Kick Back (24 page)

“Sure, I'll busk it. But listen, Jack, if the bank's being difficult, maybe we should pack it in before it starts getting dangerous,” the woman said.

“Look, Liz, there's no way they could trace it back to us. We've covered our tracks perfectly. I agree, we should quit while we're ahead. But we've already got the next two up and running. Let's see them through, then we'll take a break, OK? Go off to the sun and spend some of the loot?” Jack said reassuringly. If I'd have been her, I'd probably have fallen for it too. He had the real salesman's voice, all honey and reassurance. If he'd become a surgeon, he'd have had sacks of mail every Christmas from adoring patients.

“OK. Are you coming back here tonight?” she asked.

“How could I stay away?” he parried.

“Then we'll talk about it later.” Whatever else she was going to say was cut off by the return of Ted.

“If you'll just give me a minute with the old pocket calculator, I'll give you a price on the unit you'd decided on,” Ted said. The presumptive close.

The price Ted quoted made my eyes cross. Of course, Liz/Mary didn't turn a hair. “I see,” she said.

“Normally, we could offer you our own financial package, sponsored by one of the major clearing banks,” Jack said. “Unfortunately, we at Colonial Conservatories are the victims of our own success, and we have surpassed our target figures for this quarter. As a result, the finance company aren't in a position to supply any more cash to our customers, because of course they have limits themselves and, unlike us, they have people looking over their shoulders to make sure they don't exceed those limits. But what I would suggest is that you consult a mortgage broker and arrange to remortgage for an amount that will cover the installation of your conservatory,” he added persuasively. “It's the most effective way of utilizing the equity you have tied up in your home.”

“What about a second mortgage? Wouldn't that do just as well?” Liz/Mary asked.

Ted cleared his throat. “I think you'll find, Mrs. Wright, that most lenders prefer a remortgage, especially bearing in mind that our house prices up here in the North West have started dropping a tad. You see, if there were to be any problems in the future and the house had to be sold, sometimes it happens that there isn't enough money left in the pot for the lender of the second mortgage after the first lender has been paid off, if you see what I mean. And then the holder of the second charge doesn't have any way of getting his money back, if you follow me. And lenders are very keen on knowing they could get their cash back if push comes to shove, so they mostly prefer you to get a remortgage that pays off the first mortgage and leaves you with a few bob left over.” I couldn't see Ted getting a job presenting
The Money Program
, but he'd put it clearly enough. What a pity he'd wasted it on a pair of crooks who'd forgotten more than he ever knew about property loans and how to exploit them.

“So what happens now?” the woman asked.

“Well, you have to talk to a mortgage broker and arrange this remortgage. And of course, if you need any advice filling in the forms, don't hesitate to call me. I could fill these things in in my sleep. Then, as soon as you get confirmation of the remortgage, let us know and we'll have your conservatory installed within the week,” Jack said confidently.

“As quickly as that? Oh, that's wonderful! It'll be in when my husband comes home for Christmas,” she exclaimed. Shame, really. She could have been earning an honest living treading the boards.

“No problem,” Jack said.

Ten minutes later, Jack and Ted were walking back to the car, slapping each other on the back. Poor sod, I thought. I wasn't relishing the revelation that the person responsible for the wrecking of his business was his good buddy Jack. The whole thing had taken just over an hour. I reckoned that in a dozen of those hours spread over the last year, Liz and Jack must have cleared the best part of half a million quid. It was gobsmacking. The most gobsmacking thing about it was how simple it all was. I still had a few loose ends to tie up, but I had a pretty clear picture now of how they had scammed their way to a fortune.

Since Jack had promised he'd be back later, I decided to stay put. It was a freezing cold night, frost forming on the roofs of the parked cars, and my feet were like ice. I knew I couldn't endure a couple more hours of that, so I nipped back to the van, swapped my thin-soled court shoes for a pair of thick sports socks and my Reeboks. The feeling returned to my feet almost as soon as I tied my laces. Wonderful invention, trainers. The only problem comes when you go striding into an important business meeting, done up to the nines in your best suit, then you look down and realize that instead of your chic Italian shoes, you're still wearing the Reeboks you drove there in. I know, I was that soldier.

Left to her own devices, Liz was clearly lost without the box. We caught the tail-end of the nine o'clock news, the weather (the usual tidings of comfort and joy; freezing fog in the Midlands, ground frost in the north, rain tomorrow), then a dire American mini-series started. I wished I could change channels. Instead, I
turned the receiver volume down low enough to tune out anything other than phone calls or conversations and opened up the laptop.

I'd tried all the obvious ones. Martin, Martina, Cheetham, Tamarind, Lomax, Nell, Harris, scam, land, deeds, titles, secret, locked, private, drag, Dietrich, Bassey, Garland, Marilyn, password. No joy. I was running out of inspiration when my phone rang. “Hello?” I said.

“Kate? Alexis.” As if she needed to tell me. “Listen, I had a brainwave.”

My heart sank. “What?” I asked.

“I remembered that the
Sunday Star
's got a reporter called Gerry Carter who lives in Buxton. Now, I've never actually met the guy, on account of the Sundays don't usually hang out with the pack, but I dug his number out of a mate of his and gave him a call, hack to hack.”

