Val McDermid - Dead Beat

'Miss Brannigan? Pleased to meet you. David Berman,' he said cheerfully. 'I really appreciate you making time for me at this hour of the night.'

He followed me up the stairs, avoiding small talk in a way that I found slightly unsettling. I suspected it was deliberate. I showed him into the main office, and offered him coffee. Bill didn't even look up from his screen, though I caught Berman peering nosily through the door of his office.

I sat down at Shelley's desk and said, 'What makes you think we can help, Mr. Berman?'

'It's a little difficult,' he admitted. 'I am well aware of the alleged attack earlier this evening, and I can appreciate that you might not be inclined to listen to what I have to propose.'

'That's one way of putting it. Your client tried to strangle me tonight. He's right off my Christmas card list. But I'm always happy to listen. You'd be amazed the things you can pick up that way.'

He smiled. He was meant to. T take your point, Miss Brannigan,' he acknowledged. 'It's my understanding that you have been retained by one of my client's artistes to uncover the identity of the murderer of Moira Pollock. Is that correct?'

Why do lawyers always ask questions they know the answers to? It was one of the things that made me decide I preferred being a private investigator. Maybe you don't always come across as omniscient, but at least you get the occasional stimulating surprise. 'Quite right,' I reassured him.

He gave a curt nod. 'And I understand that you made certain allegations against my client in this matter?'

'Right again.' Had it really been worth trekking downstairs for this?

'My client has instructed me to pass certain information on to you, without prejudice,' he said solemnly, as if he were handing me a gift of immense value and corresponding responsibilities. His glasses had slipped down, and he peered at me through them like a judge thirty years his senior.

'Indeed,' I replied. All this legalese was causing serious linguistic regression.

'You alleged that my client had knowledge of the crime at a time when only the murderer could have known it. My client denies this strenuously, and has asked me to ascertain the source of this false information so that he can refute it,” he said earnestly.

I should know better than to be surprised by the deviousness of lawyers. 'It sounds like you're looking for information rather than handing it out,' I told him. 'If your client is a murderer, would it not be rather irresponsible of me to identify a witness against him?' More linguistic contagion.

'My client is going to be charged with attempted murder,' Berman replied tartly, pushing his glasses up his nose. 'I don't think he'll be in a position to pose a risk to anyone. The point is that my client strongly denies possessing the aforementioned information at the time you allege. He denies vigorously passing that information on to anyone, and believes he can produce witnesses to all his conversations up to the time when he returned to his room.'

I felt a prickle of interest. Berman's words suggested there might be some corroboration of my fresh suspicions. Before I could reply, Bill's voice rang through the office like a demented Sun journalist. 'Gotcha!' he cried.

'Excuse me,' I mumbled as I jumped to my feet and shot through the door. 'Have you cracked it?' I asked eagerly.

'Just a matter of time now. I've hacked into the accounts section, and it's just a case of working out how the files are organised and searching them,' Bill said triumphantly.

I hugged him. People need hugs, especially when they've just saved your life then made your day. Then, aware of David Berman's gaze, I returned to the outer office, this time closing the door behind me. 'Sorry about that,' I said. 'Bill's just cracked something we've been working on for a while now. If I can just go back to what you were saying. Has Kevin given you any account of what he said to whom?'

Berman compressed his lips, then said, 'I'm not at liberty to say.'

'Then it seems to me we're at an impasse. You can't tell me what he said, and I can't tell you who's making the claim.'

'It'll all come out eventually,' he said persuasively. 'You must be aware that if my client is charged, we will have to be told the names of the witnesses against him. It would surely be in everyone's interest to clear the name of an innocent man so that the search for the guilty party can go on. If my client is charged, this thing will drag on for months, and people's memories will start to fade. When he is eventually cleared, it may be too late to trap the real killer.'

It was a good argument. As I picked up my bag and told Bill I was going to Bootle Street with Berman, I tried to convince myself that it was the strength of his case that had persuaded me. After all, I thought sanctimoniously, even though Kevin was Mr. Sleaze in my eyes, if I had wrongly accused him, I owed it to him to sort it out. Deep down, I knew otherwise. I had a theory, and I wanted to prove it to my own satisfaction.

It was nearly three when I got back to the office. After a lot of verbal ping-pong, with David Berman as the ball, I had obtained some very interesting material. As a result, I'd spent half an hour persuading Cliff Jackson that what I had to say to him was worth listening to. Credit where it's due, once he'd explained to me in graphic detail just why I was lower than a Salford sewer, he consented to pay attention. And instead of clambering on his high horse and ignoring what I had to say, he'd not only listened but had reluctantly agreed to give my suggestion a try. 'You get one shot,' he'd warned me. 'If you screw up, I'll bang you up as well as your chum in the cells. No messing.' I was so sure of myself I didn't feel I'd be risking that.

I found Bill leaning back in his chair, a look of deep satisfaction on his face as he puffed away on a Sherlock Holmes pipe filled with some noxious continental tobacco. 'Any news?' he asked me.

I told him where we were up to, and he smiled. He looked just like the Big Bad Wolf, his lips pulled back over teeth that gripped the pipe stem. Then he showed me what he'd dug up.

We were making plans until four. This time, everything was going to go like clockwork. This time, I wasn't going to end up with a necklace of bruises. Meanwhile, I had things to do. Unfortunately, sleep wasn't one of them.

Jett was waiting for me on the steps when I arrived at half-past four. His shoulders were hunched and his face had a tight, pinched look around the mouth and nose. 'You still going ahead with this showdown?' he greeted me.

'It has to be done, Jett,' I told him as we walked into the empty hall together.

'Why? They arrested Kevin. The word is he tried to kill you because you found out he killed Moira.' His tone was aggressive.

'I'm sorry, Jett. He did attack me.'

'No need for you to be sorry. You were just doing the job, like I asked you to. I'm the one should be sorry. I trusted that man with my life. And now I find out he killed the woman I cared for more than anything in the world. So why d'you have to put us through more?'

Jett hurried ahead of me into the blue drawing room. I followed more slowly, wondering how to placate Jett without giving too much away. He was pouring himself a hefty drink when I entered. 'Help yourself,' he told me. With a moody scowl on his face, he moved over to the spindly-legged chair and threw himself into it again. If I'd been the man from the Pru, there's no way I'd have insured it.

I poured myself a weak vodka and topped it up with orange juice, in the absence of my usual. I didn't think this was a good time to demand a grapefruit juice. I positioned myself in front of the grate, where some logs were smouldering half-heartedly.