Kickback

by Val McDermid

  I swallowed. 'Right. Em, sorry about that.'

  She grinned. "That's not why I told you. I find that if I don't, people only concentrate on half of what I'm saying because they're so busy wondering about my disability. I prefer a hundred per cent attention. Now, how can I help you?'

  I trotted out the old familiar questions. But this time, I got some proper answers. 'When I'm working, I tend to do a fair bit of staring out of the window. And when I see people in the court, I must confess I watch them. I look at the way their bodies move, the shapes they make. It helps when I'm drawing action. So, yes, I noticed quite a lot about Rachel.'

  'Can you describe her?'

  Diane wheeled herself across to a set of map drawers. 'I can do better than that,' she said, opening one and taking out an A4 file. She shuffled through the sheets of paper inside, extracted a couple and held them out to me. Curious, I took them from her. They were a series of drawings of a head, some quite detailed, others little more than a quick cartoon of a few lines. They captured a woman with small, neat features, sharp chin, face wider across the eyes. Her hair was shoulder-length, wavy. 'It was streaked,' Diane said, following my eyes. T wondered a couple of times if it might be a wig. It always looked the same. Never looked like she'd just been to the hairdresser. If it was a wig, though, it was a good one. You couldn't tell, not even face to face.'

  'How well did you know her?' I asked.

  'At first, not at all. She didn't spend that much time here. It was May when she moved in, and really, she was only here perhaps three or four nights a week, Monday to Friday. She was never here at weekends. Then, one evening in June, she came over. It was about half past nine, I'd guess. She said she had a gas leak and she was waiting for the emergency engineers. She told me she was nervous of staying in, especially since they had told her not to turn any lights on. So I invited her in and gave her a drink. White wine. I had a bottle open already'

  I loved it. A witness who could tell me what she'd had to drink four months before. 'And did she tell you anything about herself?'

  'Yes and no. She told me her name, and I remarked on the coincidence. She said yes, she had noticed when she exchanged contracts to buy the house that she had the same name as the vendors, but she'd got used to that kind of coincidence with a name like Brown. I was a little surprised, because I had no idea that Rowena and Derek had actually sold the house.'

  I had that feeling you get when you walk into a theatre halfway through the first act of a new play. What she was saying made perfect sense, but it was meaningless unless you'd seen the first twenty minutes. 'I'm sorry, you're going to have to run that past me a little more slowly. I mean, surely you realized they'd sold the house when they stopped living there and a new person moved in?'

  It was her turn to give me the baffled look. 'But Derek and Ro haven't lived in the house for four years. Derek is an engineer in the oil industry, and he was away two weeks in four, so Ro and I got to be really good friends. Then, four years ago, Derek was offered a five-year contract in Mexico with a company house thrown in. So they decided to rent out their house over here on a series of short-term lets. When Rachel moved in, I thought she was just another tenant till she told me otherwise.'

  'But surely you must have realized the house was up for sale? I mean, even if there wasn't an estate agent's board up, you can't have missed them showing people round,' I remarked.

  'Funny you should say that. It's exactly what I thought. But Rachel told me that she'd seen it advertised in the Evening Chronicle, and that she'd viewed it the next day. Perhaps I was out shopping, or she came after dark one evening when I wasn't working. Anyway, I saw no reason to doubt what she was telling me. Why lie about it, for heaven's sake? It's not as if renting a house is shameful!' A laugh bubbled up in Diane's throat.

  'Was she on her own, or was she living with someone?' I asked.

  'She had a boyfriend. But he was never there unless she was. And he wasn't always there even if she was. I tended to see him leave, rather than arrive, but a couple of times, I saw him pay off a taxi around eleven o'clock at night.'

  'Did he leave with Rachel in the mornings?' I couldn't see how this all fitted together, but I was determined to make the most of a co-operative witness.

  Diane didn't even pause for thought. 'They left together. That's why I don't have any drawings of him. She was always between me and him, and he always got in the passenger side of the car, so I never really got a clear view of him. He was stylish, though. Even at a distance I could see he dressed well. He even wore a Panama hat on sunny mornings. Can you believe it, a Panama hat in Urmston?'

