Kickback

by Val McDermid

  It took a bit of consultation with bar staff and customers, but eventually, consensus was reached. 493 it was. 'I've been given this as the address for a bloke called Graves,” I told them. For some reason, the men at the bar convulsed with laughter.

  The barmaid pursed her lips and said, 'You've got to excuse them. They're not right in the head. The reason they're laughing is, the pub car park backs on to the churchyard. We're always having a to-do with the vicar, because idiots that know no better go and sit on the gravestones with their pints in the summer.'

  I was beginning to feel really pissed off with T.R. Harris and his merry dance. Wearily, I said, 'So there's no one here by the name of Graves? And you don't let rooms, or have any offices upstairs?'

  The barmaid shook her head. 'Sorry, love. Somebody's been having you on.'

  I forced a smile. 'No problem. I don't suppose any of you know a builder called Tom Harris? Bought some land up the road from here?'

  There were smiles and nods of recognition all around me. That's the fella that bought Harry Cartwright's twelve-acre field,' one said. The man from nowhere,' another added.

  'Why do you say that?' I asked.

  'Why are you asking?' he countered.

  I'm trying to get hold of him in connection with the land that he bought.'

  'He doesn't own it any more. He sold it last week,' the barmaid said. 'And we haven't seen him since.'

  'How long has he been coming in here?' I asked.

  'Since he first started negotiating with Harry about the land. Must be about three months ago, I'd guess,' one of the men said. 'Good company. Had some wild stories to tell.'

  'What kind of wild stories?' I asked.

  They all laughed uproariously again. Maybe I should audition for the Comedy Store. 'Not the kind you tell when there are ladies present,” one of them wheezed through his laughter.

  I couldn't believe I was putting myself through this out of friendship. Alexis was going to owe me a lifetime of favours after this. I took a deep breath and said, 'I don't suppose any of you knows where his yard is? Or where he lives?'

  They muttered among themselves and shook their heads dubiously. 'He never said,' one of them told me. 'He rented an office above the corner shop on Bolton High Road, maybe they'd know.'

  'I've tried there. No joy, I'm afraid. You lads are my last hope.' I batted my eyelashes, God help me. The appeal to chivalry often works with the kind of assholes who sit around in pubs telling each other mucky stories to compensate for the lack of anything remotely exciting in their own squalid little lives.

  Depressingly, it worked. Again, they went into a muttering huddle. 'You want to talk to Gary,' the spokesman eventually announced confidently.

  Not if he's anything like you lot, I thought. I smiled sweetly and said, 'Gary?'

  'Gary Adams,' he said in that irritated tone that men reserve for women they think are slow or stupid. 'Gary cleared the land for Tom Harris. When he bought it, half of it was copse, all overgrown with brambles and gorse between the trees. Gary's got all the equipment, see? He does all that kind of work round here.'

  I kept the smile nailed on. 'And where will I find Gary?' I said, almost without moving my lips.

  Watches were studied, frowns were exchanged. Exasperated, the barmaid said, 'He lives at 31 Montrose Bank. That's through the centre of the village, up the hill and third left. You'll probably find him in his garage, rebuilding that daft big American car of his.' I thanked her and left, managing to keep the smile in place for as long as the lads could see me. My face muscles felt like they'd just done a Jane Fonda work-out.

  As predicted, Gary was in the garage tacked on to a neat stone cottage. The up-and-over door was open, revealing a drop-head vintage Cadillac. The bonnet was up, and the man I took to be Gary Adams was leaning into the engine. As I approached, I could see him doing something terribly brutal-looking with a wrench the size of a wrestler's forearm. I cleared my throat and instructed the muscles to do the smile again. Reluctantly, they obeyed. Gary glanced up, surprised. He was in his mid-thirties, with a haircut that looked like it came right out of National Service.

  'Gary?' I said.

  He straightened up, placed the wrench lovingly on the engine block, and frowned. That's right. Who wants to know?'

