placed to have a few theories,’ I replied. ‘You’re right at the nerve centre of the household. You’re in Jett’s confidence. I can’t imagine there’s much goes on around here that you don’t know about.’ When in doubt, flatter.
Gloria rose to the bait. ‘If I had to choose one person, I’d pick Tamar,’ she bitched right back at me. ‘If Jett wasn’t such a nice guy, she’d have been out of here weeks ago. They’ve been rowing for ages, and when Moira arrived, Tamar’s nose was put right out of joint. Jett needs a woman who understands him, who really appreciates how demanding his work is. But Tamar just wants to have a good time, and Jett’s just the means to that end for her. When Moira turned up, he saw how many of his needs weren’t being met by Tamar, and it was obvious he didn’t have much time for her any more. And now Moira’s dead, Tamar’s been all over him, trying to get back in his good books.’
It was a long speech for Gloria, and her efforts to make it sound objective rather than vitriolic would have been funny under any other circumstances. I nodded sagely, and said, ‘I see what you mean. But do you really think she’s capable of a crime of violence like that?’
‘She’s capable of anything,’ Gloria retorted. ‘She saw her position under threat, and I think she acted on the spur of the moment to protect herself.’
‘What about the others? Micky? Kevin?’ I inquired.
‘Kevin wasn’t thrilled that she was back. He was worried about the press getting hold of the details of her past and using that to smear Jett. And she was always chasing him about money, as if he was trying to do her out of her share, which is just ridiculous. I mean, if Kevin was dishonest, Jett would have found out and got rid of him years ago. He had nothing to fear from Moira’s silly allegations, so why would he kill her? All her murder’s achieved is to stir up the very stuff he wanted kept quiet,’ Gloria informed me.
‘And Micky?’
‘You wouldn’t be very thrilled if someone who had been out of the business for years came along and started telling you how to do your job, would you? She was very pushy, you know. She had her own ideas and God help anyone who didn’t go along with them. I felt really sorry for Micky. She was always pushing Jett into taking her side over the album, and he was so scared that she’d take off again that he went along with her. But Micky wouldn’t have killed her. I mean, she might have been driving him demented, but she couldn’t do his career any damage,’ Gloria stated. She pointedly made for the check-out queue. In her eyes, she’d clearly decided she’d told me all I was going to get.
I cut round in front of her, making her brake sharply. ‘One last question,’ I promised. ‘You said cocaine was the drug of choice around Colcutt. Who uses it?’
‘It’s not my place to say,’ she replied huffily, her eyes on the display of cookery books beside us.
‘If you don’t tell me, someone else will. And if no one else will, I’ll just have to go to Jett,’ I retaliated, fed up with fencing.
Gloria gave me a look that should have reduced me to a smouldering heap of ashes. Clearly she thought threats were as pleasant a form of communication as I did. ‘Ask Micky about it,’ she finally offered.
‘I’ll do just that,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for your help, Gloria. I’ll mention to Jett how co-operative you’ve been.’ I smiled sweetly and walked away. If I were a store detective, I’d never have let me out of there without a body search. There can’t be that many complete weirdos walking around looking like they’re rehearsing scenes from Inspector Morse in Sainsbury’s in a nice Country Life town like Wilmslow.
Back in the car park, I found that an officious traffic warden had decided to make my day. Peeling off the ticket, I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it on the floor of the car. Clearly Richard’s disgusting motoring habits were beginning to rub off on me. Grumbling quietly in a highly satisfactory sort of way, I eased the car into the traffic and headed back towards Colcutt.
I was stopped at the lights when I spotted Kevin. He was coming out of the bank, and I nearly peeped the horn to let him know I was there. Luckily, my reflexes were a little slow that morning. He was joined immediately by a burly guy in a padded leather body warmer over a navy blue rugby shirt. His Levis were tight enough to show he wasn’t wearing boxer shorts. I grabbed my tape recorder, depressed the record button and said, ‘White male, mid-forties, straight grey hair, thinning on top, neatly cut. Wide mouth, plump cheeks and chin, beer gut.’ The lights changed and I had to go with the flow. What I did see as I drove off, apart from the bulky gold flash of a Rolex on Kevin’s pal’s wrist, was the thick manila envelope that changed hands on the steps of the bank. I could think of a dozen reasons why Kevin should be paying someone off in cash. At least half of them made me feel very uncomfortable indeed.
I swung the car right into a narrow side street and doubled back towards the lights. At the junction, I paused, eyes flicking from side to side, trying to spot Kevin’s contact. I caught sight of him as he rounded the arcade of shops opposite, heading for the leisure centre car park. An impatient driver behind me sounded his horn, so I committed myself to a left turn, then turned off for the leisure centre. I reversed the car into a side turn and waited. I’d made the right gamble, not keeping my quarry in sight every inch of the way. A couple of minutes later, a red XJS shot past my turning. The driver was unmistakably Kevin’s contact. I waited till he’d moved out into the traffic heading back towards Manchester, then I slipped out behind him and took up station a couple of cars behind.
The guy was the worst kind of driver to tail. He was a show-off, determined that everyone sharing the same bit of road as him would see he was a big man with a flashy Jag. Never mind that it was four years old, it was the real thing, not some souped-up piece of Jap crap. I could just hear him laying down the law in the wine bar. I reckoned he and Kevin were probably a pair out of the same box.
He drove like a man with serious sexual problems, cutting people up, overtaking in the craziest places, flashing his lights like the Blackpool illuminations. Interestingly, I drove no differently from normal, and I was never in any danger of losing him. As we shot through the lights on the dual carriageway at Cheadle, he made a kamikaze run across three lanes of traffic to hit the motorway intersection. I said one of those words that men like my dad think women shouldn’t know and followed, praying he wasn’t keeping too close an eye on his rear-view mirror.
Out on the motorway he let rip. He either wasn’t a local or he didn’t give a toss about the video cameras mounted every couple of miles along the motorway to catch the speeders. I was forced into the kind of driving that terrifies me, never mind the rest of the drivers on the road, zooming right up behind lorries, nipping into the outside lane to overtake, then cutting back in as soon as I was clear of their front bumper. It made for an interesting journey.
Then the volume of traffic built up and things got a little less traumatic. By the time we were heading east on the M62, I had stopped sweating and started breathing again. I slid Sinead O’Connor into the cassette deck and had a little wonder to myself about my friend in the XJS with the envelope full of readies. He looked definitely iffy to me, but not the sort of bad lad who carries out hits. On the other hand, he might well know a man who could … As we headed up Hartshead Moor, I checked my fuel gauge and started sweating again. I’d be OK if Bradford was the destination. I might just make Leeds. But if we were heading for Wakefield or Hull, I’d be making the acquaintance of the AA man.
For once, my luck was holding well. He repeated his suicide run across the lanes again to take the Bradford exit. But this time I was prepared, hiding in the inside lane. I stayed with him in the heavy traffic round the ring road, skirting the city centre and out towards Bingley. Then I lost him. He jumped an amber as it turned red and shot off, leaving me law abiding at the lights. I watched helplessly as he hung a right about half a mile ahead. Of course, by the time I made it to that corner, he was long gone. I drove back to the nearest petrol station in a seriously bad mood and filled up.
I signalled to turn back in the direction of the motorway, then I changed my mind. What the hell was I playing at? I’d schlepped all the way over the Pennines, taken more risks behind the wheel