Dead Beat. Val McDermid
the location is that it’s handy for the local art cinema, the Cornerhouse, which has an excellent cafeteria. Our secretary Shelley looked up from her word processor and greeted me with ‘Wish I could start work at lunchtime.’
I was halfway through a self-righteous account of my morning’s work when I realized, too late as usual, that she was winding me up. I stuck my tongue out at her and dropped a micro-cassette on her desk. It contained my verbal report of the last couple of days. ‘Here’s a little something to keep you from getting too bored,’ I said. ‘Anything I should know about?’
Shelley shook her head, and the beads she has plaited into her hair rattled. I wondered, not for the first time, how she could bear the noise first thing in the morning. But then, since Shelley’s mission in life is keeping her two teenage kids out of trouble, I don’t think there are too many mornings when she wakes with a hangover. There are times when I could hate Shelley.
Mostly I find myself in her debt. She is the most efficient secretary I have ever encountered. She’s a 35-year-old divorcée who somehow manages to look like a fashion plate in spite of the pittance we pay her. She’s just under five feet tall, and so slim and fragile-looking that she makes even me feel like the Incredible Hulk. I’ve been to her cramped little two-up, two-down and in spite of living with a pair of teenagers, the house is spotlessly clean and almost unnaturally tidy. However, Richard has pointed out to me more than once that I am a subscriber to the irregular verb theory of language – ‘I have high standards, you are fussy, she is obsessive.’
She picked up the cassette and slotted it into her own player. ‘I’ll have it for you later this afternoon,’ she said.
‘Thanks. Copy in Bill’s system as well as mine, please. Is he free?’
She glanced at the lights on her PBX. ‘Looks like it.’
I crossed the office in four strides and knocked on Bill’s door. His deep voice growled, ‘Come in.’ As I shut the door behind me, he looked up from the screen of his turbo-charged IBM compatible and grunted, ‘Give me a minute, Kate.’ Bill likes things turbo-charged. Everything from his Saab 9000 convertible to his sex life.
There was a fierce frown of concentration on his face as he scanned the screen, tapping the occasional key. No matter how often I watch Bill at his computers, I still feel a sense of incongruity. He really doesn’t look like a computer boffin or a private investigator. He’s six foot three inches tall and resembles a shaggy blond bear. His hair and beard are shaggy, his eyebrows are shaggy over his ice blue eyes, and when he smiles his white teeth look alarmingly like the ones that are all the better to eat you with. He’s a one-man EC. I still haven’t got the hang of his ancestry, except that I know his grandparents were, severally, Danish, Dutch, German and Belgian. His parents settled over here after the war and have a substantial cattle farm in Cheshire. Bill shook them to the core when he announced he was more interested in megabytes than megaburgers.
He went on to take a first in computer sciences at UMIST. While he was working on his Ph.D., he was headhunted by a computer software house as a troubleshooter. After a couple of years, he went freelance and became increasingly interested in the crooked side of computers. Soon, his business grew to include surveillance and security systems and all aspects of computer fraud and hacking. I met him towards the end of the first year of my law degree. He had a brief fling with my lodger, and we stayed friends long after the romance was over. He asked me to do a couple of legal jobs for him – process serving, researching particular Acts of Parliament, that sort of thing. I ended up working for him in my vacations. My role quickly grew, for Bill soon discovered it was easier for me to go undercover in a firm with problems than it was for him. After all, no one ever looks twice at the temporary secretary or data processor, do they? I found it all infinitely more interesting than my law degree. So when he offered me a full-time job after I’d passed my second year exams, I jumped at the chance. My father nearly had a coronary, but I appeased him by saying I could always go back to university and complete my degree if it didn’t work out.
Two years later, Bill offered me a junior partnership in the firm, and so Mortensen and Brannigan was born. I’d never regretted my decision, and once my father realized that I was earning a helluva lot more than any junior solicitor, or even a car worker like him, neither did he.
Bill looked up from his screen with a satisfied smile and leaned back in his chair. ‘Sorry about that, Kate. And how is Billy Smart’s circus today?’
‘Sticking to the pattern,’ I replied. I brought him quickly up to date and his look of happiness increased.
‘How long till we wrap it up?’ he asked. ‘And do you need anything more from me?’
‘I’ll be ready to hand over to the clients in a week or so. And no, I don’t need anything right now, unless you want to get a numb bum watching Billy for a day or two. What I did want to discuss with you is an approach I had last night.’ I filled him in.
Bill got up from his chair and stretched. ‘It’s not our usual field,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t like missing persons. It’s time-consuming, and not everyone wants to be found. Still, it might be straightforward enough, and it could lead us into a whole new range of potential clients. Plenty of schneid merchants around in the record business. Go and see what he wants, Kate, but make him no promises. We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to sleep on it. You look as if you could do with a good night’s sleep. These all-night rock parties are obviously too much for you these days.’
I scowled. ‘It’s nothing to do with partying. It’s more to do with mounting surveillance on a hyperactive insomniac.’ I left Bill booting up his AppleMac and headed for my own office. It’s really only a glorified cupboard containing a desk with my PC, a second desk for writing at, a row of filing cabinets and three chairs. Off it is an even smaller cupboard that doubles as my darkroom and the ladies’ toilet. For decoration, I’ve got a shelf of legal textbooks and a plant that has to be replaced every six weeks. Currently, it’s a three-week-old lemon geranium that’s already showing signs of unhappiness. I have the opposite of green fingers. Every growing thing I touch turns to brown. If I ever visit the Amazonian rainforests, there’ll be an ecological disaster on a scale that even Sting couldn’t prevent.
I sat down at my computer and logged on to one of several databases that we subscribe to. I chose the one that keeps extensive newspaper cuttings files on current celebrities, and I downloaded everything they had on Jett into my own computer. I saved the material to disc, then printed it out. Even if we decided not to go ahead with Jett’s assignment, I was determined to be fully briefed when we met. And since Jett himself had deprived me of my best source, I would have to do the best I could without Richard’s help.
It didn’t take me long to go through the printout, which ironically included a couple of Richard’s own articles. I now knew more than I had ever wanted to about any pop star, including Bjorn from Abba, focus of my own pre-teen crush. I knew all about Jett’s poverty-ridden childhood, about his discovery of the power of music when his deeply religious mother enrolled him in the local church’s gospel choir. I knew about his views on racial integration (a good thing), drugs (a very bad thing), abortion (a crime against humanity), the meaning of life (fundamentalist Christianity heavily revised by a liberal dollop of New Age codswallop), music (the very best thing of all as long as it had a good tune and a lyric that made sense – just like my dad) and women (the object of his respect, ho, ho). But among all the gossipy pieces of froth were a couple of nuggets of pure gold. If I were a gambling woman, I’d have felt very confident about putting money on the identity of the person Jett wanted found.
Jett’s new home couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the area where he’d grown up, I reflected as I pulled up before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. To get to this part of Cheshire from the centre of Manchester, you have to drive through the twitching heart of Moss-side, its pavements piled with the wares of the secondhand furniture dealers. Not the only kind of dealer you spot as you drive