  Time for another fairy story. 'My name's Brannigan. Kate Brannigan. I'm an architect. A friend of mine bought some land from Tom Harris, and she needs to get in touch with him about another deal. The lads at the Farmer's Arms reckoned you might know where I can find him.'

  Gary gave a knowing smile as he wiped his hands on his oily overalls. 'Owes you money, does he?'

  'Not exactly,” I said. 'But I need to speak to him. Why? Does he owe you?'

  Gary shook his head. 'I made sure of that. His kind, they're ten a penny. Ask you to do a job, you do it, you tell them what they owe, they ignore you. So, I made him pay up in cash. Half before, half after. Glad I did, an' all, looking at the way he's sunk without trace since he sold them plots on.'

  'What made you think he was dodgy?'

  Gary shrugged. 'I didn't know him, that's all. He wasn't from round here. And he obviously wasn't stopping, neither.'

  This was like drawing teeth. Sometimes I think I might have been better suited to a career in psychotherapy. The punters might not want to talk to you either, but at least you get to sit in a warm; comfy office while you're doing it. 'What makes you say that?' I asked.

  'When you're in business and you're planning to stop somewhere, you get a local bank account, don't you? Stands to reason,' he said triumphantly.

  'And Tom Harris didn't?'

  'I saw his chequebook. He was going to give me a cheque for the advance on the work, but I said no way, I wanted cash. But I got a good enough look at it to see that it wasn't a local bank that he had his account with.'

  I tried to hide the deep breath. 'Which bank was it?' I inquired, resisting the temptation to kick-box him to within an inch of his life.

  'Northshires Bank, in Buxton. That isn't even in Lancashire. And the account wasn't in his name, either. It was some business or other.' I opened my mouth and a smile twitched at the corner of Gary's mouth as he anticipated me. 'I didn't pay attention to the name. I just noticed that it wasn't Tom Harris.'

  Thanks, Gary,” I said. 'You’ve been a big help. I don't suppose you'd know anybody else who might know where I can get hold of Tom Harris?'

  'It's really important, is it?' he asked. I nodded. 'Harry Cartwright's the farmer who sold him the land. He might know.'

  'Where's his farm?' I asked.

  Gary shook his head with the half-smile of a man who's dealing with a crazy lady. 'How good are you with Dobermans? And if you get past them, he'll have his shotgun ready and waiting. He's not an easy man, Harry.' I must have looked like I was going to burst into tears. I imagine he thought they were tears of despair; they were really tears of frustration. Tell you what,' he said. 'I'll come with you. Give me a minute to get out of my overalls, and phone the old bugger to let him know we're coming. He's known me long enough to talk before he shoots.'

  I walked back to the car and turned the heater up full. I hate the country.

  8

  Within ten minutes of leaving Gary's, we were driving up an unmetalled track. I stopped at a five-barred gate festooned with barbed wire, and Gary jumped out to open it. When he closed it behind me, he sprinted for the car. He'd barely slammed the door behind him when a pair of huge Dobermans hurled themselves at the passenger side of the car, barking and slavering hysterically. Gary grinned, which convinced me he wasn't the full shilling. 'Bet you're glad you brought me along,' he said.

  I slammed the car into gear and continued up the track. Half a mile on, my headlights picked out a low stone building in the gathering rural gloom. The roof appeared to sag in the middle, and the window frames looked so rotten that I couldn't help thinking the first winter gales would have the glass halfway across the farmyard. I could tell it was a farmyard by the sm
ell of manure. I drove as close as I could to the door, but before I could cut the engine, an elderly man appeared in the doorway. As confidently predicted by Gary, he was brandishing an over-and-under double-barrelled shotgun. Just then, the dogs arrived and started a cacophony of barking that made my fillings hurt. I really love the country.

  'What now?' I demanded of Gary.

