Kick Back

by Val McDermid

  Much as I’d taken to Ted, I learned very early on in this game that liking someone is no guarantee of their honesty. So I picked up the phone and rang Mark Buckland at SecureSure. His secretary didn’t mess me about with tales of fictitious meetings since Mark’s always pleased to hear from Mortensen and Brannigan. It usually means a nice little earner for him. SecureSure supply a lot of the hardware we recommend in our role as security consultants, and even with the substantial discount he offers us, Mark still makes a tidy profit.

  “Hi, Kate!” he greeted me, his voice charged with its normal overdose of enthusiasm. “Now, don’t tell me, let me guess. Ted Barlow, am I right?”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’m glad he took my advice, Kate. The guy is in deep shit, and he doesn’t deserve it.” Mark sounded sincere. But then, he always does. That’s the main reason he can afford to drive around in seventy grand’s worth of Mercedes coupé.

  “That’s what I was ringing you about. No disrespect, but I need to check out that the guy’s kosher. I don’t want to find myself three days down the road with this and some bank clerk giving me the hard word because our Mr. Barlow’s got a track record with more twists and turns than a sheep track,” I said.

  “He’s kosher all right, Kate. The guy is completely straight. He’s the kind that gets into trouble because he’s too honest, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, come on, Mark. It’s me you’re talking to. The guy’s a builder, for Christ’s sake. He can lay his hands on a grand in cash,

  “OK, so maybe the taxman doesn’t know about every shilling he makes. But that doesn’t make you a bad person, now does it, Kate?”

  “So give me the truth, not the advertising copy.”

  Mark sighed. “You’re a hard woman, Brannigan.” Tell me about it, I thought cynically. “Right. Ted Barlow is probably my oldest friend. He was my best man, first time round. I was an usher at his wedding. Unfortunately, he married a prize bitch. Fiona Barlow was a slut and the last guy to find out was Ted. He divorced her five years ago and since then he’s become a workaholic. He started off as a one-man-band, doing a bit of replacement windows stuff. Then a couple of friends asked him if he could do them a conservatory. They lived in real punter property, you know, Wimpey, Barratt, something like that. They got Ted to create this Victorian-style conservatory, all stained glass and UPVC. Of course, monkey see, monkey want. Half the estate wanted one, and Ted was launched in the conservatory business. Now, he’s got a really solid little firm, a substantial turnover, and he’s done it the straight way. Which, as you know, is pretty bloody unusual in the home improvement game.”

  In spite of my natural skepticism, I was impressed. Whatever was going on with Ted Barlow’s conservatories, it looked like it wasn’t the man himself who was up to something. “What about his competitors? Would they be looking to put the shaft in?” I asked.

  “Hmm,” Mark mused. “I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s not serious enough to be a worry to any of the really big-time boys. He’s strictly small, reputable and local. Whatever’s going down here needs someone like you to sort it out. And if you do clear it up, because he’s such a good friend, I’ll even waive my ten percent commission for sending him to you!”

  “If I wasn’t a lady, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, Buckland. Ten percent!” I snorted. “Just for that, I’m putting the lunch invitation on hold. Thanks for the backgrounder, anyway. I’ll do my best for Ted.”

  “Thanks, Kate. You won’t be sorry. You sort him out, he’ll be your friend for life. Pity you’ve already got a conservatory, eh?” He was gone before I could get on my high horse. Just as well, really. It took me a good thirty seconds to realize he’d been at the wind-up and I’d fallen for it.

  I wandered through to the outer office to give Shelley the new-client form and the cash, for banking. To my surprise, Ted Barlow was still there, standing awkwardly in front of Shelley’s desk like a kid who’s hung behind after class to talk to the teacher he has a crush on. As I entered, Shelley looked flustered and quickly said, “I’m sure Kate will have no trouble following these directions, Mr. Barlow.”

  “Right, well, I’ll be off then. I’ll be seeing you later, Miss Brannigan.”

