by Val McDermid
I wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Even so, don’t you think it’s a bit of a con to pull on the public? A bit of a swizz to spend your bank holiday Monday in a traffic jam just so you can ogle a Constable that’s more phony than a plastic Rolex? Aren’t you in danger of breaching the Trades Descriptions Act?” I asked.
“Our clients may be,” Michael said carelessly. “We’re not.”
The brazen effrontery of it gobsmacked me. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I said. “You work in a business that must spend hundreds of thousands a year trying to catch its customers out in fraud, and yet you’re happily suggesting to another bunch of clients that they go off and commit a fraud?”
“That’s not how we see it,” he said stiffly. “Besides, it works,” he said. “In at least two cases that I know about personally, customers who have been burgled have only lost copies. Surely that proves it’s worthwhile.”
In spite of the blazing fire, I felt a chill on the back of my neck. Only a man with no personal knowledge of the strung-out world of crime could have made that pronouncement with such
My silence clearly spelled out defeat to Michael, since he leaned over and squeezed my hand. “Trust me, Kate. Our way, everybody’s happy,” he said.
I pretended to push my chair back and look frantically for the door. “I’m out of here,” I said. “Soon as an insurance man says ‘trust me,’ you know you should be in the next county.”
He grinned. “I promise I’ll never try to sell you insurance.”
“OK. But I won’t promise I’ll never try to pitch you into using Mortensen and Brannigan.”
“Speaking of which, how did you get into the private eye business?” Michael said.
I couldn’t decide whether it was an attempt to change the subject or a deliberate shift away from the professional towards the personal. Either way, I was happy to go along with him. I didn’t think I was going to get any more useful information out of him, and I only had to look across the table to remember that when I’d agreed to this dinner, my motives hadn’t been entirely selfless. By the time we’d moved on to coffee and Armagnac, he knew all about my aborted law degree, abandoned after two years because the part-time job I’d got doing bread-and-butter process serving for Bill Mortensen was a damn sight more interesting than the finer points of jurisprudence.
“So tell me about your most interesting case,” he coaxed me.
“Maybe later,” I said. “It’s your turn now. How did you get into insurance?”
“It’s the family business,” he said, looking faintly embarrassed.
“So you followed in Daddy’s footsteps,” I said. I felt disappointed. I couldn’t put my finger on why, exactly. Maybe I expected him to live up to that profile with a suitably buccaneering past.
“Eventually,” he said. “I read Arabic at university, then I worked for the BBC World Service for a while. But the money was dire and there were no prospects. My father had the sense to see that sales had never interested me, but he persuaded me to take a shot at working in claims.” Michael raised his shoulders and held out his hands in an expressive shrug. “What can I say? I really enjoy it.”
All of a sudden, I remembered one of the key reasons I like being with Richard. He lives an interesting life: music journalist, football fan and Sunday morning player, part-time father. I was sure if I hung around with Michael Haroun, I’d learn a lot of invaluable stuff. But not even the most brilliant raconteur can make insurance interesting for ever. With Richard, no two days are the same. With Michael, I suspected variety might not be the spice of life.
Now I’d established that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with the man, I felt a sense of release. I could take what I needed from the encounter, and that would be that. My life wasn’t about to be turned on its head because I’d fallen in love with a profile when I was fourteen.
With that comforting thought in the front of my mind, I had no hesitation about inviting him back for more coffee. The fact that I’d forgotten to mention Richard to him somehow didn’t seem too important at the time.
Chapter 7
Richard’s car wasn’t home when we got there. I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not. On the one hand, I wanted him to see me with Michael Haroun. If it took a bit of the green-eyed monster to make Richard start thinking about where our relationship was headed, so be it. On the other hand, the last thing I wanted was for him to throw a jealous wobbler in front of someone who was potentially a useful source, if not a prospective client.
“You live alone, then?” Michael asked casually as we walked up the path.
“Yes and no,” I said. “I have a relationship with the man next door, but we don’t actually live together.” I unlocked the door, switched off the burglar alarm and led him through the living room into the conservatory that links both houses. “This is the common ground,” I said. “We each reserve the right to lock the door into the conservatory.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling Michael all this. Maybe there was still a smidgen of lust running through my hormones.
Michael followed me back into the living room, closing the patio doors behind him. “Coffee?” I asked. “Or would you prefer a drink?”
He smiled mischievously. “That depends.”
“Oh, you’ll be driving,” I told him. Even if I’d been young, free and single, he’d have been driving, I told myself firmly.
He pulled a rueful face and said, “It had better be coffee then.”
I’d just finished grinding the beans when I heard the clattering of Richard’s engine. I glanced out of the window and watched the hot pink, customized Volkswagen Beetle convertible nose into the space between Michael’s car and my Leo Gemini turbo super
Back in the living room, Michael clearly wasn’t brooding on his rebuff. He was absorbed in the computer games reviews again. “Coffee won’t be long,” I said.
