Kickback

by Val McDermid

  'Made five times worse because you're a woman?' I asked.

  'Something like that.'

  'I can imagine. Plenty of that dumb insolence, literal interpretation of orders and no respect till they decide you've earned it.'

  Delia's twisted smile said it all. 'What we're doing is working with banks and other financial institutions on the kind of small-scale fraud that doesn't warrant the attentions of the Serious Fraud Office. Usually, it involves forgery or the kind of deception where people assume someone else's identity for the purposes of obtaining goods or cash.'

  'At the risk of sounding like the punters I meet at parties, that must be fascinating,' I said.

  She smiled. 'It can be very satisfying to put together the pieces of the jigsaw.'

  'Yes, you get a better class of villain in your line of work than your colleagues who get lumbered with the ram raiders and the drug dealers,' I said. 'For me, it's a little out of the usual run of things. I'm more accustomed to poking about in computers' memories than fronting people up.'

  Delia leaned back in her chair. 'Now, that really must be fascinating. No, I mean it. I'd love to have the time to learn more about computers. Mind if I smoke?' I shook my head. She took out a pack of Silk Cut and a Zippo lighter. As she lit up she said, 'Josh tells me you've got a problem with defaulting mortgagees. Maybe we could do each other a bit of good here. I might be able to shed some light for you and, frankly, if you can stand it up, I could really use the collar.'

  I liked Delia Prentice's candour. And she came vouched for by Josh, which in my book was the seal of professionalism. So I took a deep breath and said, This is off the record. Agreed?' I had no authority from Ted to involve the police. Added to which, as yet, I had no real evidence that a crime had been committed, only a lot of circumstantial coincidences.

  A waitress appeared and we ordered our breakfasts before Delia could reply. When she'd gone, she said, 'Off the record.'

  I gave Delia the bare bones. To her credit, she heard me out in silence. Most of the questions she asked afterwards were sensible and to the point, just as I'd expected. The banks have got their own investigators, you know,' she said at last. 'I'm surprised they haven't been digging around in this one themselves.'

  T don't know that they haven't been,' I said. 'But if they have, they've been going at it from a different angle. They're probably trying to prove Ted Barlow is bent, whereas I'm trying to establish the exact opposite.'

  She nodded. 'I don't mean to sound like I'm teaching you to suck eggs, but I suppose you have considered that your client might be at it?'

  'It was the first thing I thought of. But people who know him say he lacks the imagination or the inclination to be that bent. Besides, he's telling the truth about the missing conservatories. Even I can see they were installed originally, and if he was behind it himself, he wouldn't have to bother with that,' I explained.

  Delia considered while she lit another cigarette. Then she said, 'He might have been doing that to cover his own back when it all came on top. And who better than him to find a new home for the conservatories? After all, he could just recycle them. And he could simply be employing you to make it look good to the bank - and to us, if we're called in eventually by the bank's security crew.'

  I shook my head. 'It's not Ted. I know it's possible to find an explanation that points the finger at him. But the clincher for me is that he just doesn't match the descriptions I've got of the man who spends the night at these houses.'

  'It's an unusual one, Kate,' she said. 'Very unusual. But if it really is a scam that's being pulled by one or two people rather than a string of coincidences, then they must have cleared a lot of cash by now.'

  'Over half a million after expenses, by my estimates,' I said calmly. They probably can't believe their luck. If I was them, I'd be planning to pull out before the shit hit the fan.'

  'How do you know they haven't?' Delia asked.

  'I don't. I'm banking on the fact that they haven't. That way, the next time they pull one, I can get on their tail while the trail's still warm.' Much as I liked Delia, I wasn't about to tell her that I thought I'd spotted the next target. I was perfectly happy for her to think I was playing a waiting game. It would keep the Regional Crime Squad off my back. Besides, I didn't want to get into a discussion on the subject of illegal phone taps. I hate the sound of people in glass houses throwing stones.

