Chapters (37)
- Dead Beat
- Dedication:
- Acknowledgments
- 1992–Part One
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Part Two
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- About the Author
“And how, exactly, did you get through a locked door?” His voice was oilier than I’d have imagined possible. It’s the voice they use, cops, when they think they’ve got you bang to rights. Doesn’t matter if it’s speeding or murder. I think they learn it in training.
“Locked? You must be mistaken, Inspector. I just turned the handle and walked through. After all, if I’d effected an illegal entry, I’d hardly be powdering my nose and touching up my mascara, now would I?”
Me and my big mouth. Jackson’s hands moved up to the knot of his immaculate paisley tie and tightened the precise knot a fraction. I had the irresistible feeling he wanted to tighten his hands round my neck. “And is Mr. Kleinman expecting you?” he said through stiff lips.
“Only in the most general way. He knows I’ll be wanting to talk to him sometime. Nothing urgent. I’ll pop back another time, when
“While you’re here, let’s you and me have a little chat while we’re waiting,” he commanded.
“Fine by me,” I said. “It’ll save me having to get up early tomorrow for our little chat.” I can’t help myself, I swear. Every time I run up against a copper who thinks he’s in the last days of his apprenticeship to God, I get one on me. I walked over to the desk and leaned against it. Jackson squirmed forward on the sofa to try and get in a commanding position. I could have told him it was a waste of effort. “Ask away, Inspector,” I invited him.
“In your statement, you said you’d been here, quote, about an hour, unquote, before you and Mr. Franklin went in search of Miss Pollock.”
“That’s right,” I confirmed.
“You can’t be more precise than that? I’m sorry, but I find that very hard to believe, Miss Brannigan. I thought you private eyes prided yourselves on being accurate.” Had to get his little dig in, didn’t he?
I shrugged. “Don’t you find that’s so often the way it is, Inspector? People’s memories are incredibly inconvenient. I’m constantly surprised when I’m interviewing people by the things they manage to be vague about.”
“Perhaps we can be more precise if we work backwards. Where did you come from? And what time did you leave there?”