Dead Beat

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‘It would be the last exclusive I got from him.’

‘There are plenty more people in the rock business who trust you,’ I replied.

‘But an awful lot of them wouldn’t be happy about talking to me if I’d dropped Jett in it,’ Richard reasoned.

‘Surely they’d understand why you’d done it?’ We were going down a side alley that wasn’t taking me any further, but I couldn’t help myself. Offering support to Richard was a lot more important to me than helping Jett.

Richard shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But anyway, there wouldn’t be enough of a market for two books. Jett’s not quite in the international megastar league.’

I got up and helped myself to a bottle of Perrier from the executive drinks fridge Richard keeps in the living room. It had been a birthday present from a friendly roadie who’d stolen it from a Hilton room. ‘What if …’ I said slowly. ‘What if you wrote a story for one of the Sunday tabloids. The things you won’t be reading in Jett’s autobiography, that kind of thing? You must have plenty up your sleeve like that.’

Wonders will never cease. Richard stopped eating. ‘You know, Brannigan, you just might have something there … If I flogged it on the quiet, they could put a staff reporter’s byline on it and that would protect my other contacts.’

That was enough to open the floodgates. I knew that when he was sober in the cold light of morning, Richard would have changed his mind about plastering Jett across the front pages of the gutter press. But by the time we made our amorous way to bed a couple of hours later, as far as Jett and his entourage were concerned, I had picked Richard’s brains as clean as he’d picked the salt and pepper ribs.

7 (#ulink_fd5dd9ac-4c72-503f-b52e-613ad75cc94d)

The following morning, the sun was shining and I was full enough of the joys of spring to cycle into work. I was in the office even before Shelley, keying in all the information Richard had unwittingly given me the night before. I couldn’t imagine how it could be relevant, but I’d rather have it neatly stored in my database just in case. It’s a hell of a lot more reliable than my memory, especially when you consider how many brain cells shuffle off this mortal coil with every vodka and grapefruit juice. God help me if my computer ever gets the taste for Stolichnaya.

A few minutes after nine, Shelley put a call through to me. It was my friendly neighbourhood copper. Derek’s a career constable. He doesn’t like the hassle that his seniors have to live with, so he tries to keep his head down whenever promotion is suggested. He does, however, like the vice squad. It makes him feel virtuous and he likes the perks. I’ve yet to meet a thirsty vice cop.

‘Hi, Kate,’ Derek greeted me cheerfully. ‘I popped round to the house, but I couldn’t get a reply, so I thought I’d try a long shot and call you at the office.’

‘Very funny,’ I replied. ‘Sorry I missed you, but some of us have to work long hours keeping the streets safe.’

He chuckled. ‘With your respect for the police, Kate, you really should have stuck to being a lawyer. Any road, I’ve got what you wanted. Your young lady does indeed have a record. First was five years ago. Soliciting. Fifty pound fine. There are three others for soliciting, ending up with two years’ probation just over a year ago. There’s also Class A possession charge. A small amount of heroin, personal use. She got a three hundred pound fine for that, but the fine must have been paid because there’s no record of a warrant for non-payment.’

I scribbled frantically to keep up with his sad recital of what had become of the talented writer of Jett’s best lyrics. ‘What address have you got?’

‘I’ve got as many addresses as there are offences. All in the Chapeltown area of Leeds.’

Just what I needed. I didn’t know Leeds well, but I knew enough to know that this was bedsitterland. The kind of area where junkies and prostitutes rub shoulders with the chronically poor and students who try to convince themselves there’s something glamorous about such Bohemian surroundings. It isn’t an easy belief to sustain, especially after the murderous depredations of the Yorkshire Ripper ten years ago. I copied down the three latest addresses as Derek read them out at dictation speed. I had no real hopes of them but at least I now knew that when Moira had fled from Jett she’d headed over the Pennines. It was a start.

I thanked Derek and promised to drop his money in that evening. It looked like I was going to have to go over to Leeds, which meant I wouldn’t be looking after the Smart brothers for another day. That didn’t worry me as much as it perhaps should have, because they’d followed an identical pattern on the two previous Thursdays. The days I still needed to keep watch were Mondays and Tuesdays when they did most of their irregular deliveries. I knew if Bill was worried about their surveillance he could bring in one of the freelances that we occasionally use for routine jobs when we’re overstretched. The extra cash we were making on Jett would more than cover the outlay.

Before I left, I gave Josh a quick call to see if his computer searches had come up with anything. Like Derek, all he had for me was bad news. When she left Jett, Moira had had a five-star credit rating. Within two years of her departure, she’d run up a string of bad debts that made me wince. She owed everybody – credit cards, store accounts, hire purchase, two major bank loans. There were several County Court judgements against her, and a handful more still pending. The court hadn’t been able to find her to serve the papers. That really filled me with confidence. But it also explained why she’d not been staying at any one address for too long.