  I scooped the last mouthful of scrambled egg on to a triangle of toast and managed to savour it, Delia being between cigarettes. 'Let me know how you get on. I'm really fascinated by the sound of this one. I'm sure we could help.' She took a card out of the jacket of her charcoal grey suit. 'And if they do seem to have done a runner, get in touch anyway. You never know, we might be able to put something together with what you've got.'

  'I appreciate that. Soon as I've something concrete, I'll call you. Josh, thanks for introducing us. It's the first time I've met someone you actually shut up for,' I said.

  'You don't deserve me, Kate,' he said sadly.

  Thank God for that. Now, if you'll both excuse me, I've got to run,' I said. I stood up and shook Delia Prentice's hand. 'I'll be in touch. Oh, and Josh? Thank Julia for that information she dug out for me.' I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  My guilty conscience over talking to DO Delia Prentice about Ted's problem gave me a severe prick when I walked into the office to find the conservatory builder and the lovestruck secretary with their heads together. Ted Barlow was perched on the edge of Shelley's desk, while she ignored her computer screen and stared instead into his eyes. Before I'd even got my duffel coat off, Ted was apologizing for bothering me and Shelley was twittering about interim reports and mobile phones. I invited Ted into my office and brought him as up to date as I dared. I didn't trust him entirely with full knowledge of my current surveillance. He may have been footing the bill, but he was far too transparent for me to feel comfortable with him knowing my every move. Besides, he was so obviously one of life's honest guys that he might be uncomfortable at the thought of me bending the law on his behalf.

  So I told him that I was making progress, and that I was close to working out how it all came together. He seemed satisfied with that. Maybe all he was looking for was some reassurance. When I emerged from my office a couple of minutes after he'd left me, he was still hanging round Shelley's desk looking nervous. I couldn't stand it, so I grabbed my coat and the mobile phone that had arrived that morning and headed for the door.

  First stop was the hired Fiesta with the receiving equipment. At first, when I checked the cassettes, my heart sank. Nothing seemed to have been recorded at all since I'd left it the previous evening. When I reset it, I must have made a mistake, I decided. Then I noticed that the first tape wasn't quite empty.

  I pulled it out of the machine and smacked it in the car cassette. There was the unmistakable sound of a door slamming, then a phone ringing, unanswered. I breathed a sigh of relief. Neither I nor the machine was faulty. It seemed the woman just hadn't come home. In case she or one of her neighbours was the noticing kind, I drove the Fiesta round the block and reparked it in an obviously different position. I didn't want to be in the embarrassing position of having the bomb squad called because some civic-minded nosy-parker thought the receiver on the parcel shelf was an IRA car bomb. It happened to Bill last year. Luckily for him, the receiver was switched off at the time. Luckily, because the offence is using the equipment, not possessing it, which is the kind of logic the law specializes in.

  I reckoned it still wasn't safe to go back to the office, so I decided to poke a stick into the hornets nest of Alexis's little problem and see what flew out. It was late morning when I reached Cheetham's office. His obliging secretary told me he was in a meeting, but if I cared to wait...

  I took the computer magazine I usually carry out of my handbag and settled down with an article about ram expansion kits. If I decided we needed something similar, the technique is to leave the magazine lying around the offic
e, open at the appropriate page, and wait for Mortensen the gadget king to fall upon it and embrace it as if it were his own idea. Never fails.

  Before I could reach a firm decision, the door to the inner office opened and Cheetham ushered out the woman I'd seen with him in Buxton. He had his arm round her in that familiar, casual way that people use with the kind of partners you sleep with rather than work with. When he saw me, he twitched and dropped his arm as if he'd been jabbed with a cattle prod. 'Miss Brannigan,' he said nervously.

  Hearing my name, the woman, who until then had been focused on Cheetham, switched her attention to me. She sized me up in an instant, from the top of my wavy auburn hair to the tips of my brown boots. She probably misjudged me, too. She wasn't to know that the reason I was wearing enough make-up to read the six o'clock news was that the bruises on my jaw and cheekbone had gone a fascinating shade of green.

