Dead Beat

22

By the time I got to Colcutt, the buzz of tracking the Smarts' scam had worn off and my stomach seemed to think it was time for something a little more substantial than black coffee. I headed for the kitchen, planning to take some of my wages in kind. On the way, I noticed that the rehearsal room was taped up with police seals. I wondered how long it would be before Jett felt like making music again.

I poked around in the kitchen, checking out the fridge, the freezer and the cupboards. I opened a can of Heinz tomato soup, the ultimate comfort food, emptied it into a bowl and put it in the microwave. I'd only managed to get a couple of spoonfuls down when the door leading into the stable yard opened and Micky walked in, shaking the drops of rain off his waxed jacket. It was the first time I've ever seen anyone with arms so long their wrists actually stuck out of the sleeves of a Barbour.

He nodded at me and headed for the kettle, pulling off a tweed cap which had left a circular impression on his thin blond-streaked brown hair. The effect was quite bizarre. 'Bloody awful weather,' he complained, the cigarette in the corner of his mouth bobbing up and down like a conductor's baton.

'You're not wrong. You wouldn't have caught me out in it unless I'd been working,' I fished. He didn't rise. All I got for my pains was a grunt that fitted well with his simian features. I tried again. 'Have you got a minute? I need to ask you some questions.'

Micky sighed deeply and tossed his cigarette end into the sink. 'It's doing my head in, this business. Questions, questions, questions. And Plod all over the sodding place. All I want to do is get on with my job. Some of us have got deadlines to meet,' he grumbled.

'Inconsiderate of Moira, really,' I replied. 'But the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner it'll all be sorted,' I added with a confidence I didn't feel.

'Might as well get it over and done with,' he muttered irritably, tossing a teabag into a mug and swirling it around viciously with a teaspoon. He removed his jacket and threw it over a chair, then brought his tea over to the table. He perched on the edge of a chair and immediately lit another cigarette which he continuously dabbed nervously at his lips. Apart from the cigarette, he looked just like those chimps they dress up for the PG Tips adverts. I half-expected him to answer my questions in Donald Sinden's fruity tones.

'I need to know your movements around the time of Moira's death,' I said bluntly.

T didn't make any,' he replied belligerently, his fingers beating a silent tattoo on the side of the mug. I gave him the benefit of my quizzical look. I couldn't do words because I had a mouthful of soup. T was in the studio all evening,' he finally volunteered.

'Doing what, exactly?' I pursued.

'Doing what I do, exactly. Jett and Moira had been in earlier, around eight, listening to what we'd been working on that afternoon. Moira was full of bright ideas about the mixing, and some synth effects she wanted me to lay down. I was fiddling around with a couple of tracks, trying various things. I wanted to have a selection of versions for them to hear the next day. Time passes fast when you've got your head down.' Micky took a swig of tea and sniffed loudly as the steam hit his cold nose. It was far from incontrovertible evidence of what Gloria had suggested and Neil had confirmed.

Even the cloud of smoke slowly filling the kitchen couldn't put me off my soup. I finished it, and the sound of my spoon scraping on the bottom of the bowl made him wince. 'I understand Moira had pretty firm ideas on what she wanted the album to be like,' I remarked.

He crushed out his cigarette, swallowed some more tea, sniffed again, blew his nose on a large, paisley patterned handkerchief and lit another cigarette before he answered. 'She was a royal pain,' Micky informed me. 'Let's try it this way, no, maybe not, let's go back to what you wanted to do in the first place,' he mimicked with cruel accuracy. 'She'd been out of the game too long to have a bloody clue what she was talking about.'

'Doesn't sound like you're too sorry that she's dead,' I said.

The look of astonishment that crossed his face came as a genuine surprise to me.

'Of course I'm bloody sorry,' he shouted. 'She was a bloody great songwriter. Just because she couldn't do my job doesn't mean I didn't respect the way she did hers. She might have been bloody difficult to work with, but at least she gave you something you could get your teeth into in the first place.' He subsided as quickly as he'd erupted and slouched even deeper in the chair. 'For fuck's sake,' he muttered.

'I'm sorry,' I said, meaning it. 'Did anyone else come down to the studio while you were there?'

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, screwing up his eyes in concentration. 'Kevin came in. I've been trying to remember if it was once or twice, but I'm not sure. He wanted to hear how it was going, but I wasn't really in the mood. I was into the music, you know? I didn't have a lot left over for small talk.'

'Screws your memory up, doesn't it?' I said sympathetically.

'What d'you mean?'

'Charlie. Destroys the short-term memory.'

'I don't know what you're on about,' came the reflex answer.