He closed the magazine and replaced it in the rack. Either he had very good manners, or he was as obsessively tidy as I was. Richard calls it anal retentive, but I don’t see why you have to live in a tip just to prove you’re laid back. Before we could get back into computer games, I heard the patio doors on the far side of the conservatory open. Richard’s yell of greeting penetrated even my closed doors. “Brannigan, I’m home,” he called.
Seconds later, he appeared at my doors, brandishing the unmistakable carrier bag of a Chinese takeaway. He pulled the door back, took in Michael and grinned. “Hi,” he said expansively. I estimated three joints. “You two still working?”
“We finished ages ago,” I said. “Michael came back for coffee.”
“Right,” said Richard, oblivious to the implication I was thrusting under his nose. “You won’t mind if I join you then?”
Without waiting for an answer, he plonked himself down on the sofa opposite Michael and unpacked his takeaway. “I’m Richard Barclay, by the way,” he said, extending a hand across the table to Michael. “You wait for Brannigan to remember her manners, you could be dead.”
“Michael Haroun,” he said, shaking Richard’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Yes, an insurance man born and bred. Only an estate agent could have lied more convincingly.
Richard jumped to his feet and headed for the door. “Chopsticks and bowls for three?” he asked. “Sorry, Mike, I wasn’t expecting company, but there’s probably enough to go around.”
“We’ve just had dinner, Richard,” I said. “I did leave you a message.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grinned. “But I’ve never known you refuse a salt and pepper rib, Brannigan.”
“Sorry about that,” I said as he left.
Michael winked. “Gives me a chance to suss out the competition.”
I didn’t like the idea that I was some kind of prize, even if it was gratifying to know that he was interested in more than recovering Henry Naismith’s Monet. And he didn’t even have the excuse of a previous encounter in the British Museum. “What makes you think there’s a competition
?” I asked sweetly.
Michael leaned back against the sofa and stretched his legs out. “I thought you were the detective? Kate, if you two were as happy as pigs, you’d have left me sitting in the car wondering where exactly I’d made the wrong move.”
Before I could reply, Richard was back. “I’ll get the coffee,” I said, annoyed with myself for my transparency. By the time I got back, Richard and Michael were getting to know each other. And they say women are bitches.
“So, what do you do when you’re not chipping a oner off people’s car theft claims because your assessor spoke to the nextdoor neighbor who revealed that the ashtray was full?” Richard asked through a mouthful of shiu mai.
As I sat down next to him, Michael smiled at me and said, “I play computer games. Like Kate.”
I poured the coffee in silence and let the boys play. “All a bit sedentary,” Richard remarked, loading his bowl with fried rice and what looked like a chicken hoi nam.
“Oh, I work out down the gym,” Michael said. I believed him. I could feel the hard muscles in the arm pressed against mine.
Richard nodded, as if confirming a guess. “Thought as much,” he said. “Bit too pointless for me, all that humping metal around. I prefer something a bit more social for keeping in shape. But then, I suppose it can’t be easy finding people who want to play with you when you’re an insurance claims manager,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Bit like being a VAT man.”
“I’ve never had any problems finding people to play with,” Michael drawled. I had no trouble believing that. “What exactly is it that you do to keep fit, Richard? Squash? Real tennis? Polo? Or do you prefer raves?”
Richard almost choked on his food. Neither of us rushed to
Michael smiled. “Remember that poem? ‘The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold?’ I’ve never been much into mud myself,” he said.
“Had a good evening?” I chipped in before things got out of hand.
Richard nodded. “Been down the Academy listening to East European grunge bands. Some good sounds.” He gave me one of his perfect smiles. “How’s your workload progressing?”
I shrugged. “Slowly,” I said. “Michael’s been giving me some background on the art front, and I’ve got Alexis to chuck a few bricks into the pond. It’s a question of waiting to see what floats to the surface.”
“And we all know what floats,” Richard said drily, glancing at Michael.
Michael decided enough was enough. He drained his mug and put it down on the coffee table. “I’d better be on my way,” he said. “Busy day tomorrow.”
We both stood up. “I’ll see you out,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Richard,” Michael said politely on his way out the door.
“Feeling’s entirely mutual,” Richard said ironically.
On the doorstep, I thanked Michael for dinner. “It was a pleasant change,” I said.
“I can see that,” Michael said. “Maybe we could do it again some time.”
I only hesitated for a moment. “That’d be nice,” I admitted.
“Let me know how your investigation progresses,” he said. “Stay in touch.” He leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. He smelled of warm, clean animal, the last traces of his aftershave lingering muskily underneath. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as my body tingled.
I turned my head and met his lips in a swift, breathless kiss. Before it could turn into anything more, I stepped back. “Drive safely,” I said.
I watched him walk to his car, enjoying the light bounce of his step. Then I took a deep breath and walked back indoors.
After Michael had gone, Richard polished off the remains of his Chinese, making no comment on my choice of company for the evening. He asked if I wanted to see a movie the following evening and we bickered companionably about what we’d go to see, me holding out for Blade Runner: The Director’s Cut, revisiting the Cornerhouse for the umpteenth time. “No way,” Richard had said emphatically. “I’m not going to the Cornerhouse. I’m getting too old for art houses. They’re full of politically correct wankers trying to pretend they understand the articles in the Modern Review. You can’t move for people rabbiting about semiotics and Foucault and deconstruction.” He paused, then got to the real reason. “Besides, they don’t sell popcorn or Häagen-Dazs. You can’t call that a night out at the movies.”
