Alexis shrugged. “Some people get addicted to rowing,” Chris said. “You watch them at it and imagine how stressed it would make you to live like that, but then you realize they actually thrive on it. If they ever found themselves in agreement, the relationship would die on the spot.”

“Also, where would she go? It’s not a bad life, being the grande dame of a busy pub like the Cob,” Alexis added. “Besides, Joey was a staunch Catholic. He’d never have stood on for a divorce.”

“Now she’s got it all,” I said. “She’s got her freedom, and presumably the brewery aren’t going to chuck her out of the pub as long as it keeps making money.“

“And the insurance,” Alexis said. “Word is, Joey was worth a lot more dead than he ever was in the transfer market.”

“All of which adds up to a tidy bit of motive for Mrs. Morton,” I said. “But if she’s behind Joey’s murder, how does Mary Halloran’s death fit in?”

“Copy cat?” Alexis suggested.

“Maybe, but cyanide isn’t exactly a common household chemical. I wouldn’t know how to get my hands on it. Would you?”

Alexis shrugged. “I’ve never wanted to kill her enough,” she joked, grabbing Chris and hugging her. A sudden pang of envy took me by surprise. All too painfully, I could remember when Richard and I were as easy and warm together. It felt like a long time had passed since then. I wanted that back. I just didn’t know anymore if I could recover it with Richard or if I was going to have to start all over again on the wary process of love.

I must have shown something on my face, for Chris looked at me with a worried frown. “You all right, Kate?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Me and Richard have had a major falling-out. We parted company in Italy a couple days ago, and I’ve not heard from him since. I’m just not sure if we can fix it this time.”

I could hardly bear the love and concern on their faces. Chris pulled free from Alexis and leaned over to hug me. “He’ll be back,” she said with more confidence than I felt.

“Yeah, but will he be back with a bricklayer to build a wall across the conservatory?” I asked bitterly.

“If Richard needed a brickie, he’d have to ask you where to find one,” Alexis said. “You don’t get rid of him that easy, girl.”

“He’s obviously not very happy,” I told them. “He said he’s pissed off with everybody treating him like he’s a pillock.”

“Maybe he should stop behaving like one, then,” Alexis said.

“Ever since he got himself arrested, he’s been walking round like a dog waiting for the next kick. Wait till he comes back, girl, I’ll take him out for a drink and put him right.”

I couldn’t help smiling. That was one encounter I’d pay for a video of. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about my troubles,” I said briskly. “I’ve got too much to do trying to put right all the cock-ups I’ve made this week to worry about Richard. Did he have any dodgy contacts, this Joey Morton?”

“Not that I’ve heard. He hung out with one or two moody people, but that was probably for the so-called glamor as much as anything. He was probably into a few bits and pieces on the side, but he wasn’t a player.”

So I wasn’t looking for some gangster that Joey had double-crossed on a deal over stolen Scotch. “What’s the score with this Mary Halloran?” I asked.

“I haven’t been over there myself, but I’ve still gotta few good contacts in Liverpool,” she said, becoming more Scouse by the syllable. “This Mary Halloran, she was a real grafter. The only out-of-the-way thing about her was that her staff actually liked her. They said she was a great boss, good payer, dead fair. According to them, she lived for her kids and her old man, Desmond. Our Desmond is apparently devastated. My mate Mo went round to try for a talk for the Post, but the guy was too distraught. She said he just burst into tears, then one of the relatives did the Rottweiler and saw her off.”

“This Desmond. Has he got a job?”

“He’s got his own business too. Not as successful as Mary’s by all accounts, but he does okay. He’s a photographer. Does portraits mainly. Dead artistic, according to Mo. Specializes in unusual printing techniques and special-effects stuff. Not your weddings-and-babies type. Charges about five hundred a shot, apparently. God knows where he gets his clients. The only pictures I’ve ever seen of people in Liverpool with that kind of money are in police mug shots and wanted posters.”

“And no connection between the Hallorans and the Mortons?”

“Nothing that’s come up so far. The only thing they’ve got in common except for the way they died is that they’ve left their surviving partners a lot better off than they were before. Mo says the girls that worked for Mary Halloran reckoned she was well insured. Had to be. If anything happened to her, the business was bound to suffer a bit, because Mary was one of those who had to take charge of everything herself.”

“Maybe they did a Strangers on a Train,” Chris volunteered. “You know, I’ll do your murder, you do mine.” We both looked at her, astonished. “It was only a suggestion,” she said defensively.

“The only point in doing something like that is when the murder method’s one where having an alibi puts you in the clear. Like a shooting or a stabbing,” Alexis finally pointed out. “A delayed-action thing like this, there wouldn’t be any point.”

“Nice idea, though,” I mused. Suddenly, a huge yawn crept up on me and shook me by the scruff of my neck. “Oh God,” I groaned. “I’m going to have to go, girls. If my overdraft was as big as my sleep deficit, the bailiffs would be kicking my door down.”

I leaned over and hugged the pair of them. “You never know,” Chris said. “He might be there when you get home.”

It’s just as well Chris is such a good architect. She’d never make a living as a fortune-teller.

23

THE ANSWERING MACHINE WAS FLASHING LIKE A SEX OFFENDER.

I played back the long chain of messages against my better judgment. I’d had enough coppers on the line to staff my very own Tactical Aid Group minibus. But the one message I really wanted wasn’t there. I hated myself for letting Richard’s childish behavior get to me, but that didn’t make it any easier to escape. I ignored the rest of the messages and crashed out in my own bed. Deep down, I knew the Mafia weren’t after me. Sleeping in Richard’s bed the night before had been nothing but a self-indulgence I wasn’t about to allow myself again.

I woke up just after eight, my head muzzy with the novel experience of a proper night’s sleep. The phone was ringing already, but I had no problem ignoring it. I took a long, leisurely bath, deciding on my plans for the day. I know I’d told Delia I’d be prepared to talk to the Art Squad and the Drugs Squad, but I had other ideas now. A few hours delay wasn’t going to make a whole lot of difference to their investigation, and I was determined to press on with my inquiries into the KerrSter murders as fast as I could. The last thing I wanted was another head-to-head with Cliff Jackson, and the best way to avoid that was to get going while he was still working out what to do with Sandra Bates and Simon Morley.

After breakfast, I filled the washing machine with the first load of dirty clothes. Glancing out of the kitchen window, I noticed an unfamiliar car parked in one of the residents’ bays. I didn’t have to be Manchester’s answer to Nancy Drew to work out that an unmarked saloon with a radio aerial and two men in it was a police car. The only thing left to wonder was which squad it belonged to. I wasn’t about to pop over and ask a policeman.

I pulled the blond wig out of its bag and arranged it on my head, adding the granny glasses with the clear lenses and a pair of stilettos to give me a bit of extra height. Then I nipped through the conservatory into Richard’s house and out his front door. The two bobbies gave me a cursory glance, but they were waiting for a petite redhead from next door. That told me Delia wasn’t responsible, even indirectly, for their presence; she’d have told them about the conservatory. Which left Jack son.‘