'Coke. And I don't mean the brown fizzy stuff. It's OK, Micky, I'm not a copper's nark. I don't give a shit what you do to yourself. Everybody's got the right to go to hell in the handcart of their choice. I'm just concerned about finding out what happened to Moira. And if you were out of your box, your evidence on Kevin's movements isn't worth a damn,' I informed him, aware even as I spoke how bloody sanctimonious I sounded. At least I'd managed to restrain myself from dishing out the standard Brannigan antidrugs sermon.

'So I do the odd line. So what? I'd had a bit, but I wasn't flying. I just don't remember if he came in once or twice, OK?' The belligerent edge was back in his voice.

'You ever use heroin?'

'No way. I've seen too many talented kids go down that road. No, all I do is a bit of recreational coke.'

'But you'd know where to get heroin if someone else wanted it?'

He shook his head in wide, disbelieving sweeps. 'Oh no, you don't pin that one on me. I don't deal, not for anybody, not for my nearest and dearest. Personal use, that's all.'

'But you'd know where to get it?' I persisted.

'I'd have a shrewd idea who to ask. If you work in this business, you get to hear things like that. But if you're nosing into heroin dealers, I'm not the one you should be asking.' Micky lit his next cigarette. I was beginning to feel like a herring in a smokehouse. I'd be a kipper before morning if I hung around Micky.

'So who should I be asking?'

He shrugged, and a malicious gleam crept into his eyes. 'A certain little lady who's got nothing better to do with her time. Ask her why she was so fascinated by Paki Paulie at the Hassy the other week.'

He obviously meant Tamar. The description certainly didn't fit Gloria. And where better to meet a dealer than the Hacienda, full as it always is of kids looking for the next kick? I filed the hint away for further investigation.

'Have you got any idea who killed Moira?' I asked.

'I can't imagine any of them having the bottle, frankly,' Micky said contemptuously. 'Except Neil. That bastard would do anything for a few bob. He must have made a fucking fortune out of her death already, all the stories he's been selling to the papers. Fucking vulture.' The venom in his voice was shocking.

'Sounds like there's not a lot of love lost between the two of you,” I observed. When it comes to spotting the obvious, I'm an Olympic contender.

'Let's just say he's not the person I'd choose to write my biography.'

'Why's that?'

'He's too fond of seeing his name in big letters in the papers. He turned over my brother-in-law, you know. Years ago, it was, but Des's never recovered. OK, Des was a bit dodgy, he ripped a few people off, but he wasn't a bad lad, not a proper villain, not when you compare him to those City bastards who rip people off to the tune of millions. Thanks to Neil fucking Webster, Des ended up inside for eighteen months. He used to have his own business, you know, but now he's just a bloody brickie working for buttons. Tell you what, an' all,' Micky continued, his accent losing its classless-ness and becoming pure East End, 'that fucker Webster won't have given him another thought. I bet he doesn't even realise why I hate his guts.'

All this was deeply fascinating, but I couldn't see its relevance. In spite of Micky's obvious conviction, I couldn't see Neil coldbloodedly planning murder for the sake of a byline. Before I could divert the conversation down more profitable paths, the door from the house opened and a wave of Giorgio cut through the smoky air.

I turned in my chair to watch Tamar sweep across the room in her silk pyjamas. Without a word of greeting, she made for the fridge. She bent over to peer inside, then slammed it shut with an air of bad temper. She started for the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen and caught Micky's eyes on her. 'Stop letching, sleazeball,' she threw at him on her way to the Weetabix.

Micky scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the room, grabbing his coat as he went. Thanks a bunch, Tamar, I thought to myself as I watched her tip two bars into a bowl and drench them with sugar. On her way back to the fridge, I remarked, 'Sleep well?'

'What the hell business is it of yours?' she grumbled as she poured milk on her cereal and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. If she was always this charming first thing in the evening, it wasn't so surprising that Jett preferred to wake up alone.

'You can always tell good breeding,” I said airily. 'Plebs like me, we can never aspire to the courtesy of the moneyed classes.'

To my surprise, she spluttered with laughter, spraying the worktop with gobbets of coconut matting. 'OK, I'm sorry, Kate,' she conceded. It was the first time I'd seen a side of her that explained why Jett had put up with her for more than five minutes. 'I'm always a complete shit until I've had something to eat. I think I get low blood sugar in the night. I guess all this business over Moira is just making it worse. And breakfast with Bonzo there was a prospect too dire for words.' Her upper class drawl exaggerated her words, made them seem more amusing than they were.

'So what's the daughter of a baronet doing among the Neanderthals, then?' I asked, trying to pick up the tone of her own remarks. Richard's background info was still coming in handy.