  The old man approached. He wore a greasy cardigan over a collarless shirt that might have started its life the colour of an oily rag, but I doubted it. He walked right up to the car and stared through the window, the gun barrels pointing ominously through the glass. My opinion of T.R. Harris's bottle had just gone up a hundred per cent. Having satisfied himself that my passenger really was Gary, Cartwright stepped back a few feet and whistled to the dogs. They dropped at his feet like logs.

  Gary said, 'If s OK, you can get out.' He opened his door and climbed out. Warily, I followed.

  I moved close enough to get a whiff of the old man. It was enough to make me pray we could conduct our business out in the farmyard. Cartwright said, 'Gary says you're after Tom Harris. What I did with him was all legal, all above-board.'

  'I know that, Mr.. Cartwright. I just need to speak to Tom, and no one seems to know where I can find him. I hoped maybe you would know.'

  He tucked his gun under one arm and fumbled in the deep pocket of his grimy corduroy trousers and produced a document which he waved under my nose. That's all I know,' he said.

  I reached for it, but he snatched it back. You can look but you mustn't touch,' he said, just like a five-year-old. I held my breath and moved close enough to read it. It was an agreement between Henry George Cartwright of Stubbleystall Farm and Thomas Richard Harris of 134 Bolton High Road, Ramsbottom. I didn't have to read any further. I had more bells ringing in my head than Oxford on May morning. I smiled politely, thanked Harry Cartwright and got back in my car. Looking bewildered, Gary folded himself in beside me and we shot back down the track again.

  Thomas Richard Harris. Tom, Dick and Harry. If Thomas Richard Harris was a straight name, I was Marie of Romania.

  By eleven on Friday morning, I was stir crazy. Shelley was thrilled that I was stymied on our two paying jobs, the conservatories and the pharmaceuticals, and she wasn't about to let me bunk off and follow the clues to Alexis's con man. I was trapped in an office with a woman who wanted me to do paperwork, and I had no excuse to get away. By ten, all my files were up to date. By eleven, my case notes were not only written but polished to the point where I could have joined a writers' group and read them out. At five past eleven, I rebelled. Clutching the Ted Barlow file, I sailed through the outer office, telling Shelley I was following a new lead. It led me all the way to the Cornerhouse coffee shop, where I browsed through the file as I sipped a cappuccino. As I ploughed through my interview notes yet again, it hit me. There was something I could do while I was waiting for my Monday morning appointment at the Land Registry.

  DKL Estates, the estate agents Diane Shipley had mentioned, was a shopfront opposite Chorlton Baths. DKL looked reasonably prosperous, but I realized almost immediately that there was a good reason for that. They specialized in renting, and in selling the kind of first-time-buyer properties that shift even at the bottom of a recession. There are always people desperate to climb on to the property ladder, not to mention the poor sods trading down. It looked to me as if they'd also got a significant number of ex-council houses on their books, which took a bit of courage. Their gamble seemed to have paid off in terms of customers, though. One woman walked in just ahead of me, but there were already a couple of other serious browsers. I joined them in their study of properties for sale.

  The woman I had followed in selected a couple of sets of details, then approached the young man behind the desk that sat at an angle to the room. He looked as if he should be in a classroom swotting for his GCSEs. I know they say you should worry when the policemen start looking younger, but estate agents? She asked in a low, cultivated voice if she might arrange to view both properties. I was surprised; she was wearing a knitted Italian suit that couldn't have cost less than three hundred pounds, her shoes looked like they'd come from Bally or Ravel, the handbag was a Tula, and I'd have put money on the mac being a four hundred pound Aquascutum. Put it another way, she didn't look like a terraced house in Whalley Range was her idea of a des. res. Maybe she was looking for a nice little investment.

  As I studied her, the lad behind the desk was phoning to fix her up with viewing appointments. I took in the grooming: the polished nails, the immaculately styled dark brown hair, the expert make-up that accentuated her dark eyes. I had to admire her style, even though it's one I've no desire to aspire to.