I left the office by half-past nine and cycled home, where I changed into a pair of jogging pants that were past their best and a green Simply Red road crew sweatshirt, one of the few donations from Richard that hadn’t been despatched straight back next door. If I was going down those mean streets, then I wanted to make damn sure I looked a bit mean myself. I pulled on a pair of hi-top Reeboks and a padded leather jacket that was a bit scuffed round the edges. I picked up the last bottle of mineral water from the fridge and threw a packet of fresh pasta with yesterday’s sell-by date into the bin. I made a mental note to hit the supermarket on my way home.

I didn’t want to risk getting snarled up in the crosstown traffic, so I took the longer but faster motorway route out to the western edge of the C-shaped almost-orbital motorway and picked up the M62 to cross the bleak moors. Within the hour, I was driving out of Leeds city centre north into Chapeltown, singing along with Pat Benatar’s Best Shots to lift my spirits.

I cruised slowly around the dirty streets, attracting some equally dirty looks when the whores who were already out working moved forward to proposition me, only to discover a woman driver. I found the last address that Derek had given me without too much difficulty. Like so many of the Yorkshire stone houses in the area, it had obviously once been the home of a prosperous burgher. It was a big Victorian property, standing close to its neighbours. Behind the scabby paintwork of the window frames there was an assortment of grubby curtains, no two rooms matching. In front of the house, what had once been the garden had been badly asphalted over, with weeds sprouting through the cracks in the tarmac. I got out of the car and carefully set the alarm.

I climbed the four steps up to a front door that looked as if it had been kicked in a few times and examined an array of a dozen bells. Only a couple had names by them, and neither was Moira’s. Sighing deeply, I rang the bottom bell. Nothing happened, and I started working my way systematically up the bells till I reached the fifth. I heard the sound of a window being opened and I stepped back and looked up. To my left, on the first floor, a black woman wearing a faded blue towelling dressing gown was leaning out. ‘What d’you want?’ she demanded aggressively.

I debated whether to apologize for troubling her, but decided that I didn’t want to sound like the social services department. ‘I’m looking for Moira Pollock. She still living here?’

The woman scowled suspiciously. ‘Why d’you want Moira?’

‘We used to be in the same line of business,’ I lied, hoping I looked like a possible candidate for the meat rack.

‘Well, she ain’t here. She moved out, must be more’n a year ago.’ The woman moved back and started to close the window.

‘Hang on a minute. Where would I find her? Do you know?’

She paused. ‘I ain’t seen her around in a long while. Your best bet’s that pub down Chapeltown Road, the ‘ambleton. She used to drink there.’

My thanks were drowned by the screech of the sash window as the woman slammed it back down. I walked back to the car, shifted a large black and white cat which had already taken up residence on the warm bonnet, and set off to find the pub.

The Hambleton Hotel was about a mile and a half away from Moira’s last known address. It was roadhouse style, in grimy yellow and red brick with the mock-Tudor gables much beloved by 1930s pub architects. The inside looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since then. Even at half-past eleven in the morning, it was fairly lively. A couple of black men were playing the fruit machine, and a youth was dropping coins into a jukebox which was currently playing Jive Bunny. By the bar was a small knot of women who were already dressed for work in short skirts and low-cut sweaters. Their exposed flesh looked pale and unappetizing, but at least it lacked the bluish tinge that ten minutes’ exposure to the cold spring air would lend it.

I walked up to the bar, aware of the eyes on me, and ordered a half of lager. Something told me that a Perrier wouldn’t do much for my cover story. The blowsy barmaid looked me up and down as she poured my drink. As I paid, I told her to take one herself. She shook her head and muttered, ‘Too early for me.’ I was taken aback. Before I could ask her about Moira, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I tensed and turned round slowly. One of the black men who’d been playing the fruit machine was standing behind me with a frown on his face. He was nearly six feet tall, slim and elegant in chinos and a shiny black satin shirt under a dove grey full length Italian lambskin coat that looked like it cost six months of my mortgage. His hair was cut in a perfect flat-top, accentuating his high cheek bones and strong jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell minty breath-spray as he leaned forward into my face and breathed, ‘I hear you been looking for a friend of mine.’

‘News travels fast,’ I responded, trying to move away from his hot breath, but failing thanks to the bar behind me.

‘What d’you want with Moira?’ There was a note of menace in his voice that pissed me off. I controlled the urge to kick him across the bar and said nothing as he leaned even closer. ‘Don’t try telling me you’re on the game. And don’t try telling me you’re a cop. Those fuckers only come down here mob-handed. So who are you, and what d’you want with Moira?’

I know when the time for games is past. I reached into my pocket and produced a business card. I handed it to the pimp who was giving me a severe case of claustrophobia. It worked. He backed off a good six inches. ‘It’s nothing heavy. It’s an old friend of hers who wants to make contact. If it works out, there could be good money in it for her.’

He studied the card and glared at me. ‘Private Investigator,’ he sneered. ‘Well, baby, you’re not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.’

