by Val McDermid
The office I was looking for was round the back. The reception room was small to the point of poky, but at least the receptionist had a fabulous view of Manchester Cathedral. I hoped she was into bullshit Gothic. She was in her late forties, the motherly type. Within three minutes, I was clutching a cup of tea and a promise that Mr. Cheetham would be able to squeeze me in within the half-hour. She had waved away my apologies for not having an
One of the reasons I wasn’t sorry to quit my law degree was that after two years, I began to realize I’d stand all the way from Manchester to London rather than sit next to a lawyer on a train. There are, of course, notable exceptions, lovely people upon whose competence and honesty I’d stake my life. Unfortunately, Martin Cheetham wasn’t one of them. For a start, I couldn’t see how anyone could run an efficient practice when their paperwork was stacked chaotically everywhere. On the floor, on the desk, on the filing cabinets, even on top of the computer monitor. For all I could tell, there could be clients lurking underneath there somewhere. He waved me to one of the two surfaces in the room that wasn’t stacked with bumf. I sat on the uncomfortable office chair, while he headed for the other, a luxurious black leather all-singing, all-dancing swivel recliner. I suppose that since most conveyancing specialists see very little of their clients he didn’t place a high priority on their comfort. He obviously wasn’t a fan of the cathedral either, since his chair faced into the room.
While he took his time with Alexis’s letter, I took the chance to study him. He was around 5’ 8”, slim without being skinny. He was in shirtsleeves, the jacket of a chain-store suit on a hanger suspended from the side of a filing cabinet. He had dark, almost black hair, cut short but stylish, and soulful, liquid dark eyes. He had that skin that looks sallow and unhealthy if it goes without sun for more than a month or so, though right now he looked in the peak of health. He obviously lived on his nerves, for his neat, small feet and hands were twitching and tapping as he read the letter of authority. Eventually, he steepled his fingers and gave me a cautious smile. “I’m not exactly sure how you think I can help, Miss Brannigan,” he said.
“I am,” I told him. “What I have to do in the first instance is to track down T. R. Harris, the builder. Now, it was through you that Miss Lee and Miss Appleby heard this land was available. So, I think you must know something about Mr. T. R. Harris. Also, I figure you must have an address for him since you handled the matter for Miss
Cheetham’s smile flickered again. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I know very little about Mr. Harris. I knew about the land because I saw it advertised in one of the local papers. And before you ask, I’m sorry, I can’t remember which one. I see several every week and I don’t keep back numbers.” It looked like they were the only bits of pulped tree he didn’t keep. “I have a client who is looking for something similar,” he continued, “but when I made further inquiries, I realized this particular area was too large for him. I happened to mention it to Miss Lee’s colleague, and matters proceeded from there.”
“So you’d never met Harris before?”
“I’ve never met Mr. Harris at all,” he corrected me. “I communicated with his solicitor, a Mr. Graves.” He got up and chose a pile of papers, seemingly at random. He riffled through them and extracted a bundle fastened with a paper clip. He dumped them in front of me, covering the body text of the letter with a blank sheet. “That’s Mr. Graves’ address and phone number.”
I took out my pad and noted the details on the letterhead. “Had you actually exchanged contracts, then?”
Cheetham’s eyes shifted away from mine. “Yes. That’s when the deposits were handed over, of course.”
“And you were quite convinced that everything was above board?”
He grabbed the papers back and headed for the haven behind his desk. “Of course. I mean, I wouldn’t have proceeded unless I had been. What are you getting at, exactly, Miss Brannigan?” His left leg was jittering like a jelly on a spindrier.
I wasn’t entirely sure. But the feeling that Martin Cheetham wasn’t to be trusted was growing stronger by the minute. Maybe he was up to something, maybe he was just terrified I was going to make him look negligent, or maybe he just had the misfortune to be born looking shifty. “And you’ve no idea where I can find Mr. Harris?” I asked.
