Clean Break (32 page)

“Thank you,” I said. “You've been most helpful.” If I had my way, Janice was going to be a lot more helpful before the day was out.

 

There was nothing to mark out the Warrington Motorway Motel from the dozens of others that sprang up around the motorway network in the late Eighties. A two-story, sprawling red-brick building with a low-pitched roof, a car park and a burger joint next door, it could have been anywhere between the Channel Tunnel and that point on the edge of the Scottish highlands where the motorways run out. Rooms for around thirty quid a throw, TV but no phone, no restaurant, bar or lounge. Cheap and cheerless.

Late morning wasn't a busy time behind the reception desk. Janice—or someone who'd stolen her name badge—looked pleased at the sight of another human being. The reception area was so small that with two of us present, it felt intimate. On the way over, I'd toyed with various approaches. I'd decided I was too
strung out to try for subtlety. Besides, I still had a wad of cash in my bag that had no official home.

I dropped one of my cards on the desk halfway through Janice's welcome speech. Her pert features registered surprise, followed by an air of suppressed excitement. “I've never met a private detective before,” she confided, giving me the wide-eyed once-over. I hoped I wasn't too much of a disappointment.

I followed the card with a photograph of Gail I'd persuaded Alexis to lend me. “This woman's a regular here,” I stated baldly. “She comes here once a week with the same bloke.”

Janice's eyes widened. “I'm not supposed to release information about guests,” she said wistfully.

I leaned on the desk and smiled. “Forgive me being so personal, Janice, but how much do they pay you?”

Startled, she blurted out the answer without thinking. “A hundred and seventy pounds a week.”

I opened my bag and took out the five hundred I'd counted out on the way. I placed it on the desk and pushed it towards her. “Nearly three weeks' money. Tax free. No comebacks. I don't even want a receipt.”

Her eyes widened. She stared at the cash, then at me, consternation clear in her face. “What for?”

“All I want to know is how often they come and how long they stay. I want to know when they're due here next. Then I want to book the room next door. Oh, and five minutes in their room before they arrive. There's no reason why anyone should know you've helped me.” I nudged the money nearer to her.

“It's for a divorce, isn't it?” she said.

I winked. “I'm not supposed to release information either. Let's just say this pair shouldn't be doing what they've been doing.”

Suddenly, her hand snaked out and the dosh disappeared faster than a paper-wrapped prawn off Richard's plate. She tapped Gail's photograph with a scarlet fingernail. “She's been coming here with this bloke for about a year now. They always book as Mr. and Mrs. Chester. It's usually a Wednesday. They arrive separately, usually about half past two. I don't know when they leave, because I go off at half past four.”

I nodded, as if this was exactly what I'd expected to hear. “And when are they booked in next?”

“I think you've dropped lucky,” she said, consulting her screen. “Yeah, that's right. They've got a room booked today.” She looked up at me, smirking. “I bet you knew that, didn't you?”

Again, I winked. “Maybe you could let me into the room they'll be in, then book me in next door?”

Eagerly, she nodded. Funny how excited people get when they feel like they're part of the chase. “I'll give you their key,” she said. “But bring it back quick as you can.”

I picked up the key and headed for the lift. Room 103 was a couple of doors down the corridor from the lift. The whole floor was eerily silent. I let myself in, and gave the room a quick scan. I could have drawn it from memory, it was so similar to every motel room I'd ever camped out in. Because I hadn't been able to get into the office to pick up proper surveillance equipment, I'd had to rely on what I could pick up from the local electronics store. A small tape recorder with a voice-activated radio mike hadn't made much of a dent in my payoff from Turner. I took out my Swiss Army knife and unscrewed the insipid seascape from above the bed. I stuck the mike to the back of the picture with a piece of Elastoplast, then screwed it back on to the wall. There was a gap of about a quarter of an inch between the picture and the hessian wallpaper, but I didn't think Gail and Desmond were there for the décor.

