so I followed the music down to his study. He was so absorbed in the screen of his word processor that he didn’t hear me enter.
Over his shoulder, I read, ‘Moira got her second chance at the dream ticket just six weeks ago when she turned up at Jett’s luxury mansion, a world away from the mean streets where they started off.’ I don’t know, even the journalists I trust can’t get their facts right.
I tapped him gently on the shoulder and he glanced up at me with a distracted smile. ‘Hiya, Brannigan.’
I leaned over and kissed him. ‘Busy?’
‘Ten minutes. You hear about Moira Pollock?’ I nodded. ‘I’m doing a piece for the Sunday Tribune – you know, wringing their withers, lots of colour, plenty of topspin. Be right with you.’
I left him to it. True to his word, ten minutes later he joined me in the conservatory, where I was watching the rain on the glass making rivers against the darkness. Richard threw himself into a basket chair and popped the top of a Michelob Dry.
‘I have a confession to make,’ I announced.
Richard’s eyebrows rose and he gave me his cute smile. ‘You wore the same clothes two days running? You forgot to hoover the lounge before you went out this morning? You ate a yoghurt that was two days past its sell-by date?’
I don’t know who told him he was funny. It certainly wasn’t me. ‘This is serious,’ I explained.
‘Oh, shit! You left a ring round the bath!’ he teased.
Sometimes I wish I lived with a grown-up.
‘Moira Pollock didn’t just turn up on Jett’s doorstep out of the blue,’ I announced bluntly. It was the only way to get his attention.
‘How d’you know that?’ he demanded, suddenly serious now his professional world was involved.
‘Because it was me who drove her there.’
I had the momentary satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop. ‘You what?’ he exclaimed.
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you about it at the time. Jett swore me to secrecy, with particular reference to you. He hired us to find Moira for him. So I did. And now he’s hired me to find Moira’s killer.’
I’d dropped my bombshell, and it seemed to have left Richard momentarily speechless. He just stared at me, mouth open like a drunken actor who’s forgotten his lines. Eventually, he closed his mouth, swallowed hard and said, ‘You’re at the wind-up.’
‘Never been more serious.’
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘So how come you’re telling me now? How come client confidentiality goes out the window at this precise moment?’
‘Because when murder’s on the agenda, I’m entitled to grab all the extra help I can get,’ I explained.
‘Shee-it,’ he drawled. Then the journalist in him jumped out like a jack-in-the-box. ‘That’s great. You’ll be able to give me the inside track on the story.’
I shook my head wonderingly. ‘That’s not the idea, Richard. We’ll happily pay you a consultancy fee, but I don’t let the cat out of the bag for anyone except my client. And besides, whatever I could give you would be old hat anyway. Your old mate Neil Webster is sitting there in Colcutt Manor, feeding the world what it wants to hear, straight from the horses’ mouths.’
He covered his disappointment with a wry grin. ‘Anybody should have been murdered up there, it should have been that piece of shit,’ he complained. ‘OK, Brannigan. You got it. Any help I can give you, it’s yours. So why don’t you take me right back to the beginning and tell me how you tracked Moira down. Surely you can at least give me that teensy weensy exclusive?’
I grinned back at him. One day I’m going to learn how to put up a resistance to his charms. With any luck, it’s a long way off.
There was still a policeman at the gates of Colcutt Manor when I arrived the following morning. But half-past ten was too early for the press, who, judging by the number of cars in the pub car park, had invaded the guest rooms of the Colcutt Arms and were still sleeping off their expense account excesses.
It was also too early for the household. Now the bulk of the police had left, life was slowly returning to normal. The kitchen was empty, as was the blue drawing room, the television room, the dining room, the billiard room and Neil’s office. I was beginning to feel like a National Trust curator on a rainy Wednesday as I trudged back to the hall. This time, one of the crew of the Marie Celeste had appeared.
Gloria was just walking out of her office when she heard my heels clattering on the terrazzo tiles and turned sharply round. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said with her usual grace and charm. She ignored me and carried on walking, closing the door behind her.
Undaunted, I followed her down the hall to the rear porch. As she pulled on a tan leather blouson, she eyed me warily, and I returned the compliment. I know that white is the colour of mourning in oriental cultures, but I’ve never encountered the civilization where they show their feelings for the departed in coral and cream jogging suits. I guess Valkyries do things differently.
‘I’m busy,’ she informed me, opening the back door and heading for the stable block.
‘Must be a lot to do,’ I said. ‘Organizing the funeral and all.’
She had the good grace to blush, a reaction that strangely did nothing for her English Rose colouring. She zapped the up-and-over garage door with the little black box on her keyring and the door slid quietly open.
‘That’s being arranged by Moira’s mother. We decided Jett was in no fit state to cope with it,’ she informed me.
And Ms Pollock indubitably will be, I thought, but didn’t say. There was already enough animosity between us. ‘In that case,’ I insisted, following her to the driver’s door of a Volkswagen Golf, ‘I’m sure you can find a few minutes of your time to answer a few questions.’ She climbed in the car, ignoring me, and started the engine. I had to jump back to avoid her rear wheels amputating my toes.
‘Bitch,’ I yelled as the GTi shot out of the garage, leaving me gagging on her exhaust fumes. I hesitated for a moment, then my anger got the better of me. I raced back to the house, clattered down the hall and jumped behind the wheel of my Nova. I hit the drive at fifty, and reached the gates in time to see Gloria turn right.
By the time I got through the gates, she was out of sight. I put my foot to the floor and screamed down the winding lane, standing on my brakes like a boy racer. I prayed she hadn’t taken one of the narrow lanes that turned off at irregular intervals. I was nearly at the main road when I caught a glimpse of her across the angle of a field. She was heading for Wilmslow.
‘Gotcha,’ I yelled triumphantly as I shot across the oncoming traffic to make a right turn and get on her tail. I assumed she didn’t know my car, but hung back a little just in case.
She seemed to know where she was going, moving between lanes with no hesitation. Just before she hit the town centre, she suddenly swung left without indicating, leaving me to make a hair-raising manoeuvre, cutting up a coach who was really too big to argue with. I found myself in a narrow street of terraced houses. I drove down as fast as I dared, slowing at the junctions to check she hadn’t turned off. I was almost at the end when she headed back down the street, well in excess of the speed limit. I had to swerve to avoid her.
She clearly wasn’t afraid to let me know she’d spotted me. I wrenched the wheel round in a tight turn, hitting the pavement as I went. Another thousand miles off the tyres. I screeched back after her, reaching the junction in time to see her continue on her way to Wilmslow. I sat at the corner long enough to see her turn right down the side of Sainsbury’s. I followed, and found a space in