He shook his head and said, “Absolutely not. No idea whatsoever.”
“I’m a bit surprised,” I said. “I’d have thought that his address would have appeared on the contracts.”
Cheetham’s fingers drummed that neat little riff from the “1812 Overture” on the bundle of papers. “Of course, of course, how stupid of me, I didn’t even think of that,” he gabbled. Again, he flicked through his papers. I waited patiently, saying nothing. “I’m sorry, this shocking business has really unsettled me. Here we are. How foolish of me. T. R. Harris, 134 Bolton High Road, Ramsbottom.”
I wrote it down, then got to my feet. I didn’t feel like someone who’s had a full and frank exchange of views, but I could see I wasn’t going to get any further with Cheetham unless I had specific questions. And at least I could go for Harris and his solicitor now.
I took a short cut down the back stairs, a rickety wooden flight that always makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a timewarp. My spirits descended as I did. I still had some conservatories to check out south-west of the city, and I was about as keen on that idea as I was on fronting up T. R. Harris’s brief. But at least I was getting paid for that. The thought lifted my spirits slightly, but not as much as the hunk I clapped eyes on as I yanked open the street door. He was jumping out of a Transit van that he’d abandoned on the double yellows, and he was gorgeous. He wore tight jeans and a white T-shirt—on a freezing October day, for God’s sake!—stained with plaster and brick dust. He had that solid, muscular build that gives me ideas that nice feminists aren’t supposed to even know about, never mind entertain. His hair was light brown and wavy, like Richard Gere’s used to be before he found Buddha. His eyes were dark and glittery, his nose straight, his mouth firm. He looked slightly dangerous, as if he didn’t give a shit.
He sure as hell didn’t give a shit about me, for he looked straight through me as he slammed the van door shut and headed past me into the Corn Exchange. Probably going to terrify someone daft enough not to have paid his bill. He had that determined air of a man in pursuit of what’s owed to him. Ah well, you lose some and you lose some. I checked out the van and made a mental note. Renew-Vations, with a Stockport phone number. You never know when you’re going to need a wall built. Say across a conservatory …
Chapter 6
I stopped by the house to pick up my sports bag. I figured if I was on that side of town anyway, I might as well stop in at the Thai boxing gym and see if there was anyone around to share a quick work-out. It would be better for me than lunch, and besides, after the breakfast I’d had, I needed to do something that would make me feel good about my body. Alexis was long gone, and Richard appeared to have returned to his own home. There was a message on the answering machine from Shelley, so I called in. Sometimes she really winds me up. I mean, I was going to check in anyway, but she’d managed to get her message in first and make me feel like some schoolkid dogging it.
“Mortensen and Brannigan, how may I help you?” she greeted me in the worst mid-Atlantic style. That wasn’t my idea, I swear. I don’t think it was Bill’s either.
“Brannigan, how may I help you?” I said.
“Hi, Kate. Where are you?”
“I’m passing through my living room between tasks,” I replied. “What’s the problem?”
“Brian Chalmers of PharmAce called. He says he needs to talk to you. Asap, not lad.” M & B code for “As soon as possible, not life and death.”
“Right. I have to go over to Urmston anyway, so I’ll come back via Trafford Park and see him. Can you fix up for me to see him around two? I’ll call in for an exact time.”
“Fine. And Ted Barlow rang to ask if you’d made
any progress.”
“Tell him I’m pursuing preliminary inquiries and I’ll get back to him when I have something solid to report. And are you?”
“Am I what?” Shelley sounded genuinely baffled. That must have been a novel experience for her.
“Making any progress.”
“As I’m always having to remind my two children,” heavy emphasis on the “children,” “there’s nothing clever about rudeness.”
“I’ll consider my legs well and truly smacked. But are you?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. Goodbye, Kate.” I didn’t even have time for the goodbye before the line went dead.
