by Val McDermid
“Speak to you later,” I shouted as I put the car in gear, did an illegal U-turn at the first opportunity and tore back to the motorway. The receiver for the bug beeped reassuringly. He was already five kilometers away from me, and climbing. I floored the accelerator as I rejoined the M62. The car seemed sluggish after the coupé, but it didn’t take long to push it up to ninety. I pulled off the wig and ran a hand through my hair. I’d left a packet of moist tissues on the passenger seat of the Rover, and I used a handful of them to scrub the make-up off my face.
According to the tracer screen, the fence’s direction had changed slightly. As I’d expected, he’d turned off on the M621 for Leeds. I followed, noting that I’d narrowed the distance between us. He was only 2.7 kilometers ahead of me now. I really needed to be a lot closer before he turned off and lost me in a maze of city streets. Luckily, the M621 runs downhill, and he was sticking to a speed that wouldn’t get him picked up by the speed cameras. By the time we came to the Wetherby and Harrogate slip road, I was close enough to glimpse his pale green roof leave the motorway. Fortunately, there was a fair bit of traffic, so I was able to keep a couple of cars between us. In the queue at the Armley roundabout, I pulled on my denim shirt over the vest, completing the transformation from the waist up.
I had a momentary panic when he entered the tunnels of the inner city ring road and the signal disappeared from the receiver. But as soon as we emerged into daylight, the beep came back. I kept him in sight as we approached the complex confluence of roads at Sheepscar, one car behind as he swung right into Roundhay Road. I reckoned he had no idea that he was being followed, since he wasn’t doing any of the things you do when you think you’ve got a tail; no jumping red lights, no sudden turns off the main road, no lane switching.
He stayed on Roundhay Road, then, just by the park, he turned left and drove up Prince’s Avenue, through the manicured green of playing fields and enough grass to walk all the dogs of Leeds simultaneously. Where the avenue shaded into Street Lane, he turned right into a drive. I cruised past with a sidelong glance that revealed the Merc pulling into a double garage, then found a place to park round the corner. I kicked off the stilettos and pulled on the leggings I’d left in the car. I wriggled out of the Lycra mini and got out of the car, stuffing my feet into my Reeboks. Then I strolled back along Prince’s Avenue. Clearly, being a fence was a lot more lucrative than being a private eye. Baldy’s house was set back from the road, a big detached job in stone blackened with a century and a half of industrial pollution. Not much change out of a quarter of a million for that one, by my reckoning. Probably the most popular man in the street too; they say good fences make good neighbors!
Five minutes later, an Audi convertible pulled in to the drive. A blonde woman got out, followed by two girls in the kind of posh school uniform that has straw boaters in the summer term. From where I was sitting, the girls looked to be in their early teens. The woman left the car on the drive and followed the girls into the house. I finished my ice cream and walked back to the car. I drove around for a few minutes, trying to find a suitable place for a stakeout. Eventually, I parked just round the bend on the forecourt of a row of shops. I couldn’t see the whole house from there, but I could see the door and the drive, and I hoped that by not parking outside anyone else’s house, I’d escape the worst excesses of the neighborhood watch. If I was going to have to come back tomorrow, I’d ring the local police and tell them I was in the area on a surveillance to do with a non-criminal matter. What’s a few white lies between friends?
I took out the phone and rang the local library and asked them to check the address on the electoral roll. They told me the residents listed at that address were Nicholas and Michelle Turner. At last, I had a name that hadn’t come from the pages of Ian Fleming.
Just after six, the woman came out again with the girls, each carrying a holdall. They drove off, passing me without a glance. They came back after eight, all with damp hair. I deduced they’d been indulging in some sporting activity. That’s why I’m a detective. At half past eight, I phoned the Flying Pizza, a few hundred yards up the road, and ordered myself a takeaway pizza. Ten minutes later, I walked up and collected it, using their loo at the same time. I ate the pizza in the car, taking care not to drop my olives on Shelley’s immaculate carpet and upholstery. At nine, my phone rang. “Kate? It’s Michael Haroun,” the voice on the other end announced.
