Val McDermid - Blue Genes

Kate Brannigans not just having a bad day, shes having a bad week. Her boyfriends death notice is in the paper, her plan to catch a team of fraudsters is in disarray and a neo-punk band want her to find out whos trashing their flyposters. And her business partner wants her to buy him out. Fine, but private eyes with principles never have that kind of cash.

Kate cant even cry on her best friends shoulder, for Alexis has worries of her own. Her girlfriends pregnant, and when the doctor responsible for the fertility treatment is murdered, Alexis needs Kate like shes never done before.

So whats a girl to do? Delving into the alien world of medical experimentation and the underbelly of the rock-music business, Kate confronts betrayal and cold-blooded greed as she fights to save not only her livelihood, but her life as well

The day Richards death announcement appeared in the Manchester Evening Chronicle, I knew I couldnt postpone clearing up the mess any longer. But there was something I had to do first. I stood in the doorway of the living room of the man whod been my lover for three years, Polaroid in hand, surveying the chaos. Slowly, I swept the camera lens round the room, carefully recording every detail of the shambles, section by section. This was one time I wasnt prepared to rely on memory. Richard might be gone, but that didnt mean I was going to take any unnecessary risks. Private eyes who do that have as much chance of collecting their pensions as a Robert Maxwell employee.

Once I had a complete chronicle of exactly how things had been left in the room that was a mirror image of my own bungalow next door, I started my mammoth task. First, I sorted things into piles: books, magazines, CDs, tapes, promo videos, the detritus of a rock journalists life. Then I arranged them. Books, alphabetically, on the shelf unit. CDs ditto. The tapes I stacked in the storage unit Richard had bought for the purpose one Sunday when Id managed to drag him round Ikea, the 1990s equivalent of buying an engagement ring. Id even put the cabinet together for him, but hed never got into the habit of using it, preferring the haphazard stacks and heaps strewn all over the floor. I buried the surge of emotion that came with the memory and carried on doggedly. The magazines I shoved out of sight in the conservatory that runs along the back of both our houses, linking them together more firmly than wed ever been prepared to do in any formal sense with our lives. I leaned against the wall and looked around the room. When people say, Its a dirty job, but somebodys got to do it, how come we never really believe well be the ones left clutching the sticky end? I sighed and forced myself on. I emptied ashtrays of the roaches left from Richards joints, gathered together pens and pencils and stuffed them into the sawn-off Sapporo beer can hed used for the purpose for as long as Id known him. I picked up the assorted notepads, sheets of scrap paper and envelopes where hed scribbled down vital phone numbers and quotes, careful not to render them any more disordered than they were already, and took them through to the room he used as his office when it wasnt occupied by his nine-year-old son Davy on one of his regular visits. I dumped them on the desk on top of a remarkably similar-looking pile already there.

Back in the living room, I was amazed by the effect. It almost looked like a room I could sit comfortably in. Cleared of the usual junk, it was possible to see the pattern on the elderly Moroccan rug that covered most of the floor and the sofas could for once accommodate the five people they were designed for. I realized for the first time that the coffee table had a central panel of glass. Id been trying for ages to get him to put the room into something approaching a civilized state, but hed always resisted me. Even though Id finally got my own way, I cant say it made me happy. But then, I couldnt get out of my mind the reason behind what I was doing here, and what lay ahead. The announcement of Richards death was only the beginning of a chain of events that would be a hell of a lot more testing than tidying a room.

I thought about brushing the rug, but I figured that was probably gilding the lily, the kind of activity that people found a little bizarre after the death of a lover. And bizarre was not the impression I wanted to give. I went back through to my house and changed from the sweat pants and T-shirt Id worn to do the cleaning into something more appropriate for a grieving relict. A charcoal wool wraparound skirt from the French Connection sale and a black lambs-wool turtleneck Id chosen for the one and only reason that it made me look like death. There are times in a private eyes working life when looking like shes about to keel over is an image preferable to that of Wonder Woman on whizz.

I was about to close the conservatory door behind me as I returned to Richards house when his doorbell belted out an inappropriate blast of the guitar riff from Eric Claptons Layla. Shit, I muttered. No matter how careful you are, theres always something you forget. I couldnt remember what the other choices were on Richards Twenty Great Rock Riffs doorbell, but I was sure there must be something more fitting than Claptons wailing guitar. Maybe something from the Smiths, I thought vaguely as I tried to compose my face into a suitable expression for a woman whos just lost her partner. Just how was I supposed to look, I found a second to wonder. Whats the well-bereft woman wearing on her face this season? You cant even go for the mascara tracks down the cheeks in these days of lash tints.

I took a deep breath, hoped for the best and opened the door. The crime correspondent of the Manchester Evening Chronicle stood on the step, her black hair even more like an explosion in a wig factory than usual. Kate, my best friend Alexis said, stepping forward and pulling me into a hug. I cant believe it, she added, a catch in her voice. She moved back to look at me, tears in her eyes. So much for the hard-bitten newshound. Why didnt you call us? When I saw it in the paperKate, what the hell happened?

I looked past her. All quiet in the street outside. I put my arm round her shoulders and firmly drew her inside, closing the door behind her. Nothing. Richards fine, I said, leading the way down the hall.

Do what? Alexis demanded, stopping and frowning at me. If hes fine, how come I just read hes dead in tonights paper? And if hes fine, how come youre doing the Babys in Black number when you know thats the one colour that makes you look like the Bride of Frankenstein?

If youd let me get a word in edgeways, Ill explain, I said, going through to the living room. Take my word for it, Richard is absolutely OK.

Alexis stopped dead on the threshold, taking in the pristine tidiness of the room. Oh no, hes not, she said, suspicion running through her heavy Scouse accent like the stripe in the toothpaste. Hes not fine if hes left his living room looking like this. At the very least, hes having a nervous breakdown. What the hells going on here, KB?