PI Kate Brannigan Series Books 1-3: Dead Beat, Kick Back, Crack Down. Val McDermidЧитать онлайн книгу.
be an ecological disaster on a scale that even Sting couldn’t prevent.
I sat down at my computer and logged on to one of several databases that we subscribe to. I chose the one that keeps extensive newspaper cuttings files on current celebrities, and I downloaded everything they had on Jett into my own computer. I saved the material to disc, then printed it out. Even if we decided not to go ahead with Jett’s assignment, I was determined to be fully briefed when we met. And since Jett himself had deprived me of my best source, I would have to do the best I could without Richard’s help.
It didn’t take me long to go through the printout, which ironically included a couple of Richard’s own articles. I now knew more than I had ever wanted to about any pop star, including Bjorn from Abba, focus of my own pre-teen crush. I knew all about Jett’s poverty-ridden childhood, about his discovery of the power of music when his deeply religious mother enrolled him in the local church’s gospel choir. I knew about his views on racial integration (a good thing), drugs (a very bad thing), abortion (a crime against humanity), the meaning of life (fundamentalist Christianity heavily revised by a liberal dollop of New Age codswallop), music (the very best thing of all as long as it had a good tune and a lyric that made sense – just like my dad) and women (the object of his respect, ho, ho). But among all the gossipy pieces of froth were a couple of nuggets of pure gold. If I were a gambling woman, I’d have felt very confident about putting money on the identity of the person Jett wanted found.
Jett’s new home couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the area where he’d grown up, I reflected as I pulled up before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. To get to this part of Cheshire from the centre of Manchester, you have to drive through the twitching heart of Moss-side, its pavements piled with the wares of the secondhand furniture dealers. Not the only kind of dealer you spot as you drive through the Moss. I’d been glad to get on to the motorway and even more glad to turn off into the maze of country lanes with their dazzling patches of spring bulbs.
I wound down the window and pressed the entryphone buzzer that controlled the security system on the gates. At the far end of the drive, I could just make out the honey-coloured stone of Colcutt Manor. It looked impressive enough from here. The entryphone quacked an inquiry at me. ‘Kate Brannigan,’ I announced. ‘Of Mortensen and Brannigan. I have an appointment with Jett.’
There was a pause. Then a distorted voice squawked, ‘Sorry. I have no record of that.’
‘Could you check with Jett, please. I do have an appointment.’
‘Sorry. That won’t be possible.’
I wasn’t exactly surprised. Rock stars are not widely renowned for their efficiency. I sighed and tried again. This time the voice said, ‘I will have to ask you to leave now.’
I tried for a third time. This time there was no response at all. I shouted a very rude word at the entryphone. I could always turn round and go home. But that would have hurt my professional pride. ‘Call yourself a private eye, and you can’t even keep an appointment?’ I snarled.
I reversed away from the gates and slowly drove along the perimeter wall. It was over seven feet high, but I wasn’t going to let a little thing like that put me off. About half a mile down the lane, I found what I was looking for. Some kind of sturdy looking tree grew beside the wall with a branch that crossed it about a foot above. With a sigh, I parked the car on the verge and slipped off my high-heeled shoes, swapping them for the Reeboks I always keep in the boot. I stuffed the heels in my capacious handbag. I’d need them at the other end, since I was trying to impress a new client with my professionalism, not my ability to run the London marathon. Incidentally, it’s one of life’s great mysteries to me how men survive without handbags. Mine’s like a survival kit, with everything from eye pencil to Swiss Army knife via pocket camera and tape recorder.
I slung my bag across my body and slowly made my way up the tree and along the branch. I dropped on to the top of the wall then let myself down by my arms. I only had about a foot to drop, and I managed it without any major injury. I dusted myself down and headed across the tussocky grass towards the house, avoiding too close an encounter with the browsing cattle. Thank God there wasn’t a bull about. When I got to the drive, I swapped shoes again, wrapping my Reeboks in the plastic bag I always keep in the handbag.
I marched up to the front door and toyed with the idea of ringing. To hell with that. Whoever had refused me entry previously wouldn’t be any better disposed now. On the off chance, I tried the handle of the massive double doors. To my surprise, it turned under my hand and the door swung open. I didn’t hang about thanking whoever is the patron saint of gumshoes, I just walked straight in. It was an awesome sight. The floor was paved with Italian terrazzo tiles, and ahead of me was an enormous staircase that split halfway up and headed in two different directions. Just like a Fred Astaire movie.
As I started to cross the hall, an outraged voice called from an open doorway near the entrance, ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ The voice was followed in short order by a blonde woman in her mid-twenties. She was strictly average in looks and figure, but she’d made the most of what she’d got. I took in the eyelash tint, the make-up so subtle you had to look twice to make sure it was there, and the tan leather jumpsuit.
‘I’m here to see Jett,’ I said.
‘How did you get in? You’ve no right to be here. Are you the woman at the gate a few minutes ago?’ she demanded crossly.
‘That’s me. You really should get someone to look at your security. We’d be happy to oblige.’
‘If you’re trying to drum up business, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m sorry, Jett can’t see anyone without an appointment,’ she insisted with an air of finality. The smile she laced her reply with had enough malice to keep a gossip columnist going for a year.
For the third time, I said, ‘I have an appointment. Kate Brannigan of Mortensen and Brannigan.’
She tossed her long plait over her shoulder and her cornflower blue eyes narrowed. ‘You could be the Princess of Wales and you still wouldn’t get past me without an appointment. Look for yourself,’ she added, thrusting an open desk diary at me.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or -four, but she had all the steely intransigence of the Brigade of Guards. I glanced at the page she was showing me. As she’d said, there was no appointment marked down for me. Either Jett had forgotten to mention it to her, or she was deliberately trying to keep me away from him. I sighed and tried again. ‘Look, Miss …’
‘Seward. Gloria Seward. I’m Jett’s personal assistant. I’m here to protect him from being troubled by people he doesn’t want to see. All his appointments go through me.’
‘Well, I can only assume he forgot to mention this to you. The arrangement was only made last night after the concert. Perhaps it slipped his mind. Now, can I suggest that you pop off and find Jett and confirm our arrangement with him?’ I was still managing to be sweet reason personified, but the veneer was beginning to wear thin.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Jett’s working and can’t be disturbed,’ she smirked.
It was the smirk that did it. Beyond her, I could see the cool marble hall beckoning me. I pushed past her and I was halfway to the nearest door before she’d even realized what was going on. As I strode down the hall, not pausing to admire the paintings or the sculptures dotted around, I could hear her shrieking, ‘Come back here. You’ve got no right …’
I opened the first door I came to. It was a square drawing room done out in watered blue silk and gilt. Very country house and garden. A stereo system heavily disguised as a Queen Anne cabinet was blasting out Chris Rea’s Road To Hell album. The only sign of life was reclining on a blue silk sofa that looked too delicate for anything heftier than Elizabeth Barrett Browning in her last days. There was nothing tubercular about Tamar, however. She looked