Dead Beat (8 page)

As I looked on, a burly white man with tattoos snaking up both his bare arms came over to me. “Hello, doll. You look like you’re looking for a man. Will I do?” he asked jocularly.

“Not unless you’ve had your skin bleached,” I told him. He looked confused. “I’m looking for Stick,” I explained.

He raised his eyebrows. “A nice girl like you? I don’t think you’re his type, doll.”

“We’ll let Stick be the judge of that, shall we? Can you point him out to me?” I demanded. It seemed like a waste of time to tell this ape that I was neither nice, nor a girl, nor a doll.

He pointed down the hall. “He’s on the last table on the left. If he’s not interested, doll, I’ll be waiting right here.”

I bit back my retort and headed down the aisle between the three-quarter-sized tables. At the end of the room, there were four competition-sized tables. A chunky black man was bending over the last table on the left. Behind him, in the shadows, was the man I took to be Stick. I could see how he’d earned the name. He was

At the edge of the light, I stopped and waited till the man at the table made his stroke. The red ball he’d been aiming for shuddered in the jaws of the pocket before coming to rest against one cushion. With an expression of disgust, he moved away, chalking his cue. The thin man walked up to line up his shot and I stepped forward into the light.

He frowned up at me, and I met his eyes. They were like bottomless pools, without any discernible expression. It was like looking into a can of treacle. I swallowed and said, “George from Leeds said I should talk to you.”

Stick straightened up, but the frown stayed in place. “I know a George from Leeds?”

“George from the Hambleton Hotel. He said you could help me.”

Stick made a great show of carefully chalking his cue, but I could tell he was sizing me up from under his heavy eyebrows. Eventually he put his cue on the table and said to his opponent, “Be right back. Do not move a fucking ball. I have total recall.”

He strode across the hall and I followed him as he unlocked a side door and entered a stuffy, windowless office. He settled down in a scruffy armchair behind a scratched wooden desk and waved me to one of the three plastic chairs set against the wall.

He pulled a silver toothpick from his pocket and placed it in his mouth. “I’m not like George,” he said, the traces of a Caribbean accent still strong in his voice. “I don’t usually talk to strangers.”

“So what’s this? A job interview?”

He smiled. Even his teeth were narrow and pointed, like a cat’s. “You too little for a cop,” he said. “You wearing too much for a whore. You not twitchy enough for a pusher. Sweatshirt like that, maybe you a roadie’s lady looking for some merchandise for the band. I don’t think I’ve got anything to be afraid of, lady.”

I couldn’t help smiling. In spite of myself, I felt a sneaking liking for Stick. “I hear you might be able to help me. I’m looking for somebody I think you know.”

“What’s your interest?” he demanded, caution suddenly closing his face like a slammed door.

I’d given the matter of what to say to Stick some thought on the way there. I took a deep breath and said, “I’m a private inquiry agent. I’m trying to get in touch with this woman.” Again, I took out the photograph of Moira and handed it over.

He glanced at it without a flicker of recognition. “Who she?”

“Her name is Moira Pollock. Until recently, she was working the streets round here. I’m told you might know where she went.”

Stick shrugged. “I don’t know where you get your information, but I don’t think I can help you, lady. Matter of interest, what you want her for?”

In spite of his nonchalant appearance, I could see Stick had taken the bait. I reeled out my prepared speech. “Some years back, she was in the rock business. Then she dropped out of sight. But all those years, her work’s been earning her money. The record company held on to it and they won’t hand it over to anyone. Now her family badly need that money. They want to sue the record company. But to do that, they either need to prove Moira’s dead or get her to agree.”

“Sounds like a lot of bread to me, if it’s worth paying you to find out. So you working for this Moira’s family?”

“A family friend,” I hedged.

He nodded, as if satisfied. “Seems to me I might have heard her name. This family friend … They pay your expenses?”

I sighed. This job was turning into a cash-flow nightmare. And none of my payees were the kind to hand out receipts. “How much?” I groaned.

Stick flashed his smile again and took a joint out of the desk drawer. He lit it with a gold Dunhill and took a deep drag. “A monkey,” he drawled.