  She looked like serious business, groomed to within an inch of artificiality. I hated her. Our mutual scrutiny was interrupted by Cheetham stammering, 'If you'd like to come through, Miss Brannigan?'

  I acknowledged them both with a nod and walked past them to his office. I didn't hear what the woman murmured in his ear after I passed, but I heard him say, 'It's all right, Nell. Look, I'll see you this afternoon, OK?'

  'It had better be,' I thought I caught as she swept off without so much as a smile for the secretary. You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat other people's office staff.

  I waited for Cheetham to return to his chair. I could see the effort it was taking for him to sit still. 'How can I help you?' he asked.

  'I just thought I'd drop by and give you a progress report,' I said. 'Our builder friend, T.R. Harris, seems not to exist. And neither does the solicitor whom you appear to have corresponded with.' I knew this for certain, since I'd checked out the list of qualified briefs in the Solicitors' Diary.

  Cheetham just sat and stared at me, those liquid dark eyes slightly narrowed. 'I don't understand,' he said, rather too late.

  'Well, it seems as if Harris used a false name, and made up a non-existent solicitor for the purpose of conning your clients out of their money. It was lucky that Miss Appleby happened to discover the land had already been sold, otherwise they'd all have lost a lot more money,' I tried. If he was straight, he'd be at great pains to point out to me that they couldn't have lost another shilling, since he, their diligent solicitor, would have discovered from the Land Registry that the land in question had already been sold, or was at least the subject of other inquiries.

  He said none of that. What he did say was how sorry he was that it had happened, but now I seemed to have cleared it all up, it was obvious that he had been taken for a ride as much as his clients.

  'Except that, unlike you, they're all out of pocket to the tune of five thousand pounds each,' I observed mildly. He didn't even blush.

  Cheetham got to his feet and said, 'I appreciate you letting me know all this,' he said.

  They might even have to take the matter to the Law Society. They have indemnity insurance to cover this sort of negligence and malpractice, don't they?'

  'But I haven't been negligent,' he protested weakly. 'I told you before, the searches came back clear. And the letters from Harris's solicitor assured me that although he'd had other inquiries, no one else was in a position to pursue a possible purchase at that point in time. How was I to know the letters were fakes?'

  'It's a pity you solicitors always have to put everything in writing,' I said. 'Just one phone call to the so-called Mr. Graves' office would have stopped this business stone dead.'

  'What do you mean?' he asked hesitantly.

  The number on the letterhead is the number of a pay phone in a pub in Ramsbottom. But I suppose you didn't know that either,' I said.

  He sat down again in a hurry. 'Of course I didn't,' he said. He was as convincing as a cabinet minister.

  There was one other thing,' I said. I'd rattled his cage. Now it was time for a bluff. 'When I was here the other day, I saw a guy come into your office after me. I had some other business in the building, and when I left, I saw him getting into his van. Some company called Renovations, or something like that? Looked a bit like your friend from Buxton, which, of course, is why I thought he was a builder.'

  Cheetham's eyes widened, though he kept the rest of his face under control. Clearly, he was one of those people whose eyes really are the windows of the soul. 'What about him?' he asked nervously.

  'Well, my boyfriend and I have just bought an old house out in Heaton Chapel, and it needs a lot of work doing, and I noticed the van had a Stockport number on the side. I wondered if they specialized in that kind of job and, if they did, maybe you could give me their number? I tried Yellow Pages, but I couldn't find them,' I said.

  Cheetham's mouth opened and closed. 'I ... er ... I don't think they'd be what you're looking for,' he gabbled. 'No, not for your problem at all. Old barns, that's what they do. Conversions, that sort of thing. Sorry, I... er ... Sorry.'

  Satisfied that I'd put the cat among the pigeons, as well as establishing Cheetham's guilt firmly in my own mind, I gave him a regretful smile and said, 'Oh well, when we do buy ourselves an old barn, I'll know where to come. Thanks for your time, Mr. Cheetham.'

