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Chapter 1 Iswear one day I'll kill him. Kill who? The man next door, Richard Barclay, rock journalist and overgrown schoolboy, is who. I had stumbled wearily across the threshold of my bungalow, craving nothing more exotic than a few hours' sleep when I found Richard's message. When I say found, I use the term loosely. I could hardly have missed it. He'd sellotaped it to the inside of my glass inner door so that it would be the first thing I saw when I entered the storm porch. | Dead Beat Val McDermid Dead Beat Author Vai McDermid Category Thriller Website http motsach.info Date 19-October-2012 Page 1 162 http motsach.info Dead Beat Val McDermid Chapter 1 Iswear one day I ll kill him. Kill who The man next door Richard Barclay rock journalist and overgrown schoolboy is who. I had stumbled wearily across the threshold of my bungalow craving nothing more exotic than a few hours sleep when I found Richard s message. When I say found I use the term loosely. I could hardly have missed it. He d sellotaped it to the inside of my glass inner door so that it would be the first thing I saw when I entered the storm porch. It glared luridly at me looking like a child s note to Santa written in sprawling capitals with magic marker on the back of a record company press release. Don t forget Jett s gig and party afterwards tonight. Vital you re there. See you at eight. Vital was underlined three times but it was that Don t forget that made my hands twitch into a stranglehold. Richard and I have been lovers for only nine months but I ve already learned to speak his language. I could write the Berlitz phrasebook. The official translation of don t forget is I omitted to mention to you that I had committed us to going somewhere doing something that you will almost certainly hate the idea of and if you don t come it will cause me major social embarrassment. I pulled the note off the door sighing deeply when I saw the sellotape marks on the glass. I d weaned him off drawing pins but unfortunately I hadn t yet got him on to Blu-Tak. I walked up the narrow hall to the telephone table. The house diary where Richard and I are both supposed to record details of anything mutually relevant lay open. In today s space Richard had written in black felt-tip pen Jett Apollo then Holiday Inn . Even though he d used a different pen from his note it didn t fool the carefully cultivated memory skills of Kate Brannigan Private Investigator. I knew that message hadn t been .