  “Kate,” I corrected automatically. Miss Brannigan makes me feel like my spinster great-aunt. She’s not one of those indomitable old biddies with razor-sharp minds that we all want to be when we’re old. She’s a selfish, hypochondriacal, demanding old manipulator and I have this superstitious fear that if I let enough people call me Miss Brannigan, it might rub off on me.

  “Kate,” he acknowledged nervously. “Thank you very much, both of you.” He backed through the door. Shelley was head down, fingers flying over the keyboard, before the door was even halfway closed.

  “Amazing how long it takes to give a set of directions,” I said sweetly, dropping the form in her in-tray.

  “I was just sympathizing with the man,” Shelley replied mildly. It’s not always easy to tell with her coffee-colored skin, but I’d swear she was blushing.

  “Very commendable, too. There’s a grand in this envelope. Can you pop down to the bank with it? I’d rather not leave it in the safe.”

  “You do right. You’d only spend it,” Shelley retorted, getting her own back. I poked my tongue out at her and returned to my own office. I picked up the phone again. This time, I rang Josh Gilbert. Josh is a partner in a financial services company. They specialize in providing advice and information to the kind of people who are so

  Of course, he was with a client. But I’d deliberately made my call at ten minutes to the hour. I figured that way he’d be able to call me back between appointments. Three minutes later, I was talking to him. I briefly outlined Ted Barlow’s problem. Josh said, “Mmm,” a lot. Eventually, he said, “I’ll check your guy out. And I’ll do some asking around, no names, no pack drill. OK?”

  “Great. When can we get together on this?”

  Over the phone, I could hear the sound of Josh turning the pages in his diary. “You hit me on a bad week,” he said. “I suppose you need this stuff yesterday?”

  “Afraid so. Sorry.”

  He sucked his breath in over his teeth, the way plumbers are trained to do when they look at your central-heating system. “Today’s Tuesday. I’m snowed under today, but I can get to it tomorrow,” he muttered, half to himself. “But my time’s backed up solid Thursday, Friday I’m in London … Listen, can you do breakfast Thursday? I meant it when I said it was a bad week.”

  I took a deep breath. I’m never at my best first thing, but business is business. “Thursday breakfast is fine,” I lied. “Where would you like?”

  “You choose, it’s your money,” Josh replied.

  We settled on the Portland at seven-thirty. They have this team of obliging hall porters who park your car for you, which in my opinion is a major advantage at that time of the morning. I checked my watch again. I didn’t have time enough to develop and print my surveillance films. Instead, I settled for opening a file on Ted Barlow in my database.

  • • •

  Colonial Conservatories occupied the last unit before the industrial estate gave way to a sewage farm. What really caught the eye was the conservatory he’d built on the front of the unit. It was about ten foot deep and ran the whole thirty-foot width of the building. It had a brick foundation, and was separated into four distinct sections by thin brick pillars. The first section was classic Victorian Crystal Palace style, complete with plastic replica finials on the roof. Next was the Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady school of conservatory, a riot of stained panels whose inaccuracies would give any botanist the screaming habdabs. Third in line was the Spartan conservatory. A bit like mine, in fact. Finally, there was the Last Days of the Raj look—windows forming arches in a plastic veneer that gave the appearance, from a considerable distance, of being mahogany. Just the place to sit on your rattan furniture and summon the punkah wallah to cool you down. You get a lot of that
in South Manchester.

  Inside the conservatory, I could see Colonial Conservatories’ offices. I sat in the car for a moment, taking in the set-up. Just inside the door was a C-shaped reception desk. Behind it, a woman was on the phone. She had a curly perm that looked like Charles I’s spare wig. Occasionally, she tapped a key on her word processor and gave the screen a bored stare before returning to her conversation. Over to one side, there were two small desks, each equipped with a phone and a pile of clutter. No one was at either desk. On the back wall, a door led into the main building. Over in the far corner, a small office had been divided off with glass partitions. Ted Barlow was standing in shirtsleeves in this office, his tie hanging loose and the top button of his shirt open, slowly working his way through the contents of a filing cabinet drawer. The rest of the reception was taken up with display panels.