I jerked upright, ran a hand through my hair and smiled. As if he could see me. Pathetic, really. “Hello, Michael,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you were free for a drink this evening? You could give me a progress report.”
“No, and no. I’m working, and you’re not my client. Not that that means we can’t have a friendly drink together,” I added hastily, in case he thought I was being unfriendly.
“You can’t blame me for trying,” he said. “I do have an interest.”
“In the case or in me?” I asked tartly.
“Both, of course. When are you going to finish work?”
“Not for a while yet, and I’m over in Leeds.” I hoped the regret I felt was being transmitted through the ether.
“In Leeds? What are you doing there?”
“Just checking out an anonymous tip-off.”
“So you’re making progress? Great!”
“I never said I was working on Henry’s case,” I said. “We do have more than one client, you know.”
“OK, OK, I get the message. Keep your nose out, Haroun. I’m sorry you can’t make it tonight. Maybe we could get together soon?”
“Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow? I might have a clearer idea what my commitments are then.”
“I’ll do that. Nice to talk to you, Kate.”
“Ditto.” After that little interlude, my surveillance seemed even more unbearably tedious. When the radio told me it was time for a book at bedtime, I decided to call it a day. It didn’t look like Nicholas Turner or my buckle were going anywhere tonight.
When I got home, I picked up the Kerrchem file I’d left there when I’d got changed earlier. I skimmed the list of former employees, and one name jumped straight out at me. I hadn’t been mistaken about Simon Morley. He’d been a lab technician at Kerrchem, made redundant with golden handcuffs six months before. He’d been the one I hadn’t been able to contact because he’d moved. At least I knew where he was now. And I had a funny feeling that I knew just what he was doing in his overalls.
Chapter 15
I pulled up on the forecourt of the shops in Street Lane at five to seven in Bill’s Saab turbo convertible. One of the first rules of surveillance is to vary the vehicle you’re sitting around in. Luckily, when Bill had gone off to Australia, he’d left me with a set of keys for his house and the car. I’d left Shelley’s Rover in Bill’s garage, with a message on the office answering machine telling her to hang on to the coupé for the time being. I felt sure this was a hardship she’d be able to bear, always supposing she didn’t leap to the conclusion that the reason I wasn’t back with her Rover was that her beloved heap was in some garage being restored to its former glory.
It had been a toss-up whose house I was going to sit outside this morning. On the one hand, if I didn’t keep close tabs on Nicholas Turner, having the buckle bugged would have been a complete waste of time. On the other hand, Simon Morley’s little adventures in cleaning had already cost a man his life. I’d lain awake, tossing and turning to the point where Richard, who normally sleeps like a man in persistent vegetative state, had sat up in bed and demanded to know what was going on. He’d eventually persuaded me to talk the dilemma over with him, something I always used to do but had been avoiding since his involvement in the car fraud case caused us both so much grief.
“You’ve got to go after the fence,” he finally said.
“Why?”
“Because if you lose him this time, you’ll never get a second bite of the cherry. Sooner or later, someone’s goin
g to spot that your buckle isn’t just a fake but a bugged fake, and then you’re going to be on someone’s most wanted list. And if this Simon Morley really
I smacked his shoulder. “I’ve told you before about the people you hang out with.”
He grinned. “Only joking. You know I’m allergic to anything stronger than draw. Anyway, Brannigan, you should go for the fence.”
“You sure?” I asked, still doubtful.
“I’m sure.”
“And what about the ten grand?”
Richard shrugged. “Hang on to it for now. We all need walking-around money.”
“It’s a lot to be walking around with. Shouldn’t I be paying it back to the insurance company, or somebody?”
“They don’t know you’ve got it, they’re not going to miss it. Maybe you should just look on it as an early Christmas bonus for Mortensen and Brannigan.”
