by Val McDermid
The thing is, I'm beginning to think the renting of the houses is a key factor in the way the fraud is organized, and I hoped that if I gave you the addresses of the other houses I suspect have been involved, then you could check for me and see if they are on your books.' I paused. I wanted some feedback. I'd never have made a politician.
Mrs. Lieberman straightened up in her chair and drew her lower lip under her teeth. 'And that's all you want to know? Whether or not they're on my books?'
'Not quite all, I'm afraid. Whether they are now or have ever been on your books is the first step. Once we've established that, I want to ask you the names of the owners.'
She shook her head. 'Out of the question. I'm sure you'll appreciate that. We're looking at very confidential matters here. There are only a few agencies that specialize in rental properties in this area, and we are by far the biggest. I act as agent for almost three hundred rental properties, the bulk of them on short-term leases. So you can imagine how important it is that my clients know they can trust me. I can't possibly start giving you their names. And I can't believe you really expected me to. I'm sure you don't release information like that about your clients.'
'Touche. But surely you can tell me if a particular property is on your books? Then when you call up the details on your screen, you might notice a pattern emerging.'
'What sort of a pattern did you have in mind, Miss Brannigan?'
I sighed. That's what I don't know, Mrs.. Lieberman. So far, all I have to go on is that I think most of the addresses involved in this scam have been rented. In one case that I'm sure about, I know that the couple who rented the house shared the surname of the couple who actually owned it.'
Rachel Lieberman leaned back in her chair and gave me the once-over again. I felt like a newly discovered species of plant -strange, exotic and possibly poisonous. After what seemed to me to be a very long time, she nodded to herself, as if satisfied.
'I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Brannigan. If you give me the addresses you're interested in, I'll look through my records and see what I can come up with. Frankly, I have to say, I think it'll be a waste of time, but then I wasn't doing anything this evening anyway. I'll call you and let you know. Will Monday morning do, or would you prefer me to ring you at home over the weekend?'
I grinned. Deep down, Mrs.. Lieberman was a woman after my own heart.
I spent the afternoon with Ted Barlow, doing the boring stuff of checking back through all his records, making notes of ex-salesmen who'd been sacked, and learning exactly how a conservatory is installed. I glanced at the dashboard clock as I got back behind the wheel of my Nova. Just after seven. I figured I'd be quicker picking up the motorway than going home by the more direct crosstown route. A few minutes later, I was doing eighty in the middle lane, the Pet Shop Boys blasting out of all four speakers. The huge arc of Barton Bridge glittered against the sky, sweeping the motorway over the dark ribbon of the Manchester Ship Canal. As the bridge approached, I moved over to the inside lane, positioning myself to change motorways at the exit on the far side. I was singing 'Where the streets have no name' at full belt when I automatically registered a white Ford Transit coming up outside me in the middle lane.
I paid no attention to the van as it drew level then slightly ahead. Then, suddenly, his nose was turning in front of me. My brain tripped into slow motion. Everything seemed to last forever. All I could see out of the side of my car was the white side of the van, closing in on me fast. I could see the bottom edge of some logo or sign, but not enough to identify any of the letters. I could hear screaming, then I realized it was my own voice.
The nightmare was happening. The van swiped into me, crushing the door of my car against my right side. At the same time, the car skidded sideways into the crash barrier. I could hear the scream of metal on metal, I could feel the rise in temperature from the friction heat, I could see the barrier buckle, I could hear myself sobbing 'Don't break, bastard thing, don't break!'
The front of my car seemed to be sandwiched between the struts of the crash barrier. I was tilted forward at a crazy angle. Below me, I could see the lights twinkling on the black water of the Ship Canal. The cassette player was silent. So was the engine. All I could hear was the creaking of the stressed metal of the crash barrier. I tried to open the driver's door, but my right arm was clamped in place by the crushed door. I tried to wriggle round to open it with my left arm, but it was no use. I was trapped. I was hanging in space, a hundred feet above the empty depths of the canal. And the Ford Transit was long gone.