  Like cordon bleu in a motorway service station, it was a hard one to get my head round. 'So tell me about the conservatory.'

  This time she did take a moment to think. 'It must have been towards the end of July,' she said slowly but without hesitation. 'I was away on holiday from the first to the fifteenth of August. The conservatory went up a couple of days before I left. Then, when I came back from Italy, they'd all gone. The conservatory, Rachel Brown and her boyfriend. Six weeks ago, a new batch of tenants arrived. But I still don't know if Rachel has let the house, or indeed if Rachel ever bought it in the first place. All I know is that the chaps in there now rented it through the same agency that Derek and Ro used, DKL Estates. They've got an office in Stretford, but I think their head office is in Warrington.'

  I was impressed. 'You're very well informed,' I said.

  'It's my legs that don't work, not my brain. I like to make sure it stays that way. Some people call me nosy. I prefer to think of it as a healthy curiosity. What are you, anyway? Some kind of bailiff? And don't give me that stuff about being a representative of the conservatory company. You're far too smart for that. Besides, there's obviously been something very odd going on there. You're not just following up who you've sold conservatories to.'

  I could have carried on bluffing, but I couldn't see the point. Diane deserved some kind of quid pro quo. 'I'm a private investigator,” I said. 'My partner and I investigate white-collar crime.'

  'And this is the case of the missing conservatories, eh? Wonderful! You have made my week, Kate Brannigan.'

  As I drove off towards Trafford Park, I began to suspect that Diane Shipley might just have made mine.

  Brian Chalmers of PharmAce was less than thrilled when I told him the results of my work both inside and outside his factory and warehouse. He was furious with himself for employing a senior lab technician whose loyalty lay to his bank account rather than his boss. Unfortunately, because of my cock-up with the surveillance film, he didn't have any evidence other than my word, which wasn't enough for him to drag the guy into his office and fire him on the spot. So, since he had to take his anger out on someone, I got the lab technician's kicking. And because the client is always right (at least while he's actually in the room) I had to bite the bullet and stand on for the bollocking.

  I let him rant for a good ten minutes, then offered to repeat the surveillance exercise over the weekend at a reduced rate. That took the wind out of his sails, as it was meant to. Unfortunately, as I left Chalmers' office, I passed one of the technicians I had dealt with during my short spell working undercover at PharmAce but, although he looked at me as if he ought to know me, he passed by without greeting me. Looked like I'd been lucky. The phenomenon of not recognizing people out of context had worked in my favour. After all, what would a temporary stock clerk be doing in the managing director's office, all suited up?

  It was just before three when I pulled up outside the Thai boxing gym. My head felt like it was full of cogs and wheels all spinning out of sync, trying to assimilate everything that Diane Shipley had told me and make it fit what I'd been told at the other houses. None of it really made any sense so far. I know from bitter experience that when my mind is churning and fizzing, there's nothing better than some hard physical exercise. Which for me these days means Thai kick-boxing.

  It started off as purely utilitarian. My frie
nd Dennis the burglar pointed out to me that I needed self-defence skills. He wasn't so much thinking about the job I do as the neighbourhood 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 toddling round the ring throwing kicks at people twice his size, and causing them a lot of grief.

  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.

  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 Anne's, 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 couple of grey hairs in among the auburn. Some hair colours go grey gracefully, but auburn ain't one of them. So far, there are few enough to pull out, but I suspect it won't be long before I have to hit the henna, like my mother before me. Muttering under my breath, I chose a pair of russet trousers, a cream polo-neck angora and lambswool jumper and a tweedy jacket. Now the nights were drawing in, it was time for my favourite winter footwear, my dark tan cowboy boots that might have seen better days but fit like a pair of gloves. Just the thing for a trip to the horrid, nasty, windy, wet, dark countryside. If you have to abandon the city, you might at least be dressed for it. Remembering the lack of street lights out there, I slipped a small torch in my bag.

  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. T 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, too. I bought a pound of Cox's Orange Pippins to stave off the hunger pains and hit the road.

  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 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 unrivalled choice of fizzy keg beers that all taste the same. There must have been ge
tting 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 again, love?' she asked.

  I nodded, and as she poured, I said, 'I'm a bit confused. Is this 493 Moor Lane?'