by Val McDermid
It started off as purely utilitarian. My friend Dennis the burglar pointed out to me that I needed self-defense skills. He wasn’t so much thinking about the job I do as the neighborhood where I live. He persuaded me to come along to the club where his adored teenage daughter is the junior champion. When I saw the outside of the building, a horrible, breeze-block construction like an overgrown Scout hut, I was deeply unimpressed. But inside, it’s clean, warm and well-lit. And the women’s coach, Karen, is a former world champion who gave up serious competition to have a family. One of the wildest sights in our club is watching her three-year-old
I was in luck, for Karen was in the tiny cubicle she calls an office, desperate for an excuse to avoid doing the paperwork. She was in luck too, for I was so bagged off at the verbal beating I’d had from Brian Chalmers that I gave her the most challenging work-out I’d ever managed.
Left to their own devices, the tumblers in my brain started to slot into place. By the time we’d finished trading blows, I knew where I had to look next on the trail of the missing conservatories.
Chapter 7
Since the Land Registry keeps office hours rather than supermarket ones, I couldn’t have done anything more that afternoon, even supposing they didn’t insist that you make a prior appointment to look at the registers. The real blow was that Ted had inconsiderately sold his conservatories to properties that were covered by two separate offices; the Warrington ones came under Birkenhead, the Stockport ones under Lytham St. Annes, an arrangement about as logical as having London covered by Southampton. Just to confuse things even more, the Lytham registry is in Birkenhead House … Ever get the impression they really don’t want you to exercise your rights to examine their dusty tomes? However, I did manage to get an appointment in Birkenhead for the Monday morning. When I read over the list of addresses, the woman I spoke to sounded positively gleeful. It’s a joy to deal with people who love their work. After sorting that out, I felt I could pursue Alexis’s dodgy builder with a clear conscience.
I went home to change into something a little less threatening than a business suit. While I was there, I tried to ring T. R. Harris’s solicitor, Mr. Graves. The number rang out without response. The idleness of some of the legal profession never ceases to amaze me. Twenty past four and everyone had knocked off for the day. Maybe Thursday was early closing day in Ramsbottom. I couldn’t find T. R. Harris in the phone book, which was annoying but not too surprising, given the habits of builders.
My hair was still damp from my shower at the gym, so I gave it a quick blast with the hair dryer. I decided a couple of months ago to let it grow. Now it’s reached my shoulders, but instead of growing longer, it just seems to get wilder. And I’ve noticed a
As I drove across town towards the motorway, I decided that I needed to track down the farmer who had sold the land to T. R. Harris in the first place. But on the way, I decided to check out Harris’s premises. I wanted to know where I could lay hands on him once I had my ammunition.
134 Bolton High Road wasn’t the builder’s yard I’d been expecting. It was a corner shop, still open for the sale of bread, chocolate, cigarettes and anything else the forgetful had omitted to lay in for the evening’s viewing. An old-fashioned bell on a coiled spring jangled as I opened the door. The teenage lad behind the counter looked up from his motor-bike magazine and gave me the once-over reserved for anyone who hadn’t been crossing the threshold on a regular basis for the last fifteen years.
“I’m looking for a builder,” I said.
“Sorry, love, we don’t sell them. There’s no demand, you see.” He struggled to keep a straight face, but failed.
“I’m demanding,” I said. I waited for him to think of the reply.
He only took a few seconds. “I bet you are, love. Can I help?”
“A builder called Harris. T. R. Harris. This is the address I’ve got for him. Do you act as an accommodation address for people?”
He shook his head. “Me mam won’t stand on for it. She says people who won’t use their own address must be up to no good. Tom Harris, the guy you’re looking for, he rented one of the offices upstairs for a couple of months. Paid cash, an’ all.”
“So you don’t live over the shop, then?”
