When private investigator Kate Brannigan is asked to find a missing person as a favour, she accepts – after all, it’s got to be better than the last two weeks of staking out houses and warehouses from dawn until midnight, and living on motorway service station food.
The missing person in question is a songwriter, Moira Pollock, and Kate’s search leads her into some of the seediest parts of Leeds and Bradford. But what she doesn’t realise, is that finding Moira is just a prelude to murder . . .
now.” I tried for a third time. This time there was no response at all. I shouted a very rude word at the entryphone. I could always turn round and go home. But that would have hurt my professional pride. “Call yourself a private eye, and you can’t even keep an appointment?” I snarled. I reversed away from the gates and slowly drove along the perimeter wall. It was over seven feet high, but I wasn’t going to let a little thing like that put me off. About half a mile down the lane, I found what
me to find Moira’s killer.” I’d dropped my bombshell, and it seemed to have left Richard momentarily speechless. He just stared at me, mouth open like a drunken actor who’s forgotten his lines. Eventually, he closed his mouth, swallowed hard and said, “You’re at the wind-up.” “Never been more serious.” He looked at me suspiciously. “So how come you’re telling me now? How come client confidentiality goes out the window at this precise moment?” “Because when murder’s on the agenda, I’m entitled
golden retriever than ever. Wavy blond hair, soulful brown eyes, drooping mouth. For all I knew, a wet nose too. He nodded gloomily as I entered. Clive Abercrombie leapt smartly to his feet and inclined his head towards me, every inch the Eton and New College gentleman. You’d never have guessed he was actually educated at a secondary modern in Blackpool followed by Salford Tech. “Sorry to drag you back, Kate,” Bill said. “But we really did need your expertise here.” Translation: Someone’s going
outlet, staffed by a constantly changing team of no-hopers in really practical sunshine yellow overalls. I slowed down, but studying the Fastfit premises told me nothing. I pulled up near the corner and studied the layout in my rear-view mirror. As I watched, a Transit van reversed into Fastfit’s loading area. The driver opened his door and got out. For some reason, I wasn’t too surprised to see it was Gary Smart. Three minutes later, my car was in one of Fastfit’s bays, while I did the
course not,” he said hotly. “What do you take me for?” If I were American, I’d have pleaded the fifth. As it was, I just gave him my most contemptuous look and walked out. Two doors down the hall from Neil’s office, I found the dining room. It looked as if it got about as much use as Richard’s vacuum cleaner. I sat down on an antique balloon-backed chair and inserted a fresh tape in my recorder. I dictated a report of the case to date, explaining the reasons for my conclusion that Kevin was the