Kick Back

by Val McDermid

  He fell for it. “Right.” He closed his notebook and got to his feet, replacing his helmet. “I’m really sorry to have bothered you when you weren’t feeling too good. But we want to catch this joker, and we had to see what you could tell us that might help.”

  “That’s all right, officer. We all have our jobs to do,” I said sweetly. Richard looked as if he was going to puke. “See the nice officer out, Richard, would you?”

  Richard returned. “‘We all have our jobs to do,’” he mimicked. “Dear God, Brannigan, where do you dig that shit up from? OK, you fooled the sheriff, but you can’t fool the Lone Ranger. What really went down there tonight?”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered. “The feds aren’t allowed to interrogate Tonto, oh God no. But you get to ask all the questions you want, huh?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “I love you. I’m entitled.”

  “If you really loved me, you’d run me a bath,” I told him. “Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Ten minutes later, I was soaking in the luxuriant bubbles of Van Cleef & Arpel’s First. When I say luxuriant, I mean it. Richard has a heavy hand with the bubble bath. I reckoned there was at least a fiver’s worth of foam bath surrounding me. I was decent enough to have starred in a forties Hollywood extravaganza.

  Richard sat on the closed toilet lid, smoking a joint that smelled heavily loaded to me. His glasses had steamed up, so he’d shoved them up on his head like flying goggles. His hazel eyes peered short-sightedly at me. “So, Brannigan. What really happened out there tonight?” he asked the mirror above my head.

  “Somebody was either trying to frighten me off or see me off.” There wasn’t any point in dressing it up.

  “Shit,” Richard breathed. “Do you know who?”

  “I couldn’t swear it in a court of law, but I’ve got a good idea. I’ve just turned over a fraud at a pharmaceutical company running into a hundred grand or so. They use white Ford Transits with a logo quite high up on the side. I think that probably covers it, don’t you?” I stretched gingerly, then wished I hadn’t. The next few days were not going to be fun.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Richard asked. I’ll say this for him: he doesn’t come on like macho man where my work is concerned. He doesn’t like the fact that I have to take risks, but he generally keeps his mouth shut on the subject.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to get one of our leg men to go over there and take a look at their rolling stock. And I’m going to get him to keep the place under surveillance until we get the pics we need. And you, my sweet darling, are going to take me for a day out in Buxton.”

  “Buxton? What’s in Buxton?”

  “Lots of lovely things. You’ll like it. But right now, what I’m going to do is lie in this bath till the hot water runs out, then I’m going to crawl into bed.”

  “Fair enough. D’you want supper in bed? If you do, I’ll nip out for a Chinese.”

  The words were poetry to my ears. I wasn’t convinced that I could handle anything as complicated as chopsticks, but there was only Richard to see. And if he ever threatened to tell, I was sure I could find something to blackmail him into silence with. After all, I know he’s got a Barry Manilow CD.

  I woke in the same position I’d gone to sleep in. When I tried to move, I understood why. Inch by agonizing inch, I got myself out of bed and on to my feet. Making it to the bathroom was hell on legs. I’d just made it back to the hall when Richard appeared at the other end, hair awry, duvet trailing behind him. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, muttered, “You OK?” and reached for his glasses. When he’d put them on and looked at me, he couldn’t stifle a snort of laughter. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I really am. But you look like Half Man, Half Biscuit. One side’s flesh colored, the other side’s all brown and purple. Wild!”

  I looked down. He was right. At least he’d found it funny rather than repulsive. “You really know how to make a woman feel special,” I muttered. It was kind of him to have slept on my sofa rather than going back to his own house. I was about to thank him when I saw the havoc he’d managed to wreak in my kitchen with one Chinese takeaway. It looked like the entire People’s Army had marched through on their stomachs. I didn’t have the energy or the mobility to do anything about it, so I tried to blank it while I poured a cup of coffee from yesterday’s jug and waited for the microwave to do its magic.

