Val McDermid - Dead Beat

'Cheers, love,' he gasped as he leaned forward to tip the boxes into the van. He stepped back, hands on hips, head dropping forward.

'What you got in there anyway? Bricks?' I said as I stowed the other box for him.

He looked up at me and gave me the once over. 'Designer gear, love. Top-class stuff. None of your market stall rubbish. Hang on a minute, I'll get you a sample. Just a little thank you.' He winked and headed back to the door. I followed him and stood in the doorway. To my right, cardboard boxes were stacked ceiling high.

Beyond them, a couple of women stood at long tables, folding shell suits, putting them in plastic bags and filling more boxes with the bags.

On my left, two machines clattered. The further one seemed to be printing t-shirts, while the other was embroidering shell suits. Before I could get a closer look, the van driver drew everyone's attention to me. 'Oy, Freddy,' he shouted.

From a small office at the back of the warehouse, my quarry emerged. 'Do what, Dazza?' he asked in a deep voice, the cockney revealing itself even in those couple of words.

'T-shirt for the lady,' Dazza said, waving an arm at me. 'Saved my stock from the gutter.'

'Pity she couldn't do the same for you,' Freddy grunted. He gave me an appraising look, then picked out a white t-shirt from a pile on a trestle table by his cubbyhole. He threw it at Dazza, then turned on his heel and pulled his flimsy door shut behind him.

'I see he's been to the Mike Tyson school of charm and diplomacy,' I remarked as Dazza returned.

'Don't pay no never mind to Fat Freddy,' he said. 'He don't take to strangers. Here you are, love.'

I reached out for the t-shirt. I picked it up by the neck and let the folds drop out. His face gazed moodily into mine. Across the chest, in vivid electric blue was the Midnight Stranger logo, straight from the last album and the tour promotional posters. Jett was alive and well and being ripped off in Bradford.

I sat in the car and stared at the t-shirt. I wasn't quite sure what it amounted to. If Kevin was responsible for official merchandising, there was no reason why he shouldn't farm it out to Fat Freddy, even if some of the guy's other business was well on the wrong side of the legal borderline. What I needed to find out was whether this particular t-shirt was the real thing.

I also owed Maggie the courtesy of letting her know I didn't need her to do my legwork any longer. I thought of phoning, but decided against it. Face to face, there was always a chance that she'd come across with some more information, and her house was only a twenty-minute drive away.

The house looked much the same, except that a sheaf of cream and red tulips had suddenly bloomed by the front door. For some reason, it made me think of Moira, something I'd been determinedly avoiding. I didn't think I could get through this job if I allowed myself to dwell on my own anger and the guilty fear that I'd delivered her to her killer. The vivid memory of her singing 'Private Dancer' filled my head. The grip of her voice on my mind didn't make it any easier to walk up the path to face her lover.

I rang the bell and waited. Then I knocked and waited. Then I peered through the letter box. No lights, no sign of life. I thought about writing a note and decided to try the neighbours instead. Next door there was someone home. I could hear the operatic screeching five feet from the door. I had no confidence that whoever was inside would hear the doorbell above the earsplitting soprano that was going through my head like cheesewire.

Abruptly the music stopped, though the ringing in my ears continued. The door opened to reveal the twinkling blue eyes of the neighbour I'd encountered before. He frowned at me, in spite of my smile.

'Hi,' I said. 'It's Gavin, isn't it?' I amaze myself sometimes.

He nodded, and the frown deepened into a scowl. 'You're the private eye,' he said. It wasn't a question. Obviously the jungle drums had been busy after my first visit.

There didn't seem a lot of point in getting into a debate about it. 'That's right. I'm looking for Maggie. I just wondered if you happened to know when she'll be back.'

'You're too late,' he said.

'I'm sorry?'

'The cops took her off about two hours ago. They let her come round and tell me, so I could feed the cat if she's not back. But the policewoman who was with her didn't make any reassuring noises about her getting home in a hurry. Looks like your friends in the cops have gone for the easy option,' Gavin said angrily.

There were things I wanted to say. Like the cops aren't my friends. Like did she know a good criminal lawyer. Instead, I gambled that Maggie would have picked on a nice, reliable chap like Gavin as the concerned person who would be informed of her whereabouts. So I simply asked, 'Do you know where she's being held?'

He nodded grudgingly. 'They rang me about half an hour ago. They've got her at Macclesfield cop shop. I asked about lawyers, but they said they would be arranging that with Maggie.'

'Thanks. I'll make sure she's got a good one.'

'Don't you think you've done enough?' he said bitterly. There didn't seem much I could say to that, so I turned and walked back down the path.

I made good time back over the motorway. I'd rung Macclesfield police station from the motorway services. I regretted the impulse as soon as I was connected to Cliff Jackson.

'I'm glad you rang,' he growled. He didn't sound it. 'I want a word with you.'

'How can I help, Inspector?' I said. It's a lot easier to sound sweet and helpful when there's forty miles of road between you.

'There's nothing gets on my threepennies more than people like you who think there's something clever about obstructing the police. One more stroke like this, Ms Brannigan, and you're going to be in a cell. And if you remember your law, under PACE I can keep you there for thirty-six hours before I have to get round to charging you with obstructing my investigation.' Now he'd got that off his chest, I hoped he felt better. I sure as hell didn't.

'If I knew what you were referring to, Inspector, I might be able to offer you some reassurance as to my future conduct.' He really brought out the lawyer in me.

'The way you conveniently forgot to mention that Maggie Rossi-ter was not only in the vicinity of Colcutt Manor at the time of Moira Pollock's death but was also out and about in the highways and by-ways of Cheshire at the relevant time,' he snarled.

'Well, for one thing, Inspector, I wasn't even sure what the relevant time was. The fact that she was in the lane a good hour after Jett and I discovered the body didn't seem especially relevant to me, I have to admit.'

'Don't try to be clever with me, Ms Brannigan. I'm not making idle threats here. If you interfere with the course of my investigation again, or if I find you've been withholding evidence, I'm going to come down on you so hard it'll make your eyes water. Do I make myself plain?'

'As the proverbial pikestaff, Inspector.'

'Right. And I think I'll be wanting another word with you about your version of events around the time of the murder. You seem rather more hazy than I'd expect from someone who thinks she's as sharp as you do. I'd appreciate it if you could come into my office tomorrow morning at nine.'

Before I could refuse, the line went dead. Going back to Colcutt could only be an improvement on the day.

'Kate!' Neil exclaimed as I stuck my head round the door of his office. 'Come in!' I'd caught a glimpse of his retreating back as I'd entered the manor and followed him.

He was standing by his desk pouring a mug of coffee from a Thermos jug. His face had the bleary, unfocused look of a hangover. 'Fancy a cuppa? I've no milk here, I'm afraid.'