Trafford. But if you were free, I was going to suggest we went to the movies.'
The scale of the sacrifice made me realise he really does love me. I pulled up at the lights and impulsively leaned across to kiss him. 'Greater love has no man,' I remarked as I drove off.
'So will you drop me at that pub opposite the ground? I said I'd meet the lads there if I could make it,' he asked.
How could I refuse?
Moira's file made fascinating reading. The first interesting nugget came under the heading of 'Referral'. The entry read, 'Brought in by unidentified black male, who made donation of ?500 and described her as a former employee in need of urgent help.' It sounded as if Stick had a bigger heart than he wanted anyone to know about. It also explained why he wanted five hundred pounds for his information.
Moira had apparently reached the point in her addiction where she realised that she wasn't going to have too many more last chances to kick the smack and change her life. As a result, she'd been a model patient. She had opted to go down the hardest road, kicking the drug with minimal maintenance doses of methadone. After her cold turkey, she had been extremely co-operative, joining in willingly with group therapy and responding well in personal counselling. After a four-week stay at the project, she had signed herself out, but had continued to turn up for her therapy appointments.
The sting in the tail for me came at the very end. Instead of going to the halfway house after her initial intensive treatment, she had moved in with a woman called Maggie Rossiter. The notes on the file said that Maggie Rossiter was a social worker with Leeds City Council and a volunteer worker at the Seagull Project.
That was unusual enough to raise my eyebrows. But a separate report by Seagull's full-time psychiatrist was even more revealing. According to Dr Briggs, Maggie and Moira had formed a highly charged emotional attachment while Moira was still at Seagull. Following her discharge, they had become lovers and were now living together as a couple. In the doctor's opinion, this relationship was a significant contributory factor in Moira's commitment to staying off heroin.
Jett was going to love this, I thought to myself as I made a note of Maggie Rossiter's address. It's one thing to know with your head that a lot of whores prefer relationships with women. I can't say I blame them. If the only men I ever encountered were Johns or pimps, I'd probably feel the same way. But when the woman concerned was your former soul mate… That was a whole different ball game.
I reluctantly called Colcutt Manor to give Jett an up-to-date report, but Gloria informed me gleefully that he was out. No, she didn't know where he could be reached. No, she didn't know when he'd be back. Yes, he would be back that night. I was almost relieved that I'd missed him. I felt sure that once he knew I had Moira's address he'd want to come with me himself. I couldn't help thinking that would be the messiest possible way to handle things.
All that raw emotion would get us nowhere. I settled for typing up a current report and faxed it through to Gloria for her to pass it on to Jett as soon as he returned.
I copied Moira's files on to the disc where I was storing Jett's information, then switched off the computer. The office seemed unnaturally quiet, not just because I was alone in it, but because all the other offices in the building are occupied by sensible people who think working from Monday to Friday is quite enough to be going on with. I locked up behind me and walked down to the ground floor. Luckily, I emerged on Oxford Road just before the afternoon matinee at the Palace Theatre spilled its crowds on to the pavement. I'd left the car at home since parking near the office is impossible thanks to Saturday afternoon theatregoers and shoppers. Besides, the walk would do me good, I'd thought. That was before the rain came on.
I plodded up past the BBC and headed across to Upper Brook Street. By the time I got home, I was wet through. I hoped Richard had been sitting far enough back in the stands to avoid a soaking. I had a quick shower to warm me up, then I stood in front of the wardrobe wondering which outfit would be the key that would get me across Maggie Rossiter's doorstep.
I settled on my favourite Levis and a cream lambswool cowl-necked sweater. Thoroughly inoffensive, making no statement that a lesbian social worker could disagree with, I hoped. I went through to the kitchen to fix myself a plate of snacks from my supermarket blitz, and washed it down with a small vodka and grapefruit juice. I was in no real hurry. I was aiming to get to Maggie's home in Bradford between six thirty and seven. With any luck I'd catch them before they went out for the evening.
As it turned out, my timing was diabolical. I found Maggie's house easily enough, a neat brick terrace in a quiet street only a mile away from the motorway. I parked outside with a sinking heart as I registered that the house was in darkness. I walked up the crazy paved path and knocked on the stripped pine front door anyway. There was, of course, no response.
As I walked back down the path, a small calico cat rubbed itself against my legs. I crouched down to stroke it. 'Don't suppose you know where they've gone, do you?' I asked softly.
'Darsett Trades and Labour Club,' a deep male voice said from behind me. I nearly fell over in shock.
I stood up hastily and stared in the direction of the voice. A tall dark hunk was standing by the gate with a box of groceries. 'I'm sorry?' I asked inadequately.
'I'm the one who should be sorry, startling you like that,' he apologised with a smile that lit up twinkling eyes. I shrugged. Eyes like that I'd forgive most things. 'If you're looking for Maggie and Moira, they've gone to Darsett Trades and Labour Club,' he said.
'Oh, right,' I hedged. 'I didn't realise they were out tonight. I'll catch up with them later.'
'You a friend of theirs?' the hunk asked.
'Friend of a friend, really,' I replied, walking down the path towards him. 'I know Maggie from Seagull.'
'I'm Gavin,' he said. 'I live next door. We would have been going with them tonight except that we've got people coming for dinner. Still, I'm sure there will be plenty more chances to hear Moira sing in public'
My heart jolted. Moira was singing? I swallowed hard and spoke before Gavin's helpful garrulity gave out. 'I didn't know it was tonight,' I improvised.
'Oh yeah, the big night. Her first engagement. She's going to be a big success. I should know, I hear her rehearsing enough!'
I smiled politely and thanked him for his help. 'I'll catch them another time,' I said, getting back into my car. Gavin sketched a half-wave from under his box and turned into the next house. I pulled out my atlas. I groaned. Darsett was a good twenty miles away. With a sigh, I headed back towards the motorway.
12
Within three minutes of entering Darsett Trades and Labour Club, I knew that not even double rates could compensate me for spending Saturday night there. I don't know enough about the northern club circuit to know if it's typical, but if it is, then my heartfelt sympathy goes out to the poor sods who make their living performing there. The building itself was a 1960s concrete box with all the charm of a dead dog. I parked among an assortment of old Cortinas and Datsuns and headed for the brightly lit entrance.
Being a woman, I already had problems on my hands. In their infinite wisdom, working men's clubs don't allow women to be members in their own right. Strange women trying to get in alone are a complete no-no. The doorman, face marked with the blue hairline scars of a miner, wasn't impressed with my story that I was an agent there to see Moira perform, not even when I produced the business card that carefully doesn't specify what Mortensen and Brannigan are. Eventually, he grudgingly called the club secretary, who finally agreed to let me in, after informing me at great length that I would not be able to purchase alcoholic beverages.
I regretted this rule and the fact that I was driving as soon as I crossed the threshold. The only way to make an evening at Darsett Trades and Labour Club tolerable was to be so pissed I wouldn't notice it. The bar, on my left, was brightly lit, packed and already blue with smoke. It sounded like a riot was in progress, an impression increased by the rugby scrum at the bar.
I carried on through double doors under a blue neon sign that said Cabaret Room. Like the bar, the room shimmered under the glare of lights and the haze of cigarette smoke. It was crammed with small, round tables, two-thirds of which were occupied with chattering groups of men and women. Their gaiety was infectious, and I mentally ticked myself off for my patronising response to the club.