  I walked into the conservatory. The receptionist said brightly into the phone, “Hold the line, please.” She flicked a switch then turned her radiance on me. “How may I help you?” she asked in a little girl’s voice.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Barlow. My name’s Brannigan. Kate Brannigan.”

  “One moment, please.” She ran a finger down the page of her

  “Kate,” he exclaimed. “Thanks for coming.” The receptionist cast her eyes heavenwards. Clearly, in her view, the man had no idea how bosses are supposed to behave. “Now, what do you need to know?”

  I steered him towards his office. I had no reason to suspect the receptionist of anything other than unrealistic aspirations, but it was too early in the investigation to trust anyone. “I need a list of addresses of all the conservatories you’ve fitted in the last six months where the customers have taken out remortgages to finance them. Do you keep track of that information?”

  He nodded, then stopped abruptly just outside his office. He pointed to a display board that showed several houses with conservatories attached. The houses were roughly similar—medium-sized, mostly detached, modern, all obviously surrounded on every side by more of the same. Ted’s face looked genuinely mournful. “That one, that one and that one,” he said. “I had photographs taken of them after we built them because we were just about to do a new brochure. And when I went back today, they just weren’t there any more.”

  I felt a frisson of relief. The one nagging doubt I had had about Ted’s honesty was resolved. Nasty, suspicious person that I am, I’d been wondering if the conservatories had ever been there in the first place. Now I had some concrete evidence that they had been spirited away. “Can you give me the name of the photographer?” I asked, caution winning over my desire to believe in Ted.

  “Yes, no problem. Listen, while I sort this stuff out for you, would you like me to get one of the lads to show you round the factory? See how we actually do the business?”

  I declined politely. The construction of double-glazed conservatories wasn’t a gap in my knowledge I felt the need to plug. I settled for the entertaining spectacle of watching Ted wrestle with

  The deathless prose of Ted’s PR consultant stood no chance against the smartly dressed man who strode into the showroom, dumped a briefcase on one of the two small desks and walked into Ted’s office, grinning at me like we were old friends.

  “Hi,” he said. “Jack McCafferty,” he added, thrusting his hand out towards me. His handshake was firm and cool, just like the rest of the image he projected. His brown curly hair was cut close at the sides and longer on top, so he looked like a respectable version of Mick Hucknall. His eyes were blue and had the dull sheen of polished sodalite against the lightly tanned skin of his face. He wore an olive green double-breasted suit, a cream shirt and a burgundy silk tie. The ensemble looked about five hundred pounds’ worth to me. I felt quite underdressed in my terracotta linen suit and mustard cowl-necked sweater.

  “Kate, Jack’s one of my salesmen,” Ted said.

  “Sales team,” Jack put him right. From his air of amused patience, I gathered it was a regular correction. “And you are?”

  “Kate Brannigan,” I said. “I’m an accountant. I’m putting together a package with Ted. Pleased to meet you, Jack.”

  Ted looked astonished. Lying didn’t seem to be his strong suit. Luckily, he was standing behind Jack. He cleared his throat and handed me a bulky blue folder. “Here are the details you wanted, Kate,” he said. “If there’s anything that’s not clear, just give me a call.”

  “OK, Ted.” I nodded. I had one or two questions I wanted to ask him, but not ones that fitted my exciting new persona of accountant. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”

  “Nice. That’s a word. Not the one I would have used for meeting you, Kate,” he replied, a suggestive lift to one eyebrow. As I walked back across the reception area and out to my car, I could feel his eyes on me. I felt pretty sure I wouldn’t like what he was thinking.

  Chapter 3

  I pulled up half a mile down the road and had a quick look through the file. Most of the properties seemed to be over in Warrington, so I decided to leave them till morning. The light was already starting to fade, and by the time I’d driven over there, there would be nothing to see. However, there were half a dozen properties nearby where Ted had fitted conservatories. He’d already visited one of them and discovered that the conservatory had gone. On my way home, I decided I might as well take a quick look at the others. I pulled my A-Z out of the glove box and mapped out the most efficient route that included them all.