  An hour later, I was lurking behind a fruit and veg stall in the indoor market at Stockport. The bright autumn sunlight poured in through the high windows of this recently restored cathedral to commerce. It illuminated a fascinating scene. Across the crowded aisles of the market, in a little cafe, Martin Cheetham was in earnest conversation with none other than Brian Lomax, alias T.R. Harris.

  Now I knew all I needed to know. All that remained was some proof.

  16

  I bought a couple of Russet apples and half a pound of grapes from the fruit and veg stall to keep my mouth occupied while I watched Cheetham and Lomax talk. Cheetham appeared to be both worried and angry, while Lomax seemed not so much tense as impatient. Cheetham was doing most of the talking, with Lomax nodding or shaking his head in response as he munched his way through a couple of barm cakes and a bowl of chips. Eventually, Lomax wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaned across the table and spoke earnestly to Cheetham.

  There are times when I wish I'd learned to lip read. Or to predict the future. That way, I'd have been able to plant a radio mike under the table in advance. As it was, I was stuck in my less than blissful ignorance. All I could do was keep on Martin Cheetham's tail as he left the cafe and pushed his way through the shopping crowds back to the supermarket car park where he'd left his black BMW. A black BMW which I'd last seen parked outside Brian Lomax's house on Saturday night.

  It wasn't hard to keep tabs on him. He drove back to Manchester like a man who's preoccupied with something other than the road and traffic conditions. Expecting him to go straight back to his office, I hung back a little as we neared the city centre, and that's when I almost lost him. At the bottom of Fennel Street, instead of turning left towards the Blackfriars car park where he'd been parked that morning, he turned right. I was three cars behind him, and I barely made it to the junction in time to see him turn left by the railway arches, heading for the East Lanes road. 'Oh, shit,' I groaned, stamping on the accelerator and skidding across four lanes of traffic in his wake. The Little Rascal really wasn't my vehicle of choice for a car chase. I only hoped the cacophony of horns wouldn't penetrate Cheetham's apparent reverie.

  He wasn't in sight when I got to the next set of lights. I had to gamble that he'd gone straight on, out past Salford Cathedral and the university, past the museum with its matchstick men Lowrys, as reproduced on a thousand middle-class walls. I stayed in the middle lane, on the alert for a glimpse of his gleaming black bodywork. I was beginning to sweat by the time I passed the grimy monolith of Salford Tech. It looked like I'd lost him. But I stuck with it, and two miles down the East Lanes I spotted him up ahead, turning left at the next lights.

  By the time I hit the lights
, they'd just turned red, something I chose to ignore, to the horror of the woman whose Volvo I cut across as I swept round the corner. I gave her a cheery wave, then put my foot down. I picked Cheetham up a quarter of a mile down the road. He turned right, then second left into Tamarind Grove, a quiet street of between-the-wars semis, not unlike Alexis and Chris's. The BMW swung into the drive of a trim example of the type about halfway down on the left.

  I drew up sharply in the little red van, keeping my engine running in case he was merely dropping something off or picking someone up. Cheetham got out of the car, locking it carefully behind him and setting the alarm, then let himself in the front door with a key. I drove slowly past the house and parked. I stationed myself by the rear door, keeping watch through the one-way glass of the window. I wasn't even sure why I was doing it. This had started off as a search for hard evidence of what Cheetham and Lomax had done to my friends. But I couldn't help feeling there was a lot more going on. What was Renew-Vations up to that sent Cheetham running down the road like a scalded cat to front up his partner in crime? And what was happening now? I have the kind of natural curiosity that hates to give in till the last stone is turned over and the last creepy-crawly firmly ground into the dirt. I kept coming back to the thought that whatever was going down here, Cheetham was the key. He knew I was poking my nose into his business. And Cheetham's partner in crime drove a white Transit van. Admittedly, the van in his drive at the weekend had been unscathed, but I figured it was a strong possibility that his business ran to more than one van.