It was just before twelve when I managed to find someone who could give me any useful information about my missing conservatories. But when I did, it was worth the wait. Diane Shipley was every private investigator’s dream. She lived at the head of Sutcliffe Court, her bungalow commanding a view of the whole close. With a corner of my brain, I had noted the raised flower beds and the ramp leading up to the front door, but it still didn’t stop me having my eyes at the wrong level when the door opened. I made the adjustment and found myself staring down into a face like a hawk; short, salt and pepper hair, dark beady eyes, deep set and hooded, narrow nose the shape of a puffin’s beak, and, incongruously, a wide and humorous mouth. The woman was in a wheelchair, and it didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.
I delivered my usual spiel about the house next door’s conservatory, and her face relaxed into a smile. “You mean Rachel Brown’s conservatory?” she inquired.
I checked my list. “I’ve got Rowena and Derek Brown,” I said.
“Ah,” said the woman. “Dirty work at the crossroads. You’d better come in. My name’s Diane Shipley, by the way.”
I introduced myself as I followed her down the hall. We turned left into an unusual room. It ran the whole depth of the house, with windows on three walls, giving a sensation of light and air. It was painted white, with cork-tiled flooring. The walls were decorated with beautifully detailed drawings of flowers and plants. Across one corner was a draughtsman’s table, set at the perfect height for her chair. “I illustrate children’s books for a living,” she said. “The other stuff I do for fun,” she added, gesturing at the walls. “In case you were wondering, I had a riding accident eight years ago. Dead from the waist down.”
I swallowed. “Right. Em, sorry about that.”
She grinned. “That’s not why I told you. I find that if I don’t, people only concentrate on half of what I’m saying because they’re so busy wondering about my disability. I prefer a hundred percent attention. Now, how can I help you?”
I trotted out the old familiar questions. But this time, I got some proper answers. “When I’m working, I tend to do a fair bit of staring out of the window. And when I see people in the court, I must confess I watch them. I look at the way their bodies move, the shapes they make. It helps when I’m drawing action. So, yes, I noticed quite a lot about Rachel.”
“Can you describe her?”
Diane wheeled herself across to a set of map drawers. “I can do better than that,” she said, opening one and taking out an A4 file. She shuffled through the sheets of paper inside, extracted a couple and held them out to me. Curious, I took them from her. They were a series of drawings of a head, some quite detailed, others little more than a quick cartoon of a few lines. They captured a woman with small, neat features, sharp chin, face wider across the eyes. Her hair was shoulder-length, wavy. “It was streaked,” Diane said, following my eyes. “I wondered a couple of times if it might be a wig. It always looked the same. Never looked like she’d just been to the hairdresser. If it was a wig, though, it was a good one. You couldn’t tell, not even face to face.”
“How well did you know her?” I asked.
“At first, not at all. She didn’t spend that much time here. It was May when she moved in, and really, she was only here perhaps three or four nights a week, Monday to Friday. She was never here at weekends. Then, one evening in June, she came over. It was about half past nine, I’d guess. She said she had a gas leak and she was waiting for the emergency engineers. She told me she was nervous of staying in, especially since they had told her not to turn any lights on. So I invited her in and gave her a drink. White wine. I had a bottle open already.”
I loved it. A witness who could tell me what she’d had to drink four months before. “And did she tell you anything about herself?”
“Yes and no. She told me her name, and I remarked on the
I had that feeling you get when you walk into a theater halfway through the first act of a new play. What she was saying made perfect sense, but it was meaningless unless you’d seen the first twenty minutes. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to run that past me a little more slowly. I mean, surely you realized they’d sold the house when they stopped living there and a new person moved in?”
It was her turn to give me the baffled look. “But Derek and Ro haven’t lived in the house for four years. Derek is an engineer in the oil industry, and he was away two weeks in four, so Ro and I got to be really good friends. Then, four years ago, Derek was offered a five-year contract in Mexico with a company house thrown in. So they decided to rent out their house over here on a series of short-term lets. When Rachel moved in, I thought she was just another tenant till she told me otherwise.”
