by Val McDermid
The answer to my fear was just behind me. I was parked on the opposite side of the street to Brian Lomax’s house, about thirty yards further up the hill, outside a substantial Victorian pile with a Bed and Breakfast sign swinging slightly in the chilly wind. I collected a small overnight holdall from the boot, stuffed the law books into it and walked up the short drive.
I’d have taken the landlady on as an investigator any day. By the time I’d paid for a night in advance and she’d left me alone in my spotless little room, I felt like I’d had a bright light shining in my eyes for days. Never mind grace under pressure; there should be a private investigators’ Oscar for lies under pressure. At least I was in a suit, which made it easier to be convincing about my imaginary role as a commercial solicitor acting for a local client who was interested in buying property in Manchester to expand his business. She’d gone for the lie, agog at my close-lipped refusal to breach client confidentiality. I was half-convinced that, come the morning, she’d be tailing me just for the hell of picking up some juicy local gossip.
My room was, as requested, at the front of the house, and on the second floor, which gave me a better view of Brian Lomax’s house
Nell arrived home about half past six, parking her GTi in the garage. It was gone nine before I saw some more action. Lomax appeared round the side of the house, walking along his drive. He turned right and started towards town. I was out of the room and down the stairs a hell of a lot more quickly than I’d have been able to manage just a couple of days before. If Mortensen and Brannigan ever take on an assistant, I think we’re going to have to stipulate “must be quick healer” on the job description.
He was still in sight as I ran out of the guest house, trying to look like a jogger nipping out for her evening run. At the traffic lights, he turned left, walking up the hill towards the market place. I reached the corner in time to see him entering a pub. Wonderful. I didn’t even have a jacket on, and I couldn’t follow him into the pub because he knew only too well who I was. Furious, I walked right up to the pub and peered through the stained-glass door. Through a blue haze, I saw Lomax at the bar, talking and laughing with a group of other men, all around the same age. By the looks of it, he was having his regular Thursday night down his local with the lads, rather than meeting a business contact. That much was a relief. I stepped back and had a look round. Across the street, on the opposite corner, there was a fish and chip shop that advertised an upstairs dining room. I had nothing left to lose.
It’s amazing how long I can take to work my way through steak pudding, chips, mushy peas, gravy, a pot of tea and a plate of bread and butter. Oddly enough, I actually enjoyed it, especially since I’d missed lunch. Best of all was the spotted dick and custard that tasted better than anything my mother used to make. I managed to make the whole lot string out until half past ten, then it was back out into the cold. Of course, it started to rain as soon as I emerged from the chippy. I crossed to the pub and had another look through the glass. The scene hadn’t changed much, except that the pub had
He came back, alone, just on half past eleven. Five minutes later, a light went on in an upstairs room and he appeared at the window to close the curtains. Ten minutes after that, another light went on and Nell did the same thing in her room. I didn’t bother waiting for their lights to go out. I bet I was asleep before they were.
I bet I was up before them too. I’d set my alarm for six, and I was out of the shower by quarter past. Lomax’s curtains opened at a quarter to seven, and my heart sank. My landlady didn’t start serving breakfast till eight, and it looked like he’d be out of the house by then. I consoled myself with the individually wrapped digestive biscuits supplied with the tea- and coffee-making facilities. (Fine if you like sterilized milk, tea bags filled with house dust and powdered instant coffee that tastes like I imagine strychnine does.)
Wearily, I packed my bag and returned to the car. I was beginning to wonder if there was any point to this surveillance. I sometimes think my boredom threshold’s too low for this job. Twenty minutes later, the nose of a white E-type appeared in his gateway. I’d seen the Jag sitting next to Nell’s GTi in the garage the night I’d spotted the T. R. Harris signboard. The classic car’s long bonnet emerged cautiously, until I could see Lomax himself was at the wheel. He drove past me without so much as a glance. I watched him round the bend in my rear-view mirror, then quickly reversed out of the guest house drive and sped after him.
