Free Dead Beat by Val McDermid Page B

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
     
     
       I parked the car in a pay and display behind the National Film and Television Museum. I walked round to the museum foyer and found a telephone booth which miraculously contained a phone book. I looked up the Seagull Project, and copied its address and number into my notebook. I checked my watch and decided I deserved a coffee, so I walked upstairs to the coffee bar and settled myself down in a window seat looking out over the city center.
    The pale spring sun had broken through the gray clouds, and the old Victorian buildings looked positively romantic. Built on the sweatshops of the wool industry, the once prosperous city had fought its urban decay and depression by jumping on the tourism bandwagon that’s turning England into one gigantic theme park. Now that the nearby Yorkshire countryside had been translated into The Brontë Country, Bradford had seized its opportunity with both hands. Even the biscuits in the tearooms and snack bars are called Brontë. But it was the Asian community who’d really revitalized the city’s slum areas, producing oases of industrial and wholesaling prosperity. I’d been around a few of those in the past few weeks, hot on the trail of Billy Smart’s personal mobile circus.
    I tore my eyes away from the view and looked up the Seagull Project’s address in my street directory. Stick’s information was sound so far. The street was third on the left, off the hill that climbed up the side of the Alhambra Theater. I finished my coffee and set out on foot.
    Five minutes later, I was outside two three-story stone-built terraced houses that had been knocked together with a board on the front proclaiming “Seagull Project.” I stood around uncertainly for a few minutes, not at all sure what was the best way to play
    I eventually settled on my course of action. More lies. If my childhood Sunday School teacher ever finds out about me, she’ll put me straight to the top of the list for the burning fire. I walked up the path and turned the door handle. I walked into a clean, airy hallway painted white with gray carpeting. A large sign pointing to the left read “All visitors please report to reception.”
    For once, I did as I was told and walked into a small, tidy office. Behind a wide desk, a mop of carrot red hair was bent over a pile of papers so high it almost hid its owner from view. I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew just how she felt. My own hatred of paperwork is so strong that I ignore it till Shelley practically locks me in my office with dire threats of what she’ll do to me if I dare to emerge before it’s finished. It’s just the same at home; if I didn’t force