Val McDermid - Dead Beat

It was strange to see how quickly his natural authority had returned to him. I couldn't believe it was my agreeing to work for him that had done the trick. If he was capable of such mercurial mood shifts, maybe my initial assessment of his innocence had been way off-beam.

Jett threw open the drawing room door just on the stroke of twelve. They were all there except Neil. None of them looked as if they'd had much sleep. Equally, none of them looked like they'd shed too many tears.

As I entered behind Jett, Kevin groaned. 'Oh God, Jett, I told you to leave her out of this. We don't need an extra nosy parker round here. The cops have already turned this place into a goldfish bowl.'

'He's right, Jett,' Gloria chipped in. 'You need to come to terms with your grief. Having her around the place isn't going to help.'

Jett threw himself into a spindly-legged chair. Miraculously, it withstood the impact. 'I can't be doing any grieving while I know Moira's killer is under my roof, eating my food and drinking my booze. Kate's here to find out which one of you is my enemy. Any of you that doesn't want to be part of my team, you can go now. But you want to stick around, then you co-operate with Kate one hundred per cent. She'll be reporting directly to me, and I don't want her interfered with. Is that clear?'

Kevin cast his eyes up to heaven and muttered, 'Give me strength!' I knew exactly how he felt. Melodrama was never my favourite art form. But it was Tamar who was right on the ball. She crossed the room and hugged him. 'Whatever you need is all right by me, Jett.' I tried not to vomit, but it was hard.

Before anyone else could chip in with their tuppence worth, Neil came in. 'Sorry I'm late, Jett,' he apologised. 'I've been issuing full press statements to all the nationals, and it took longer than I thought.'

'Enter stage left, the in-house vulture,' Micky sneered.

'Somebody's got to handle them,' Neil replied mildly. 'Better that it's someone who can string two sentences together.'

'Meaning what?' Micky demanded belligerently.

'My God, can't you two stop bickering for once? Have some respect for the dead,' Tamar shouted. Her shameless hypocrisy left me gasping, but no one else seemed to notice. Micky mumbled an apology and walked over to the window to watch the rain falling.

'You on the payroll, then?' Neil asked me sotto voce. I nodded. He smiled conspiratorially. 'Glad I'm not the only one making a shilling out of Moira's death.'

I'd only been there an hour and already I was heartily sick of the lot of them. Some jobs should come stamped with a government health warning. Something like: 'You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.'

I decided it was time to start asking questions. But in the great tradition of the best-laid plans, I was thwarted by the arrival of Inspector Jackson and his merry men. Jackson marched in as if he'd taken a long lease on the place. He'd found time for a fresh suit and shirt, though the tie was the same. Maybe it held some Masonic significance I didn't recognise. Hot on his heels was an older man, who moved to Jackson's side and announced, 'Good day, ladies and gentlemen. I am Detective Superintendent Ron Arbuthnot and I will be in overall charge of this inquiry. I know some of you have given my officers initial statements, but we will be requiring you for further interviews in the course of the day. Please arrange to keep yourselves available.' The Royal Command having been delivered, Arbuthnot wheeled his tubby body round past Jackson and left us.

As soon as he'd gone, Jackson turned on me. 'Have you got some kind of death wish, Brannigan?' he hissed as he took me by the arm and led me to the door. 'I've already thrown you out of here once. Is business so bad you've got to come touting?'

'I was invited here,' I told him through clenched teeth. 'Get your hands off me. Now.'

He reluctantly let me go, then opened the door and tried to usher me through it. I stood my ground. Jett called, 'You OK, Kate? The lady's a friend, Inspector. I want her here.'

Jackson turned to Jett and flashed an insincere smile. 'I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr Franklin. We have some questions for Miss Brannigan, and after that, we'll be needing to talk to you again. Perhaps it would be better if she came back tomorrow.'

Jett glared at Jackson. I wasn't sure if that was on my account or because Jackson had used his real name. Jett doesn't like to be reminded of its patriotic overtones. Let's face it, which of us outside the Tory Cabinet would like to be saddled with Winston Gladstone Franklin?

'It's OK, Jett,' I said reassuringly. 'I'll come back tomorrow morning, OK?' There were things I wanted to do, and none of this lot were going anywhere. They would keep. Maggie Rossiter might not be so keen to talk if I waited till she'd got her emotions under control.

I was in the Colcutt Arms by half-past twelve. It turned out that the only questions Jackson had for me related to what I was doing back at the manor and what I'd done for Jett in the past, nudge nudge, wink wink. I didn't like his innuendoes, and suspected he was trying to needle me into an admission of some sort. Obviously, he'd got no more change out of Bill than he had out of me. At least he wasn't challenging my version of the discovery of the body yet. It wasn't just relief that drove me to the local pub. I was after information. I spotted the members of Her Majesty's Gutter Press in the lounge bar, and gave it a body-swerve. What the saloon bar lacked in creature comforts it made up for by the complete absence of journos. If I was going to go into my chatty passing-motorist act, I didn't want an audience.

The harried barmaid who served me seemed as glad to escape from them as I was. She bustled through from the lounge when I pressed a bell on the bar and pushed a strand of bottle blonde hair from her forehead. She was in her forties, and looked shell-shocked to find herself in the throes of a lunchtime rush.

'Busy today,' I said sympathetically as she poured me a St Clement's.

'You're not wrong,' she replied. 'Ice?' I nodded. 'Last time we were this busy of a dinner time was Boxing Day.'

'Bad business up the road.' I remarked as I sipped my drink. She was happily leaning against the bar, relieved to escape the clod-hopping probings of the press. I hoped my questions fitted in the category of Great British Pub Gossip.

'That poor woman!' she exclaimed. 'Do you know, she was in here last night with a friend of hers, sitting in a corner of my lounge bar! And next thing you know, she's murdered in her own home. You're not safe anywhere these days. You'd think with all the security they've got up there they'd be all right. I said to my Geoff, it's like Fort Knox up there, and they're not safe. Makes you wonder.'

My ears pricked up at the news of Moira's meeting in the pub, but I didn't want to pounce too eagerly. 'I sometimes wonder if it's all the security that attracts them,' I responded, playing along with the Passing Vagabond theory. 'You know, like a challenge or something.'

'Well, all I can say is we've never had any trouble in this village 'til we had so-called rock stars living here.' Her mouth pursed, revealing a nest of wrinkles she'd have been mortified to see in a mirror.

'Do they come in here much?' I asked casually.

'One or two of them. They've got a journalist living up there, writing some book about Jett, he's never out of here normally. I don't know when he gets his writing done. He's in here for a couple of hours most dinner times and he gets through half a dozen pints every session. Not that I'm complaining – I'm glad of the custom in the winter months. Sometimes I wonder why we bother opening up in the middle of the day. What we take across the bar hardly covers the electricity,' she grumbled.