  I'd stared too long, however. The woman must have felt my eyes on her, for she turned her head sharply and caught my gaze. Her eyes seemed to open wider and her eyebrows climbed. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the agency. I was gobsmacked. I didn't know her from a hole in the ground, but she clearly knew me. Or maybe I should say, she clearly knew who I was.

  The lad looked up from his pad and realized his customer was halfway out of the door. 'Madam,' he wailed. 'Madam, if you'll just give me a minute ...' She ignored him and kept walking without a backward glance.

  'How bizarre,' I said, approaching the desk. 'Do you always have that effect on women?'

  'It takes all sorts,' he said with a cynical resignation that would have been depressing in a man ten years his senior. 'At least she took the details with her. If she wants to view, she can always phone. Maybe she remembered an appointment.'

  I agreed. Privately, I was dredging my memory of recent cases, trying to see if I could place the elegant brunette. I gave up after a few seconds when the lad asked if he could help me. 'I'd like to talk to whoever's in charge,' I said.

  He smiled. 'Can you tell me what it's in connection with? I might be able to help.'

  I took a business card out of my wallet, the one that says Mortensen and Brannigan: Security Consultants. 'I don't mean to appear rude, but it's a confidential matter,' I told him.

  He looked slightly disconcerted, which made me wonder what little scam DKL were up to. He pushed his chair back and said, 'If you'd care to wait a moment?' as he reversed across the room and through a door in the far corner. He emerged less than a minute later, looking slightly shaken. 'If you'd care to go through, Mrs.. Lieberman will see you now.'

  I flashed him a quick, reassuring smile, then opened the door. As I entered the back office, a woman I put in her late forties rose from a typist's chair behind an L-shaped desk. On one leg of the desk, an Apple Mac stood, its monitor showing a full page mock-up of some house details. Mrs.. Lieberman extended a well-manicured hand displaying a few grands' worth of gold, sapphires and diamonds. 'Miss Brannigan? I'm Rachel Lieberman. Do sit down. How may I help you?' I instantly realized who had taught the young man in the front office his style.

  I gave her the once-over as I settled into a comfortable chair. Linen suit over a soft sueded silk blouse. Her brown hair, with the odd thread of silver, was swept up into a cottage loaf above a sharp-featured face that was just beginning to blur around the jawline. Her brown eyes looked shrewd, emphasized by the slight wrinkles that appeared as she studied me right back. 'It's to do with a matter I'm looking into on behalf of a client. I'm sorry to arrive without an appointment, but I was in the area, so I thought I'd drop by on the off-chance of catching you,' I started. She looked as if she didn't believe a word of it, a smile twitching at one corner of her mouth. 'I wonder if you can clear something up for me. I realise that your main office is in Warrington, but are you actually the owner of 3KL, or do you manage this branch?'

  'I own the company, Miss Brannigan.' Her voice had had most of the northern accent polished off. 'I have done since my husband died three years ago. Daniel Kohn Lieberman, hence he name of the company. What, if anything, does that have to lo with your client?'

  'Nothing, Mrs.. Lieberman, except that I shouldn't
imagine a manager would have the authority to release the information 'm after. Mind you, a mere employee probably wouldn't grasp he importance of it, either.' I tried that on for size. I hoped she was a woman who'd respond to flattery. If not, that left me with nothing but threats, and I hate to threaten anyone in daylight hours. It takes so much more energy.

  'And what exactly is this information?' she asked, leaning forward in her chair and fiddling with a gold pen.

  'I'd like to level with you, if I may. My company specializes n white-collar crime, and I'm investigating a serious fraud. We’re looking at a six-figure rip-off here, probably more like a trillion. I suspect that the perpetrators may be using properties in a short-term lease for their particular scheme.' Mrs.. Lieberman was listening, her head cocked on one side. So far, no reaction was making it through to the surface. I soldiered on.

  'One of the addresses I'm looking at was rented through your agency. What I'm trying to do here is to find a common factor.