  By the time I’d got my first cup down, Richard was back, showered and shaved. I was just beginning to realize how much my accident had frightened and upset him. He knows how much I hate fuss, so he was trying desperately to disguise the fact that he was running round like a mother hen. I know it’s disaster for the image, but I was touched, I have to admit it.

  “What’s the plan for today, then?” he asked. “You still want to go to Buxton?”

  “How are you fixed?” I asked.

  “I can be free. Couple of calls to make, is all.”

  “Can you drive me round to the Turkish? And pick me up an hour later?”

  The Turkish is bliss. It’s part of the Hathersage Road Public Baths, a magnificent Victorian edifice about ten minutes’ walk from my flat. If walking’s your thing. Because it’s owned by the city council, there’s never been any money to gut it and refurbish it, so it’s still filled with the glories of its Victorian heyday. The original green, yellow and blue tiles adorn the walls. They still have the old-fashioned wrap-round showers: as well as water coming at you from above, hot water hits you from the pipes that surround you on three sides as well. The only concession to the last decade of the twentieth century is the plastic loungers that complement the original marble benches in the steam room. Like I say, it’s always bliss. But that particular Saturday morning was more blissful than most.

  I came out an hour later feeling almost human. Richard was only five minutes late in collecting me, which approaches an all-time record. Back home, I called the garage who had towed the remains of my Nova away, and my insurance company. Next, I left a message on the office answering machine asking Shelley to sort out the best possible deal on a mobile phone for me first thing Monday morning.

  Finally, I rang Brian Chalmers of PharmAce. “Sorry to bother you at home, Brian, but have any of your vans been in an accident over the last twenty-four hours?”

  “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought I saw one in a crash on the motorway last night. I reckoned you might need a witness. Can you check for me?”

  He obviously wondered why on earth I was so interested, but I’d just plugged a leak that was costing him a fortune, so he decided to humor me.

  He got back to me ten minutes later. “None of our vans has reported any accidents last night,” he said. “However, one of our Transits was stolen from the depot on Thursday night. So I suppose it’s possible that was the van you saw.”

  Thursday night. Just after I’d talked to Chalmers at PharmAce’s office. The only thing I needed now was proof. Perhaps after we’d fronted up the errant lab technician, we could persuade him to confess. By then, maybe I’d be fit enough to make his kidneys feel the way mine felt.

  We were just about to leave when the phone rang again. “Leave it,” Richard shouted from halfway down the hall. But I can’t help myself. I waited till the answering machine clicked in.

  “This is Rachel Lieberman calling Kate Brannigan on Saturday …” was broadcast before I got to the phone.

  “Mrs. Lieberman?” I gasped. “Sorry, I was just walking through the door. Did you manage to go through those details?”

  “There is a pattern, Miss Brannigan. All but one of those properties are now or have been on our books. They are all rented out on short-term leases of between three and six months. And in every case, the tenants have shared the surname of the real owners.”

  I nearly took a deep breath to calm my nerves before I remembered that wasn’t part of my current repertoire. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Lieberman,” I said. “You have no idea how much I appreci
ate it.”

  “You’re welcome. I enjoy a challenge now and again,” she replied, a warmth in her voice I hadn’t heard before. “It may not mean much, however. These are common names—Smith, Johnson, Brown; it’s not such a big coincidence. By the way, I don’t know if you’re interested, but after I’d worked through these details I checked out recent rentals. There are three other properties where the same pattern seems to be repeated. One was rented three

  I closed my eyes and sent up a prayer of thanks. “I’m interested, Mrs. Lieberman. I don’t suppose …”

  She cut me off. “Miss Brannigan, I like to think I’ve got good judgement. I faxed the addresses to your office overnight. I’m not happy with the idea that my business is being used, however innocently, in any kind of fraud. Keep me posted, won’t you?”

  Keep her posted? I could find myself sending Chanukah cards this year!

