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Authors: Val McDermid

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BOOK: Clean Break
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Richard nodded, as if confirming a guess. “Thought as much,” he said. “Bit too pointless for me, all that humping metal around. I prefer something a bit more social for keeping in shape. But then, I suppose it can't be easy finding people who want to play with you when you're an insurance claims manager,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Bit like being a VAT man.”
“I've never had any problems finding people to play with,” Michael drawled. I had no trouble believing that. “What exactly is it that you do to keep fit, Richard? Squash? Real tennis? Polo? Or do you prefer raves?”
Richard almost choked on his food. Neither of us rushed to
perform the Heimlich maneuver. Recovering, he swallowed hard and said, “I'm a footie man myself. Local league. Every Sunday morning, never mind the weather.”
Michael smiled. “Remember that poem? ‘The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold?' I've never been much into mud myself,” he said.
“Had a good evening?” I chipped in before things got out of hand.
Richard nodded. “Been down the Academy listening to East European grunge bands. Some good sounds.” He gave me one of his perfect smiles. “How's your workload progressing?”
I shrugged. “Slowly,” I said. “Michael's been giving me some background on the art front, and I've got Alexis to chuck a few bricks into the pond. It's a question of waiting to see what floats to the surface.”
“And we all know what floats,” Richard said drily, glancing at Michael.
Michael decided enough was enough. He drained his mug and put it down on the coffee table. “I'd better be on my way,” he said. “Busy day tomorrow.”
We both stood up. “I'll see you out,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Richard,” Michael said politely on his way out the door.
“Feeling's entirely mutual,” Richard said ironically.
On the doorstep, I thanked Michael for dinner. “It was a pleasant change,” I said.
“I can see that,” Michael said. “Maybe we could do it again some time.”
I only hesitated for a moment. “That'd be nice,” I admitted.
“Let me know how your investigation progresses,” he said. “Stay in touch.” He leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. He smelled of warm, clean animal, the last traces of his aftershave lingering muskily underneath. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as my body tingled.
I turned my head and met his lips in a swift, breathless kiss. Before it could turn into anything more, I stepped back. “Drive safely,” I said.
I watched him walk to his car, enjoying the light bounce of his step. Then I took a deep breath and walked back indoors.
 
After Michael had gone, Richard polished off the remains of his Chinese, making no comment on my choice of company for the evening. He asked if I wanted to see a movie the following evening and we bickered companionably about what we'd go to see, me holding out for
Blade Runner: The Director's Cut
, revisiting the Cornerhouse for the umpteenth time. “No way,” Richard had said emphatically. “I'm not going to the Cornerhouse. I'm getting too old for art houses. They're full of politically correct wankers trying to pretend they understand the articles in the
Modern Review
. You can't move for people rabbiting about semiotics and Foucault and deconstruction.” He paused, then got to the real reason. “Besides, they don't sell popcorn or Häagen-Dazs. You can't call that a night out at the movies.”
I gave in gracefully. Satisfied that I'd made the concession, Richard announced he had to write an article about the post-Communist rockers for some American West Coast magazine, and he wanted to get it written and faxed before he went to bed. He swept the remains of his takeaway into the carrier bag and gave me a swift hug. “I love you, Brannigan,” he muttered gruffly into my ear.
I fell asleep with the words of Dean Friedman's “Love is not Enough” swirling round my head like a mantra. I woke up alone the next morning, and not particularly surprised by that. I felt strangely deflated, as if something I'd been anticipating hadn't happened. I wasn't sure if that was to do with Michael or Richard. Either way, I didn't like the feeling that my state of mind was dependent on anyone else. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water pour down. A friend of mine who's into all that New Age stuff reckons a shower cleanses your aura. I don't know about that, but it always helps me put things into perspective.
