Val McDermid - Dead Beat

Shelley found the relevant records disc and I loaded it into my computer. The Cullen Clinic was owned by Dr Theodore Donn. In spite of the title, he was no medical man. His degree was a Ph.D. in electrical engineering from Strathclyde University. He'd set up The Cullen Clinic for one reason only. To make money out of abortion. He'd been running the clinic at a substantial profit for nearly ten years. He'd even survived a Department of Health inquiry into the connection between his business and a pregnancy advisory service owned by his sister, which referred their unhappily pregnant clients to The Cullen Clinic for terminations. Very cosy. And they'd sued Moira Pollock for the non-payment of a bill incurred just a week after she'd left Jett.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I couldn't believe that Jett had known about that when he hired me to find her. If he'd found out after she'd come back, it gave him one hell of a motive. I knew his rigidly hostile views on abortion. I'd seen how mercurial he could be. I'd seen his rages. And above all, this crime was spontaneous, panicky and angry.

I changed discs, just to confirm what Josh's printout had told me, and called up Moira's medical records from the Seagull Project. Halfway down the page, there it was. VAT. Voluntary Assisted Termination. She must have been going through hell. Hooked on smack, pregnant, alone. It was a miracle she'd survived as well as she had. And all the more of a crime that someone had killed her when she'd finally got her life back together.

I leaned back in my chair and thought. If I'd been able to find out about Moira's abortion, the chances were that Neil could have too. Good journalists use exactly the same kinds of sources that investigators do. The only question for me was if Neil's sources in the financial sector were as efficient as mine. And if he'd told Jett about his discovery. That could be just the kind of scandal he'd been looking for to sell his book. Whether he'd still be getting any co-operation from Kevin and Jett if he'd told them he planned to use material like that was another matter entirely. It was time to ask Neil Webster a few more questions.

It was lunchtime for the world, breakfast time at the manor when I arrived. The atmosphere in the kitchen was less than welcoming. Jett looked up from the toast he was buttering to say hello, but no one else paid me a blind bit of notice. Kevin and Micky were sitting opposite Jett, both leaning forward earnestly over their cups of coffee. Tamar was shovelling down Weetabix, spluttering between mouthfuls that Jett ought to listen to Kevin and Micky, that they were right.

'Right about what?' Jett was paying me to poke my nose in, after all.

Micky's brow corrugated in a simian frown. Kevin delivered one of his ingratiating smiles and said, 'We've just been telling Jett, the best thing for him is to get back to making music. Take his mind off things, let him work through his grief.'

'How near is the album to completion?' I asked.

'It'll never be finished now,' Jett replied morosely. 'How can I even think about it?'

A look of irritation was chased off Kevin's features by a spuriously sympathetic expression. 'Hey, I know you feel like that now, but you should think of this as a tribute to Moira. A way of making her spirit live on.' I had to hand it to Kevin. He was shrewd when it came to manipulating Jett.

Jett looked doubtful. 'I dunno, seems like bad taste, and her not even in her grave yet.'

'That's just her body, Jett, you know that. Her spirit's free now. No fear, no hate, no pain, nothing to worry about. She came back because she wanted you to make music together. You owe it to her to finish that work.' I cast my eyes heavenwards at Kevin's words. God, I'd be glad when this job was over.

Gloria swept into the room and headed straight for the kettle. 'The police have released the rehearsal room,' she announced. 'We can use it whenever we want.'

Jett shuddered. 'No way. Kevin, I want my instruments moved out of there and up to my sitting room.'

'But what about the piano? And the synths?'

'Them too. If I'm going to work, I can't do it in that room, with all the negative energies from her death.'

Kevin nodded in resignation. 'There's a couple of road crew live locally. I'll get them over to sort it out.' He got to his feet and left, followed at a trot by Micky. Gloria finished making her herbal tea and turned to glare at Tamar, who was helping herself to a slice of Jett's toast. If I had my breakfast in an atmosphere like that, I'd be sucking Rennies for the rest of the day.

'While you're all here, can I ask when it was that you knew how Moira had been killed?' Time to get to work.

Gloria looked uncertainly at Jett. Tamar covered her toast with strawberry jam and said, 'The first I knew was after I got up that morning. Jett was the only one who knew, and he wasn't in the mood for talking. Besides, PC Plod was standing over us in the drawing room till well after four o'clock. It really wasn't the atmosphere for cosy chats about murder methods.'

'Gloria?' I asked.

“I knew before I went to bed,' she admitted reluctantly. “I went to my office after they told us we could go to bed, and I overheard one of the policemen saying he'd never seen anyone battered to death with a saxophone before.'

I couldn't disprove it, and she couldn't prove it. 'Did you discuss it with anyone else?'

'Of course not,” she retorted, back on her dignity.

'And was there anyone else in your office with you?'

'No. I just wanted to make sure everything was locked up securely before I went to bed.'

'Jett, did you discuss the method of Moira's death with anyone at all apart from me?'

He shook his head. 'Kate, I was too fucked up for conversation. No way did I want to talk about it. Also, you told me to keep my mouth shut, so I knew there had to be a good reason for it.'

I thanked them all, and went off in search of Neil. He was in his office, battering the keyboard of his computer as if it were an old manual typewriter. I winced as I perched on the edge of his desk. 'I can see you're not exactly familiar with the leading edge of modern technology,' I said sarcastically.

He paused and grinned. 'I know exactly as much as I need to do the job,' he said.

'And if all else fails, read the manual?'

'You got it in one,' he replied, still smiling.

'It's a shame,' I said. 'I always feel sorry for people who don't use their machines to their full potential.'

'How do you mean?' he asked, finally intrigued enough to give me his full attention.

'Well, for example, you must have a comms setup here to send your copy, am I right?'

'You mean the modem and the Hermes Link?' he asked.

That answered one question. Now I knew which electronic mail service he was hooked into. 'That's right,' I said. 'But have you ever used bulletin boards and public domain software?'

He looked at me as if I had lapsed into Mandarin. 'Sorry, Kate, I haven't a clue what you're on about.'

I explained at mind-numbing length about communicating with other users through bulletin boards, about capturing free software programs over the phone lines, and about game-playing via modems. He looked just as dazed and confused as I'd intended. 'I bet you don't even do the things that make it easy on yourself, like date-stamping your files.'

That earned me a blank look. 'Pardon?'

'You date-stamp your files, that way you can check when they were sent and what mailbox they were sent to. A great come-back when people haven't paid you and claim they never had the copy.'

'Oh, right,' he said blankly.

'You want me to show you?' I asked, sidling over beside him. 'Just connect yourself to Hermes and I'll show you how.'

Right according to plan, he connected his computer to the telephone system. He had an autologon program, which only revealed his mailbox number, not his ID and passwords. But that was probably enough for what I had in mind. I memorised the eight digit number, ran a routine quickly by him, then exited from the link. 'If you're interested, I'll come over one afternoon after all this is finished and show you how to do it for yourself,' I offered.