I quickly checked the mike was working, then I was out of there. I returned the key to Janice and went over to the burger joint for supplies. I settled down in my room with a giant cheeseburger, fries, a large coffee and a bag of doughnuts. I stuck the earpiece of the tape recorder in my ear and waited. I couldn't believe myself. I felt like I was playing the starring role in the worst kind of clichéd private-eye drama; staking out the seedy motel for the couple indulging in illicit sex. All I needed was a snap-brimmed trilby and a bottle of bourbon to feel like a complete idiot.

While I was waiting, I rang Michael Haroun. “Sorry about last night,” I said. “I was helping the police with their inquiries.”

“They
arrested
you?”

“Behave. They only wanted a friendly chat. They were just a little insistent about having it right that minute.”

“My God, you like to sail close to the wind, don't you?”

“My yachting friends tell me that's where you have to be if you want to travel fast,” I said. What was it about this man that brought out the portentous asshole in me?

“So is this a social or professional call?” he asked.

“Purely social. I wanted to offer you dinner tomorrow as a penance for cancelling yesterday.”

“You cook, as well as everything else?”

“I do, but that's not what I had in mind. How does the Market sound?”

“Fabulous. My favorite restaurant in town. What time?”

“I'll see you there about half past seven,” I promised. To hell with Barclay.

The feeling of well-being that I got from talking to Michael didn't last long. There's nothing more boring than sitting around in a featureless motel room waiting for something to happen. Patience and I aren't normally on speaking terms, so I always get really edgy on jobs like this. It's not so bad doing a stakeout in the car; at least I can listen to the radio and watch the world go by. But here, there was nothing to do but stare at the walls.

The monotony broke around twenty past two. My earpiece told me that the door to the next room had closed. At once, I was on the alert, my free ear pressed to the wall. I heard the toilet flush, then, a few minutes later, the door closed again. There was a mumble of what sounded like greetings and endearments, irritatingly incomprehensible. At a guess, they were still in the passage by the bathroom, rather than in the room proper.

More mumblings, then gradually, I could make out what they were saying.

“… taking a risk,” a man's voice said.

“You said what I told you to, didn't you?” Gail's voice. Unmistakably.

“Yeah, I told my mother I needed some time on my own, that I was going for a drive and would she look after the kids.”

“And did she act like she thought you were behaving oddly?”

“No,” the man admitted.

“Well, then,” Gail said. There was the instantly recognizable sound of kissing, the groans of desire. “I needed to see you,” Gail went on when she next surfaced. “I wanted you so bad, Dessy.”

“Me too,” he said. More of the kind of noises you get in Tom Cruise movies. I half expected to hear “Take my breath away” swelling in the background.

“We did it, you know,” Gail said exultantly in the next break. “We're going to get away with this. Nobody suspects a thing.”

“What about that private eye? You sure she doesn't know anything?”

“Positive. She was just on a fishing expedition, that was obvious. If she'd had anything solid to go on, she'd have let me know. Cocky bitch.”

I wasn't the only one who was cocky. Only I had better reason to be. I checked that the tape was still running.

“Have you seen the news?” Gail asked.

“What news?” Desmond said, sounding nervous.

“About the chemical company,” she said. “It was all over the
Evening Chronicle
and the local TV news.”

“We haven't had the TV on much. We're supposed to be in mourning,” Desmond said cynically. “What's been going on? Are they admitting liability?”

“Better than that,” Gail said. “Apparently, somebody's been trying to blackmail Kerrchem. Product tampering, they said it was. The police have arrested a man and a woman. Hang on, I've got the paper in my bag.” There was the sound of rustling, then silence.

Then Desmond let out a low whistle. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed. “The icing on the cake. Nobody's going to look twice at us now, are they?”

Famous last words, I thought to myself.

“Exactly. It's turned out even better than we planned. The police might think I had a motive for wanting rid of Joey, but they're not going to bother digging around in my life when they've got a perfect pair of scapegoats.”