“I don’t know …”
“Trust me. I’m not a doctor,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and nuzzling the back of my neck. Instant gooseflesh. You can’t fight your gonads. I hadn’t even wanted to try. Michael who?
The Turner household came to life around half past seven. The curtains in the master bedroom opened, and I caught a glimpse of Nicholas in his dressing gown. This time I’d come fully equipped for surveillance. I had a video camera in the well of the passenger seat, cunningly hidden in a bag made of one-way fabric which allowed the camera to see out but prevented anyone seeing in. I had a pair of high-powered binoculars in my bag, and my Nikon with a long lens attached sitting on the passenger seat. And five hundred quid of walking-around money in the inside pocket of my jacket. I’d left the other nine and a half grand with Richard, who had strict instructions to pay it into a building society account which I hold in a false name for those odd bits and pieces of money that it’s sometimes advisable to lose for a while.
At quarter past eight, Mrs. Turner and her two daughters emerged, the girls in the same smart school uniform. The Audi drove off. Two hours later, the Audi came back. Mrs. Turner staggered indoors with enough Tesco carrier bags to stock a corner shop. Then nothing for two more hours. At a quarter to one, Mrs. T came out, got into the Audi and drove off. She came back at ten past two, when I was halfway through my Flying Pizza special. If something didn’t happen soon, I was either going to die of boredom or go home. Apart from anything else, Radio Four loses its marbles between three and four in the afternoon, and I didn’t think I could bear to listen to an hour of the opinions of those who are proof positive that care in the community isn’t working.
Half an hour later, the front door opened, and Nicholas Turner came out. He was carrying a briefcase and a suit carrier. He opened the garage, dumped the suit carrier in the boot and reversed out into the road. “Geronimo,” I muttered, starting my engine. Within seconds, the screen told me that he had the buckle with him. I eased out into the traffic and followed him back through the park.
The traffic was pretty much nose to tail as we came down the hill towards the city center so it wasn’t hard to stay in touch with the Mercedes. I kept a couple of cars between us, which meant I got snagged up a couple of times at red lights, but there wasn’t enough free road for him to make much headway. I realized pretty soon he was heading for the motorways, which took some of the pressure off. I caught up with him just before he hit the junction where he had to choose between the M621 towards Manchester and the M1 for the south and east. He ignored the first slip road and roared off down the M1. In the Saab, it was easy to keep pace with him, which was another good reason for having swapped the Rover. I kept about half a mile behind to begin with, since I didn’t want to lose him at the M62 junction. Sure enough, he turned off, heading east towards Hull.
We hammered down the motorway, the speedo never varying much either side of eighty-five. He’d obviously heard the same rumor I had about that being the speed cameras’ trigger point. When we hit Hull, he followed the signs for the ferry port. I followed, with sinking heart. At the port, he parked and went into
By the time I emerged, he’d disappeared. I ran to the car, and saw that the buckle was moving away from the ferry port. He was either going to dispose of it now, or it was going on the ferry with him. Either way, I needed to try and follow him. I drove off in the direction the receiver indicated, grabbing my phone as I went and punching in Richard’s number. The dashboard clock told me it was five past four. I prayed. He answered on the third ring. “Yo, Richard Barclay,” he said.
“I need a mega favor,” I said.
“Lovely to hear your voice too, Brannigan,” he said.
“It’s an emergency. I’m in Hull.”
“That sounds like an emergency to me.”
“I’ve got to be on the half past six ferry to Holland. My passport’s in the top drawer of my desk. Can you get it, and get here by then?”
“In my car? You’ve got to be kidding.”
I could have wept. He was right, of course. Even though it’s pretty souped up, his Volkswagen just couldn’t do the distance in the time. Then I remembered the coupé. “Shelley’s got the Gemini,” I told him. “I’ll get her to meet you outside the office in five minutes with it. Can you do it?”
“I’ll be there,” he promised.
