Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

“Great,” he said enthusiastically. “What’s the job?”

“I want to check out a photographer in Liverpool. I need to know how his business is doing. Is he making money, is he on the skids, that kind of thing. Do you know anybody who could color in the picture?”

“That’s all you want?” He sounded disappointed. It was worrying. This is man whose assignments for us have included spending a Saturday night in an industrial rubbish bin, and standing for three days in the rain in the middle of a shrubbery. In his shoes, I’d have been delirious with joy at the news that his latest task for Mortensen and Brannigan involved nothing more hazardous to the health than picking up a phone.

“That’s all I want,” I confirmed. “Only I want it yesterday. DJH Portraits, that’s the firm.”

“Consider it done,” he said.

My next call was to Alexis. “All right?” she greeted me. “Has dickhead turned up?” I told her about Shelley’s encounter with Richard. “That doesn’t sound like good-bye to me,” she said. “You want my advice, give your insurance man a bell. Show Richard you’re not sitting round waiting for him to decide it’s time to come home.”

“Strangely enough, I’m seeing him for dinner,” I told her.

“Nice one. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t give me a lot of scope on a date with a fella, does it?”

“Exactly. Now, what was it you wanted?”

“You still got your contact in Telecom accounts?” I asked her.

“You bet. Like the song says, once you have found her, never let her go. What are you after?”

“I want the itemized bills for the last six months on three numbers,” I said. “One Manchester, two Liverpool. How much is that going to rush me?”

“It’s usually fifty quid a throw. I’ll ask her if she’ll give you the three for a hundred and twenty. You want to give me the numbers. I’ll pass them on?”

I read the three numbers over to her. “Soon as possible,” I said.

“If I catch her now, she’ll fax them to you when she gets home tonight. That do you?”

“It’ll have to.”

“Is this something I should know about, K.B.? I mean, I’m the woman you were pumping last night about mysterious deaths in Manchester and Liverpool.”

I chuckled. “If I said it was a completely unrelated matter, would you believe me?”

“Girl, if the Pope himself told me it was a completely unrelated matter, I wouldn’t believe him. You’ve got no chance. You want to share this with me?”

“Do your own investigations,” I told her.

“I’ll catch up with you later. Have fun with the insurance man. I’ll expect a Ml report tomorrow.”

“Only paying clients get full reports,” I laughed. I replaced the receiver and swung my feet up onto the desk. A vague shape was forming in my mind, but there were still too many questions that needed answering. Not least of them was the one Gail Morton herself had raised. If someone had been targeting Joey Morton specifically, how could they be sure he would be the person to open the fatal container?

I was still worrying at that point when Paul called back. “DJH Portraits,” he said. “Desmond Halloran. One-man band. He used to work with another guy, doing the usual weddings, babies and pets. But he fancied himself as a bit of an artist, so he set up on his own, doing specialist portrait work. I’m told his stuff is really good, but the problem is that using the kind of processes he does is very labor-intensive, as well as costing a fair bit on the chemicals. He was keeping his head above water to begin with, but the way the recession’s been biting, nobody’s got the cash to spare for fancy photographs that come in at five hundred quid a throw. My contact says he reckons he must be running at a loss these days. That what you wanted to hear?”

“Smack on the button,” I said.

“This wouldn’t have something to do with the fact that his wife has just popped her clogs, would it?” he asked eagerly, ever the boy detective.

“Now, Paul, you know I never divulge confidential client information.”

“I know. Only, my mate, he says Desmond only kept afloat because his wife’s business was a raging success and she subsidized him. He was wondering how Desmond’s going to go on now.”

Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place. “Thank you, Paul,” I said. “Send me an invoice.” It was a long shot, but if Desmond Halloran was having an affair with Gail Morton and they wanted to ditch their partners and run off together, they’d need something to live on. Quite a big something, if my impressions of Gail were accurate. But if Desmond divorced Mary, she’d doubtless hang on to the kids and to her business, leaving Desmond potless. And I suspected that Desmond pot-less was a lot less attractive to Gail than Desmond loaded.

Before I could do anything more, the door to my office opened and Delia walked in. She looked at me, eyes reproachful, and gently shook her head. “Running out on Cliff Jackson I could understand,” she said. “But running out on a promise you made to me? Kate, you checked your brains in with your bags at Milan and forgot to pick them up at the other end.”

She didn’t need to say any more. I could beat myself up. She was right. When I start letting my friends down, I know my life’s starting to spin out of control. I got to my feet. “I’m sorry,” I said inadequately. “You’re right. You deserve better.”

“Shall we go?”

I nodded. On the way out, Shelley said, “Sorry, Kate. I can lie to most people, but not to the rest of the team.”

“No need to apologize,” I said. “I’m the one in the wrong. You better phone Ruth and tell her to meet me at… where, Delia?”

“Bootle Street,” Delia said.

“Oh, and Shelley? I think I might be awhile. Better ring Michael Haroun at Fortissimus and tell him I need a rain check tonight.”

I followed Delia out to the waiting police car. I knew I was damn lucky not to be under arrest. I just didn’t feel like I could risk walking under ladders.

IT SEEMED TO TAKE LONGER TO RECOUNT RICHARD AND KATE’S excellent adventure than it had taken to experience it. Asking the questions were Inspector Mellor from the Art Squad, who remembered me from our earlier encounter at Henry’s, and Geoff Turnbull from the Drugs Squad, who thankfully owed me one on account of information received in a previous investigation that had provided him with a substantial feather in his cap. Delia sat in on the interview, probably to make sure my brief didn’t change my mind and persuade me to opt for the Trappist approach.

Even so, by the time I’d answered everyone’s questions, it was past midnight. I’d come clean about all of my nefarious activities, on the advice of Ruth Hunter, my nonpareil criminal solicitor and, incidentally, one of the tight-knit group of my female friends which Richard refers to as The Coven-ment- witches who run the world. “After all,” she pointed out dryly, “all your lawbreaking took place outside their jurisdiction, and I rather think the Italian police are going to have enough to worry about without bothering you with such trivial charges as assault, kidnap, false imprisonment, burglary, data theft, concealing a body and failing to report a murder.”

Ruth, Delia and I ended up eating steak in one of the city’s half dozen casinos. The great advantage with them is that they stay open late and the food’s cheap. It’s supposed to act as an incentive to make people gamble. I don’t know how effective it is; most of the gamblers that night were Chinese, and none of them looked like a juicy steak was on their agenda. Not as long as the roulette wheels were still spinning. “Cliff Jackson’s still going to want to talk to you,” Delia pointed out after we ordered.