Clean Break. Val McDermidЧитать онлайн книгу.
saboteurs they won’t even believe exist. Anyway, the note says “No cops”.’
‘So you want me to find your saboteurs for you?’ I asked resignedly.
‘Can you?’ Kerr asked eagerly.
I shrugged. ‘I can try.’
Before we could discuss it further, there was a knock at the door and our hostess’s head appeared. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Trevor, but we’re about to distribute the treasure-hunt clues, and I know you’d hate to start at a disadvantage.’ She didn’t invite us to join in, I noticed. Clearly my suit didn’t come up to scratch.
‘Be right with you, Charmian,’ Trevor said, hauling himself out of his chair. ‘My office, half past eight tomorrow morning?’ he asked.
I had a lot more questions for Trevor Kerr, but they could wait. ‘I thought you were worried about me coming to the office?’ I reminded him.
He barely paused on his way out the door. ‘I’ll tell my secretary you’re from the Health and Safety Executive,’ he said. ‘Those nosey bastards are always poking around where they’re not wanted.’
I shook my head in despair as he departed. Some clients are like that. Before you’ve agreed to work for them, they’re practically on their knees. Soon as you come on board, they treat you like something nasty on their Gucci loafers. ‘And I thought heavy metal bands were arseholes,’ Richard mused.
‘They are,’ I said. ‘And while we’re on the subject, how come you knew about the KerrSter death?’
Richard winked and produced one of those smiles that got me tangled up with him in the first place. ‘Not much point in having the Chronicle delivered if you don’t bother reading it, is there?’ he asked sweetly.
‘Some of us have more important things to do than laze around smoking joints and reading the papers,’ I snarled.
Richard pretended to look huffed. At least, I think he was pretending. ‘Oh well, if that’s the way things are, you won’t be wanting me to take you to dinner, will you?’ he said airily.
‘Try me,’ I said. There are few things in life that don’t look better after aromatic crispy duck. How was I to know Trevor Kerr would be one of them?
As I waited for the security guard in charge of the barrier at Kerrchem’s car park to check that I wasn’t some devious industrial spy trying to sneak in to steal their secrets, I stared across at the sprawling factory, its red brick smudged black by years of industrial pollution. Somewhere inside there I’d find the end of the ball of string that would unravel to reveal a killer.
Eventually, he let me in and directed me to the administration offices. Trevor Kerr’s secretary was already at her desk when I walked in at twenty-five past eight. Unfortunately, her boss wasn’t. I introduced myself. ‘Mr Kerr’s expecting me,’ I added.
She’d clearly been hired for her efficiency rather than her charm. ‘Health and Safety Executive,’ she said in the same tone of voice I’d have used for the VAT inspector. ‘Take a seat. Mr Kerr will be here soon.’ She returned to her word processor, attacking the keys with the ferocity of someone playing Mortal Kombat.
I looked around. Neither of the two chairs looked as if it had been chosen for comfort. The only available reading material was some trade journal that I wouldn’t have picked up even on a twelve-hour flight with a Sylvester Stallone film as the in-flight movie. ‘Maybe I could make a start on the documents I need to see?’ I said. ‘To save wasting time.’
‘Only Mr Kerr can authorize the release of company information to a third party,’ she said coldly. ‘He knows you’re coming. I’m sure he won’t keep you waiting for long.’
I wished I shared her conviction. I tried to make myself comfortable and used the time to review the limited information I’d gleaned so far. After Richard and I had stuffed ourselves in a small Chinese restaurant in Whitefield, where we’d both felt seriously overdressed, I’d sat down with the previous weeks’ papers and brought myself up to speed. Richard, meanwhile, had changed and gone off to some dive in Longsight to hear a local techno band who’d just landed a record deal. Frankly, I felt I’d got the best end of the bargain.
On my way through the stuttering early rush-hour traffic, I’d stopped by the office to fax my local friendly financial services expert. I needed some background on Trevor Kerr and his company, and if there was dirt to be dug, Josh Gilbert was the man. Josh and I have an arrangement: he supplies me with financial information and I buy him expensive dinners. The fact that Josh wouldn’t Know a scruple if it took him out to the Savoy is fine by me; I don’t have to think about that, just reap the rewards.
The financial data would fill one gap in my knowledge. I hoped it would be more comprehensive than the newspaper accounts. When Joey Morton died, the media responded with ghoulish swiftness. For once, there were no government scandals to divert them, and all the papers had given the Stockport publican’s death a good show. At first, I couldn’t figure out how I’d missed the hue and cry, till I remembered that on the day in question I’d been out all day tracking down a key defence witness for Ruth Hunter, my favourite criminal solicitor. I’d barely had time for a sandwich on the hoof, never mind a browse through the dailies.
Joey Morton was thirty-eight, a former Third Division footballer turned publican. He and his wife Marina ran the Cob and Pen pub on the banks of the infant Mersey. Joey had gone down to the cellar to clean the beer pipes, taking a new container of KerrSter. Joey was proud of his real ale, and he never let anyone else near the cellarage. When he hadn’t reappeared by opening time, Marina had sent one of the bar staff down to fetch him. The barman found his boss in a crumpled heap on the floor, the KerrSter sitting open beside him. The police had revealed that the postmortem indicated Joey had died as a result of inhaling hydrogen cyanide gas.
The pathologist’s job had been made easier by the barman, who reported he’d smelt bitter almonds as soon as he’d entered the cramped cellar. Kerrchem had immediately denied that their product could possibly have caused the death, and the police had informed a waiting world that they were treating Joey’s death as suspicious. Since then, the story seemed to have died, as always happens when there’s a dearth of shocking revelations.
It didn’t seem likely that Joey Morton could have died as a result of some ghastly error inside the Kerrchem factory. The obvious conclusion was industrial sabotage. The key questions were when and by whom. Was it an inside job? Was it a disgruntled former employee? Was it an outsider looking for blackmail money? Or was it a rival trying to annex Trevor Kerr’s market? Killing people seemed a bit extreme, but as I know from bitter experience, the trouble with hiring outside help to do your dirty work is that things often get dangerously out of hand.
It was ten to nine when Trevor Kerr barged in. His eyes looked like the only treasure he’d found the night before had been in the bottom of a bottle. ‘You Miss Brannigan, then?’ he greeted me. If he was harbouring dreams of an acting career, I could only hope that Kerrchem wasn’t going to fold. I followed him into his office, catching an unappealing whiff of Scotch revisited blended with Polo before we moved into the aroma of stale cigars and lemon furniture polish. Clearly, the Spartan motif didn’t extend beyond the outer office. Trevor Kerr had spared no expense to make his office comfortable. That is, if you find gentlemen’s clubs comfortable. Leather wing armchairs surrounded a low table buffed to a mirror sheen. Trevor’s desk was repro, but what it lacked in class, it made up for in size. All they’d need to stage the world snooker championships on it would be a bit of green baize. That and clear the clutter. The walls were hung with old golfing prints. If his bulk was anything to go by, golf was something Trevor Kerr honoured more in the breach than the observance.
He dumped his briefcase by the desk and settled in behind it. I chose the armchair nearest him. I figured if I waited till I was invited, I’d be past my sell-by date. ‘So, what do you need from me?’ he demanded.