Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,26

be well bright, but you know as well as I do that when it comes to mur¬der the bizzies don't ignore anything that looks like it might be a lead."

I sighed. She was right. Coppers on murder inquiries are never satisfied till they've got somebody firmly in the frame. And if the obvious paths don't come up with a viable suspect, they start unraveling every loose end they can find. "What's the second reason?" I asked.

"She had consulting rooms in Manchester. Sooner or later, somebody is going to notice she's not where she should be when she should be. And eventually, some¬body's going to be emptying her filing cabinet. And if I know anything about people, whoever goes through those files isn't going to be dumping them straight in the bucket. It's only human nature to have a good root through. And then me and Chris are chopped liver, along with all the other dykes Helen Maitland has given babies to." Alexis finished her cigarette and washed it down with a couple of gulps of her drink. "We need you to find those files."

I crossed my legs at the ankles and hugged my knees.

"You're asking a lot here. Interfering with a murder inquiry. Probably burglary, not to mention data theft."

"I'm not asking for a. favor here, KB. We'll pay you."

I snorted with ironic laughter. "Alexis, is this how you really think my professional life works? People walk in and ask me to break the law for money? I thought you knew me! When people walk into my office and ask me to do things that are illegal, they don't stay in the room long enough to notice the color of the carpet. When I have to break the law, I go out of my way to make sure my clients are the last to know. If I do this for you, it won't be because you're offering to pay me for it, it'll be because I decide it needs to be done."

She had the grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry," she groaned. "My head's cabbaged with all this. I know you're not some mad maverick burglar for hire. It's just that you're the only person I know who's got the skills to get us out from under whatever's going to happen now that Helen Maitland's dead. Will you do the business for us?" The look of desperation that had temporarily disappeared was back.

"And what if the things I find out point to a conclusion you won't like?" I asked, stalling.

"You mean, if you uncover evidence that makes it look like one of her lesbian patients killed her?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

Alexis covered her eyes and kneaded her temples. Then she looked up at me. "I can't believe that's what you'll find. But even if you do, is that any reason why the rest of us have to have our lives destroyed too?"

Just call me the girl who can't say no.
Chapter 7
The pleasant, caring atmosphere of the Compton Clinic hit me as soon as I walked through the door. Air subtly perfumed and temperature-controlled, decor more like a country house than a medical facility, bowls of fresh flowers on every surface. I could almost believe they employed the only gynecologists in the world who warm the speculums before plunging them deep into a woman's most intimate orifice. I made a mental note to ask Alexis about it later.

The clinic was in St. John Street, a little Georgian oasis off Deansgate that pretends very hard to be Harley Street. The doctors who have their private consulting rooms there obviously figure that one of the most con¬vincing ways of doing that is to charge the most outra¬geous prices for their services. From what I'd heard, you could make the down payment on one of the purpose built yuppie flats around the corner on what they'd charge you to remove an unsightly blackhead. If Helen Maitland demanded that kind of price for her treatments,

I couldn't imagine there were enough dykes desperate for motherhood and sufficiently well heeled to make it worth her while. But then, what do I know? I'm the only woman I'm aware of who's been using the pill and demanding a condom since she was sixteen.

The Compton Clinic was about halfway down on the right-hand side, a three-story terraced house with a plague of plaques arrayed on either side of the door. Interestingly, Helen Maitland's name didn't appear on any of them. Neither did Sarah Blackstone's. I opened the heavy front