PI Kate Brannigan Series Books 1-3: Dead Beat, Kick Back, Crack Down

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At first, he reacted as if my behaviour were certifiable. Now, he’s come to accept that life is much sweeter if he sticks to the rules. He’s still a long way from perfect. For example, being colour-blind, he’s got a tendency to bring home little gifts like a scarlet vase that clashes hideously with my sage green, peach and magnolia decor. Or black sweatshirts promoting bands I’ve never heard of because black’s fashionable, in spite of the fact that I’ve told him a dozen times that black makes me look like a candidate for the terminal ward. Now, I simply banish them to his home and thank him sweetly for his thoughtfulness. But he’s getting better, I swear he’s getting better. Or so I told myself as the desire to strangle him rose at the thought of the evening ahead.

Reluctantly abandoning the idea of murder, I returned to my bedroom and thought about an outfit for the evening. I weighed up what would be expected of me. It didn’t matter a damn what I wore to the concert. I’d be lost in the thousands of yelling fans desperate to welcome Jett back in triumph to his home town. The party afterwards was more of a problem. Much as I hated having to ask, I called through to Richard, ‘What’s the party going to be like, clothes-wise?’

He appeared in the doorway, looking like a puppy that’s astonished to have been forgiven so easily for the mess on the kitchen floor. His own outfit was hardly a clue. He was wearing a wide-shouldered baggy electric blue double breasted suit, a black shirt and a silk tie with a swirled pattern of neon colours that looked like a sixties psychedelic album cover. He shrugged and gave that smile that still made my stomach turn over. ‘You know Jett,’ he said.

That was the problem. I didn’t. I’d met the man once, about three months before. He’d turned up on our table for ten at a charity dinner and had sat very quiet, almost morose, except when discussing football with Richard. Manchester United, those two words that are recognized in any language from Santiago to Stockholm, had unlocked Jett as if with a magic key. He’d sprung to the defence of his beloved Manchester City with the ardour of an Italian whose mother’s honour has been impugned. The only fashion hint I’d had from that encounter was that I should wear a City strip. ‘No, Richard, I don’t know Jett,’ I explained patiently. ‘What kind of party will it be?’

‘Not many Traceys, lots of Fionas,’ he announced in our own private code. Traceys are bimbos, the natural successors to groupies. Blonde, busty and fashion-obsessed, if they had a brain they’d be dangerous. Fionas share the same characteristics but they are the rich little upper-crust girls who would have been debutantes if coming out had not become so hopelessly unfashionable with everyone except gays. They like rock stars because they enjoy being with men who lavish them with gifts and a good time, while at the same time shocking their families to the core. So Jett liked Fionas, did he? And Fionas meant designer outfits, an item singularly lacking in my wardrobe.

I flicked moodily through the hangers and ended up with a baggy long cotton shirt splashed with shades of olive, khaki, cream and terracotta that I’d bought on holiday in the Canaries the year before. I pulled on a pair of tight terracotta leggings. That was when I knew the motorway sandwiches had to go. Luckily, the shirt covered the worst of the bulges, so I cinched it in at the waist with a broad brown belt. I finished the outfit off with a pair of high-heeled brown sandals. When you’re only 5’3”, you need all the help you can get. I chose a pair of outrageous earrings and a couple of gold bangles, and eyed myself in the mirror. It wasn’t wonderful, but it was better than Richard deserved. Right on cue, he said, ‘You look great. You’ll knock them dead, Brannigan.’

I hoped not. I hate mixing business with pleasure.