“You what?” I spluttered with genuine surprise. He had to be kidding. He couldn’t really think I would pay five hundred pounds for a lead on Moira’s whereabouts.

“That’s the price, take it or leave it. Lot of money involved, it’s got to be worth it,” Stick said calmly.

I shook my head. “Forget it,” I replied. “You told me yourself, you don’t even know the woman. So anything you can tell me has got to be pretty chancy.”

He scowled. He’d forgotten the pit his caution had dug for him. “Maybe I was just being careful,” he argued.

“Yeah, and maybe you’re blagging me now,” I retorted. “Look, I’ve had an expensive day. I can give you a hundred now, without consulting my client. Anything more and I have to take advice, and I don’t think I’ll get the go-ahead to pay five hundred pounds to someone who didn’t even know Moira. You can take it or leave it, Stick. A definite oner now, or a probable zero later.”

He leaned back in his chair and gave a low chuckle. “You got a business card, lady?” he asked.

Puzzled, I nodded and handed one over. He studied it, then tucked it in his pocket. “You one tough lady, Kate Brannigan. A man never knows when he might need a private eye. OK, let me see the color of your money.”

I counted out five twenties on the desk top, but kept my hand on the cash. “Moira’s address?” I demanded.

“She left the streets about six months ago. She checked in at the Seagull Project. It’s a laundry.”

“A what?” I had a bizarre vision of Moira loading tablecloths into washing machines.

Stick grinned. “A place where they clean you up. A drug project.”

That sounded more like it. “Where is this Seagull Project?” I asked.

“It’s on one of those side streets behind the photography museum. I can’t remember the name of it, but it’s the third or fourth on the left as you go up the hill. A couple of terraced houses knocked together.”

I got to my feet. “Thanks, Stick.”

“No problem. You find Moira and she gets her bread, you tell her she owes Stick the other four hundred pounds for information received.”

   I parked the car in a pay and display behind the National Film and Television Museum. I walked round to the museum foyer and found a telephone booth which miraculously contained a phone book. I looked up the Seagull Project, and copied its address and number into my notebook. I checked my watch and decided I deserved a coffee, so I walked upstairs to the coffee bar and settled myself down in a window seat looking out over the city center.

The pale spring sun had broken through the gray clouds, and the old Victorian buildings looked positively romantic. Built on the sweatshops of the wool industry, the once prosperous city had fought its urban decay and depression by jumping on the tourism bandwagon that’s turning England into one gigantic theme park. Now that the nearby Yorkshire countryside had been translated into The Brontë Country, Bradford had seized its opportunity with both hands. Even the biscuits in the tearooms and snack bars are called Brontë. But it was the Asian community who’d really revitalized the city’s slum areas, producing oases of industrial and wholesaling prosperity. I’d been around a few of those in the past few weeks, hot on the trail of Billy Smart’s personal mobile circus.

I tore my eyes away from the view and looked up the Seagull Project’s address in my street directory. Stick’s information was sound so far. The street was third on the left, off the hill that climbed up the side of the Alhambra Theater. I finished my coffee and set out on foot.

Five minutes later, I was outside two three-story stone-built terraced houses that had been knocked together with a board on the front proclaiming “Seagull Project.” I stood around uncertainly for a few minutes, not at all sure what was the best way to play

I eventually settled on my course of action. More lies. If my childhood Sunday School teacher ever finds out about me, she’ll put me straight to the top of the list for the burning fire. I walked up the path and turned the door handle. I walked into a clean, airy hallway painted white with gray carpeting. A large sign pointing to the left read “All visitors please report to reception.”

For once, I did as I was told and walked into a small, tidy office. Behind a wide desk, a mop of carrot red hair was bent over a pile of papers so high it almost hid its owner from view. I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew just how she felt. My own hatred of paperwork is so strong that I ignore it till Shelley practically locks me in my office with dire threats of what she’ll do to me if I dare to emerge before it’s finished. It’s just the same at home; if I didn’t force myself to sit down once a month and pay all the bills, the bailiffs would be a permanent fixture on the doorstep.

As the reception door closed behind me, a pale, freckled face looked up. “Hi, can I help you?” she asked in a tired voice.

