Val McDermid - Dead Beat

I got up and tentatively put a hand on her arm, but she shook me off and huddled into a ball. Feeling helpless, I retreated to the sofa. While I waited for her to compose herself, I thought about what I'd heard. It sounded incredibly thin to me. I couldn't imagine any circumstances in which I'd behave as Maggie had done unless I was running from something. But equally, I couldn't see why she'd have killed Moira if she was telling the truth about their relationship.

After a few minutes, Maggie managed to find the strength from somewhere to dry her tears, clear her throat and look me in the eye. 'I didn't kill her. I'd have cheerfully killed the bastard who was trying to destroy her with the smack, but not Moira. Never Moira.'

Her denial was vehement. But I've heard good performances before. I didn't have enough information to try to get beyond that right now, but if I uncovered it, I'd be back. This was one case where I couldn't let sentiment get in the way. 'I believe you,' I said, almost convinced. 'Is there anything else, however trivial, that Moira said that might shed some light on what happened?'

Maggie got up and poured herself another mug of tea. She leaned against the table, eyebrows twisted in concentration. 'There was one thing,' she said uncertainly.

'Yes?' I asked expectantly.

'It's probably nothing, but last night in the pub, she asked me about one of the guys she used to know in Bradford. A bloke called Fat Freddy. She wanted me to ask around and see what he was into just now that might be connected to Jett in some way,' Maggie said hesitantly.

'Did she say why?'

Maggie shrugged. 'To be honest, I wasn't paying a lot of attention. She said something like, she'd seen him talking to someone from the manor who shouldn't be mixing with small-time villains like Fat Freddy.'

The whiff of red herring was getting pretty strong. If I'd been trying to divert suspicion away from myself, that was exactly the kind of unprovable line I'd come up with.

'Did she say who it was she'd seen with this Fat Freddy?' I asked cautiously.

Maggie shook her head. 'I'm sorry, she didn't. She said she wanted to find out what the connection was before she said anything more.'

I felt frustrated. Why couldn't Maggie have shown a bit more interest in something other than her own relationship with Moira? Had she no natural curiosity? If I'd dropped something like that on Richard, he'd have been on it like a rat up a drain, demanding chapter and verse on everything I'd seen and heard. 'What do you know about Fat Freddy?' I asked without much hope.

'He's a bit of a wide-boy. Moira knew him from when she was working in Bradford. She told me he was into buying and selling -whatever came along. I met him once. Moira bought a couple of jogging suits from him.'

'Would you know where to find him?'

Maggie pulled a face. 'Not really. Why? Do you think it might be important?'

'Yes, I do. I don't know how yet, but it could be.'

'OK. I'll see if I can find out what he's up to and get in touch with you. It's what Moira asked me to do.'

I tried not to show my surprise at her co-operation, and fished a card out of my wallet. I wrote my home number on the back. 'If you remember anything more or come up with something on Fat Freddy, give me a call any time, day or night.' I got to my feet. 'Thanks for being so helpful. I know it can't have been easy.'

'Believe me, the worst is yet to come. And I'm not talking about the police.' Maggie's face had frozen into a cold mask. 'There's no framework for grief when you're gay.'

'I'm sorry,' I said inadequately.

'Spare me the bleeding-heart liberal shit,' Maggie flashed back, suddenly angry. 'Just leave me alone.'

It wasn't hard to do exactly as she asked.

I spent what was left of the afternoon back at the office. I'd recorded my notes on tape on the way back from Leeds, so I didn't even have that to keep me occupied. I hate those spells in an investigation where everything is stalled. I didn't want to go back to the manor for another confrontation with Jackson. I'd rather wait till tomorrow, when the police presence would have eased off, and the initial shock would have worn off for the inhabitants.

So I did the paperwork on the Smart brothers that had been hanging over me for the last couple of weeks since our clients had passed our dossier on to the police. I was providing them with more details on my surveillance, so they'd be fully prepared for the raid they were planning for some unspecified date in the future when they got their act together. I ploughed through my diary for the relevant weeks, and there, in the middle of it all, I found the notes of my search for Moira. I couldn't help agreeing with Maggie that it was a pity I'd ever found her. Bill had been right. Missing persons' jobs produce more trouble than they're worth.

Before I left the office, I helped myself to a couple of Raymond Chandlers and a Dashiell Hammett from Bill's bookcase. I was going to need all the help I could get, and somehow I had the feeling that wandering down to Waterstone's for a book on how to solve a murder wasn't going to be a lot of use.

I got home just after six. For once, my heart sank when I saw Richard's car outside the house. I wasn't looking forward to telling him about the secrets I'd been keeping. But I couldn't hide my involvement in the murder investigation, not without moving out while it went on. There would be too many incoming phone calls and answering-machine messages from people connected to the case.

I decided to get it over with as quickly as possible, so I poured myself a drink and crossed the conservatory. Halfway across, Jett's first album hit me right between the ears. Richard's living room was empty, so I followed the music down to his study. He was so absorbed in the screen of his word processor that he didn't hear me enter.

Over his shoulder, I read, 'Moira got her second chance at the dream ticket just six weeks ago when she turned up at Jett's luxury mansion, a world away from the mean streets where they started off.' I don't know, even the journalists I trust can't get their facts right.

I tapped him gently on the shoulder and he glanced up at me with a distracted smile. 'Hiya, Brannigan.'

I leaned over and kissed him. 'Busy?'

'Ten minutes. You hear about Moira Pollock?' I nodded. 'I'm doing a piece for the Sunday Tribune - you know, wringing their withers, lots of colour, plenty of topspin. Be right with you.'

I left him to it. True to his word, ten minutes later he joined me in the conservatory, where I was watching the rain on the glass making rivers against the darkness. Richard threw himself into a basket chair and popped the top of a Michelob Dry.

T have a confession to make,' I announced.

Richard's eyebrows rose and he gave me his cute smile. 'You wore the same clothes two days' running? You forgot to hoover the lounge before you went out this morning? You ate a yoghurt that was two days past its sell-by date?'

I don't know who told him he was funny. It certainly wasn't me. 'This is serious,' I explained.

'Oh, shit! You left a ring round the bath!' he teased.

Sometimes I wish I lived with a grown-up.

'Moira Pollock didn't just turn up on Jett's doorstep out of the blue,” I announced bluntly. It was the only way to get his attention.

'How d'you know that?' he demanded, suddenly serious now his professional world was involved.

'Because it was me who drove her there.'

I had the momentary satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop. 'You what?' he exclaimed.

'I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you about it at the time. Jett swore me to secrecy, with particular reference to you. He hired us to find Moira for him. So I did. And now he's hired me to find Moira's killer.'

I'd dropped my bombshell, and it seemed to have left Richard momentarily speechless. He just stared at me, mouth open like a drunken actor who's forgotten his lines. Eventually, he closed his mouth, swallowed hard and said, 'You're at the wind-up.'