Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,74

What the hell did you think you were playing at?"

It was a good question, and one I didn't have an answer for yet. The one thing I knew for sure was that this wasn't the right time to tell Alexis that Sarah Blackstone had added her mystery ingredient to the primordial soup. I was far from certain there was ever going to be a right time, but I know a wrong one when I see it. "Who told you anyway?" I stalled.

"Jude Webster rang me. She assumed that because you had the names and addresses of all the women involved that you were kosher. But she thought she'd better warn me in case I didn't want Chris bothered in her condition. So what's the game?"

Inspiration had provided me with an attempt at an answer. "I wanted to make sure none of them knew Black-stone's real identity," I said. "If they had, they might have contacted her at her home under her real name, and there could be a record of that. A letter, an entry in an address book. I need to be certain that there isn't a chink in the armor that could lead the police back to this group of women if they get suspicious about the burglar theory and start routine background inquiries." I spread my hands in front of me and tried for wide-eyed innocence.

Alexis looked doubtful. "But they're not going to, are they? I've been keeping an eye on the local papers, and there's no sign the police are even thinking it might have been anything more than a burglary that went wrong. What makes you think it was?"

I shrugged. "If anybody she worked with had found out what she was up to, they had a great motive for get¬ting rid of her. A scandal like this associated with the IVF unit at St. Hilda's would have the place closed down overnight." This was thinner than Kate Moss, but given what I couldn't tell Alexis, it was the best I could do.

"Hey, I know it's hard getting a decent job these days, but I can't get my head around the idea of somebody

knocking off a doctor just to avoid signing on," Alexis protested. Her anger had evaporated now I had anes¬thetized her fears and her sense of humor had kicked in.

"Heat of the moment? She's arguing with somebody? They grab a knife?"

"I suppose," Alexis conceded. "Okay, I accept you did what you did with the best of motives. Only, it stops here, all right? No more terrorizing poor innocent women, all right?"

That's the trouble when friends become clients. You lose the power to ignore them.

Midnight, and we were arranged tastefully around the outer office of Mortensen and Brannigan. As soon as Richard had mentioned the f-word to Tony Tambo, the manager of Manassas had insisted that we meet some¬where nobody from clubland could possibly see him talk¬ing to a woman who'd already been publicly asking questions on the subject. Otherwise, fly-posting was defi¬nitely off the agenda. He'd vetoed a rendezvous in a Chi-nese restaurant, a casino, an all-night caff in the industrial zone over in Trafford Park, and the motorway services area. Richard's house was off-limits because it was next door to mine. But the office was okay. I couldn't work out the logic in that until Richard explained.

"Now they've converted the building next door to yours into a student hall of residence, if anybody sees Tony coming out of your building, they'll assume he's been having a leg-over with some teenage raver," he said.

"And I bet he wouldn't mind that," I said dryly.

"Show me a man over thirty who'd object to people making that assumption and I'll show you a liar," Richard replied wistfully.

So we were sitting with the blinds drawn, the only light coming from the standard lamp in the corner and Shel¬ley's desk lamp. Tony Tambo was hunched into one cor¬ner of the sofa, somehow managing to make his six feet of muscles look half their usual size. Although it was cold enough in the office for me to have kept my jacket on, the slanting light revealed a sheen of sweat on skin the color of a cooked chestnut that covered Tony's shaved skull. He was wearing immaculate taupe chinos, black Wannabes, a black silk tee shirt that seemed molded to his pectorals, and a beige jacket whose soft folds revealed it was made of some mixture of expensive natural materials like silk and cashmere.

It's a mystery to me, silk. For