“No.” He closed his magazine and leaned back against the cigarette shelves, happy to have a break in routine. “Me mam told me dad it was dead common, made him buy the house next door. He turned the upstairs here into offices. Brian Burley, the insurance broker, he’s got two offices and a share of the bathroom and kitchenette. He’s been here five years, ever since me dad did them up. But the other office, that’s had loads of people through it. I’m not surprised. You couldn’t swing a rat in there, never mind a cat.”
“So, Tom Harris isn’t here any longer?” I asked.
“Nah. He was paid up to the end of last week, and we ain’t seen him since. He said he just needed an office while he sorted out a couple of deals over here. He said he was from down south, but he didn’t sound it. Didn’t sound local neither. Anyway, what’re you after him for? He stood you up, or something?” He couldn’t help himself, and he was cute enough to get away with it. Give him a few years and he’d be lethal. God help the women of Ramsbottom.
“I need to talk to him, that’s all. Any chance of a look round upstairs? See if he left anything that might give me an idea where he moved on to?” I gave him my sultriest smile.
“You’ll not find so much as a fingerprint up there,” the lad told me, disappointed. “Me mam bottomed it on Sunday. And when she cleans, she cleans.”
I could imagine. There didn’t seem a lot of point in pushing it, and if Harris had paid in cash, there wasn’t likely to be any other clue as to his whereabouts. “Did you know him at all?” I asked.
“I saw him going in and out, but he didn’t have no time for the likes of me. Fancied himself, know what I mean? Thought he was hard.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“A builder. Nowt special. Brown hair, big muscles, quite tall. He drove a white Transit, it said ‘T. R. Harris Builders’ along the side. Here, you’re not the cops, are you?” he asked, a sudden note of apprehension mixing with excitement.
I shook my head. “Just trying to track him down for a friend he promised to do some work for. D’you know if he hung out in any of the local pubs?”
The lad shrugged. “Dunno. Sorry.” He looked as if he meant it,
Some days things get clearer as time wears on. Other days, it just gets more and more murky. This one looked like a goldfish bowl that hasn’t been cleaned since Christmas. The address I’d carefully copied down from Graves’ letterhead that Martin Cheetham had showed me wasn’t the office of a solicitor. It wasn’t any kind of office at all, to be precise. It was the Farmer’s Arms. The pub was about a quarter of a mile from the nearest house, the last building on a narrow road up to the moors where Alexis and Chris had hoped to build their dream home. In spite of its relative isolation, the pub seemed to be doing good business. The car park was more than half full, and the stonework had been recently cleaned.
Inside, it had been refurbished in the “country pub” style of the big breweries. Exposed stone and beams, stained-glass panels in the interior doors, wooden chairs with floral chintz cushions, quarry-tiled floor and an unrivaled choice of fizzy keg beers that all taste the same. There must have been getting on for sixty people in, but the room was big enough for there still to be a sense of space. Two middle-aged women and a man in his late twenties were working the bar efficiently.
I perched on a stool at the bar and didn’t have long to wait for my St. Clement’s. I watched the clientele for ten minutes or so. They sounded relatively local, and were mostly in their twenties and thirties. Beside me at the bar was the kind of group I imagined T. R. Harris would feel one of the lads with. But first I had to solve the problem of the moody address for his solicitor.
I waited for a lull, then signalled one of the barmaids. “Same agai
n, love?” she asked.
I nodded, and as she poured, I said, “I’m a bit confused. Is this 493 Moor Lane?”
It took a bit of consultation with bar staff and customers, but eventually, consensus was reached. 493 it was. “I’ve been given this as the address for a bloke called Graves,” I told them. For some reason, the men at the bar convulsed with laughter.
The barmaid pursed her lips and said, “You’ve got to excuse them. They’re not right in the head. The reason they’re laughing is,
I was beginning to feel really pissed off with T. R. Harris and his merry dance. Wearily, I said, “So there’s no one here by the name of Graves? And you don’t let rooms, or have any offices upstairs?”
The barmaid shook her head. “Sorry, love. Somebody’s been having you on.”
I forced a smile. “No problem. I don’t suppose any of you know a builder called Tom Harris? Bought some land up the road from here?”
