hunched over a series of control consoles, a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth. I could actually feel in my chest and stomach the throbbing bass line that emerged from tall speakers. I walked down the studio and waved to catch his attention. Abruptly the music stopped and a deafening voice yelled over the intercom, 'Get the fuck out of here! You blind, or what?'
I didn't know if he could hear me, but I spoke anyway. 'I'm sorry to interrupt, but you have to come upstairs.' I was beginning to wish I'd left this to Gloria.
'Look, sweetheart, it might have escaped your obviously limited intelligence, but I'm working. I don't stop on the say-so of anybody's bimbo, so just fuck off and find someone else to bug,' he snarled back at me, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another.
'Please yourself,' I said angrily. 'The next interruption you'll get will be the cops. They don't like being pissed about by little boys with expensive toys when they're investigating a murder.' I turned on my heel and marched off towards the door, feeling strangely satisfied with my childish response. Two steps later, I regretted it. I'd thrown away the chance of watching his reaction to my news. I turned back quickly and saw he'd stood up.
The resemblance to a chimp was overwhelming. The long arms, the jutting jaw, the flat nose all gave Micky Hampton a startlingly simian appearance. His blond-streaked hair had been carefully cut, but it couldn't altogether hide the Prince Charles ears. He'd have made a wonderful extra for
As I watched, he disappeared from my sight then emerged from a small door at the back of the studio. 'Wait a minute,' he said. 'You'd better explain yourself. For a kick-off, who the hell are you?'
'I'm Kate Brannigan.'
Understanding flooded his face. His soft brown eyes were unexpectedly intelligent. 'You're the one who dug Moira up,' he acknowledged. 'What did you mean about a murder?'
'Moira's been killed. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the police want to see everyone who was in the house tonight,' I parroted.
Micky's eyebrows shot up. 'They're wasting their time with me. A bomb could drop up there and I wouldn't know. I've worked in top-class studios the world over and I've never found one that was better soundproofed than this.'
His concern for Moira was overwhelming. I hid my contempt and simply said, 'Nevertheless, they want to see everyone. The blue drawing room,' I added as I left him.
The hall had suddenly begun to resemble a police station. The scene-of-crime team had arrived with their cameras and fingerprint cases. Half a dozen uniformed constables were being directed to search the outside of the house and the grounds, to check for any signs of a break-in and to cover all exits. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me, so I slipped past them and crossed the hall. I headed down the corridor to Neil's domain. According to Gloria, he'd been given an office on the ground floor near the dining room.
I knocked on his door and heard him call, 'Come in, open all hours.' I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. The wood panelling obviously deadened any noise from outside. The small room looked remarkably like Richard's study. I wondered if journalists are born untidy or if they think the appearance of complete chaos is a necessary part of the image. Neil sat at the eye of the storm of paper, facing a computer screen, a small tape recorder beside him. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. 'Kate! Glad you could find the time to pop in on a humble scribe. Sorted out your business with Jett?'
'I'm afraid this isn't just a social call,' I said. 'I've been asked to come and fetch you.'
His hooded eyes half-closed as a guarded expression crossed his face. 'Fetch me?' he queried. 'Who wants me?'
'The police,' I said.
I could see the muscles in his jaw clench. 'What's all this about, Kate,' he forced out in a light tone.
'Bad news. Moira's dead.'
His eyes opened wide in horror. 'Oh no!' he exclaimed. 'Moira? Dead? How? What happened? Has there been an accident?' His questions spilled out, the professional habit attaching itself to his obvious personal shock.
'No accident, I'm afraid. Look, Neil, you'd better get along to the blue drawing room. The police want to see everyone who was in the house. They'll be able to fill you in on the details.'
'You mean, it happened here?'
'Why? Where did you think it had happened?'
'I don't know. She said something earlier about going down to the village to see someone. I suppose I assumed she was attacked on her way back or something. Oh God, poor Jett. He must be in a hell of a state.' At last, someone had finally spared a thought for the boss. Neil jumped to his feet and pushed past me to the door. 'The blue room, you said?' he demanded as he pulled it open.
'That's right,' I replied as I followed him.
As I re-emerged in the hall, a plain clothes policeman pounced. 'Kate Brannigan?' he demanded.
'That's me,' I agreed.
'You didn't tell us you're a private investigator,' he accused.
'No one asked me,' I replied, unable to resist. I don't know why I get this urge to be a smartass round coppers.
'The inspector wants to see you right now,' he told me, steering me down the hall into a smaller room next to the blue drawing room. It was wood panelled and stuffed with leather chairs. It looked like I've always imagined a gentlemen's club to be. A small writing desk had been moved away from the wall, and behind it sat a slim, dark- haired man in his mid thirties, his eyes indistinct behind a pair of glasses with tinted lenses. He was the last man in England wearing a pale blue shirt with white collar and cuffs under his dark blue suit. His striped tie was neatly knotted. He didn't look as if he'd been called out of bed in the middle of the night, but equally, he didn't look crumpled enough to have been on duty.
'I'm Inspector Cliff Jackson,' he introduced himself. 'And you must be our elusive private eye.'
'Good morning, Inspector,' I replied politely. 'I'm Kate Branni-gan, of Mortensen and Brannigan.'
'I know exactly who you are, Miss Brannigan,' he countered, a note of irritation in his gravelly Lancashire voice. 'What I want to know is why you felt it necessary to go round interfering with witnesses.'
'I haven't been interfering with anyone,' I returned. 'If you mean rounding up the inhabitants, I was simply doing what your sergeant asked.'
'As you well know, he wouldn't have let you near one of them if he'd known the way you earn a living.'
'Inspector, if anyone had bothered to ask what I do, I'd have been happy to tell them. Don't give me a bad time because one of your lads didn't do his job properly. I really don't want to fall out with you.'
'That's the first sensible thing you've said so far,' he grumbled as he made a note on his pad. We went through the formal routine that prefaces the taking of a statement, then he pushed his glasses up and massaged the bridge of his nose with surprisingly well-manicured fingers. 'So, what were you doing here tonight?' he asked.
'It was a social call. We did a job for Jett some time ago, and he told me to drop in whenever I was passing. So I did.' It sounded thin, even to me, but I could only hope he thought I was a bit starstruck.
'You were just passing at this time of night?' he challenged sarcastically, letting his glasses slip back into place. 'You normally drop in on people this late?'
'Of course not,' I countered. 'But I knew Jett keeps late hours. I'd been working and I was wide awake, so rather than go home and bounce off the walls I thought I'd stop off for a coffee. Besides, it wasn't that late when I got here. It can't have been that much after midnight.'
He clearly wasn't happy with the scenario, but he didn't have anything to contradict it yet, so he let it go for now. I outlined the version of events I'd agreed with Jett, hoping he'd remembered what he was supposed to say. I had plenty of time to think between sentences, since the detective who'd collared me was carefully writing it into a statement.
After we'd exhausted the subject of the discovery of the body, Jackson asked plenty of questions about the household and their movements, but I didn't have any answers. Frustrated, he gave up on that line and asked, 'What was the nature of this job your firm did for Jett?'
I'd hoped we wouldn't get to that till I'd had a chance to discuss the matter with Bill. I took a deep breath and recited, 'The nature of our business is confidential. I am afraid that is a private matter between Mortensen and Brannigan and our client.'
