Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

“I know. His goons were sitting on my doorstep this morn-ing.”

Ruth groaned. “What now, Kate? Haven’t you broken enough laws for one week?”

“That’s not why Cliff Jackson’s after me,” I said stiffly. “It’s just that I’ve been doing his job for him, and now I’ve tracked down his saboteurs, he probably wants to know who the real murderer is.”

Delia and Ruth both choked on their drinks. “0 ye of little faith,” I complained. “Anyway, I want to stay out of his way until I’ve got the whole thing done and dusted. If I leave the job half done, he’ll only mess it up and arrest the wrong person. He’s got form for it.”

“Isn’t it about time you went back to white-collar crime and left the police to deal with these dangerous criminal types?” Ruth demanded. “It’s not that I think you’re incapable of looking after yourself. It’s just that you keep involving Richard, and he’s really far too accident-prone to expose him to these kinds of people.”

“I don’t want to discuss Richard,” I said. “Anyway, Delia, what have Mellor and Turnbull been doing for the last forty-eight hours with the info I handed them on a plate?”

“Luckily, Geoff’s already had dealings with his opposite numbers in Europe about organized drug trafficking, so he was able to cut through a lot of the bureaucratic red tape. It turns out his Italian oppos have been taking a long hard look at Gruppo Leopardi and its offshoots, so the info you brought out of there has slotted in very nicely. You were right, by the way. They’ve been organizing art robberies all over Europe, not just in the U.K., and using the artworks as payment for drug shipments,” Delia said. “With the data you stole, it looks like they’ll be able to set up a sting that will pull in some of the big boys, for a change.”

“What about Nicholas Turner?” I asked.

Delia fussed with a cigarette and her Zippo. “They found his body in the van, where you left it. A couple of the lads went over to Leeds this morning and spoke to his wife. She’s denying all knowledge of anything shady, of course. She’s going for the Oscar as the grieving wife of a legitimate art and antiques dealer. Grieving she may well be, but nobody believes for a minute she’s as innocent as she wants us to think. Apart from anything else, there’s evidence that she’s accompanied him on several of his trips to the Villa Sari Pietro.”

“He still didn’t deserve to die,” I said.

Ruth shrugged. “You take the money, you take the risks that go with it. How many lives have been destroyed by the drugs Turner was involved in supplying? Half the people I defend owe not a little of their trouble to the drug scene. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over Turner, Kate.”

I didn’t.

Jackson’s goons were on my doorstep again the following morning. I figured that by now he’d probably be staking out the office as well. I rang Shelley. “Have you got company of the piggy variety too?”

“Of course, sir. Did you want to talk to one of our operatives?”

That told me all I needed to know. “Is it Jackson himself or one of his gofers?”

“I’m afraid our principal isn’t in the office at present.”

I’ll say this for Shelley, nothing fazes her. “There should have been an overnight fax for me,” I said. “Can you stick it in an envelope and have it couriered round to Josh’s office? I’ll pick it up there.”

“That’s no problem, sir. I’ll have Ms. Brannigan call you when she comes back to the office. Good-bye, now.”

Whoever said blondes have more fun obviously didn’t garner the experience wearing a wig. I went through the disguise-for-beginners rigmarole again and made my exit through Richard’s bungalow, pausing long enough to do a quick inventory of his wardrobe. If he’d been back, he hadn’t taken any significant amount of clothing with him. His laptop was gone, though, which meant he was planning to be away long enough to get some work done.

I arrived at Josh’s office ten minutes after the fax, and settled down at an empty desk to plow through the phone numbers. It was a long, tedious process of cross-checking, made worse by the fact that Alexis’s contact had come up with a more detailed breakdown of calls than the customer received. The fax she’d sent listed every call from all three numbers, even the quickies that don’t cost enough to make it onto the customer’s account. But at the end of it, I’d established that there were calls virtually every day between Desmond Halloran’s office number and the private number of the Cob and Pen. There were also a couple of long calls from the Halloran’s home number to the pub.

There was one other curious thing. A Warrington number cropped up on both bills. I checked the dates. Every Monday, a call a few minutes long was logged on one bill or another. It appeared most often on Desmond’s office bill, but it was there half a dozen times on the Cob and Pen’s account too. Of course, I had to ring it, didn’t I?

“Warrington Motorway Motel, Janice speaking. How may I help you?” the singsong voice announced.

“I’m meeting someone at the motel today. Can you give me directions?”

“Certainly, madam, where are you coming from?”

“Manchester.”

“Right. If you come down the M62 and take junction 9, you go left as you come off the motorway and right at the first roundabout. We’re the first turning on the left, just after the bridge.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.” If I had my way, Janice was going to be a lot more helpful before the day was out.

There was nothing to mark out the Warrington Motorway Motel from the dozens of others that sprang up round the motorway network in the late eighties. A two-story, sprawling redbrick building with a low-pitched roof, a car park and a burger joint next door, it could have been anywhere between the Channel Tunnel and that point on the edge of the Scottish highlands where the motorways run out. Rooms for round thirty quid a throw, TV but no phone, no restaurant, bar or lounge. Cheap and cheerless.

Late morning wasn’t a busy time behind the reception desk. Janice – or someone who’d stolen her name badge – looked pleased at the sight of another human being. The reception area was so small that with two of us present, it felt intimate. On the way over, I’d toyed with various approaches. I’d decided I was too strung out to try for subtlety. Besides, I still had a wad of cash in my bag that had no official home.

I dropped one of my cards on the desk halfway through Janice’s welcome speech. Her pert features registered surprise, followed by an air of suppressed excitement. “I’ve never met a private detective before,” she confided, giving me the wide-eyed once-over. I hoped I wasn’t too much of a disappointment.

I followed the card with a photograph of Grail I’d persuaded Alexis to lend me. “This woman’s a regular here,” I stated baldly. “She comes here once a week with the same bloke.”

Janice’s eyes widened. “I’m not supposed to release information about guests,” she said wistfully.

I leaned on the desk and smiled. “Forgive me being so personal, Janice, but how much do they pay you?”

Startled, she blurted out the answer without thinking. “A hundred and seventy pounds a week.”

I opened my bag and took out the five hundred I’d counted out on the way. I placed it on the desk and pushed it toward her. “Nearly three weeks’ money. Tax-free. No comebacks. I don’t even want a receipt.”

Her eyes widened. She stared at the cash, then at me, consternation clear in her face. “What for?”

“All I want to know is how often they come and how long they stay. I want to know when they’re due here next. Then I want to book the room next door. Oh, and five minutes in their room before they arrive. There’s no reason why anyone should know you’ve helped me.” I nudged the money nearer to her.