  Chapter 10

  I didn’t get much chance to mull over what Rachel Lieberman had told me. I find I have some difficulty in concentrating when Edward the Second and the Red Hot Polkas are being played at a volume that makes my fillings vibrate. I know this is a measure of my personal inadequacy, but we all have to live with our little weaknesses. And it was keeping the chauffeur happy. I decided to put my new information in the section of my brain marked “pending.” Besides, until I’d been to the Land Registry, and collated all the information from there, from Ted’s records and the material Josh’s Julia had faxed to the office the previous afternoon, I didn’t want to fall in love with any theories that might distort my judgement.

  We made it to Buxton before lunch with only a couple of wrong turnings. I’m not quite sure what I expected, but it wasn’t what I got. There’s a grandiose little opera house with a conservatory that some spiritual ancestor of Ted Barlow’s had installed. I’d have loved to have heard the salesman’s pitch. “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Councillor, if I could show you a way to enhance the touristic value of your opera house for less than the product of a penny rate, I take it that would be something you would be pleased to go along with?” There’s also a magnificent Georgian crescent that ought to blow your socks off, but it’s been allowed to run to seed, rather like an alcoholic duchess who’s been at the cooking sherry. Frankly, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. If this was the jewel in the crown of the Peak District, I wasn’t keen on seeing the armpit. I guess growing up in Oxford spoiled me for any architecture in the grand style that isn’t kept in tip-top condition.

  Like Oxford, Buxton is a victim of its own publicity. Everyone knows Oxford because of the university; what they don’t realize is

  Richard was as enamored of the place as I was. Before we’d walked the length of the rather dismal main street, he’d already started grumbling. “I don’t know why the hell you had to drag me here,” he muttered. “I mean, look at it. What a dump. And it’s raining.”

  “I think you’ll find the rain isn’t just falling on Buxton,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t bank on it,” he replied gloomily. “It’s a damn sight colder than it was in Manchester. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a damn sight wetter too.” He stopped and stared with hostility at the steamed-up window of a chip shop. “What the hell are we doing here, Brannigan?”

  “I’m just doing what you told me,” I said sweetly.

  “What I told you? How d’you figure that one out? I never said let’s go and find the most horrible tourist attraction in the North West and spend the day wandering round it in the rain.” He does a good line in outrage, does Richard. Before he got into his stride and started ranting for England, I relented.

  I slipped my arm through his, more for support than to show solidarity. “The guy who ripped off Alexis and Chris has some connection with Buxton,” I explained. “He used a hooky name to pull off the scam, and the only clue I’ve got on him is that his bank account is in Buxton.” Richard’s mouth opened, but I carried on relentlessly. “And before you remind me that your bank account is still in Fulham, let me point out that this guy is supposedly a builder and the account in question appears to be a business account.”

  “So what do we do? Wander round Buxton asking people if they know any iffy builders who might have ripped off our friends? Oh, and here’s the big clue. We know which bank he keeps his overdraft in! I mean, do we even know what this guy looks like?”

  “Alexis says he’s in his late twenties, early thirties. Wavy brown hair, medium height, regular features. According to another witness,

  “A white Transit?” Richard interrupted. “Jesus! You don’t think it was him that tried to run you off the road last night?”

  “Behave,” I told him. “Half the tradesmen in the world drive Transits, and half of them are white. You can’t go round suspecting every plumber, joiner or glazier in Greater Manchester. Whoever this guy is, he hasn’t got the remotest notion that I’m even interested in him, never mind that I’m after him for fraud.”

  “Sorry,” Richard said. “So what do we do, then?”

  “The first thing we do is we buy a local paper and then we find a nice place to have lunch, and while you’re stuffing your greedy little face, I will study the paper and see who the local builders are. Then, after lunch, we will behave like tourists and do a tour of Buxton. Only, instead of taking in the sights, we’ll be taking in the builders’ yards.”

  “But there won’t be anyone there on a Saturday afternoon,” Richard objected.