I gave in gracefully. Satisfied that I’d made the concession, Richard announced he had to write an article about the post-Communist rockers for some American West Coast magazine, and he wanted to get it written and faxed before he went to bed. He swept the remains of his takeaway into the carrier bag and gave me a swift hug. “I love you, Brannigan,” he muttered gruffly into my ear.
I fell asleep with the words of Dean Friedman’s “Love is not Enough” swirling round my head like a mantra. I woke up alone the next morning, and not particularly surprised by that. I felt strangely deflated, as if something I’d been anticipating hadn’t happened. I wasn’t sure if that was to do with Michael or Richard. Either way, I didn’t like the feeling that my state of mind was dependent on anyone else. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water pour down. A friend of mine who’s into all that New Age stuff reckons a shower cleanses your aura. I don’t know about that, but it always helps me put things into perspective.
By the time I walked through the office door, I was feeling in control of my life again. That might have had something to do with the miracle of finding a parking meter that was nearer the office than my house. Parking in this city gets worse by the day. I’ve been
Shelley was on the phone, so I headed straight for the coffee maker, a shiny chrome cappuccino machine that my partner, the gadget king of the Northwest, bought us for a treat after a grateful client gave us a bonus because we’d done the job faster than Speedy Gonzales. Somehow, I couldn’t see either of our current employers rewarding my swiftness. I was beginning to feel like I was wading through cement on both cases.
Before I could fill the scoop with coffee, I heard Shelley say, “Hang on, she’s just walked in.”
I turned to see her waving the phone at me. “Alexis,” Shelley said.
I headed for my office. “Coffee?” It was a try-on, I admit it. Mortensen and Brannigan adopts a firm “you want it, you make it” policy on coffee. But every now and again, Shelley takes pity on me.
I guess I didn’t look needy enough, for there were no signs of her crossing the office after she’d switched the call through. I sighed and picked up the phone. “ ’Morning,” I said.
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” the familiar Liverpudlian voice rasped. “Here am I, bringing you tidings from the front line and you greet me with all the eager anticipation of a woman expecting bad news from her dentist.”
“It’s your own fault. Never come between a woman and her cappuccino,” I retorted crisply.
I heard the sound of smoke being inhaled, then a husky chuckle. “Some of us don’t need coffee this late in the day. Some of us have already done half a day’s work, KB.”
“Self-righteousness doesn’t become you,” I snarled. “Did you call for a reason, or did you just want to be told there’s something clever about having a job that starts in the middle of the night?”
“There’s gratitude for you,” Alexis said cheerfully. “I call you up to pass on vital information, and what thanks do I get?”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you, O bountiful one,” I grovelled. “So what’s this vital piece of information?”
“What have you got to swap for it?”
I thought for a moment. “You can borrow my leather jacket for a week.”
“Too tight under the armpits. What’s the matter, KB? Got no gossip to trade? What’s happening with the insurance man?”
If the Chronicle’s editor ever decides he needs to pacify the anti-smoking lobby and fire Alexis, she’ll never starve. She could set up tomorrow in a booth on Blackpool pier. She would
n’t even have to change her name. Gypsy Alexis Lee sounds just fine to me. “We had dinner last night,” I said abruptly.
“And?”
“And nothing. Dinner at That Café, he came in for coffee, Richard barged in waving a Chinese, they squabbled like two dogs over a bone, he went home.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone, what do you take me for? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Trust me, Alexis, nothing’s happening with the insurance man. You’ll be the first to know if and when there is. Now, cut the crap and tell me what you rang for.”
“OK. The jungle drums have obviously been beating after that piece I did yesterday on the robberies.”
Nothing warms the cockles of the heart like the smug self-satisfaction of being right. “So what’s the word on the street?”
“I don’t know about the street. I’m working the stately home circuit these days,” Alexis replied disdainfully. “I’ve just come off the blower with a punter called Lord Ballantrae.”
“Who’s he?”
“I’m not entirely sure of all the titles, since I’ve not looked him up in Debrett yet, but he’s some sort of Scotch baron.”
“You mean he’s in the whisky trade?”
“No, soft girl, he’s a baron and he comes from Scotland, though you’d never know to hear him talk.”
“So has he been burgled too?”
“Yeah, but that’s not why he rang. Apparently, after he got turned over, he had a chat with some of his blue-blood buddies and found there was a lot of it about, so they got together in a sort of semi-informal network to pool their info and help other rich bastards to avoid the same happening to them. One of them
I took the bait. It was a small price to pay to keep the wheels of friendship oiled. “Go on, tell me. I know you’re dying to. Why the Nottingham Group?”
“After the Sheriff of Nottingham. On account of their goal is to stop these robbin’ hoods from ripping off their wealth for redistribution to the selected poor.”