By the time I walked through the office door, I was feeling in control of my life again. That might have had something to do with the miracle of finding a parking meter that was nearer the office than my house. Parking in this city gets worse by the day. I've been
seriously wondering how much it would cost to bribe the security men at the BBC building across the road to let me park my car inside their compound. Probably more than I earn.
Shelley was on the phone, so I headed straight for the coffee maker, a shiny chrome cappuccino machine that my partner, the gadget king of the Northwest, bought us for a treat after a grateful client gave us a bonus because we'd done the job faster than Speedy Gonzales. Somehow, I couldn't see either of our current employers rewarding my swiftness. I was beginning to feel like I was wading through cement on both cases.
Before I could fill the scoop with coffee, I heard Shelley say, “Hang on, she's just walked in.”
I turned to see her waving the phone at me. “Alexis,” Shelley said.
I headed for my office. “Coffee?” It was a try-on, I admit it. Mortensen and Brannigan adopts a firm “you want it, you make it” policy on coffee. But every now and again, Shelley takes pity on me.
I guess I didn't look needy enough, for there were no signs of her crossing the office after she'd switched the call through. I sighed and picked up the phone. “ 'Morning,” I said.
“Don't sound so enthusiastic,” the familiar Liverpudlian voice rasped. “Here am I, bringing you tidings from the front line and you greet me with all the eager anticipation of a woman expecting bad news from her dentist.”
“It's your own fault. Never come between a woman and her cappuccino,” I retorted crisply.
I heard the sound of smoke being inhaled, then a husky chuckle. “Some of us don't need coffee this late in the day. Some of us have already done half a day's work, KB.”
“Self-righteousness doesn't become you,” I snarled. “Did you call for a reason, or did you just want to be told there's something clever about having a job that starts in the middle of the night?”
“There's gratitude for you,” Alexis said cheerfully. “I call you up to pass on vital information, and what thanks do I get?”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you, O bountiful one,” I grovelled. “So what's this vital piece of information?”
“What have you got to swap for it?”
I thought for a moment. “You can borrow my leather jacket for a week.”
“Too tight under the armpits. What's the matter, KB? Got no gossip to trade? What's happening with the insurance man?”
If the
Chronicle
's editor ever decides he needs to pacify the anti-smoking lobby and fire Alexis, she'll never starve. She could set up tomorrow in a booth on Blackpool pier. She wouldn't even have to change her name. Gypsy Alexis Lee sounds just fine to me. “We had dinner last night,” I said abruptly.
“And?”
“And nothing. Dinner at That Café, he came in for coffee, Richard barged in waving a Chinese, they squabbled like two dogs over a bone, he went home.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone, what do you take me for? On second thoughts, don't answer that. Trust me, Alexis, nothing's happening with the insurance man. You'll be the first to know if and when there is. Now, cut the crap and tell me what you rang for.”
“OK. The jungle drums have obviously been beating after that piece I did yesterday on the robberies.”
Nothing warms the cockles of the heart like the smug self-satisfaction of being right. “So what's the word on the street?”
“I don't know about the street. I'm working the stately home circuit these days,” Alexis replied disdainfully. “I've just come off the blower with a punter called Lord Ballantrae.”
“Who's he?”
“I'm not entirely sure of all the titles, since I've not looked him up in Debrett yet, but he's some sort of Scotch baron.”
“You mean he's in the whisky trade?”
“No, soft girl, he's a baron and he comes from Scotland, though you'd never know to hear him talk.”
“So has he been burgled too?”
“Yeah, but that's not why he rang. Apparently, after he got turned over, he had a chat with some of his blue-blood buddies and found there was a lot of it about, so they got together in a sort of semi-informal network to pool their info and help other rich bastards to avoid the same happening to them. One of them
spotted the story I did and told him about it, so he rang me for a chat. I'm doing a news feature on him and his gang, about how they're banding together to foil the robbers. And get this. They call themselves the Nottingham Group.” She paused, expectantly.