She gave an ironic smile. 'Depends who you want to believe. According to my mother, I'm indulging in a belated teenage rebellion, having a bit of rough before I settle down. According to the lovely Gloria, I'm a gold-digger who likes having her name linked in the gossip columns with Jett. According to Kevin, I was useful in the early days because I kept Jett amused, but now I'm a pain because we keep rowing.'

'And according to you?'

'Me? I'm still here because I'm crazy about the guy. I'll admit that when I first met him, I thought he might be fun to play with for a while. But that changed. In a matter of days, that changed. I'm here because I love him and I want to make it work. In spite of all the efforts of his so-called friends to put a spanner in the works,' she added, with an edge of bitterness that nullified the light tone of her earlier remarks.

'Was Moira one of those?' I asked, getting up to make myself some coffee.

She nodded. 'In spades. Sorry, an unfortunate turn of phrase, but maybe not so inaccurate. She treated me like a brainless bimbo to the point where I felt like having my degree framed and hung on my door. Did you know I have an upper second in modern languages from Exeter?' she asked defensively. I waved an empty mug at Tamar and she nodded. 'Black, one sugar. Moira seemed to think that since I wasn't a black, working-class musician then I could have nothing to offer Jett. It was ironic. She didn't want him any more, but she was damned if she was going to let anyone else be part of his life.'

I was almost beginning to feel sorry for Tamar myself. Then I remembered the display in the drawing room the previous morning, and how insincere I'd instinctively felt it to be. 'Well, she won't be around to throw any more spanners,' I responded heartlessly.

'And if I'm being honest, I'd have to say I'm glad. If I'd heard one more sentimental conversation about "our roots" I think I'd have screamed. But I didn't kill her. You can't get away from the fact that they made good music together. And I wouldn't have taken that away from him. I know how much his work means to him.' Tamar stirred her coffee demurely. I nearly believed her. Then I remembered Micky's hints and their implications. Someone had been shoving heroin at Moira, and it looked like Tamar. I decided to wait till I had more evidence to hit her with, rather than waste the talkative mood she was in today. It hadn't escaped me that the reason for her co-operation might be nothing more than a desire to stay in Jett's good books.

'I hate to be a bore, but I have to ask you what you were doing on the night Moira was killed,' I said. T know you'll have run through it already with the police, but I have to go through the motions.' I gave what was supposed to be a winning smile.

Tamar ran a hand through her tousled hair and pulled a face. 'Bor-ring is right. OK. I'd been shopping in town all afternoon, then I met my sister Candida for a coffee in the Conservatory, you know, just off St Anne's Square. I got back around half-past seven. I bumped into Jett and Moira in the hall on their way down to the studio. Jett said they'd be about half an hour, and I decided to cook dinner.

I did steaks in brandy and cream sauce with new potatoes and mangetout, and Jett and I ate in the TV room. I drank most of a bottle of burgundy, Jett had his usual Smirnoff Blue Label and Diet Coke. We watched the new Harrison Ford movie on video, then I went upstairs and had a bath. Jett came up and joined me just after ten. We made love in my room, then he went off downstairs some time after eleven. He said he was going to do some work with Moira. I couldn't sleep, so I read for a while then I started to watch the video. That's when you walked in.'

It all came out a bit too pat. I used to have a boyfriend who continually confounded me by his ability to remember the most trivial remarks weeks later. So when he lied to me, his stories were always so detailed it never crossed my mind to doubt their veracity. When I think of that, I thank God that Richard can barely recall what he ate for dinner the night before. Unless it impinges on his professional life, information passes through Richard's head without leaving a trace. But Tamar was trying to impress me very forcibly with her candour and her excellent memory. I didn't trust her an inch.

I tried the tired old question. 'So who do you think killed Moira?'

Tamar's eyes widened. 'Well, it wasn't Jett. But then, you know that, don't you?' she added, her voice heavy with irony.

'Leaving Jett aside, you must have given the matter some thought,' I pressed her.

She got to her feet and dumped her dishes in the dishwasher. With her back to me, she said, 'Gloria is a very stupid woman, you know. Stupid enough to think she's bright enough to get away with murder, if you understand me.' I caught the reflection of Tamar's face in the kitchen window. There was a tight smile on her lips.

She turned back to face me, her expression wiped clean. 'Why don't you ask her what she was doing running upstairs just before one o'clock?'

I could feel the pulse in my throat. 'What do you mean?'

'I heard someone running upstairs. I was coming through from my bathroom, so I stuck my head round the door. I saw Gloria's door closing. What was she up to? You're the detective. Maybe you should ask her.'