Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,87

the evidence of my own eyes that she had cruelly duped some of her patients. Even though I'm a woman who'd rather breed ferrets than babies, I can imagine how devastating it would be to discover that a child you thought came equipped with half your genes was in fact the offspring of an egomaniac. I could imagine how Alexis would react if the child Chris was carrying was the result of so wicked a deception. It would be as well for Sarah Blackstone that she was already dead. So there was a group of women out there who, if they'd managed to put two and two together and unravel Sarah Blackstone's real identity, had an excellent motive for murder.

And then there was Helen Maitland.
Chapter 21
The hardest part had been getting Tony Tambo to play. Briefing me was as far as he had wanted to go. Tony and his friends didn't mind pitting me against DI Lovell and his thugs, but they drew the line at taking too many risks themselves. I knew there was no point in simply phoning him and asking him to cooperate in a sting. What I needed was a pressure point. That's why I'd taken a trip to a certain Italian espresso bar before I'd gone to Bradford.

Every morning between eleven and twelve, Collar di Salvo sits in a booth at the rear of Carpaccio, just around the corner from the Crown Court building. Collar likes to think of himself as the Godfather of Manchester. In reality, the old man's probably got closer links to the media than the Mafia. Even though he was born in the old Tripe Colony in Miles Platting, Collar affects an Ital¬ian accent. He has legitimate businesses, but his real income comes from the wrong side of the law. Nothing heavy duty for Collar: a bit of what Manchester calls taxing and other, less subtle cities call protection rackets; counterfeit leisurewear; mock auctions; and ringing stolen cars are what keeps Mrs. Di Salvo in genuine Carrier jewelry and Marina Rinaldi clothes. And defi¬nitely no drugs.

The story goes that Collar got his nickname from his method of persuading rival taxation teams to find another way of earning a living. He'd put a dog collar around their neck, attach a leash to it, and loop the leash over an overhead beam in his warehouse. Then a couple of his strong-arm boys would take the dog for a walk... His¬tory tells us that the competition took up alternative occupations in droves.

In recent years, with the rise of the drug lords, Collar's style of management and range of crimes have started to look like pretty small potatoes. But his is still a name that provokes second thoughts for anybody on the fringes of legality in Manchester. Given that young Joey, the heir apparent, was supposedly involved in the fly-posting busi¬ness, Collar seemed the obvious person to talk to. We'd never met and we owed each other no favors; but equally, I couldn't think of any reason why Collar wouldn't listen.

I walked confidently down the coffee bar and stopped opposite the old man's booth. "I'd like to buy you a cof¬fee, Mr. Di Salvo," I said. He likes everyone around him to act as if they're in a movie. It made me feel like an idiot, but that's not an unusual sensation in this job.

His large head was like the ruin of one of those Roman busts you see in museums, right down to the broken nose. Dark, liquid eyes like a spaniel with conjunctivitis looked me up and down. "Is-a my pleasure, Signorina Brannigan," he said with a stately nod. The thug sitting opposite him slid out of the booth and moved to a table a few feet away.

I sat down. "Life treating you well?"

He shrugged as if he was auditioning for Scorsese. "Apart from the tax man and the VAT man, I have no complaints."

"The family well?"

"Cosi, cosa."

Two double espressos arrived on the table, one in front of each of us. Never mind that I'd really wanted a cappuc¬cino and a chunk of panettone. Fueled by this much caf¬feine, I'd be flying to Bradford. "The matter I wanted to discuss with you concerns Joey," I said, reaching for the sugar bowl to compound the felony.

His head tilted to one side, revealing a fold of wrinkled chicken skin between his silk cravat and his shirt collar. "Go on," he said softly.

Joey was Collar's grandson and the apple of his beady eye. His father Marco