I had half an hour to kill in the international departure lounge. I thought I’d better give Shelley a ring before she decided tracking me down was a job for Interpol. She answered on the first ring, and I could hear relief in her voice. I knew then it must be bad, since Shelley never lets on that anything’s beyond her competence.

“Thank God it’s you,” she said. “Where are you? You’ve got to get back here. There’s been another death.”

20

I NEARLY DROPPED THE PHONE, MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS, HOW the hell had Shelley found out about Nicholas Turner? Her voice cut through my panic. “Kate? Are you still there? I said there’s been another death involving KerrSter.” This time round, I heard the whole sentence.

“Oh fuck,” I groaned.

“Where are you? Trevor Kerr is reading me the riot act every ten minutes. I’ve managed to stall him so far, but if you don’t speak to him soon, he’s threatening to sack us and to go to the press saying the reason for the second death is your dereliction of duty,” Shelley continued, her voice betraying an agitation I’d never heard from her before.

“I’m at Milan airport. On the way to Amsterdam. I’ll have to leave Bill’s car in Belgium and get a flight straight back to the U.K. When did this happen?”

“This morning. An office cleaner. They found her dead beside a new drum of KerrSter. It looks like another case of cyanide poisoning, according to Alexis. Incidentally, she wants to talk to you too.”

I glanced over at the gate. They hadn’t started boarding us yet. “Is Kerr still in his office?”

“He was five minutes ago,” Shelley said. “He’s had the Merseyside police all over his factory this afternoon.”

“I’ll call him and stall him,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve had all this shit to deal with on your own. If it’s any consolation, this trip’s been a nightmare. I’ve already had one close encounter with death today. I’m not sure if I’m up to another one.”

“You’re all right?” Shelley demanded anxiously.

“I wouldn’t pitch it that high. I’m in one piece, which is more than I can say for Turner.”

“Oh my God,” she said, sounding stricken.

“Look, it’s okay. Let me talk to Kerr. I’ll call you from Amsterdam. There’s a flight gets in to Manchester about half past seven tonight. See if you can get me a seat on it. I don’t care if it’s business class, club class or standing in the toilet, just get me on it.”

“Will do. I’ll hang on here till I hear from you,” she promised. “For God’s sake, be careful.”

It was a bit late for me to take heed of that warning. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for battle, and rang Trevor Kerr. Not even my powers of imagination had prepared me for his onslaught. For two straight minutes he ranted at me, with a string of obscenities that would have won him admiration on the football terraces but didn’t do a lot for me. I made a mental note to bump that surliness surcharge up to ten percent. When he paused to regroup for a second outpouring, I cut in decisively. “I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult day, but you’re not the only one,” I said grimly. “I have been pursuing my inquiries into your problem as fast as I can. I’ve made a lot of progress, but I needed a crucial piece of information that I’ve not been able to get hold of yet. Now I’m meeting someone in an hour’s time who can tell me what I need to know,” I continued, raising my voice to cut through his crap.

“Bullshit,” he hollered like a bear with its leg in a gin. “You’ve been doing fuck all. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you this fucking minute.”

“Because if you do, some other private eye with half my talent is going to have to start from square one because you’ll have to sue me to get one single scrap of the information I’ve already uncovered.”

That silenced him for all of ten seconds. “I’ll tell the police you’re withholding information,” he blustered.

“Tell them. Inspector Jackson knows me well enough to realize that shoving me in a cell won’t make a blind bit of difference to what I have to say for myself.”

“You can’t treat me like this,” he howled, the ultimate spoilt bully.

“If you want to discuss this like reasonable adults, you can meet me this evening in the bar of the Hilton at the airport at eight o’clock,” I said. “Otherwise, I’m taking my bat and ball home, Mr. Kerr.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my fellow passengers disappearing through the gate. “It’s up to you,” I said, replacing the phone.

The flight to Amsterdam seemed never ending. I stared gloomily out of the window, feeling more guilty than a Catholic in bed with a married man. Thanks to my brilliant work, two people were dead who’d been alive yesterday. My meddling had cost Nicholas Turner his life. Meddling I’d done while I should have been nailing down my suspicions about the product-tampering racket. If I’d done that job properly, the culprits would be answering Inspector Jackson’s questions now and maybe the woman who had died would still be alive. I should never have taken Trevor Kerr’s case on when I was in the middle of another demanding investigation. But I had to be smart, prove to the world that I was twice as good as any reasonable private investigator needed to be. I’d been trying to show Bill that I was more than capable of being left to run the agency single-handed. All I’d done so far was get two people killed.

Not only that, but I’d fractured my relationship with Richard, perhaps beyond repair this time. All because I was determined to be the big shot, doing things my way. I began to wonder why I was bothering to go back. On my present form, the only people I’d be keeping satisfied were the undertakers. I had the best part of nine grand in my bag, a car waiting at Antwerp. In all my working life, I’ve never been closer to running away.

When it came to the crunch, I couldn’t do it. Call it duty, call it stubbornness, call it pure bloody-mindedness. Whatever it was, it propelled me off that plane and over to the check-in desk for the flight to Manchester. Shelley had come up trumps. I was booked on a seat in business class. I had ten minutes to give her a quick ring and tell her I was meeting Kerr at the airport hotel. Slightly reassured, she told me again to take care. She was warning the wrong person.

They had that evening’s Chronicle on the plane. cleaner’s mystery death hit me like a stab in the guts. Even though she’d died in Liverpool, Mary Halloran had made the front page in Manchester because of the KerrSter connection and because it gave the paper the chance to rehash the Joey Morton story. Feeling accused by every word, especially since they came under the byline of Alexis Lee, I read on. Mrs. Halloran, forty-three, a mother of two (Oh God, another two kids I’d deprived of a parent…), had started her own commercial cleaning firm after she was made redundant by the city council. The business had grown into a real money-spinner, but Mrs. Halloran liked to keep her hand in on the office floor, presumably to stay in touch with her roots. She had a regular stint three mornings a week in a local solicitor’s office, where she started work at half past five. Normally, she worked with another woman, but her partner had been off sick that week. Mrs. Hal-loran’s body had been found outside the cleaning cupboard on the first floor by one of the solicitors who had come in just after seven to catch up on some work. She was slumped on the floor beside an open but full container of KerrSter. The police had revealed that the postmortem indicated Mrs. Halloran had died as a result of inhaling hydrogen cyanide gas.

The pathologist must have been quick off the mark, I thought. Not to mention in possession of a nasty, suspicious mind. After Joey Morton’s death I’d checked my reference shelves, which had confirmed what I’d already thought- death by cyanide’s a real pig to diagnose. It happens almost instantaneously, and there’s not much to see on the pathologist’s slab. Maybe a trace of frothing round the mouth, possibly a tow irregular pink patches on the skin like you get with people who suck too long on their car exhausts. If you get the body open quickly, there might be a faint trace of the smell of bitter almonds in the mouth, chest and abdominal cavity. But if you don’t get your samples pdq, you’re knackered because the cyanide metamorphoses into sulphocyanides, which you’d expect to find there anyway. The only reason they’d picked up on it right away in Joey’s case was that the barman who discovered his body noticed the smell and happened to be a keen reader of detective fiction.