9
I came to a very important decision sitting in a cubicle in the casualty department of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Time for a yuppie phone. I mean, have you been in a casualty department lately? Because I was a road traffic accident, I was whizzed straight through the waiting area on a trolley and deposited in a cubicle. Not that that meant I was going to be attended to any more quickly, oh no. I realized pretty soon I was supposed to regard this as my very own personal waiting room. And me not even a private patient!
I stuck my head out of the curtains after about ten minutes and asked a passing nurse where I could find a phone. She barked back at me, 'Stay where you are, doctor will be with you as soon as she can.' I sometimes wonder if the words that people hear are the same ones that come out of my mouth.
I tried again a few minutes later. Different nurse. 'Excuse me, I was supposed to be meeting someone before I had this accident, and he'll be worried.' Not bloody likely, I thought. Not while we're in the same calendar month. 'I really need to phone him,' I pleaded. I didn't want sympathy, nor to allay his non-existent worries. I simply didn't feel up to walking the half-mile home or coping with a taxi. Yes, all right, I admit it, I was shaken up. To hell with the tough guy private eye image. I was trembling, my body felt like a 5' 3" bruise, and I just wanted to pull the covers over my head.
The second nurse had clearly graduated from the same charm school. 'Doctor is very busy. She doesn't have time to wait for you to come back from the phone.'
'But doctor isn't here,' I said. 'I'm not convinced that doctor is even in this hospital.'
'Please wait in the cubicle,' she ordered as she swept off. That was when I realized that my resistance to a mobile phone was a classic case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. Never mind that they always ring at the least convenient moment. Never mind that even the lightest ones are heavy enough to turn your handbag into an offensive weapon or wreck the line of your jacket. At least they can summon knights in shining armour. I'll rephrase that. At least they can summon rock journalists with customized hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertibles.
They let me at a phone about an hour and a half later, when they'd finally got round to examining me, X-raying me and prodding all the most painful bits. The doctor informed me that I had deep bruising to my spine, ribs, right arm, and right leg, and some superficial cuts to my right hand, where the starburst from the driver's window had landed. Oh, and shock, of course. They gave me some pain killers and told me I'd be fine in a few days.
I went through to the waiting room, hoping Richard wouldn't be long. A uniformed constable walked over and sat down beside me. 'Miss Brannigan?' he said.
'That's right.' I was beyond surprise. The pain killers had started to work.
'It's about the accident. A few questions, I'm afraid.'
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That was my first mistake. My ribs had decided to go off duty for the night and I ended up doubled over in a gasping cough. Of course, that was precisely the moment Richard chose to arrive. The first I knew of it was the yell. 'Oi, you, leave her alone! Jesus, don't you think she's been through enough tonight?' Then he was crouched in front of me, gazing up into my eyes, genuine fear and concern in his face. 'Brannigan,' he murmured. 'You're not fit to be let out on your own, you know that?'
If I hadn't feared it would kill me, I'd have laughed. This, from the man who gets to the corner shop and forgets what he went out for? A
ll of a sudden, I felt very emotional. Must have been the combination of the shock and the drugs. I felt a hot tear trickle down my nose. 'Thanks for coming,' I said in a shaky voice.
Richard patted my shoulder softly, then straightened up. 'Can't you see she's in a state?' he demanded. I twisted my head round to look at the constable, a young lad who was scarlet with embarrassment. The rest of the waiting room were avidly following the drama, momentarily forgetting their own pain.
'I'm sorry, sir,' the cop mumbled. 'But I need to get some details of the accident from Miss Brannigan. So we can take appropriate action.'
Richard appeared to relax slightly. Uh-oh, I thought. 'And you can't wait till morning? You have to harass an innocent woman? What's your problem, pal? Got no real criminals out there in the naked city tonight?'
The constable looked hunted. His eyes flickered round the room, desperately seeking a Tardis. I took pity. 'Richard, leave it. Just take me home, please. If the constable needs some details, he can follow us there.'