  “I know that,” I said through tight lips. “But there will be neighbors. You know. The sort of net-twitchers who can tell you what people drive, what they look like and whether vans marked ‘T. R. Harris, Builders’ ever find their way into the yard.”

  Richard groaned. “And I’m missing Man United and Arsenal for this.”

  “I’ll buy lunch,” I promised. He pulled a doubtful face. “And dinner.” He brightened up.

  We ended up in a pub near the opera house that looked like it had been single-handedly responsible for Laura Ashley’s profits last year. The chairs were upholstered in a fabric that matched the wallpaper, and the mahogany-stained wood of the furniture was a perfect match for the big free-standing oval bar in the center of the big room. In spite of the décor, however, they were still clearly not catering for anything other than a local clientele. Richard complained bitterly because their idea of designer beer was a bottle of brown ale. He ended up nursing a pint of lager, then insisted on sitting in a side bar with a view of the door so if anyone he knew came in he could swap his drink for my vodka and grapefruit

  After his second helping, we were ready to make a move. I staggered upstairs to the ladies’ while Richard attempted to scrape the pattern off the plate. Coming back down the wide staircase, I got the kind of surprise that makes people miss their footing and end up looking like human pretzels in hallways. It also has the unfortunate side effect of attracting an enormous amount of attention. Luckily, because of my brush with permanent disability the night before, I was clutching the banister tightly.

  I moved gingerly down the last few stairs and slipped round the back of the oval bar where I could study my prey rather less obviously. Halfway down the stairs may well be a nice place to sit, but it sure as hell is an appalling place to do a stake-out. I edged round the bar, getting a couple of strange looks from the barman, till I could see them in the mirror without them being able to get a clear view of me.

  Over at a small table in the bay window, Martin Cheetham was deep in earnest conversation with someone I’d seen before. The hunk with the van who’d looked straight through me outside the Corn Exchange after I’d interviewed Cheetham. Today, they were both out of their working clothes. Cheetham wore a pair of cords and an Aran sweater, while his companion looked even hunkier than before in a blue rugby shirt tucked into a pair of Levi’s. There was a black leather blouson slung over the arm of his chair. Whatever they were talking about, Cheetham wasn’t happy. He kept leaning forward, clutching his glass of beer tightly. His body was like a text
book illustration of tension.

  By contrast, his companion looked as relaxed as a man on his holidays. He leaned back in his seat, casually smoking a slim cigar. He kept flashing smiles at Cheetham which didn’t reassure him one little bit. They’d have reassured me if I’d been on the receiving end, no messing. He was seriously sexy.

  Unfortunately, it was beginning to look as if he might just be seriously villainous too. Here was Martin Cheetham, the man who had offered the land deal to Alexis and Chris, sitting drinking and talking with a guy in Buxton that I had pegged as a builder. And Alexis and Chris had been cheated out of their money on a deal arranged by the same Martin Cheetham with T. R. Harris, a builder with Buxton connections. I tried to remember the name on the van the hunk had parked outside the Corn Exchange, but the brain cell that had been taking care of the information appeared to be one of the ones that perished on Barton Bridge.

  I realized that watching the pair of them wasn’t really getting me anywhere. I needed to be able to hear their conversation. I gave the layout of the room some attention. Obviously, I didn’t want Cheetham to see me. Of course, if he was innocent of any shady dealing, he’d have no problem with my presence. But I was beginning to have serious suspicions about his role in the business, so I wasn’t about to take the chance.

  I figured that if I cut across the room behind Cheetham, I could slide along an empty banquette till I was just behind him. From there, I should be able to hear something of their conversation. It wouldn’t require much in the way of stealth, which was just as well, given the condition of my body. I made it across the room, but as I was edging towards the end of the banquette the hunk caught sight of me. He was instantly alert, sitting up and leaning forward to say something to Cheetham. The solicitor immediately swivelled round in his chair. I was well and truly blown.