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Chapters (37)
  1. Dead Beat
  2. Dedication:
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1992–Part One
  5. Chapter   1
  6. Chapter   2
  7. Chapter   3
  8. Chapter   4
  9. Chapter   5
  10. Chapter   6
  11. Chapter   7
  12. Chapter   8
  13. Chapter   9
  14. Chapter   10
  15. Chapter   11
  16. Chapter   12
  17. Part Two
  18. Chapter   13
  19. Chapter   14
  20. Chapter   15
  21. Chapter   16
  22. Chapter   17
  23. Chapter   18
  24. Chapter   19
  25. Chapter   20
  26. Chapter   21
  27. Chapter   22
  28. Chapter   23
  29. Chapter   24
  30. Chapter   25
  31. Chapter   26
  32. Chapter   27
  33. Chapter   28
  34. Chapter   29
  35. Chapter   30
  36. Chapter   31
  37. 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?”