Richard shrugged. 'OK, Brannigan. Let's roll.'
We were halfway to the door when the cop caught up with us. 'Em, excuse me, I don't actually have your address.'
Richard said 'Four', I said 'Two' then we chorused 'Coverley Close'. The copper looked completely bemused.
'Em, can I ask you to take me with you, sir? I'm afraid I haven't any transport here.' The poor lad looked mortified. He looked even more mortified folded into the back seat {of Richard's Beetle, helmet on his knees.
By the time I had dragged my weary body up the path, I was seriously considering a Jacuzzi as well as a mobile phone. I certainly wasn't in the mood for a police interview. But I wanted to get it over with.
We got name, address, date of birth and occupation (security consultant) out of the way while Richard brewed up. The constable looked utterly bewildered when Richard dumped the tray on my coffee table, announced that I was out of milk and wandered off into the conservatory. As Richard came back clutching half a bottle of milk, I put the young copper out of his misery.
The conservatory runs across the back of both houses,' I explained. 'That way, we don't get under each other's feet.'
'She means she gets out of washing my dishes and my socks,' Richard said, settling down on the couch beside me. I winced as he leaned into me, and he pulled away quickly. 'Sorry, Brannigan,' he added, stroking my good arm.
I outlined what had happened on Barton Bridge. I have to admit it was satisfying to see both Richard and the copper turn pale as I gave them the details. 'And then the fire brigade arrived and cut me free. Just about the time I should have been eating my first crispy prawn wonton,' I added, for Richard's benefit.
The constable cleared his throat. 'Did you see the driver of the van at all, miss?'
'No. I wasn't paying attention till it was too late. Far as I was concerned, it was just a van overtaking me.'
'And did the van have any identification?'
'There was something, but I couldn't see what. It was higher than the top of my window. I could just catch the bottom couple of inches. And I didn't get his number, either. I was too occupied with the thought of plunging into the Ship Canal. I mean, have you seen the state of the water in there?'
The constable looked even greener. He took a deep breath. 'And was it your impression that this was a deliberate attempt to run you off the road?'
The $64,000 question. I tried to look innocent. It wasn't that I felt like being a hero and sorting it all out myself. I just couldn't cope with a long interrogation right then. Besides, that would mean giving them the kind of confidential client information that we're supposed to guard with our lives, and I couldn't do that without consulting Bill. 'Officer, I can't imagine why anyone would want to do that,' I said. 'I mean, this is Manchester, not LA. I suppose I was in the guy's blind spot. If he was tired, or he'd had a few too many on the way home from work, he probably didn't even register I was there. Then when he hit me, he panicked, especially if he'd had a drink. I don't think it's anything more sinister than that.'
He fell for it. 'Right.' He closed his notebook and got to his feet, replacing his helmet. 'I'm really sorry to have bothered you when you weren't feeling too good. But we want to catch this joker, and we had to see what you could tell us that might help.”
That's all right, officer. We all have our jobs to do,' I said sweetly. Richard looked as if he was going to puke. 'See the nice officer out, Richard, would you?'
Richard returned. 'We all have our jobs to do,' he mimicked. 'Dear God, Brannigan, where do you dig that shit up from? OK, you fooled the sheriff, but you can't fool the Lone Ranger. What really went down there tonight?'
'Wonderful,' I muttered. 'The feds aren't allowed to interrogate Tonto, oh God no. But you get to ask all the questions you want, huh?'
He smiled and shrugged. 'I love you. I'm entitled.'
'If you really loved me, you'd run me a bath.” I told him. 'Then I'll tell you all about it.'
Ten minutes later, I was soaking in the luxuriant bubbles of Van Cleef & Arpel's First. When I say luxuriant, I mean it. Richard has a heavy hand with the bubble bath. I reckoned there was at least a fiver's worth of foam bath surrounding me. I was decent enough to have starred in a forties Hollywood extravaganza.
