Val McDermid - Dead Beat

'Did you go straight from the kitchen to the rehearsal room, then?'

Jett bowed his head in assent. 'That's when I found her. I was only a room away, and I didn't hear a damn thing.'

'Because the rehearsal room's so well soundproofed?'

'That's right. That's why the police had to believe you and me when we said we didn't hear a thing.'

There was no point in questioning him about what he'd seen in the room. I'd seen it too and it hadn't told me anything except that Moira was battered to death with a tenor sax. Besides, he seemed to be retreating inside himself, and I figured I'd have to move the conversation into different channels if I wasn't to lose him altogether. 'Who do you think it was, Jett?'

“I can't believe any of us did it,' he said in a tone that lacked conviction. 'Shit, we're always rowing in this business. Nobody ever got killed before.'

'She'd been arguing with Kevin, hadn't she? Do you know what that was all about?'

'She thought he was ripping her off over her royalties. But that was only a little bit of it. She made me stand up to him to get the deal she wanted – you know, a profit percentage on the album, an increased royalty rate, and now she was pushing for a production credit too. She kept telling me I wasn't getting my share either, that Kevin was taking too much of a rake-off. And she kept going on about how I was being ripped off on the merchandising. She said there were loads of illicit copies of the tour merchandise all over the place, and Kevin should be doing something to put a stop to it, and why wasn't he.'

My ears pricked up. Moira knew about the schneids? I was so busy with my own thoughts I almost missed Jett's next comment.

'She was even hinting we should get shot of Kevin and manage ourselves. She said it wouldn't take her long to get the job sussed, then we could ditch him. I didn't want to, but she made me promise that if she got evidence that he was ripping me off, I'd go along with her.'

I took a deep breath. Could anyone be as naive as Jett appeared to be? Here he was, handing me the strongest of motives on a plate, and he didn't even seem to notice.

'Did you know someone kept dropping heroin on Moira?' I asked. The motorway petered out into dual carriageway. I barely noticed, only my automatic-pilot reflexes making me slow to within ten miles an hour of the speed limit.

His face jerked up and his lips seemed to curl inwards in a snarl. 'What the hell do you mean?' he demanded.

'Someone had been leaving fixes and syringes in her room, according to Maggie. And Gloria said she'd noticed some of her disposable syringes had gone missing.'

'Jesus Christ!' he exploded. 'What kind of bastard would do that? Why the hell didn't Gloria tell me?'

'I suppose because she thought it was Moira who was stealing them, and it was her own business.'

'The stupid cow!' he howled, smashing his fist into the dashboard. 'It's her fault Moira's dead. The silly bitch!'

I took a deep breath, then said, 'I'm not convinced the two things are related. I've got an idea who was behind the heroin, and I don't think it was the murderer. It's a very different thing from being the passive supplier of the means of death and actually killing someone with your own hands.'

'So who was giving her heroin?'

“I don't have any proof yet. And I'm not making wild accusations without proof.'

'You got to tell me. I'm hiring you. You got to tell me, Kate.' There was a note of desperation in his voice. Too late I realised he was desperate for a scapegoat, desperate to wreak his personal vengeance on Moira's killer. I'd have to learn to tread a lot more carefully with Jett than I had so far.

'When I find out for sure, you'll be the first to know,' I promised him. We were on the fringes of Moss-side, only a few minutes away from Moira's mother's house. I'd decided to leave for now any questions about other people's motives. The last thing I wanted right now was to put any ideas into Jett's head and have him flying off at half-cock. 'Can you give me some directions?'

In a dull monotone, he told me Ms Pollock's address and how to get there. I pulled up in front of a council maisonette. It was less than fifteen years old, but already the cement facings were streaked and crumbling. These buildings would be pulled down before we citizens of Manchester had even finished paying for them.

'Like I said, Jett, I've got a few leads I want to pursue.' I leaned across him and opened the passenger door. 'When you get back to Colcutt, make some music,' I advised him. 'Try not to brood on what you've lost. Concentrate on the positive things she brought you.' If someone had said that to me, I'd probably have hit them. But it seemed to appeal to Jett's New Age philosophy.

'You're right,' he sighed, his shoulders drooping. He left the car and bent down to give me a little wave as he closed the door. He didn't slam it either, not like most people do. I watched him till the door opened and a skinny woman let him in. Then I got into gear and headed for friendly territory.

I hadn't been lying to Jett when I'd told him I had leads to pursue. Maybe I'd exaggerated their quantity and quality, but that was my business. Paki Paulie was high on my agenda, but there was no point in even thinking about that till later on.

There was a fax waiting for me from Josh, my financial broker friend. I'd rung him that morning to ask for a fully detailed breakdown of Moira's financial history, in the vague hope that there might be something of interest there. But right now, I was more concerned with the little matter Jett had just raised. I needed the answers to some questions. And I knew just where to go for them.

The smell of sweat was the first thing that hit me as I walked into the club. Not stale sweat, but the honest smell of hard-working bodies. Various voices greeted me as I walked over to the ringside where two teenage girls were engaged in kicking shit out of each other in as technically perfect a way as possible. For once, I hadn't come to fight myself, though just watching made my body yearn for release.

The man I'd come to see was standing in a line-backer's crouch, his face distorted by yells of encouragement. 'Go for it, Christine,' he was screaming. And we think we've come a long way from the primeval ooze, I thought, as I tapped my friend Dennis the burglar on the shoulder. He whipped round and I took a nervous step backwards.

When he saw me, he straightened up and grinned. 'Hiya, Kate. Just give me a minute. Our Christine'll be through to the semifinals in a couple of minutes.' Then he spun back to face the ring and resumed his passionate cheerleading. Nothing comes before Dennis's family.

The bell sounded for the end of the round, and after a moment's conferring with the judges, the referee held Christine's gloved hand up in victory. Let's face it, with Dennis's reputation, there wasn't a judge in the place who wouldn't have given any benefit of the doubt to Christine. Not that she ever needed that, I had to admit.

Christine emerged from the ring to a bear hug from her father. Even her body protector wasn't enough to stop her wincing at the force of his embrace. She gave me a wry grin and said, 'I'll soon be good enough to lick you, Kate.'

'On that showing, you could do it now,' I told her. I wasn't joking either. I turned to Dennis. 'She's really got it.'

'You're not wrong. She could go all the way, that kid. She's well sound. Now, what can I do for you, Kate?'

'I need your brains and your body, Dennis.'

He faked a wicked leer. 'I always said you'd never be able to resist my animal magnetism. Did you finally ditch the wimp, then?'

I didn't take offence. He affectionately calls Richard 'the wimp' to his face. Richard returns the compliment by calling Dennis Neanderthal Man, and Dennis pretends not to understand what it means. They're all big kids, men. And just like kids, they're ruled by their appetites. Like Jett with Tamar.