I rang the office, one eye on the monitor, one eye on the road. I was probably the most dangerous thing on the streets of Hull. We seemed to be heading east, further down the Humber estuary. Shelley answered brightly.
“Don’t ask questions, it’s an emergency,” I said.
“You’ve been arrested,” she replied resignedly.
“I have not been arrested. I’m hot on the trail of a team of international art thieves. Some people would be proud to work with me.”
“OK, it’s an emergency. What’s it got to do with me?”
“Hang on, I think I’m losing someone …” We’d cleared the suburbs of Hull, and the receiver was registering a sharp change in
And the phone was squawking in my ear. “Sorry, Shelley. OK, what I need is for you to meet Richard downstairs in five minutes with the Gemini. He’ll leave you his car so you won’t be without wheels,” I added weakly.
“You expect me to drive that?”
“It’ll do wonders for your street cred,” I said, ending the call. I was in no mood for banter or argument. I put the car in gear and moved slowly down the lane, keeping an eye open for Turner’s car. The tarmac ended a few hundred yards later in the car park of a pub overlooking the wide estuary. There were only two cars apart from Turner’s Merc. There was no way I was going in there, even if he was offering the buckle to the highest bidder. With so few customers, I’d be painfully obvious. All I could do was head back to the main road and pray that Turner would still have the buckle with him.
I fretted for an hour, then the screen revealed signs of activity. The buckle was moving back towards me. Moments later, Turner’s car emerged from the side road and headed back into Hull. “There is a God,” I said, pulling out behind him. We got back to the ferry port at half past five. Turner joined the queue of cars waiting to board, but I stayed over by the booking office. The last thing I wanted was for him to clock me and the Saab at this stage in the game.
Richard skidded to a halt beside me at five to six. He gave me a thumbs-up sign as he got out. He picked up my emergency overnight bag from the passenger seat and came over to the Saab. He tossed the bag into the back and settled into my passenger seat. “Well done,” I said, leaning across to give him a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“You’ll have to stand on for any speeders I picked up,” he said. “It really is a flying machine, that coupé.”
“You brought the passport?”
Richard pulled out two passports from his inside pocket. Mine and his. “I thought I’d come along for the ride,” he said. “I’ve got
I shook my head. “No way. This isn’t a jaunt. It’s work. I’ve got enough to worry about without having to think about whether you’re having a nice time
. I really appreciate you doing this, but you’re not coming with me.”
Richard scowled. “I don’t suppose you know where this guy’s going?”
“I’ve no idea. But where he goes, I follow.”
“You might need some protective coloring,” he pointed out. “I’ve heard you say that sometimes there are situations where a woman on her own stands out where a couple don’t. I think I should come along. I could share the driving.”
“No. And no. And no again. You don’t expect me to interview spotty adolescent wannabe rock stars, and I don’t expect you to play detectives. Go home, Richard. Please?”
He sighed, looking mutinous. “All right,” he said, sounding exactly like his nine-year-old son Davy when I drag him off the computer and tell him ten is not an unreasonable bedtime. He flung open the door and got out, turning back to say, “Just don’t expect me to feed the cat.”
“I haven’t got a cat,” I said, grinning at his olive branch.
“You could have by the time you get back. Take care, Brannigan.”
I waved as I drove off, keeping an eye on him in my rear-view mirror. As I took my place in the slowly moving queue, I saw him get in the car and drive off. Half an hour later, I was standing in the stern of the ship, watching the quay recede inch by inch as we slowly moved away from the dock and out towards the choppy, steel gray waters of the North Sea.
I spent almost all of the trip closeted in my cabin with a spy thriller I’d found stuffed into the door pocket of Bill’s car. The only time I went out was for dinner, which comes included in the fare. I left it to the last possible moment, hoping Turner would have eaten and gone by then. I’d made the right decision; there was no sign of him in the restaurant, so I was able to enjoy my meal without having to worry about him clocking me. I was certain he wouldn’t