I took the bait. It was a small price to pay to keep the wheels of friendship oiled. “Go on, tell me. I know you're dying to. Why the Nottingham Group?”
“After the Sheriff of Nottingham. On account of their goal is to stop these robbin' hoods from ripping off their wealth for redistribution to the selected poor.”
“Nice one,” I said. “You going to give me his number?” I copied down Alexis's information and stuck the Post-it note on my phone. “Thanks.”
“Is that it? What about ‘I owe you one'?”
Nobody's ever accused Alexis of being a shrinking violet. “I don't. You're paying me back for your exclusive last night.”
“OK. You free for lunch?”
“Doubt it, somehow. What about tonight? Richard and I are going to the multi-screen. Do you two want to join us?”
“Sorry, we've already booked for
Blade Runner
at the Cornerhouse.”
Typical. “Don't forget your Foucault,” I said.
I was halfway out of my chair, destination coffee machine, when the phone rang again. Suppressing a growl, I grabbed it and injected a bit of warmth into my voice. “Good morning, Kate Brannigan speaking.”
“It's Trevor Kerr here.”
I wished I hadn't bothered with the warmth. “Hello, Mr. Kerr. What news?”
“I could ask you the same thing, since I'm paying you to investigate this business,” he grumbled. “I'm ringing to let you know that my lab people have come up with some results from the analysis I asked them to carry out.”
Not a man to give credit where it's due, our Mr. Kerr. I stifled a sigh and said, “What did they discover?”
“A bloody nightmare, that's what. About half the samples they tested aren't bloody KerrSter.”
“Cyanide?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
“No, nothing like that. Just a mixture of chemicals that wouldn't clean anything. Not only would they not clean things, there are certain surfaces they'd ruin. Anything with a sealed finish like floor tiles or worktops. Bastards!” Kerr spat.
“Are these common chemicals, or what?”
“Ever heard of caustic soda? That's how bloody common we're talking here.”
“So cheap as well as common?” I asked.
“A lot bloody cheaper than what we put in KerrSter, let me tell you. So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded pugnaciously.
“Your killer's a counterfeiter,” I said, ignoring his belligerence. “Either they're trying to wreck your business or else they're simply after a quick buck.”
“Even I'd got that far,” he said sarcastically. “What I want you to do is find these buggers while I've still got a business left. You hear what I'm saying, Miss Brannigan? Find these bastards, or there won't be a pot left to pay you out of.”
8
Sometimes I wonder how clients managed to go to the bathroom before they hired us. Trevor Kerr was clearly one of those who think once they've hired you, you're responsible for everything up to and including emptying the wastepaper bins at night. He was adamant that it was down to me to go and see the detectives investigating the death of Joey Morton, the Stockport publican, to inform them that the person who was sabotaging Kerrchem's products was probably the one they should be beating up with rubber hoses. Incidentally, never believe the politicians and top coppers who tell you that sort of thing can't happen now all interviews are tape recorded. There are no tape recorders in police cars or vans, and I've heard of cases where it's taken three hours for a police car to travel two inner city miles.
I wasn't relishing telling some overworked and overstressed police officer how to run an inquiry. If there's one thing your average cop hates more than becoming the middle man in a domestic, it's being put on the right track by a private eye. I was even less thrilled when Kerr told me who the investigating officer was. Detective Inspector Cliff Jackson and I were old sparring partners. The first time one of my cases ended in murder, he was running the show. He hadn't exactly covered himself in glory, twice arresting the wrong person before the real killer had eventually ended up behind bars, largely as a result of some judicious tampering by Mortensen and Brannigan. You'd think he'd have been grateful. Think again.
I drove out to the incident room in Stockport. The one time I'd have welcomed being stuck in traffic, I cruised down Stockport Road without encountering a single red light. My luck was still out
to lunch when I arrived at the police station. Jackson was in. I didn't even have to kick my heels while he pretended to be too busy to slot me in right away.
BOOK: Clean Break
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