I’d thought the road from Manchester had been bad enough. The one we took out of Buxton was that nightmare you wake up from in a clammy sweat. The road corkscrewed up through a series of tight bends with sheer drops on the other side, just like in the Alps. Then it became a narrow bucking switchback that made me grateful for missing breakfast. The visibility was appalling. I couldn’t decide if it was fog or cloud I was driving through, but either way I was glad there weren’t too many side turnings for the E-type to disappear into. What left me gasping with disbelief was
Eventually, we left the gray-green moors behind and dropped into the red brick of Macclesfield. I felt like an explorer emerging from the jungle after a close encounter with the cannibals. These were proper roads, with traffic lights, roundabouts, and white lines up the middle. Through Macclesfield, we emerged into the country again, but this was more my idea of what countryside should be. None of those dreadful moors, heather stretching to infinity, dilapidated dry-stone walls with holes in where someone failed to make the bend, grim pubs stranded in the middle of nowhere and trees that grow at an angle of forty-five degrees to the prevailing wind. No, this was much more like it. Neat fields, pretty farmhouses, Little Chefs and garden centers, notices nailed to trees announcing craft fairs and car boot sales. The kind of country you might just be tempted to take a little run out to in the car.
We roared down the slip road of the M6 at 8:14, according to my dashboard clock. I began to feel excited. Whatever Lomax was up to, it was more interesting than repairing guttering. As the speedo hit ninety, I really began to miss my Nova. It may not have looked much, but it was a car that only really ever seemed to get into its stride over eighty. Unlike the Fiesta, which had an interesting shake in the steering wheel between eighty-two and eighty-eight. As we changed lanes to head west down the M62, I remembered the phone call from Alexis that had started this latest phase of the operation. A passport application form.
To obtain a full British passport, you have to fill in a complicated form, have your photographic identity attested by a supposedly reputable member of the community who’s known you for at least two years, and send it off to the passport office. Then you sit back and wait for a few weeks while the wheels of bureaucracy grind exceedingly slow. If you’re in a hurry, you take yourself off to one of the five passport offices on the UK mainland—London, Liverpool, Newport, Peterborough or Glasgow. I remember the performance well. Richard and I booked a fortnight’s holiday in July driving round California in a Winnebago. Two days before we
If you get there on the stroke of nine, they deign to take your paperwork off you and tell you to come back in four hours’ time. If you’re late, you have to wait in the queue and pray they get round to you before closing time. If that was where Brian Lomax was headed, he was clearly determined to avoid queuing all day.
He headed straight for the center of Liverpool, and parked his car in the multi-story nearest the passport office at ten to nine. I stayed in my car and watched him through the door of India Buildings. He might well have been headed for any of the offices on any floor except the fifth, but I doubted it. He was out within twenty minutes but, instead of going straight back to his car, he headed off towards the city center. I swore steadily under my breath as I tried to keep him in sight. As long as he didn’t turn into a pedestrian precinct, I might just be OK.
I was and I wasn’t. About a mile from the passport office, Brian Lomax marched purposefully into a travel agency.
Chapter 23
I burst through the door, fight
ing back the tears, rushed up to the assistant and wailed, “Where’s he taking her? Tell me! I’ve got a right to know where he’s going with the bitch!” Then I burst into tears and collapsed into the chair that Brian Lomax had just vacated.
“I know it’s stupid, but I still love him,” I sobbed. “Whatever he might have done with that cow, he’s still my husband.” Through the tears I could see the travel agent looking completely stricken. Her mouth was opening and closing.
“For God’s sake, put me out of my misery! Let me know the worst. You’re a woman, you should understand,” I added, accusingly.
Another woman pushed the younger assistant out of the way. “What is it, queen?” she said soothingly.
“My h-husband,” I hiccuped. “He’s got a girlfriend, I just know it. So I’ve been following him. When he came in here, I thought, he’s taking her away, never mind that me and the kids haven’t had a holiday for two years. And something just snapped. You’ve got to tell me,” I added, on a rising note. Then I gulped noisily.
“Sharon,” the older woman said. “The gentleman who was just in.”
“Lomax,” I said. “That’s his name. Brian Lomax.”
