“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.”

Chapter   9