There were smiles and nods of recognition all around me. “That’s the fella that bought Harry Cartwright’s twelve-acre field,” one said. “The man from nowhere,” another added.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Why are you asking?” he countered.
“I’m trying to get hold of him in connection with the land that he bought.”
“He doesn’t own it any more. He sold it last week,” the barmaid said. “And we haven’t seen him since.”
“How long has he been coming in here?” I asked.
“Since he first started negotiating with Harry about the land. Must be about three months ago, I’d guess,” one of the men said. “Good company. Had some wild stories to tell.”
“What kind of wild stories?” I asked.
They all laughed uproariously again. Maybe I should audition for the Comedy Store. “Not the kind you tell when there are ladies present,” one of them wheezed through his laughter.
I couldn’t believe I was putting myself through this out of friendship. Alexis was going to owe me a lifetime of favors after this. I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t suppose any of you knows where his yard is? Or where he lives?”
They muttered among themselves and shook their heads dubiously. “He never said,” one of them told me. “He rented an office above the corner shop on Bolton High Road, maybe they’d know.”
“I’ve tried there. No joy, I’m afraid. You lads are my last hope.” I batted my eyelashes, God help me. The appeal to chivalry often
Depressingly, it worked. Again, they went into a muttering huddle. “You want to talk to Gary,” the spokesman eventually announced confidently.
Not if he’s anything like you lot, I thought. I smiled sweetly and said, “Gary?”
“Gary Adams,” he said in that irritated tone that men reserve for women they think are slow or stupid. “Gary cleared the land for Tom Harris. When he bought it, half of it was copse, all overgrown with brambles and gorse between the trees. Gary’s got all the equipment, see? He does all that kind of work round here.”
I kept the smile nailed on. “And where will I find Gary?” I said, almost without moving my lips.
Watches were studied, frowns were exchanged. Exasperated, the barmaid said, “He lives at 31 Montrose Bank. That’s through the center of the village, up the hill and third left. You’ll probably find him in his garage, rebuilding that daft big American car of his.” I thanked her and left, managing to keep the smile in place for as long as the lads could see me. My face muscles felt like they’d just done a Jane Fonda work-out.
As predicted, Gary was in the garage tacked on to a neat stone cottage. The up-and-over door was open, revealing a drop-head vintage Cadillac. The bonnet was up, and the man I took to be Gary Adams was leaning into the engine. As I approached, I could see him doing something terribly brutal-looking with a wrench the size of a wrestler’s forearm. I cleared my throat and instructed the muscles to do the smile again. Reluctantly, they obeyed. Gary glanced up, surprised. He was in his mid-thirties, with a haircut that looked like it came right out of National Service.
“Gary?” I said.
He straightened up, placed the wrench lovingly on the engine block, and frowned. “That’s right. Who wants to know?”
Time for another fairy story. “My name’s Brannigan. Kate Brannigan. I’m an architect. A friend of mine bought some land from Tom Harris, and she needs to get in touch with him about
Gary gave a knowing smile as he wiped his hands on his oily overalls. “Owes you money, does he?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I need to speak to him. Why? Does he owe you?”
Gary shook his head. “I made sure of that. His kind, they’re ten a penny. Ask you to do a job, you do it, you tell them what they owe, they ignore you. So, I made him pay up in cash. Half before, half after. Glad I did, an’ all, looking at the way he’s sunk without trace since he sold them plots on.”
“What made you think he was dodgy?”
Gary shrugged. “I didn’t know him, that’s all. He wasn’t from round here. And he obviously wasn’t stopping, neither.”
This was like drawing teeth. Sometimes I think I might have been better suited to a career in psychotherapy. The punters might not want to talk to you either, but at least you get to sit in a warm, comfy office while you’re doing it. “What makes you say that?” I asked.
“When you’re in business and you’re planning to stop somewhere, you get a local bank account, don’t you? Stands to reason,” he said triumphantly.
“And Tom Harris didn’t?”