Richard sat on the closed toilet lid, smoking a joint that smelled heavily loaded to me. His glasses had steamed up, so he'd shoved them up on his head like flying goggles. His hazel eyes peered short-sightedly at me. 'So, Brannigan. What really happened out there tonight?' he asked the mirror above my head.
'Somebody was either trying to frighten me off or see me off.' There wasn't any point in dressing it up.
'Shit,' Richard breathed. 'Do you know who?'
'I couldn't swear it in a court of law, but I've got a good idea. I've just turned over a fraud at a pharmaceutical company running into a hundred grand or so. They use white Ford Transits with a logo quite high up on the side. I think that probably covers it, don't you?' I stretched gingerly, then wished I hadn't. The next few days were not going to be fun.
'So what are you going to do about it?' Richard asked. I'll say this for him: he doesn't come on like macho man where my work is concerned. He doesn't like the fact that I have to take risks, but he generally keeps his mouth shut on the subject.
Tomorrow I'm going to get one of our leg men to go over there and take a look at their rolling stock. And I'm going to get him to keep the place under surveillance until we get the pics we need. And you, my sweet darling, are going to take me for a day out in Buxton.'
'Buxton? What's in Buxton?'
'Lots of lovely things. You'll like it. But right now, what I'm going to do is he in this bath till the hot water runs out, then I'm going to crawl into bed.'
'Fair enough. D'you want supper in bed? If you do, I'll nip out for a Chinese.'
The words were poetry to my ears. I wasn't convinced that I could handle anything as complicated as chopsticks, but there was only Richard to see. And if he ever threatened to tell, I was sure I could find something to blackmail him into silence with. After all, I know he's got a Barry Manilow CD.
I woke in the same position I'd gone to sleep in. When I tried to move, I understood why. Inch by agonizing inch, I got myself out of bed and on to my feet. Making it to the bathroom was hell on legs. I'd just made it back to the hall when Richard appeared at the other end, hair awry, duvet trailing behind him. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, muttered 'You OK?' and reached for his glasses. When he'd put them on and looked at me, he couldn't stifle a snort of laughter. 'I'm sorry,' he gasped. 'I really am. But you look like Half Man, Half Biscuit. One side's flesh coloured, the other side's all brown and purple. Wild!'
I looked down. He was right. At least he'd found it funny rather than repulsive. 'You really know how to make a woman feel special,' I muttered. It was kind of him to have slept on my sofa rather than going back to his own house. I was about to thank him when I saw the havoc he'd managed to wreak in my kitche
n with one Chinese takeaway. It looked like the entire People's Army had marched through on their stomachs. I didn't have the energy or the mobility to do anything about it, so I tried to blank it while I poured a cup of coffee from yesterday's jug and waited for the microwave to do its magic.
By the time I'd got my first cup down, Richard was back, showered and shaved. I was just beginning to realize how much my accident had frightened and upset him. He knows how much I hate fuss, so he was trying desperately to disguise the fact that he was running round like a mother hen. I know it's disaster for the image, but I was touched, I have to admit it.
'What's the plan for today, then?' he asked. 'You still want to go to Buxton?'
'How are you fixed?' I asked.
'I can be free. Couple of calls to make, is all.'
'Can you drive me round to the Turkish? And pick me up an hour later?'
The Turkish is bliss. It's part of the Hathersage Road Public Baths, a magnificent Victorian edifice about ten minutes walk from my flat. If walking's your thing. Because it's owned by the city council, there's never been any money to gut it and refurbish it, so it's still filled with the glories of its Victorian heyday. The original green, yellow and blue tiles adorn the walls. They still have the old-fashioned wrap-round showers: as well as water coming at you from above, hot water hits you from the pipes that surround you on three sides as well. The only concession to the last decade of the twentieth century is the plastic loungers that complement the original marble benches in the steam room. Like I say, it's always bliss. But that particular Saturday morning was more blissful than most.