“But surely you must have realized the house was up for sale? I mean, even if there wasn’t an estate agent’s board up, you can’t have missed them showing people round,” I remarked.
“Funny you should say that. It’s exactly what I thought. But Rachel told me that she’d seen it advertised in the Evening Chronicle, and that she’d viewed it the next day. Perhaps I was out shopping, or she came after dark one evening when I wasn’t working. Anyway, I saw no reason to doubt what she was telling me. Why lie about it, for heaven’s sake? It’s not as if renting a house is shameful!” A laugh bubbled up in Diane’s throat.
“Was she on her own, or was she living with someone?” I asked.
“She had a boyfriend. But he was never there unless she was. And he wasn’t always there even if she was. I tended to see him leave, rather than arrive, but a couple of times, I saw him pay off a taxi around eleven o’clock at night.”
“Did he leave with Rachel in the mornings?” I couldn’t see how this all fitted together, but I was determined to make the most of a co-operative witness.
Diane didn’t even pause for thought. “They left together. That’s why I don’t have any drawings of him. She was always between me and him, and he always got in the passenger side of the car, so I never really got a clear view of him. He was stylish, though. Even at a distance I could see he dressed well. He even wore a Panama hat on sunny mornings. Can you believe it, a Panama hat in Urmston?”
Like cordon bleu in a motorway service station, it was a hard one to get my head round. “So tell me about the conservatory.”
This time she did take a moment to think. “It must have been towards the end of July,” she said slowly but without hesitation. “I was away on holiday from the first to the fifteenth of August. The conservatory went up a couple of days before I left. Then, when I came back from Italy, they’d all gone. The conservatory, Rachel Brown and her boyfriend. Six weeks ago, a new batch of tenants arrived. But I still don’t know if Rachel has let the house, or indeed if Rachel ever bought it in the first place. All I know is that the chaps in there now rented it through the same agency that Derek and Ro used, DKL Estates. They’ve got an office in Stretford, but I think their head office is in Warrington.”
I was impressed. “You’re very well informed,” I said.
“It’s my legs that don’t work, not my brain. I like to make sure it stays that way. Some people call me nosy. I prefer to think of it as a healthy curiosity. What are you, anyway? Some kind of bailiff? And don’t give me that stuff about being a representative of the conservatory company. You’re far too smart
for that. Besides, there’s obviously been something very odd going on there. You’re not just following up who you’ve sold conservatories to.”
I could have carried on bluffing, but I couldn’t see the point. Diane deserved some kind of quid pro quo. “I’m a private investigator,’ I said. ‘My partner and I investigate white-collar crime.”
“And this is the case of the missing conservatories, eh? Wonderful! You have made my week, Kate Brannigan.”
As I drove off towards Trafford Park, I began to suspect that Diane Shipley might just have made mine.
Brian Chalmers of PharmAce was less than thrilled when I told him the results of my work both inside and outside his factory and
I let him rant for a good ten minutes, then offered to repeat the surveillance exercise over the weekend at a reduced rate. That took the wind out of his sails, as it was meant to. Unfortunately, as I left Chalmers’ office, I passed one of the technicians I had dealt with during my short spell working undercover at PharmAce but, although he looked at me as if he ought to know me, he passed by without greeting me. Looked like I’d been lucky. The phenomenon of not recognizing people out of context had worked in my favor. After all, what would a temporary stock clerk be doing in the managing director’s office, all suited up?
It was just before three when I pulled up outside the Thai boxing gym. My head felt like it was full of cogs and wheels all spinning out of sync, trying to assimilate everything that Diane Shipley had told me and make it fit what I’d been told at the other houses. None of it really made any sense so far. I know from bitter experience that when my mind is churning and fizzing, there’s nothing better than some hard physical exercise. Which for me these days means Thai kick-boxing.