My heart did that funny kind of flip it does when I get bad news. Two days ago, I couldn’t have cared less if Moira were alive or dead. Now I was surprised to find that I cared a lot. ‘You don’t mean … ?’

His lip curled in a sneer again. I suspected he’d perfected it in front of a mirror at the age of twelve and hadn’t progressed to anything more adult. ‘She was still alive when she left here. But the way she was pumping heroin into her veins, you’ll be lucky to find her like that now. I kicked her out a year ago. She was no use to anybody. All she cared about was getting another fix into her.’

‘Any idea where she went?’ I asked with sinking heart.

He shrugged. ‘That depends on how much it’s worth.’

‘And that depends on how good the information is.’

He smiled crookedly. ‘Well, you’re not going to know that till you check it out, are you? And I don’t give credit. A hundred to tell you where she went.’

‘Do you seriously think I’d carry that kind of cash in a shit pit like this? Fifty.’

He shook his head. ‘No way. Fancy bit of skirt like you, you’ll have a hole-in-the-wall card. Come back here in half an hour with a oner and I’ll tell you where she went. And don’t think you’ll get the word off somebody else. Nobody round here’s going to cross George.’

I knew when I was beaten. Whoever George was, he clearly had his patch sewn up tight. Wearily, I nodded and headed back towards the car.

8 (#ulink_c77bd4b0-df15-5170-819d-d36fc4ae3c2e)

The short drive from Leeds to its neighbouring city of Bradford is like traversing a continent. Crossing the city boundary, I found myself driving through a traditional Muslim community. Little girls were covered from head to foot, the only flesh on display their pale brown faces and hands. All the women who walked down the pavements with a leisurely rolling gait had their heads covered, and several were veiled. In contrast, most of the men dressed in western clothes, though many of the older ones wore the traditional white cotton baggy trousers and loose tops with incongruously heavy winter coats over them, greying beards spilling down their fronts. I passed a newly erected mosque, its bright red brick and toytown minarets a sharp contrast to the grubby terraces that surrounded it. Most of the grocery shops had signs in Arabic, and the butchers announced Hal-al meat for sale. It almost came as a culture shock to see signs in English directing me to the city centre.

I stopped at a garage to buy a street directory. There were three Asian men standing around inside the shop, and another behind the counter. I felt like a piece of meat as they eyed me up and down and made comments to each other. I didn’t need to speak the language to catch their drift.

Back in the car, I looked up my destination in the map’s index and worked out the best way to get there. George’s information represented the worst value for money I’d had in a long time, but I wasn’t in any position to stick around and argue the toss. All he’d been able to tell me was that Moira had moved to Bradford and was working the streets of the red light district round Manningham Lane. He either didn’t know or wouldn’t tell the name of her pimp, though he claimed that she was working for a black guy rather than an Asian.

It was just after one when I parked in a quiet side street off Manningham Lane. As I got out of the car, the smell of curry spices hit me and I realized I was ravenous. It had been a long time since last night’s Chinese, and I had to start my inquiries somewhere. I went into the first eating place I came to, a small café on the corner. Three of the half dozen formica-topped tables were occupied. The clientele was a mixture of Asian men, working girls and a couple of lads who looked like building labourers. I went up to the counter, where a teenager in a grubby chef’s jacket was standing behind a cluster of pans on a hotplate. On the wall was a whiteboard, which offered Lamb Rogan Josh, Chicken Madras, Mattar Panir and Chicken Jalfrezi. I ordered the lamb, and the youth ladled a generous helping into a bowl, opened a hot cupboard and handed me three chapatis. A couple of weeks before, their hygiene standards would have driven me out the door a lot faster than I’d come in. However, on the Smart surveillance, I’d learned that hunger has an interesting effect on the eyesight. After the greasy spoons I’d been forced to feed in up and down the country, I couldn’t claim the cleanliness standards of an Egon Ronay any longer. And this café was a long way from the bottom of my current list.

I sat down at the table next to the prostitutes and helped myself to one of the spoons rammed into a drinking tumbler on the table. The first mouthful made me realize just how hungry I’d been. The curry was rich and tasty, the meat tender and plentiful. And all for less than the price of a motorway sandwich. I’d heard before that the best places to eat in Bradford were the Asian cafés and restaurants, but I’d always written it off as the inverse snobbery of pretentious foodies. For once, I was glad to be proved wrong.

I wiped my bowl clean with the last of the chapatis, and pulled out the most recent photograph I had of Moira. I shifted in my chair till I was facing the prostitutes, who were enjoying a last cigarette before they went out to brave an afternoon’s trade. The café was so small I was practically sitting among them. I flipped the photograph on to the table and cut through their desultory chatter. ‘I’m looking for her,’ I explained. ‘I’m not Old Bill, and I’m not after her money either. I just want a chat. An old friend wants to get in touch. Nothing heavy. But if she wants to stay out of touch, that’s up to her.’ I dropped one of my business cards on the table by the picture.