Micky sighed deeply and tossed his cigarette end into the sink. 'It's doing my head in, this business. Questions, questions, questions. And Plod all over the sodding place. All I want to do is get on with my job. Some of us have got deadlines to meet,' he grumbled.
'Inconsiderate of Moira, really,' I replied. 'But the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner it'll all be sorted,' I added with a confidence I didn't feel.
'Might as well get it over and done with,' he muttered irritably, tossing a teabag into a mug and swirling it around viciously with a teaspoon. He removed his jacket and threw it over a chair, then brought his tea over to the table. He perched on the edge of a chair and immediately lit another cigarette which he continuously dabbed nervously at his lips. Apart from the cigarette, he looked just like those chimps they dress up for the PG Tips adverts. I half-expected him to answer my questions in Donald Sinden's fruity tones.
'I need to know your movements around the time of Moira's death,' I said bluntly.
T didn't make any,' he replied belligerently, his fingers beating a silent tattoo on the side of the mug. I gave him the benefit of my quizzical look. I couldn't do words because I had a mouthful of soup. T was in the studio all evening,' he finally volunteered.
'Doing what, exactly?' I pursued.
'Doing what I do, exactly. Jett and Moira had been in earlier, around eight, listening to what we'd been working on that afternoon. Moira was full of bright ideas about the mixing, and some synth effects she wanted me to lay down. I was fiddling around with a couple of tracks, trying various things. I wanted to have a selection of versions for them to hear the next day. Time passes fast when you've got your head down.' Micky took a swig of tea and sniffed loudly as the steam hit his cold nose. It was far from incontrovertible evidence of what Gloria had suggested and Neil had confirmed.
Even the cloud of smoke slowly filling the kitchen couldn't put me off my soup. I finished it, and the sound of my spoon scraping on the bottom of the bowl made him wince. 'I understand Moira had pretty firm ideas on what she wanted the album to be like,' I remarked.
He crushed out his cigarette, swallowed some more tea, sniffed again, blew his nose on a large, paisley patterned handkerchief and lit another cigarette before he answered. 'She was a royal pain,' Micky informed me. 'Let's try it this way, no, maybe not, let's go back to what you wanted to do in the first place,' he mimicked with cruel accuracy. 'She'd been out of the game too long to have a bloody clue what she was talking about.'
'Doesn't sound like you're too sorry that she's dead,' I said.
The look of astonishment that crossed his face came as a genuine surprise to me.
'Of course I'm bloody sorry,' he shouted. 'She was a bloody great songwriter. Just because she couldn't do my job doesn't mean I didn't respect the way she did hers. She might have been bloody difficult to work with, but at least she gave you something you could get your teeth into in the first place.' He subsided as quickly as he'd erupted and slouched even deeper in the chair. 'For fuck's sake,' he muttered.
'I'm sorry,' I said, meaning it. 'Did anyone else come down to the studio while you were there?'
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, screwing up his eyes in concentration. 'Kevin came in. I've been trying to remember if it was once or twice, but I'm not sure. He wanted to hear how it was going, but I wasn't really in the mood. I was into the music, you know? I didn't have a lot left over for small talk.'
'Screws your memory up, doesn't it?' I said sympathetically.
'What d'you mean?'
'Charlie. Destroys the short-term memory.'
'I don't know what you're on about,' came the reflex answer.
'Coke. And I don't mean the brown fizzy stuff. It's OK, Micky, I'm not a copper's nark. I don't give a shit what you do to yourself. Everybody's got the right to go to hell in the handcart of their choice. I'm just concerned about finding out what happened to Moira. And if you were out of your box, your evidence on Kevin's movements isn't worth a damn,' I informed him, aware even as I spoke how bloody sanctimonious I sounded. At least I'd managed to restrain myself from dishing out the standard Brannigan antidrugs sermon.
'So I do the odd line. So what? I'd had a bit, but I wasn't flying. I just don't remember if he came in once or twice, OK?' The belligerent edge was back in his voice.
'You ever use heroin?'
'No way. I've seen too many talented kids go down that road. No, all I do is a bit of recreational coke.'
'But you'd know where to get heroin if someone else wanted it?'
He shook his head in wide, disbelieving sweeps. 'Oh no, you don't pin that one on me. I don't deal, not for anybody, not for my nearest and dearest. Personal use, that's all.'
'But you'd know where to get it?' I persisted.
'I'd have a shrewd idea who to ask. If you work in this business, you get to hear things like that. But if you're nosing into heroin dealers, I'm not the one you should be asking.' Micky lit his next cigarette. I was beginning to feel like a herring in a smokehouse. I'd be a kipper before morning if I hung around Micky.
'So who should I be asking?'
He shrugged, and a malicious gleam crept into his eyes. 'A certain little lady who's got nothing better to do with her time. Ask her why she was so fascinated by Paki Paulie at the Hassy the other week.'
He obviously meant Tamar. The description certainly didn't fit Gloria. And where better to meet a dealer than the Hacienda, full as it always is of kids looking for the next kick? I filed the hint away for further investigation.
'Have you got any idea who killed Moira?' I asked.
'I can't imagine any of them having the bottle, frankly,' Micky said contemptuously. 'Except Neil. That bastard would do anything for a few bob. He must have made a fucking fortune out of her death already, all the stories he's been selling to the papers. Fucking vulture.' The venom in his voice was shocking.
'Sounds like there's not a lot of love lost between the two of you,” I observed. When it comes to spotting the obvious, I'm an Olympic contender.
'Let's just say he's not the person I'd choose to write my biography.'
'Why's that?'
'He's too fond of seeing his name in big letters in the papers. He turned over my brother-in-law, you know. Years ago, it was, but Des's never recovered. OK, Des was a bit dodgy, he ripped a few people off, but he wasn't a bad lad, not a proper villain, not when you compare him to those City bastards who rip people off to the tune of millions. Thanks to Neil fucking Webster, Des ended up inside for eighteen months. He used to have his own business, you know, but now he's just a bloody brickie working for buttons. Tell you what, an' all,' Micky continued, his accent losing its classless-ness and becoming pure East End, 'that fucker Webster won't have given him another thought. I bet he doesn't even realise why I hate his guts.'
All this was deeply fascinating, but I couldn't see its relevance. In spite of Micky's obvious conviction, I couldn't see Neil coldbloodedly planning murder for the sake of a byline. Before I could divert the conversation down more profitable paths, the door from the house opened and a wave of Giorgio cut through the smoky air.
I turned in my chair to watch Tamar sweep across the room in her silk pyjamas. Without a word of greeting, she made for the fridge. She bent over to peer inside, then slammed it shut with an air of bad temper. She started for the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen and caught Micky's eyes on her. 'Stop letching, sleazeball,' she threw at him on her way to the Weetabix.
Micky scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the room, grabbing his coat as he went. Thanks a bunch, Tamar, I thought to myself as I watched her tip two bars into a bowl and drench them with sugar. On her way back to the fridge, I remarked, 'Sleep well?'