01.Dead Beat by Val McDermid

Author:Val McDermid
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780007327645
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 1992-08-31T23:00:00+00:00

It was still drizzling when I pulled up outside Maggie’s terraced house. Crossing the Pennines hadn’t worked its usual trick of transforming the weather. Through the drift of rain, the house looked miserable and unwelcoming. There were no lights on to combat the gloom. Mind you, if my lover was lying dead in a morgue somewhere, I don’t think I’d feel like a hundred watt glare.

Maggie took her time answering the door. I’d just decided she wasn’t home when the door opened. When she saw me, she started to close it again. I moved forward quickly enough to insinuate my shoulder in the gap.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ she demanded feebly, her voice cracked and shaky.

‘We need to talk, Maggie,’ I said. ‘I know it’s the last thing you feel like, but I think I can help.’

‘Help? You do resurrections?’ Her voice was bitter, and tears shone in her red-rimmed eyes. My professional satisfaction at getting to her first withered in the face of her obvious grief.

‘I’m trying to find out who killed Moira,’ I told her.

‘What’s the use? It’s not going to bring her back, is it?’ Maggie rubbed her eyes impatiently with her free hand, as if she hated showing me her humanity.

‘No, it’s not. But you’ve got to grieve. You know that. And finding out what happened is the first step in the process. Maggie, let me come in and talk to you.’

Her straight shoulders seemed to sag and she stood back from the door. It opened straight on to her living room, and I sat down before she could change her mind. Behind me, Maggie closed the door firmly and went through to the kitchen. I could hear the sound of a kettle being filled. I took the chance to take stock of the room. It was large, occupying most of the ground floor of the house. One of the alcoves by the chimney breast held an assortment of books, from science fiction to sociology texts. The other held a small TV and a stereo system with a collection of tapes, CDs and LPs. The only decoration on the walls was a large reproduction of Klimt’s Judith. The room contained two sofas and, in the bay, a small pine dining table with four chairs. It looked like home, but only one person’s idea of it.

She came through with a pot of tea on a tray with two mugs, a bottle of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘I’ve got this terrible thirst. I can’t seem to stop drinking tea,’ she said absently as she poured. Her hair looked dishevelled, as did the sweatshirt and jeans she was wearing. The room was unbearably warm, the gas fire on full, yet Maggie shivered as she lifted her mug to her lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing how hollow it would sound, but feeling the need nevertheless. ‘I hardly knew her, but I liked what I did know.’

Maggie walked over to the window and stared out at the silent rain falling on the grey roofs.

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