Dead Beat by Val McDermid Read Free Book Online

with you later, OK? You too, Kevin.”
    “But Jett,” Kevin protested. “I should be here if it’s business.”
    Jett was surprisingly adamant. Clearly, he had the boundaries between business and personal clearly defined in his own mind. In business matters, like who was going to ghost Jett’s autobiography, Kevin’s word was obviously law. But when it came to his own business, Jett could stand up for himself. It was an interesting split that I filed away for future reference.
    Neil headed for the door, turning back on the threshold to wave his glass cheerily at us. “Good hunting!” he called as he left.
    Grumbling under his breath, Kevin picked up a Filofax and a mobile phone from the bar and stomped down the room without a farewell. As I watched his departing back, fury written large across his slouched shoulders, I remarked, “I’m surprised you chose a woman for a job like this, Jett. I thought you were a great believer in a woman’s place being in the home.”
    He looked a little suspiciously at me, as if he wasn’t certain whether or not I was at the wind-up. “I don’t believe in working wives and mothers, if that’s what you’re getting at. But single women like you—well, you got to make a living, haven’t you? And it’s not like I’m asking you to do anything dangerous like catch a criminal, now, is it? And you women, you like talking, gossiping, swapping stories. If anyone can track down my Moira, it’s another woman.”
    “You want her back so you can work with her or so you can marry her?” I asked, out of genuine curiosity.
    He shrugged. “I always wanted to marry her. It was her didn’t want to. My mother brought me up strict, to respect women. She taught me the way the Bible teaches. Now, I’ve studied a lot of different philosophies and ideas since then, but I have never
    I nearly got up and walked out right then. But I don’t think it would have changed anything if I had. Certainly not Jett’s neolithic view of women. I couldn’t understand how a man of some intelligence and sensitivity, judging by his music, could still hold views like that in the last decade of the twentieth century. I swallowed the nasty taste in my mouth and got down to business. “About Moira,” I began.
     
     
       Two hours later, I was back in my own office. I’d just spent quarter of an hour persuading Bill that we should take on the case. I was far from convinced that we could get a result, but I thought the chances were better than evens. It would earn us a tasty fee, and if I did pull it off word would get around. Record companies have a lot of money to throw around, and they’re notoriously litigious. Going to law and winning requires solid evidence, and private investigators are very good at amassing that evidence.
    Now I’d pitched Bill into accepting the case, I had some work to do. Once I’d prized Jett away from Kevin and Neil I’d managed to get a substantial amount of background on Moira. The difficulty had been getting him to shut up. Now I needed to arrange my thoughts, so I booted up my database and started filling in all I knew about Moira.
    Moira Xaviera Pollock was thirty-two years old, a Pisces with Cancer rising and a Sagittarius moon, according to Jett. I felt sure that piece of knowledge would help enormously in my task. They had been kids together in Moss Side, Manchester’s black ghetto, where growing up without a drug habit or a criminal record is an achievement in itself. Moira’s mother had three children by different fathers, none of them in wedlock. Moira was the youngest, and her father had been a Spanish Catholic called Xavier Perez, hence the unusual middle name that was such a godsend to an investigator. In the photographs Jett had given me, she looked
    Jett and Moira had started dating in their early teens and they’d soon discovered that they both enjoyed writing songs. Moira wrote the poignant and enigmatic lyrics, Jett put them to music. She had never