“Mr. Lomax,” the woman echoed. “What was he after, Sharon?”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to discuss clients?” the younger girl muttered.
“Have you got no heart, girl? That could be you one day. Us girls have got to stick together,” the woman said. Then to me she said,
I nodded and made a great show of trying to get myself under control while Sharon nervously jabbed the keys of her computer with nails that would have had Cruella de Vil looking to her laurels. “There, Dot,” she said, pointing at the screen.
The older woman nodded sagely and swung the screen round so I could see it for myself. “Whatever he might be up to, he’s not going off with her,” she said. “Look. He’s only booked for one person. Fly/drive to Florida. Flight, car hire and accommodation vouchers, including single person supplement.” As she spoke, I was taking it all in. Airline, flight number, price. Flying out of Manchester on Monday night. “He paid in cash an’ all,” Dot added. “Now that’s something we don’t see a lot of in here these days.”
“What about his tickets?” I demanded. “I bet he’s not having them sent to the house.”
“No,” Dot said. “With him going on Monday, he’ll get them off the ticket agent at the airport.”
“Selfish bastard,” I spat.
“You’re not kiddin’, girl,” Dot said. “Still, look on the bright side. At least he’s not got the cow with him, has he?”
I got to my feet. “By the time I’ve finished with him, he won’t be fathering any more kids in a hurry,” I said.
“Attagirl!” Dot called after me as I stormed out of the travel agency.
By the time I rounded the corner and climbed into the Fiesta, which had miraculously escaped a parking ticket, the reaction to my performance had set in. My legs felt like jelly and my hands were shaking. Thank God for the solidarity of women whose men done them wrong.
So Alexis had been right, I thought as I drove back more sedately along the M62. Brian Lomax was about to do a runner. And the only thing that could stop him was me finding out what exactly he’d been up to. I decided to spend the rest of the day ignoring all distractions and getting to the bottom of Martin Cheetham’s files. But before I did that, I reckoned I deserved the breakfast I’d missed out on earlier. On the horizon, I could see the
I pulled off the road and cruised into the car park. And there it was. Smack bang in the middle of the car park: Brian Lomax’s E-type. I parked the car then cautiously explored the service area. He wasn’t in the shop, or playing the video arcade machines. I finally spotted him in the cafeteria, alone except for a huge fry-up. Goodbye breakfast. With a sigh, I returned to my car and headed for the service road that led back to the motorway. When I reached the petrol pumps, I pulled off and parked. I nipped in to the shop and bought a bottle of mineral water and a bacon and egg sandwich, the nearest I was going to get to a proper breakfast that day. Back at the car, I let the engine idle while I ate my butty and waited for Lomax. I couldn’t help myself; since the gods had handed him back to me on a plate, I just had to see what he was up to.
Quarter of an hour later, we were heading back towards Manchester. The traffic was heavy by now, but the E-type was so distinctive it was easy to tail. On the outskirts, he took the M63 towards Stockport. He turned off at the cheaper end of Cheadle, where you don’t have to be able to play bridge or golf to be allowed to buy a house, and cut across to the terraced streets that huddle round Stockport County’s football ground. Tailing him through the tight grid of narrow streets was a lot trickier, but luckily I didn’t have to do it for long. And Lomax acted like the idea of being followed hadn’t even crossed his mind.
He pulled up outside a house where a couple of workmen seemed to be removing the windows, and a youth up a ladder was clearing moss out of the guttering. A sign on the ladder had the familiar “Renew-Vations” logo, as did the scruffy van parked with two wheels on the curb. Lomax had a few words with the workmen, then went inside. Ten minutes later, he re-emerged, gave them the thumbs-up sign, then drove off.
We went through the same routine a couple more times, in Reddish then in Levenshulme. All the houses were elderly terraced
The last stop was on the fringes of Burnage, but this time it was a between-the-wars semi that looked completely dilapidated. There was grass growing through the gravel, the gate was hanging from one hinge. So much paint had peeled off the door and window frames it was a miracle they hadn’t dropped to bits. Two men were working on the roof, replacing broken slates and pointing the chimney stack. Lomax got out of the Jag and shouted something to the men. Then he took a pair of overalls out of the boot, put them on over his jeans and sweatshirt and walked into the house. A few minutes later, I heard the high whine of a power drill. I decided I could use my time more fruitfully back in the office with the computer files.
