Val McDermid
Blue Genes
For Fairy, Lesley and
all the other lesbian mothers
who prove that moulds
are there to be broken
And for Robyn and
Andrew and Jack
Chapter 1
The day Richards death announcement appeared in the Manchester Evening Chronicle, I knew I couldnt postpone clearing up the mess any longer. But there was something I had to do first. I stood in the doorway of the living room of the man whod been my lover for three years, Polaroid in hand, surveying the chaos. Slowly, I swept the camera lens round the room, carefully recording every detail of the shambles, section by section. This was one time I wasnt prepared to rely on memory. Richard might be gone, but that didnt mean I was going to take any unnecessary risks. Private eyes who do that have as much chance of collecting their pensions as a Robert Maxwell employee.
Once I had a complete chronicle of exactly how things had been left in the room that was a mirror image of my own bungalow next door, I started my mammoth task. First, I sorted things into piles: books, magazines, CDs, tapes, promo videos, the detritus of a rock journalists life. Then I arranged them. Books, alphabetically, on the shelf unit. CDs ditto. The tapes I stacked in the storage unit Richard had bought for the purpose one Sunday when Id managed to drag him round Ikea, the 1990s equivalent of buying an engagement ring. Id even put the cabinet together for him, but hed never got into the habit of using it, preferring the haphazard stacks and heaps strewn all over the floor. I buried the surge of emotion that came with the memory and carried on doggedly. The magazines I shoved out of sight in the conservatory that runs along the back of both our houses, linking them together more firmly than wed ever been prepared to do in any formal sense with our lives. I leaned against the wall and looked around the room. When people say, Its a dirty job, but somebodys got to do it, how come we never really believe well be the ones left clutching the sticky end? I sighed and forced myself on. I emptied ashtrays of the roaches left from Richards joints, gathered together pens and pencils and stuffed them into the sawn-off Sapporo beer can hed used for the purpose for as long as Id known him. I picked up the assorted notepads, sheets of scrap paper and envelopes where hed scribbled down vital phone numbers and quotes, careful not to render them any more disordered than they were already, and took them through to the room he used as his office when it wasnt occupied by his nine-year-old son Davy on one of his regular visits. I dumped them on the desk on top of a remarkably similar-looking pile already there.
Back in the living room, I was amazed by the effect. It almost looked like a room I could sit comfortably in. Cleared of the usual junk, it was possible to see the pattern on the elderly Moroccan rug that covered most of the floor and the sofas could for once accommodate the five people they were designed for. I realized for the first time that the coffee table had a central panel of glass. Id been trying for ages to get him to put the room into something approaching a civilized state, but hed always resisted me. Even though Id finally got my own way, I cant say it made me happy. But then, I couldnt get out of my mind the reason behind what I was doing here, and what lay ahead. The announcement of Richards death was only the beginning of a chain of events that would be a hell of a lot more testing than tidying a room.
I thought about brushing the rug, but I figured that was probably gilding the lily, the kind of activity that people found a little bizarre after the death of a lover. And bizarre was not the impression I wanted to give. I went back through to my house and changed from the sweat pants and T-shirt Id worn to do the cleaning into something more appropriate for a grieving relict. A charcoal wool wraparound skirt from the French Connection sale and a black lambs-wool turtleneck Id chosen for the one and only reason that it made me look like death. There are times in a private eyes working life when looking like shes about to keel over is an image preferable to that of Wonder Woman on whizz.
I was about to close the conservatory door behind me as I returned to Richards house when his doorbell belted out an inappropriate blast of the guitar riff from Eric Claptons Layla. Shit, I muttered. No matter how careful you are, theres always something you forget. I couldnt remember what the other choices were on Richards Twenty Great Rock Riffs doorbell, but I was sure there must be something more fitting than Claptons wailing guitar. Maybe something from the Smiths, I thought vaguely as I tried to compose my face into a suitable expression for a woman whos just lost her partner. Just how was I supposed to look, I found a second to wonder. Whats the well-bereft woman wearing on her face this season? You cant even go for the mascara tracks down the cheeks in these days of lash tints.
I took a deep breath, hoped for the best and opened the door. The crime correspondent of the Manchester Evening Chronicle stood on the step, her black hair even more like an explosion in a wig factory than usual. Kate, my best friend Alexis said, stepping forward and pulling me into a hug. I cant believe it, she added, a catch in her voice. She moved back to look at me, tears in her eyes. So much for the hard-bitten newshound. Why didnt you call us? When I saw it in the paperKate, what the hell happened?