“I saw his checkbook. He was going to give me a check for the advance on the work, but I said no way, I wanted cash. But I got a good enough look at it to see that it wasn’t a local bank that he had his account with.”
I tried to hide the deep breath. “Which bank was it?” I inquired, resisting the temptation to kick-box him to within an inch of his life.
“Northshires Bank, in Buxton. That isn’t even in Lancashire. And the account wasn’t in his name, either. It was some business or other.” I opened my mouth and a smile twitched at the corner of Gary’s mouth as he anticipated me. “I didn’t pay attention to the name. I just noticed that it wasn’t Tom Harris.”
“Thanks, Gary,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. I don’t suppose you’d know anybody else who might know where I can get hold of Tom Harris?”
“It’s really important, is it?” he asked. I nodded. “Harry Cartwright’s the farmer who sold him the land. He might know.”
“Where’s his farm?” I asked.
Gary shook his head with the half-smile of a man who’s dealing with a crazy lady. “How good are you with Dobermans? And if you get past them, he’ll have his shotgun ready and waiting. He’s not an easy man, Harry.” I must have looked like I was going to burst into tears. I imagine he thought they were tears of despair; they were really tears of frustration. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll come with you. Give me a minute to get out of my overalls, and phone the old bugger to let him know we’re coming. He’s known me long enough to talk before he shoots.”
I walked back to the car and turned the heater up full. I hate the country.
Chapter 8
Within ten minutes of leaving Gary’s, we were driving up an unmetaled track. I stopped at a five-barred gate festooned with barbed wire, and Gary jumped out to open it. When he closed it behind me, he sprinted for the car. He’d barely slammed the door behind him when a pair of huge Dobermans hurled themselves at the passenger side of the car, barking and slavering hysterically. Gary grinned, which convinced me he wasn’t the full shilling. “Bet you’re glad you brought me along,” he said.
I slammed the car into gear and continued up the track. Half a mile on, my headlights picked out a low stone building in the gathering rural gloom. The roof appeared to sag in the middle, and the window frames looked so rotten that I couldn’t help thinking the first winter gales would have the glass halfway across the farmyard. I could tell it was a farmyard by the
smell of manure. I drove as close as I could to the door, but before I could cut the engine, an elderly man appeared in the doorway. As confidently predicted by Gary, he was brandishing an over-and-under doublebarreled shotgun. Just then, the dogs arrived and started a cacophony of barking that made my fillings hurt. I really love the country.
“What now?” I demanded of Gary.
The old man approached. He wore a greasy cardigan over a collarless shirt that might have started its life the color of an oily rag, but I doubted it. He walked right up to the car and stared through the window, the gun barrels pointing ominously through the glass. My opinion of T. R. Harris’s bottle had just gone up a hundred percent. Having satisfied himself that my passenger really was Gary, Cartwright stepped back a few feet and whistled to the
I moved close enough to get a whiff of the old man. It was enough to make me pray we could conduct our business out in the farmyard. Cartwright said, “Gary says you’re after Tom Harris. What I did with him was all legal, all above board.”
“I know that, Mr. Cartwright. I just need to speak to Tom, and no one seems to know where I can find him. I hoped maybe you would know.”
He tucked his gun under one arm and fumbled in the deep pocket of his grimy corduroy trousers and produced a document which he waved under my nose. “That’s all I know,” he said.
I reached for it, but he snatched it back. “You can look but you mustn’t touch,” he said, just like a five-year-old. I held my breath and moved close enough to read it. It was an agreement between Henry George Cartwright of Stubbleystall Farm and Thomas Richard Harris of 134 Bolton High Road, Ramsbottom. I didn’t have to read any further. I had more bells ringing in my head than Oxford on May morning. I smiled politely, thanked Harry Cartwright and got back in my car. Looking bewildered, Gary folded himself in beside me and we shot back down the track again.
Thomas Richard Harris. Tom, Dick and Harry. If Thomas Richard Harris was a straight name, I was Marie of Romania.
