Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

“Nice one,” I said. “You going to give me his number?” I copied down Alexis’s information and stuck the Post-it note on my phone. “Thanks.”

“Is that it? What about ‘I owe you one’?” Nobody’s ever accused Alexis of being a shrinking violet. “I don’t. You’re paying me back for your exclusive last night.” “Okay. You free for lunch?”

“Doubt it, somehow. What about tonight? Richard and I are going to the multiscreen. Do you two want to join us?”

“Sorry, we’ve already booked for Blade Runner at the Cornerhouse.”

Typical. “Don’t forget your Foucault,” I said. I was halfway out of my chair, destination coffee machine, when the phone rang again. Suppressing a snarl, I grabbed it and injected a bit of warmth into my voice. “Good morning, Kate Brannigan speaking.” “It’s Trevor Kerr here.”

I wished I hadn’t bothered with the warmth. “Hello, Mr. Kerr. What news?”

“I could ask you the same thing, since I’m paying you to investigate this business,” he grumbled. “I’m ringing to let you know that my lab people have come up with some results from the analysis I asked them to carry out.”

Not a man to give credit where it’s due, our Mr. Kerr. I stifled a sigh and said, “What did they discover?”

“A bloody nightmare, that’s what. About half the samples they tested aren’t bloody KerrSter.”

“Cyanide?” I asked, suddenly anxious.

“No, nothing like that. Just a mixture of chemicals that wouldn’t clean anything. Not only would they not clean things, there are certain surfaces they’d ruin. Anything with a sealed finish like floor tiles or worktops. Bastards!” Kerr spat.

“Are these common chemicals, or what?”

“Ever heard of caustic soda? That’s how bloody common we’re talking here.”

“So cheap as well as common?” I asked.

“A lot bloody cheaper than what we put in KerrSter, let me tell you. So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded pugnaciously.

“You’ve got a a copycat,” I said, ignoring his belligerence. “Either they’re trying to wreck your business or else they’re simply after a quick buck.”

“Even I’d got that far,” he said sarcastically. “What I want you to do is find these buggers while I’ve still got a business left. You hear what I’m saying, Miss Brannigan? Find these bastards, or there won’t be a pot left to pay you out of.”

sometimes I wonder how clients managed to go to the bathroom before they hired us. Trevor Kerr was clearly one of those that think once they’ve hired you, you’re responsible for everything up to and including emptying the wastepaper bins at night. He was adamant that it was down to me to go and see the detectives investigating the death of Joey Morton, the Stockport publican, to inform them that the person who was sabotaging Kerrchem’s products was probably the one they should be beating up with rubber hoses. Incidentally, never believe the politicians and top coppers who tell you that sort of thing can’t happen now all interviews are tape-recorded. There are no tape recorders in police cars or vans, and I’ve heard of cases where it’s taken three hours for a police car to travel two inner-city miles.

I wasn’t relishing telling some overworked and overstressed police officer how to run an inquiry. If there’s one thing your average cop hates more than becoming the middleman in a domestic, it’s being put on the right track by a private eye. I was even less thrilled when Kerr told me who the investigating officer was. Detective Inspector Cliff Jackson and I were old sparring partners. The first time one of my cases ended in murder, he was running the show. He hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory, twice arresting the wrong person before the real killer had eventually ended up behind bars, largely as a result of some judicious tampering by Mortensen and Branni-gan. You’d think he’d have been grateful. Think again.

I drove out to the incident room in Stockport. The one time I’d have welcomed being stuck in traffic, I cruised down Stock-port Road without encountering a single red light. My luck was still out to lunch when I arrived at the police station. Jackson was in. I didn’t even have to kick my heels while he pretended to be too busy to slot me in right away.

He didn’t get up when I was shown into his office. He hadn’t changed much: still slim, hair still dark and barbered to within an inch of its life, eyes still hidden behind a pair of tinted prescription lenses. His dress sense hadn’t improved any. He wore a white shirt with a heavy emerald green stripe, the sleeves rolled up over his bony elbows. His tie was shiny polyester, in a shade of green that screamed for mercy against the shirt. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” he greeted me ungraciously.

“Nice to see you too, Inspector,” I said pleasantly. “But let’s not waste our time on pleasantries. I wanted to talk to you about Joey Morton’s death.”

“I see,” he said. “Go on, then, talk.”

I told him all he needed to know. “So you see,” I concluded, “it looks like someone had got it in for Kerrchem, and Joey Morton just got in the way.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture. It didn’t erase the frown he’d had since I first walked through the door. “Very interesting, Miss Brannigan,” he said. “I take it you’re planning to pursue your own inquiries along these lines?”

“It’s what I’m paid to do,” I said.

“This is a possible murder inquiry,” he said sententiously. “There’s no place for you poking round in it.”

“Inspector, in case you’ve forgotten, it was me that came to you. I’m trying to be helpful,” I said, forcing my jaw to unclench.

“And your ‘help’ is duly noted,” he said. “It’s our job now. If you interfere with this investigation like you did the last time, I’ll have no hesitation in arresting you. Is that clear?”

I stood up. I know five foot three isn’t exactly intimidating, but it made me feel better. “I’ll do my job, Inspector. And when I’ve done it, I’ll tell you where you can find your killer.”

I tried to slam the door behind me, but it had one of those hydraulic arms. Instead of a satisfying crash, I ended up with a twisted wrist. I was still fizzing when I got back to the car, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Down at the Thai boxing gym, I could work out my rage and frustration and, with a bit of luck, acquire some information too.

I like the gym. It’s a no-frills establishment, which means I tend not to run into clients there. As well as the boxing gym, it’s got a weight room and basic changing facilities. The only drawback is that there are never enough showers at busy times. Judging by the number of open lockers, that wasn’t going to be a problem today. I emerged from the women’s changing room in the breeze-block drill hall to find my mate Dennis O’Brien lounging in a director’s chair in his sweats. He was reading the Chronicle, his mobile phone, cigarettes and a mug of tea strategically placed on the floor by his feet. Dennis used to be a serious burglar, the kind who turn over the vulgar suburban houses of the nouveau riche. But it all came on top for him when a young lad he’d brought in to help him with a big job managed to drop the safe on Dennis’s leg as they were making their getaway. He left Dennis lying on the drive with a broken ankle. By the time the cops arrived, he’d crawled half a mile. When he got out of prison three years later, he swore he was never going to do anything that would get him taken away from his kids again. As far as I know, he’s kept his word, with one exception. The lad who abandoned him still walks with a limp.