  The first was at the head of a cul-de-sac in a nasty sixties estate, one of a pair of almost-detached houses, linked only by their garages in a bizarre Siamese twinning. I rang the bell, but there was no response, so I walked down the narrow path between the house and the fence to the back garden. Surprise, surprise. There was no conservatory. I studied the plan so I could work out exactly where it had been. Then I crouched down and scrutinized the brickwork on the back wall. I didn’t really expect to find anything, since I wasn’t at all sure what I should even be looking for. However, even my untrained eye noticed a line of faint markings on the wall. It looked like someone had given it a going over with a wire brush—enough to shift the surface grime and weathering, that was all.

  Intrigued, I stood up and headed for the next destination. 6 Wiltshire Copse and 19 Amundsen Avenue were almost identical. And they were both minus conservatories. However, the next two remortgages I visited still had their conservatories firmly anchored to the houses. I trekked back to my car for the fifth time, deeply

  The irony was that they were probably worth more than mine because they were situated on bijou developments in the suburbs. Whereas my little oasis, one of thirty “professional person’s dwellings,” was five minutes from every city center amenity. The downside was that it was surrounded by the kind of inner-city housing they make earnest Channel 4 documentaries about. The locale had brought the price down far enough for me also to afford the necessary state-of-the-art alarm system.

  I decided home was where I should head for. Darkness was falling, so I wouldn’t be able to continue my fascinating study of late-twentieth-century bricklaying. Besides, people were getting home from work and I was beginning to feel a little conspicuous. It was only a matter of time before some overzealous Neighborhood Watch vigilante called the cops, an embarrassment I could well do without. I drove out of the opposite end of the estate to the one I’d come in by, and suddenly realized I was only a couple of streets away from Alexis’s house.

  Alexis Lee is probably my best friend. She’s the crime reporter on the Manchester Evening Chronicle. I guess the fact that we’re both women who’ve broken into what is traditionally a male preserve helped build the bond between us. But apart from our common interest in things criminal, she’s also saved me more money than anyone else I know. I can think of at least a dozen times when she’s prevented me from making very costly mistakes in expensive dress shops. And, at the risk of making her sound like a stereotype, she’s got that wonderful, rich Liverpudlian sense of humor that can fi
nd the funny side in the blackest tragedy. I

  The earlier rain had turned the fallen leaves into a slick mush. As I braked gently to pull up outside Alexis’s, I swear my Vauxhall Nova went sideways. Cursing the Highways Department, I slithered round the car and on to the safer ground of the driveway. I grabbed at a post to steady myself, then realized with a shock that this particular post wasn’t a permanent fixture. It was supporting a For Sale sign. I was outraged. How dare they put the house on the market without consulting me? Time I found out what was going on here. I walked round to the back door, knocked and entered the kitchen.

  Alexis’s girlfriend Chris is a partner in a firm of community architects, which is why their kitchen looks like a Gothic cathedral, complete with flagged floor and vaulted ceiling with beams like whales’ ribs. The plasterwork is stencilled with flower and fruit motifs, and there are plaster bas-relief bosses at regular intervals along the roof truss. It’s an amazing sight.

  Instead of the Quasimodo I always half-expect, Alexis was sitting at the pitch-pine table, a mug of tea at her elbow, some kind of catalogue open in front of her. As I came in, she looked up and grinned. “Kate! Hey, good to see you, kid! Grab yourself a cuppa, the pot’s fresh,” she said, waving at the multi-colored knitted tea cozy by the kettle. I poured myself a mug of strong tea as Alexis asked, “What brings you round here? You been doing a job? Anything in it for me?”

  “Never mind that,” I said firmly, dropping into a chair. “You trying to avoid me? What’s with the For Sale sign? You put the house on the market and you don’t tell me?”

  “Why? Were you thinking of buying it? Don’t! Don’t even let it cross your mind! There’s barely enough room for me and Chris, and we agree on what’s an acceptable degree of mess. You and Richard would kill within a week here,” Alexis parried.

  “Don’t try to divert me,” I said. “Richard and I are fine as we are. Next door neighbors is as close as I’m ever going to let it get.”