Shelley was on the phone making “new client” noises when I walked in, but judging by the speed with which the coffee appeared on my desk, she’d already had the run-down on my success with Ted’s conservatories. “Good news travels fast, huh?” I said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said haughtily. “Have you done the client reports for PharmAce and Ted Barlow yet?”
I took the cassettes out of my handbag. “Voilà!” I said, handing them over with a flourish. “God forbid we should keep Ted waiting. How is he, by the way? Happy as a sandboy?”
“As if it isn’t bad enough spending my days with someone who thinks she’s a genius, I now have to listen to Ted Barlow telling me you’re a genius. The bank’s agreed to restore his loan and his access to their financial services division, and he’s got an advert in Monday’s Evening Chronicle for a new sales person. The police raided the three houses last night and got enough evidence to arrest Jack McCafferty and Liz Lawrence. They should both be charged later today, and Ted’s completely in the clear,” Shelley said, unable to keep the smile out of her eyes.
“Great news. Tell me, Shelley, how come you know all this?”
“Because it’s my job to answer the phone, Kate,” she replied sweetly. “Also, I’ve had calls from a DCI Prentice, a woman called Rachel Lieberman, Alexis Lee and four calls from Richard who says he doesn’t want to trouble you but have you charged the battery on your mobile because it’s not responding.”
I knew there had to be a reason why I’d had peace all morning. I’d remembered to charge the phone up overnight. I’d just omitted to make sure it was switched on this morning. Feeling like a fool, I smiled sweetly at Shelley. “I must have been in one of those black holes when he tried me,” I said.
Shelley gave me the look my mother used to when I swore blind I’d not eaten the last biscuit. “If you’re having that much of a problem, maybe we should just send it back,” she said.
I bared my teeth.
“I’ll manage, thanks. So now he’s got that load off his mind, how’s Ted? Able to devote one hundred percent of his attention to helping you achieve the full potential of your house?”
“Have I ever told you what a blessing it is for me to work with you, Kate? You’re the only person I know who makes me realize just how mature my two kids really are.” She turned and headed for the door. I poked my tongue out at her retreating back. “I saw that,” she said without turning her head. At the door, she looked back at me. “Joking apart, it’s OK.” Then she was gone, leaving me alone with the laptop and my phone messages, which I chose to ignore.
Now I’d worked out what the RV directory was all about and I’d actually seen some of the properties in question, I had to unravel the contents of DUPLICAT. At first sight, they seemed to be completely innocuous. They were files relating to the purchase of various properties by assorted individuals and the mortgages that had been arranged for them. The material seemed exactly the same sort of stuff that was in the unprotected WORK.C directory. The only difference was that in DUPLICAT every single mortgage lender was different. In the few instances where the same building society had been used more than once, Cheetham’s clients had chosen different branches.
It was only when I’d worked my way through to the most recent of the files that something finally caught my eye. Even then, I had
I could feel a dull ache starting at the base of my skull. The combination of staring into my laptop and trying to work out what was going on was getting to me. I stood up and stretched, then moved around the office doing some of the warm-up exercises I’d learned down the Thai boxing gym. I swear the routine sends my brain into an altered state. As my body found its rhythm, the tension flowed out of me, and my mind went into free fall.
Then all the assorted bits and pieces of information that had been swilling round in confusion inside my head came together in a pattern. Abruptly, I stopped leaping around the room like Winnie the Pooh’s imitation of Mikhail Baryshnikov and dropped into my chair. I didn’t have a split-screen facility on the laptop, so I hastily scribbled down half a dozen of the addresses of the houses that had been mortgaged according to DUPLICAT, along with the names of their buyers. Then I called up the files from WORK.C, the directory of Cheetham’s straight conveyancing business.