“I don’t know, but I hope so,” I replied with my most ingratiating smile. “I was wondering if you needed any volunteer workers here right now?”

The tiredness evaporated from her face and she grinned. “Music to my ears!” she exclaimed. “Those are the first good words I’ve heard today. Sit down, make yourself comfortable.” She gestured expansively at the two worn office chairs on my side of the desk. As I settled on the less dilapidated one, she introduced herself. “I’m Jude. I’m one of the project’s three full-time employees. We’re always desperate for volunteers and fund-raisers.” She opened a drawer and took out a long form. “Do you mind if I fill this out while we talk? I know I’m being quick off the mark, but it saves time in the long run if you do decide to help us.”

I shook my head. “No problem. My name’s Kate Barclay.” I knew Richard wouldn’t mind me borrowing his name. After all, he knew I’d never be making the loan permanent.

“And where do you live, Kate?” Jude asked, scribbling furiously. I plucked a number out of the air and attached it to Leeds Road, which I knew was long enough to reduce the chances of her knowing a near neighbor.

We went through the formalities quickly. I told her I’d been working abroad as a teacher and that I’d just moved to Bradford with my boyfriend. I explained I’d heard about the project from the city council’s voluntary services unit and had come along to offer my services. All the while, Jude nodded and wrote on her form. At the end of my recital, she looked up and said, “Have you any experience with this kind of work?”

“Yes. That’s why I came to you. We’ve been living in Antwerp for the last three years and I did some work with a drug rehabilitation charity there,” I lied fluently.

“Right,” said Jude. “I’d no idea they ran something like that in Antwerp.”

I smiled sweetly and refrained from saying that that’s why I’d chosen the Belgian city. No one in Britain has ever been to Antwerp, though I don’t know why. It’s more attractive, interesting and friendly than almost any other city I’ve ever been to. It’s where Bill’s parents came from originally and he still has a tribe of aunts, uncles and cousins there that he visits regularly. I’ve been over with him a couple of times, and fell in love with it at first sight. I always use Antwerp now for obscure cover stories. No one ever questions it. Jude was no exception. She swallowed my story, made a note on her form then got to her feet.

“What I’ll do is show you round now, to let you see exactly what we’ve got going here. Then I suggest you come to our weekly collective meeting tomorrow evening and see if you feel you’ll fit in with us, and we feel we’ll fit in with you,” she added, moving towards the door.

My heart sank. The thought of enduring a meeting of the Seagull Project’s collective filled me with gloom. I hate the endless circular debate of collectives. I like decisions to be made logically, with the pros and cons neatly laid out. I know all the theory about how consensus is supposed to make everyone feel they have a stake in the decision-making. But in my experience, it usually ends up with

I hid my despair behind a cheerful smile and followed Jude on her tour of the building. My target was clearly the second room we entered. There were filing cabinets the length of one wall and an IBM PC clone on one of the two desks. As well as its hard disc drive, I noted a slot for 5.25” floppies. A man in his early thirties was sitting at the computer keyboard, and Jude introduced him as Andy.

Andy looked up and grinned vaguely at me before returning to his keyboard.

“The filing cabinets hold details of all the clients we’ve had through here, all the other agencies we work with, and all our workers. We’re trying to transfer all our records to computer, most recent cases first, but it’s going to take a while,” Jude explained as we left Andy to his task. I noticed that the only lock on the door was a simple Yale.

The other office on the ground floor was the fund-raising office. Jude explained that Seagull was kept on the wing by a mixture of local authority and national grants and charitable donations. The staff consisted of herself as administrator, a psychiatrist and a qualified nurse. They had an arrangement with a local inner-city group practice, and there were always a few biomedical sciences students from the university who were glad to help.

The first floor contained a couple of consulting rooms, two meeting rooms and a common room for the addicts who were living in. On the top floor, addicts in the early stages of kicking heroin sweated and moaned through the first weeks of their agony. If they made it through that, they moved on to a halfway house owned by the project, which tried to find them permanent jobs and homes well away from the temptations of their old stamping grounds. The whole place seemed clean and cheerful, if threadbare, and I thought that Moira could have done a lot worse for herself.