I looked past her. All quiet in the street outside. I put my arm round her shoulders and firmly drew her inside, closing the door behind her. Nothing. Richards fine, I said, leading the way down the hall.
Do what? Alexis demanded, stopping and frowning at me. If hes fine, how come I just read hes dead in tonights paper? And if hes fine, how come youre doing the Babys in Black number when you know thats the one colour that makes you look like the Bride of Frankenstein?
If youd let me get a word in edgeways, Ill explain, I said, going through to the living room. Take my word for it, Richard is absolutely OK.
Alexis stopped dead on the threshold, taking in the pristine tidiness of the room. Oh no, hes not, she said, suspicion running through her heavy Scouse accent like the stripe in the toothpaste. Hes not fine if hes left his living room looking like this. At the very least, hes having a nervous breakdown. What the hells going on here, KB?
I cant believe you read the death notices, I said, throwing myself down on the nearest sofa.
I dont normally, Alexis admitted, subsiding on the sofa opposite me. I was down Moss Side nick waiting for a statement from the duty inspector about a little bit of aggravation involving an Uzi and a dead Rottweiler, and they were taking so long about it Id read everything else in the paper except the ads for the dinner dances. And its just as well I did. Whats going on? If hes not dead, whos he upset enough to get heavy-metal hassle like this? She stabbed the paper she carried with a nicotine-stained index finger.
It was me who put the announcement in, I said.
Thats one way of telling him its over, Alexis interrupted before I could continue. I thought you two had got things sorted?
Thats one way of telling him its over, Alexis interrupted before I could continue. I thought you two had got things sorted?
We have, I said through clenched teeth. Ironing out the problems in my relationship with Richard would have taken the entire staff of an industrial laundry a month. It had taken us rather longer.
So whats going on? Alexis demanded belligerently. Whats so important that you have to give everybody a heart attack thinking me laddos popped his clogs?
Cant you resist the journalistic exaggeration for once? I sighed. You know and I know that nobody under sixty routinely reads the deaths column. I had to use a real name and address, and I figured with Richard out of town till the end of the week, nobodys going to be any the wiser if I used his, I explained. And he wont be, unless you tell him.
That depends on whether you tell me what this is all in aid of, Alexis said cunningly, her outrage at having wasted her sympathy a distant memory now she had the scent of a possible story in her nostrils. I mean, I think hes going to notice somethings going on, she added, sweeping an eloquent arm through the air. I dont think he knows that carpet has a pattern.
I took Polaroids before I started, I told her. When Im finished, Ill put it back the way it was before. He wont notice a thing.
He will when I show him the cutting, Alexis countered. Spill, KB. Whatre you playing at? Whats with the grieving widow number? She leaned back and lit a cigarette. So much for my clean ashtrays.
Cant tell you, I said sweetly. Client confidentiality.
Bollocks, Alexis scoffed. Its me youre talking to, KB, not the bizzies. Come on, give. Or else the first thing Richard sees when he comes home is
I closed my eyes and muttered an old gypsy curse under my breath. Its not that I speak Romany; its just that Ive refused to buy lucky white heather once too often. Believe me, I know exactly what those old gypsies say. I weighed up my options. I could always call her bluff and hope she wouldnt tell Richard, on the basis that the two of them maintain this pretence of despising each others area of professional expertise and extend that into the personal arena at every possible opportunity. On the other hand, the prospect of explaining to Richard that I was responsible for the report of his death didnt appeal either. I gave in. Its got to be off the record, then, I said ungraciously.
Why? Alexis demanded.
Because with a bit of luck it will be sub judice in a day or two. And if you blow it before then, the bad guys will be out of town on the next train and well never nail them.
Anybody ever tell you youve got melodramatic tendencies, KB? Alexis asked with a grin.
A bit rich, coming from a woman who started todays story with, Undercover police swooped on a top drug dealers love nest in a dawn raid this morning, when we both know that all that happened was a couple of guys from the Drugs Squad turned over some two-bit dealers girlfriends bedsit, I commented.
Yeah, well, you gotta give it a bit of topspin or the boy racers on the newsdesk kill it. But thats not what were talking about. I want to know why Richards supposed to be dead.
Its a long and complicated story, I started in a last attempt to lose her interest.
Alexis grinned and blew a long stream of smoke down her nostrils. Puff the Magic Dragon would have signed up for a training course on the spot. Great, she enthused. My favourite kind.