“So cheap as well as common?” I asked.
“A lot bloody cheaper than what we put in KerrSter, let me tell you. So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded pugnaciously.
“You’ve got a a copycat,” I said, ignoring his belligerence. “Either they’re trying to wreck your business or else they’re simply after a quick buck.”
“Even I’d got that far,” he said sarcastically. “What I want you to do is find these buggers while I’ve still got a business left. You hear what I’m saying, Miss Brannigan? Find these bastards, or there won’t be a pot left to pay you out of.”
8
sometimes I wonder how clients managed to go to the bathroom before they hired us. Trevor Kerr was clearly one of those that think once they’ve hired you, you’re responsible for everything up to and including emptying the wastepaper bins at night. He was adamant that it was down to me to go and see the detectives investigating the death of Joey Morton, the Stockport publican, to inform them that the person who was sabotaging Kerrchem’s products was probably the one they should be beating up with rubber hoses. Incidentally, never believe the politicians and top coppers who tell you that sort of thing can’t happen now all interviews are tape-recorded. There are no tape recorders in police cars or vans, and I’ve heard of cases where it’s taken three hours for a police car to travel two inner-city miles.
I wasn’t relishing telling some overworked and overstressed police officer how to run an inquiry. If there’s one thing your average cop hates more than becoming the middleman in a domestic, it’s being put on the right track by a private eye. I was even less thrilled when Kerr told me who the investigating officer was. Detective Inspector Cliff Jackson and I were old sparring partners. The first time one of my cases ended in murder, he was running the show. He hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory, twice arresting the wrong person before the real killer had eventually ended up behind bars, largely as a result of some judicious tampering by Mortensen and Branni-gan. You’d think he’d have been grateful. Think again.
I drove out to the incident room in Stockport. The one time I’d have welcomed being stuck in traffic, I cruised down Stock-port Road without encountering a single red light. My luck was still out to lunch when I arrived at the police station. Jackson was in. I didn’t even have to kick my heels while he pretended to be too busy to slot me in right away.
He didn’t get up when I was shown into his office. He hadn’t changed much: still slim, hair still dark and barbered to within an inch of its life, eyes still hidden behind a pair of tinted prescription lenses. His dress sense hadn’t improved any. He wore a white shirt with a heavy emerald green stripe, the sleeves rolled up over his bony elbows. His tie was shiny polyester, in a shade of green that screamed for mercy against the shirt. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” he greeted me ungraciously.
“Nice to see you too, Inspector,” I said pleasantly. “But let’s not waste our time on pleasantries. I wanted to talk to you about Joey Morton’s death.”
“I see,” he said. “Go on, then, talk.”
I told him all he needed to know. “So you see,” I concluded, “it looks like someone had got it in for Kerrchem, and Joey Morton just got in the way.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture. It didn’t erase the frown he’d had since I first walked through the door. “Very interesting, Miss Brannigan,” he said. “I take it you’re planning to pursue your own inquiries along these lines?”
“It’s what I’m paid to do,” I said.
“This is a possible murder inquiry,” he said sententiously. “There’s no place for you poking round in it.”
“Inspector, in case you’ve forgotten, it was me that came to you. I’m trying to be helpful,” I said, forcing my jaw to unclench.
“And your ‘help’ is duly noted,” he said. “It’s our job now. If you interfere with this investigation like you did the last time, I’ll have no hesitation in arresting you. Is that clear?”
I stood up. I know five foot three isn’t exactly intimidating, but it made me feel better. “I’ll do my job, Inspector. And when I’ve done it, I’ll tell you where you can find your killer.”
I tried to slam the door behind me, but it had one of those hydraulic arms. Instead of a satisfying crash, I ended up with a twisted wrist. I was still fizzing when I got back to the car, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Down at the Thai boxing gym, I could work out my rage and frustration and, with a bit of luck, acquire some information too.
I like the gym. It’s a no-frills establishment, which means I tend not to run into clients there. As well as the boxing gym, it’s got a weight room and basic changing facilities. The only drawback is that there are never enough showers at busy times. Judging by the number of open lockers, that wasn’t going to be a problem today. I emerged from the women’s changing room in the breeze-block drill hall to find my mate Dennis O’Brien lounging in a director’s chair in his sweats. He was reading the Chronicle, his mobile phone, cigarettes and a mug of tea strategically placed on the floor by his feet. Dennis used to be a serious burglar, the kind who turn over the vulgar suburban houses of the nouveau riche. But it all came on top for him when a young lad he’d brought in to help him with a big job managed to drop the safe on Dennis’s leg as they were making their getaway. He left Dennis lying on the drive with a broken ankle. By the time the cops arrived, he’d crawled half a mile. When he got out of prison three years later, he swore he was never going to do anything that would get him taken away from his kids again. As far as I know, he’s kept his word, with one exception. The lad who abandoned him still walks with a limp.
It was Dennis who got me into Thai boxing. He believes all women should have self-defense skills, and when he discovered I’d been relying on nothing more than charm and a reasonable turn of speed, he’d dragged me down to the gym. His daughter’s been a finalist in the national championships for the last three years running, and he lets her beat me up on a regular basis, just to remind me that there are people out there who could cause me serious damage. As if I needed reminding after some of the shit I’ve been through in recent years.
Now he’s out of major-league villainy and into “a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of ducking and diving,” Dennis has taken to using the gym as his corporate headquarters. I don’t suppose the management mind. All the locals know Dennis’s draconian views on drugs, so his presence keeps the gym clear of steroid abuse. And there are never any fights outside the ring. He’s not known in South Manchester as Dennis the Menace for nothing.
I checked out a couple of black lads working the heavy bags at the far end of the room. They were too far away to overhear. “Your backside will start looking like Richard’s car if you carry on like that,” I said, smiling over the top of his paper.
“At last, someone worth sparring with,” Dennis said, bouncing to his feet. “How’s it hanging, kid?”
“By a fingernail,” I said, bending over to start my warm-up exercises. “What do you know?” I glanced over at Dennis, who was mirroring my movements.
He looked glum. “Tell you the truth, Kate, I’m in the shit,” he said.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Remember that nice little earner I told you about awhile back? My crime prevention scheme?”
How could I forget? Dennis’s latest scam involved parting villains from large wads of money by persuading them they were buying a truckload of stolen merchandise from him. Dennis would show them a sample of the goods (bought or shoplifted from one of the dozens of wholesalers down at Strangeways) and arrange a handover the following day in a motorway service area. Only, once the punters had swapped their stash for the keys to the alleged wagonload and Dennis’s car was a distant puff of exhaust, the crooks would discover that the keys he’d handed them didn’t open a single truck on the lorry park. Crime prevention? Well, if Dennis was taking their money off them, they wouldn’t be inciting anyone else to steal something for them to buy, now would they?