Val McDermid - Dead Beat

'There were a lot of rows about touring, too,' Neil added. 'Moira kept telling Jett that he shouldn't be having to do so much touring, that he should be concentrating on short tours of big venues like Wembley and the NEC. Kevin was furious. He seemed to think that she didn't know what she was talking about, and she had no right to interfere after being away for so long. She really was making his life a misery. If I'd been in his shoes, I'd probably have taken a meat axe to her weeks ago.'

Neil certainly wasn't stinting himself when it came to putting the poison in. In spite of my misgivings, I knew I had to milk it for all it was worth. 'Micky?' I asked, leaning over to pour myself the last cup of coffee.

'Micky produced Jett's first four albums, and that was the springboard that put him on the map as a producer.' Neil paused to light another cigarette, and I had time to reflect that he even spoke like a tabloid newspaper. 'But the last two years have seen him plummet from the top of the tree, thanks to the old nose candy.'

'Coke?' I asked.

'The same. Just like Jett, Micky's had too many flops for comfort, and he knows it. The collaboration was supposed to work the old magic and produce a classic album. Till Moira came along, it was shaping up to be classic dross. She encouraged Jett to shout Micky down and go back to their old style. Micky kept ranting that they were five years out of date. But then, as Moira sweetly pointed out, so are most of Jett's fans. She also wasn't scared of badmouthing him over his habit. Given Jett's views on drugs, that was a serious no-no for him.'

'You're not seriously trying to tell me Jett doesn't know about Micky?' That I couldn't believe.

'Yes and no. I mean, theoretically, he probably does. But Micky's very careful to keep it under wraps. You won't ever walk into a room here and find somebody doing a line or two. It's all behind-locked-doors stuff. Everybody goes along with Jett's little fantasies about this being a clean house. Moira was using that as a lever to put pressure on Kevin to make her joint producer. Micky was really running scared.'

'Scared enough to kill her?' I asked. Maybe I'm too naive for this game, but even my naturally suspicious mind was having trouble getting round that idea.

Neil shrugged. 'Coke makes you very paranoid. It's a fact.'

'And the girlfriend? What exactly do you mean?' I demanded.

'I'm presuming you knew Moira had become a dyke, since it was you who tracked her down? Well, she'd been shacked up with some social worker called Maggie over in Bradford. The girlfriend wasn't exactly chuffed as little mint balls when Moira upped sticks and moved in here. According to Moira, Maggie was constantly kicking off about it, sending out ultimata in every post. So, Moira told her it was Good night, Vienna,' Neil replied.

'And you think being given the big E is a motive for murder?' I said sceptically.

'If she thought Moira was packing her in to go back to Jett, yeah. Helluva blow to the ego. And she's the only outsider you could reasonably expect Moira to let into the house.'

And she stood to inherit a substantial amount of money. I could see why Jackson was in love with the idea of Maggie. 'You seemed to think Jett had a motive. But he has an alibi. He was with me, remember?'

'And I am Marie of Romania! Come on, Kate, I know that was all bullshit. And I know you believe he couldn't have had anything to do with it. But just think on. Moira had turned his comfortable life on its head. That might have been OK if they had been lovers. But she wasn't having any, and he really wasn't handling that. I mean, you've heard all his New Age stuff about them being soul mates destined for each other. He wanted them to be together and make babies, for God's sake. Maybe she just turned him down once too often. I mean, the guy has got one helluva quick temper. Maybe he thought that if he couldn't have her, then no one else would. In spite of the front he puts up, he's no pussycat.'

'One big happy family,' I remarked ironically. 'All for one and one for all.'

'I tell you, if I wasn't working for Jett, I could make a fortune with the shit I've picked up round here in the last few weeks.'

I got to my feet. I might still be able to learn more from Neil, but I'd had enough for one helping. 'Thanks for the info,' I said. 'You've given me a lot to think about.' I wasn't bullshitting, either. Neil's reminder of Jett's quick mood changes niggled in my mind like biscuit crumbs in the bed. I almost missed his parting remarks.

'You sound like you're surprised by the catalogue of motives. Listen, I thought journos were backstabbers till I got into rock. Just don't run into any of them in a dark alley.'

With Neil's gypsy warning ringing in my ears, I stood in the hall and wondered which one of Moira's enemies I should go after next. Before I could take another step, the pager went off. In the echoing stillness of the hall at Colcutt Manor it sounded like the four-minute warning. I pulled it out of my pocket and hit the button that silenced it. The message said, 'Back to base. Double Urgent.'

That's not the kind of message you argue with. Not if your boss is a foot taller than you.

I made it back to the office in record time. The driver of the traffic car I'd zipped past at 110 m.p.h. had clearly been convinced he'd been hallucinating since he didn't get on my tail with sirens blasting. I dumped the car on a single yellow outside the chemist's shop, left the note that says, 'picking up urgent prescription' on the dashboard and hit the stairs running.

I burst through the outer door, red-faced and sweating. Very chic. Shelley looked me up and down and shook her head in a mockery of disapproving motherhood. "Three deep breaths,' she told me. 'Then you're wanted in there.' She gestured with her head at Bill's closed office door.

'What's going on?' I demanded in a stage whisper. I know just how thin the walls in this place are.

'The cops raided Billy Smart's warehouse this morning. The place was clean as a whistle,' Shelley replied, her voice so low I had to lean close and risk my crowns on her Rasta beads.

'Oh shit,' I sighed. 'So who…?'

'Bill's having a post-mortem with Clive Abercrombie from the jewellers' group and DI Redfern. He's been stalling them till you got here.'

Some days I wish I did something simple for a living. Like brain surgery. I flashed a hopeless smile at Shelley, made a throat-cutting gesture and headed for the Spanish Inquisition.

Tony Redfern was sitting on the broad window sill, looking more like a depressed golden retriever than ever. Wavy blond hair, soulful brown eyes, drooping mouth. For all I knew, a wet nose too. He nodded gloomily as I entered. Clive Abercrombie leapt smartly to his feet and inclined his head towards me, every inch the Eton and New College gentleman. You'd never have guessed he was actually educated at a secondary modern in Blackpool followed by Salford Tech.

'Sorry to drag you back, Kate,' Bill said. 'But we really did need your expertise here.' Translation: Someone's going to come out of this looking like a prize asshole, and it's not going to be us.

'I was only down the road. Just routine,' I said.

Tony grinned. 'Giving Cliff Jackson a headache, so I hear.'

'The feeling's mutual, Tony,' I replied, returning the grin. I've known Tony since he was a DS on the burglary squad. He's one of the few coppers I have any professional respect for. 'Is there some kind of a problem with the Smarts?'

'That would be one way of putting it,' said Clive, stuffy as ever. 'It would appear that when Inspector Redfern and his colleagues from the Trading Standards department executed their warrant on Mr Smart's warehouse premises, they drew a blank.' See what I mean? You'd never guess.