Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” I muttered as I followed her into the claustrophobic’s nightmare. The caravan was a four-berth job which might conceivably have contained a family for a fortnight’s holiday. Right now, it was bursting at the seams with the worldly goods that Chris and Alexis simply couldn’t do without. Once they’d packed in their work clothes, their casual clothes, a couple of shelves of books, a portable CD player with the accompanying music library, two wine racks, a drawing board for Chris and the files Alexis deemed too sensitive to trust to her office drawers, there wasn’t a lot of room left for bodies.

Alexis was sprawled on the double bed watching the TV news in a pair of plaster-and-paint-stained jogging pants and a ripped T-shirt, her unruly hair tied back in a ponytail with an elastic band. She greeted me with a languid wave and said, “Kettle’s just boiled. Help yourself.”

I made a cup of instant and joined the two of them on the bed. It wasn’t that we were planning an orgy; there just wasn’t anywhere else to sit. “So what brings you up here in the hours of darkness, girl?” Alexis asked languidly, leaning across me to switch off the TV. “You finally decided to tell me why you’ve been doing a Cook’s tour of the E.C.I”

“I bring greetings from civilization,” I told her. “Cliff Jackson’s just arrested two suspects in the Kerrchem product-tampering scam.”

I had all her attention now. Alexis pushed herself into an upright position. “Really? He charging them with the murders?”

“I don’t know. If he does, he’ll be making a mistake,” I said.

“So, spill,” Alexis urged.

I gave her the bare bones of the tale, knowing she wouldn’t be able to say much in the following day’s paper because of the reporting restrictions that swing into place as soon as suspects are charged with an offence. But the details would be filed away in Alexis’s prodigious memory, to be dragged out as deep background when the case finally came to court. And she wouldn’t forget where the information came from.

“And you believe them when they say they had nothing to do with the two deaths?” Chris chipped in.

“Actually, I do,” I said. “Breaks my heart to say so, but I don’t think the job’s finished yet, whatever Cliff Jackson decides to charge them with.”

Alexis lit a cigarette. Chris pointedly cracked the window open an inch and moved out of the draft. “I know, I know,” Alexis sighed. “But how can I possibly be a laborer without a fag hanging out of my mouth and a rolled-up copy of The Sun stuffed in my back pocket? Anyway, K.B., I suppose this means that you’re here for access to the Alexis Lee reference library?”

“You can see why she’s an investigative reporter, can’t you?” I said nonchalantly to Chris.

“So what do you want to know?” Alexis asked.

“Tell me about Joey Morton,” I said. First rule of murder investigation, according to all the detective novels I’ve read. Find out about the victim. Embarrassing that it had taken me so long to get there.

“Born and raised in Belfast. Came over here with a fanfare of trumpets that said he was going to be the next George Best. Unfortunately, the only thing Georgie and Joey had in common was their talent for pissing it all up against the wall. United took him on as an apprentice, but they didn’t keep him on, and he never made it past the Third Division. Gail believed the publicity when she married him. She was expecting the days of wine and roses, and she never forgave him for not making the big time. So she gave him the days of bitter and thorns. They fought like cat and dog. When we were living in the Heatons, we used to pop into the Cob and Pen occasionally for a drink and the spectator sport of watching Joey and Gail tear lumps out of each other.”

“So why didn’t she leave him?” I asked.

Alexis shrugged. “Some people get addicted to rowing,” Chris said. “You watch them at it and imagine how stressed it would make you to live like that, but then you realize they actually thrive on it. If they ever found themselves in agreement, the relationship would die on the spot.”

“Also, where would she go? It’s not a bad life, being the grande dame of a busy pub like the Cob,” Alexis added. “Besides, Joey was a staunch Catholic. He’d never have stood on for a divorce.”

“Now she’s got it all,” I said. “She’s got her freedom, and presumably the brewery aren’t going to chuck her out of the pub as long as it keeps making money.“

“And the insurance,” Alexis said. “Word is, Joey was worth a lot more dead than he ever was in the transfer market.”

“All of which adds up to a tidy bit of motive for Mrs. Morton,” I said. “But if she’s behind Joey’s murder, how does Mary Halloran’s death fit in?”

“Copy cat?” Alexis suggested.

“Maybe, but cyanide isn’t exactly a common household chemical. I wouldn’t know how to get my hands on it. Would you?”

Alexis shrugged. “I’ve never wanted to kill her enough,” she joked, grabbing Chris and hugging her. A sudden pang of envy took me by surprise. All too painfully, I could remember when Richard and I were as easy and warm together. It felt like a long time had passed since then. I wanted that back. I just didn’t know anymore if I could recover it with Richard or if I was going to have to start all over again on the wary process of love.

I must have shown something on my face, for Chris looked at me with a worried frown. “You all right, Kate?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Me and Richard have had a major falling-out. We parted company in Italy a couple days ago, and I’ve not heard from him since. I’m just not sure if we can fix it this time.”

I could hardly bear the love and concern on their faces. Chris pulled free from Alexis and leaned over to hug me. “He’ll be back,” she said with more confidence than I felt.

“Yeah, but will he be back with a bricklayer to build a wall across the conservatory?” I asked bitterly.

“If Richard needed a brickie, he’d have to ask you where to find one,” Alexis said. “You don’t get rid of him that easy, girl.”

“He’s obviously not very happy,” I told them. “He said he’s pissed off with everybody treating him like he’s a pillock.”

“Maybe he should stop behaving like one, then,” Alexis said.

“Ever since he got himself arrested, he’s been walking round like a dog waiting for the next kick. Wait till he comes back, girl, I’ll take him out for a drink and put him right.”

I couldn’t help smiling. That was one encounter I’d pay for a video of. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about my troubles,” I said briskly. “I’ve got too much to do trying to put right all the cock-ups I’ve made this week to worry about Richard. Did he have any dodgy contacts, this Joey Morton?”

“Not that I’ve heard. He hung out with one or two moody people, but that was probably for the so-called glamor as much as anything. He was probably into a few bits and pieces on the side, but he wasn’t a player.”

So I wasn’t looking for some gangster that Joey had double-crossed on a deal over stolen Scotch. “What’s the score with this Mary Halloran?” I asked.

“I haven’t been over there myself, but I’ve still gotta few good contacts in Liverpool,” she said, becoming more Scouse by the syllable. “This Mary Halloran, she was a real grafter. The only out-of-the-way thing about her was that her staff actually liked her. They said she was a great boss, good payer, dead fair. According to them, she lived for her kids and her old man, Desmond. Our Desmond is apparently devastated. My mate Mo went round to try for a talk for the Post, but the guy was too distraught. She said he just burst into tears, then one of the relatives did the Rottweiler and saw her off.”