And even though his access to photographic chemicals meant Desmond Halloran could probably get his hands on cyanide
without too much trouble, I reckoned the police weren't even going to think about suspecting him while they had Simon and Sandra behind bars. Besides, according to Alexis, the Hallorans were supposed to have an idyllic marriage. No one had an inkling that Desmond Halloran's Wednesday afternoons were spent in a motel room near Warrington.

The smooching noises had begun again. Then Gail said, “In a year or so, when we've got to know each other because of the court cases we'll be filing against Kerrchem, no one will be surprised when we decide to get married. After all, we'll have had so much in common.”

Desmond giggled, an irritating, high-pitched whinny. Never mind his murderous instincts, that giggle alone should have put any reasonable woman off him for life. “Talk about coincidence,” he cackled. “I bet those two blackmailers are sweating.”

After that, things got a lot less interesting for me, though Gail and Desmond obviously thought different. There was a lot of kissing and groaning and embarrassing lines like, “Give it to me, big boy.” Then they were grunting like a pair of Wimbledon champions. I pulled out the earpiece in disgust. It's not that I'm a prude, but it felt like this pair were shagging in an open grave. I sat patiently on the bed, watching the winking red light on the tape machine that told me it was recording. After an hour, I reckoned I'd got more than enough to nail the scumbags.

It was time to go and play at good citizens.

I dumped another oner on Janice's desk. “You've got an office through the back?” I asked.

She nodded, never taking her eyes off the money. “I'd like to use the phone there for a couple of minutes. I know you're not supposed to allow customers access to your phone, never mind your office, but if anyone kicks off, tell them I said it was an emergency.” I winked again. Strange how I develop that tic whenever I'm sharing my wealth with the less fortunate.

Janice lifted the access flap at the side of the reception desk and I went through to the tiny office, closing the door behind me. I rang the familiar number of Greater Manchester police and asked for the Stockport incident room. The detective who answered didn't seem very keen to put me through to Inspector Jackson. He told me firmly that anything I had to say to the boss could equally be said to him. Clearly a man desperate for Brownie points. “I know he wants to talk to me,” I insisted. “He wants to talk to me so badly that he's had two of his lads sitting outside my house for the last two days.”

“Hold on,” he said grudgingly. “I'll see if he's free.”

Jackson came on the line immediately. “At last,” he said grimly. “Why have you been avoiding me, Miss Brannigan? I thought you were very hot on civic duty the last time we spoke.”

“I'm sorry, Inspector, I've been a bit busy. And I knew you wouldn't be very keen to take me seriously since the last criminals I handed over to you weren't exactly what you were looking for.”

He sighed. “Cut the smartarse remarks and get to the beef,” he said. “When are you coming in to talk to me?”

“I rather thought you might want to come to me,” I said sweetly.
“I have something I'd like you to hear. I'll happily play it over the phone, though I don't know how well you'll be able to hear it.”

“If you've been interfering with my case again …” he said heavily, letting some unspoken threat hang in the air. I wasn't scared; I've been threatened by experts.

“Just listen, please.” I pressed play and held the speaker of the cassette player up to the mouthpiece of the phone. I'd rewound to the crucial exchange where Gail had conveniently outlined the murder plan. I let the tape run for a few minutes, then clicked it off. “The voices you just heard are Gail Morton and Desmond Halloran. I've only just made this recording. The pair of them are still in Room 103 at the Warrington Motorway Motel. If you hurry, you might just catch them at it.”

As I replaced the receiver, I heard a splutter of rage from Jackson. Like the man said, I'm into performing my civic duty. I didn't want him to waste time cursing me out when he should be jumping in a motor and shooting over here, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

I thanked Janice politely for the use of her phone and handed back my room key. I went out to the car park and sat in my car. I don't know what I was planning to do if they'd left before the police got there, but I didn't have to make any decisions. A bare twenty minutes after I'd called, a pair of unmarked police cars screamed into the car park. I was impressed. They must have really hammered it.