fingers. Every growing thing I touch turns to brown. If I ever visit the Amazonian rainforests, there’ll be an ecological disaster on a scale that even Sting couldn’t prevent.

I sat down at my computer and logged on to one of several databases that we subscribe to. I chose the one that keeps extensive newspaper cuttings files on current celebrities, and I downloaded everything they had on Jett into my own computer. I saved the material to disc, then printed it out. Even if we decided not to go ahead with Jett’s assignment, I was determined to be fully briefed when we met. And since Jett himself had deprived me of my best source, I would have to do the best I could without Richard’s help.

It didn’t take me long to go through the printout, which ironically included a couple of Richard’s own articles. I now knew more than I had ever wanted to about any pop star, including Bjorn from Abba, focus of my own pre-teen crush. I knew all about Jett’s

   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 center 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-colored 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

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

“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

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.”

   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.”