Val McDermid - Dead Beat

'News travels fast,' I responded, trying to move away from his hot breath, but failing thanks to the bar behind me.

'What d'you want with Moira?' There was a note of menace in his voice that pissed me off. I controlled the urge to kick him across the bar and said nothing as he leaned even closer. 'Don't try telling me you're on the game. And don't try telling me you're a cop. Those fuckers only come down here mob-handed. So who are you, and what d'you want with Moira?'

I know when the time for games is past. I reached into my pocket and produced a business card. I handed it to the pimp who was giving me a severe case of claustrophobia. It worked. He backed off a good six inches. 'It's nothing heavy. It's an old friend of hers who wants to make contact. If it works out, there could be good money in it for her.'

He studied the card and glared at me. 'Private Investigator,' he sneered. 'Well, baby, you're not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.'

My heart did that funny kind of flip it does when I get bad news. Two days ago, I couldn't have cared less if Moira were alive or dead. Now I was surprised to find that I cared a lot. 'You don't mean…?'

His lip curled in a sneer again. I suspected he'd perfected it in front of a mirror at the age of twelve and hadn't progressed to anything more adult. 'She was still alive when she left here. But the way she was pumping heroin into her veins, you'll be lucky to find her like that now. I kicked her out a year ago. She was no use to anybody. All she cared about was getting another fix into her.'

'Any idea where she went?' I asked with sinking heart.

He shrugged. 'That depends on how much it's worth.'

'And that depends on how good the information is.'

He smiled crookedly. 'Well, you're not going to know that till you check it out, are you? And I don't give credit. A hundred to tell you where she went.'

'Do you seriously think I'd carry that kind of cash in a shit pit like this? Fifty.'

He shook his head. 'No way. Fancy bit of skirt like you, you'll have a hole-in-the-wall card. Come back here in half an hour with a oner and I'll tell you where she went. And don't think you'll get the word off somebody else. Nobody round here's going to cross George.'

I knew when I was beaten. Whoever George was, he clearly had his patch sewn up tight. Wearily, I nodded and headed back towards the car.

The short drive from Leeds to its neighbouring city of Bradford is like traversing a continent. Crossing the city boundary, I found myself driving through a traditional Muslim community. Little girls were covered from head to foot, the only flesh on display their pale brown faces and hands. All the women who walked down the pavements with a leisurely rolling gait had their heads covered, and several were veiled. In contrast, most of the men dressed in western clothes, though many of the older ones wore the traditional white cotton baggy trousers and loose tops with incongruously heavy winter coats over them, greying beards spilling down their fronts. I passed a newly erected mosque, its bright red brick and toytown minarets a sharp contrast to the grubby terraces that surrounded it. Most of the grocery shops had signs in Arabic, and the butchers announced Hal-al meat for sale. It almost came as a culture shock to see signs in English directing me to the city centre.

I stopped at a garage to buy a street directory. There were three Asian men standing around inside the shop, and another behind the counter. I felt like a piece of meat as they eyed me up and down and made comments to each other. I didn't need to speak the language to catch their drift.

Back in the car, I looked up my destination in the map's index and worked out the best way to get there. George's information represented the worst value for money I'd had in a long time, but I wasn't in any position to stick around and argue the toss. All he'd been able to tell me was that Moira had moved to Bradford and was working the streets of the red light district round Manningham Lane. He either didn't know or wouldn't tell the name of her pimp, though he claimed that she was working for a black guy rather than an Asian.

It was just after one when I parked in a quiet side street off Manningham Lane. As I got out of the car, the smell of curry spices hit me and I realised I was ravenous. It had been a long time since last night's Chinese, and I had to start my inquiries somewhere. I went into the first eating place I came to, a small cafe on the corner. Three of the half dozen formica-topped tables were occupied. The clientele was a mixture of Asian men, working girls and a couple of lads who looked like building labourers. I went up to the counter, where a teenager in a grubby chef's jacket was standing behind a cluster of pans on a hotplate. On the wall was a whiteboard, which offered Lamb Rogan Josh, Chicken Madras, Mattar Panir and Chicken Jalfrezi. I ordered the lamb, and the youth ladled a generous helping into a bowl, opened a hot cupboard and handed me three chapatis. A couple of weeks before, their hygiene standards would have driven me out the door a lot faster than I'd come in. However, on the Smart surveillance, I'd learned that hunger has an interesting effect on the eyesight. After the greasy spoons I'd been forced to feed in up and down the country, I couldn't claim the cleanliness standards of an Egon Ronay any longer. And this cafe was a long way from the bottom of my current list.

I sat down at the table next to the prostitutes and helped myself to one of the spoons rammed into a drinking tumbler on the table. The first mouthful made me realise just how hungry I'd been. The curry was rich and tasty, the meat tender and plentiful. And all for less than the price of a motorway sandwich. I'd heard before that the best places to eat in Bradford were the Asian cafes and restaurants, but I'd always written it off as the inverse snobbery of pretentious foodies. For once, I was glad to be proved wrong.

I wiped my bowl clean with the last of the chapatis, and pulled out the most recent photograph I had of Moira. I shifted in my chair till I was facing the prostitutes, who were enjoying a last cigarette before they went out to brave an afternoon's trade. The cafe was so small I was practically sitting among them. I flipped the photograph on to the table and cut through their desultory chatter. 'I'm looking for her,' I explained. 'I'm not Old Bill, and I'm not after her money either. I just want a chat. An old friend wants to get in touch. Nothing heavy. But if she wants to stay out of touch, that's up to her.' I dropped one of my business cards on the table by the picture.

The youngest of the three women, a tired-looking Eurasian, looked me up and down and said, 'Fuck off.'

I raised my eyebrows and remarked. 'Only asking. You're sure you don't know where I'll find her? It could be a nice little earner, helping me out.'

The other two looked uncertainly at each other, but the tough little Eurasian got to her feet and retorted angrily, 'Stuff your money up your arse. We don't like pigs round here, whether they're private pigs or ones in uniform. Why don't you just fuck off back to Manchester before you get hurt?' She turned to her companions and snarled, 'Come on, girls, I don't like the smell in here.'

The three departed, teetering on their high heels and I picked up the photo and my card with a sigh. I hadn't really expected much co-operation, but I'd been a bit surprised by the vehemence of their reaction. Clearly the pimps in Bradford had drilled their employees in the perils of talking to strange women. I was going to have to do this the hard way, out on the streets and in the pubs till I found someone who was prepared to take the risk of talking to me.

I left the cafe and went back to move the car. I didn't feel happy about leaving it parked in such a quiet street for any length of time. I'd look for a nice big pub car park fronting on the main drag for a bit more security. As I started the engine, I was aware of a flash of movement at the edge of my peripheral vision and the passenger door was wrenched open. Bloody central locking, I cursed silently. My mouth dried with fear, and I thrust the car into gear, hoping to dislodge my assailant.