I was interested now I realized her brainwave didn't involve me in anything illegal or life-threatening. “And did he have anything useful to say?”

“He knows Brian Lomax. In fact, he lives about five houses down from Lomax.” Alexis paused to let that sink in.

“And?” I asked.

“I think I know who the mystery woman is.”

“Alexis, you already have one hundred percent of my attention. Stop tantalizing me as if I was a bloody-minded news editor. Cough it!” I demanded, frustrated.

“Right. You remember we saw two names on the electoral roll? And we assumed the other one was his wife? Well, it's not. According to Gerry, Lomax's wife left him a couple of years ago. In his words, ‘Once she'd installed flounced Austrian blinds at every window and redecorated the place from top to bottom, there was nothing else for her to do. So she shagged Lomax's brickie and ran off to some Greek island with him.' Unquote.” Alexis chuckled. “Where presumably she is complaining about the shortage of windows to clothe in frilly chintz, always assuming Laura Ashley's opened a branch on Lesbos. Anyway, once the pair of them had done their disappearing act, Lomax's sister moved in with him, on
account of it's a bloody big house for one bloke on his own, and she'd just sold her own house to raise the capital to start her own business.” I could hear the sound of Alexis dragging smoke into her long-suffering respiratory tract.

“Carry on, I'm fascinated,” I said.

“D'you remember the second name on the electoral roll?”

“Not off the top of my head,” I confessed. Embarrassing, isn't it? The short-term memory's going already, and me only twenty-seven.

“Eleanor. And what's Nell short for?”

“Lomax's
sister
,” I breathed. “Of course. Which would explain how they met in the first place. It would even explain why Martin Cheetham needed more money. She's an expensive-looking woman; I can't see her settling for suburbia with a fortnight on the Costa Brava once a year. This business of hers—did your mate say what it was?”

“He did. She owns one of those small, select boutiques where the assistants sneer at you if you're more than a size eight and you've got less than five hundred pounds to spend. It's in the main shopping arcade, apparently. Called Enchantments, would you believe?”

“I would. Great work, Alexis. If they ever get round to firing you, I'm sure Mortensen and Brannigan could put the odd day's work your way,” I said.

“So what now?” she demanded.

I sighed. “Can you leave it with me? I know that doesn't sound very helpful, but something I've been working on for a week now is about to come on top. With a bit of luck, I'll have it all wrapped up by tomorrow afternoon, and I promise that as soon as I'm clear I'll follow this up. How's that?”

“I suppose it'll have to do,” Alexis said. “It's OK, Kate, I knew you were tight for time when I asked you to take this on. I can't start complaining now. You get to it when you can, and I'll try to be patient.”

That I really wanted to see. We chatted for a few minutes about the stories Alexis was currently working on, then she signed off for the night. I turned my attention back to the computer. At least Alexis had given me a couple of fresh ideas. I typed in ELEANOR,
and the screen filled magically with a list of file names. Some days you eat the bear.

I'd only just started working through the files when the Cavalier returned. Jack drove straight into the garage, and closed the door behind him. I turned up the volume control, and a couple of minutes later he and Liz were doing the kind of kissing, fondling and greeting that brings a blush to the cheeks of even the most hard-nosed private eye. Unless, of course, you're the kind who gets off on aural sex.

However, it soon became clear that Jack and Liz had different things on their minds. While he seemed intent on making the earth move, she was more concerned about where the next fifty grand was coming from. “Jack, cut it out, wait a minute, I want to talk to you,” she said. And all the rest. Eventually, it sounded like she broke free from the clinch, judging by the fact that her voice was noticeably fainter than his. “Listen, we need to talk about this finance problem. What's gone wrong?”

“I don't know, exactly. All I know is that when I came into work tonight, Ted told me to stop writing finance proposals. He said the finance company were having problems processing applications, and that there was a temporary block on new business. But he was about as convincing as the Labour Party manifesto. I think what's really happened is that they've had enough of defaulting remortgages,” he said, his tone so casual I had to remind myself he was the man behind the problem. The man who faced at least a couple of years behind the picket fence of an open prison if he was ever nailed.

Liz wasn't anything like as cool. “We're going to have to stop this, Jack. The bank won't just leave it at that. They'll call the Fraud Squad in, we'll go to prison!” she whined.

“No we won't. Look, when we started this, we knew it couldn't last forever. We always knew that one day, the finance company would notice that too many of Ted Barlow's conservatory customers were defaulting on their mortgages, and we'd have to pull out,” he said reasonably. “I just didn't think they'd go straight to the bank before they warned Ted.”

“I always said we should spread the risk and go to outside
lenders,” she whinged. “I said it was crazy to use a finance company that's a subsidiary of Ted's bank.”

“We went through that at the time,” Jack said patiently. “And the reasons for doing it my way haven't changed. For one, we're not involving anybody else. It's just you, me and a form that goes to a finance company who knew Colonial were a sound firm. For two, it's faster, because we never had to trail round mortgage brokers and building societies trying to find a lender, and run the risk of being spotted by somebody that knows me. And for three, I've been raking in commissions on the kick backs from the finance company, which has earned us a fair few quid on top of what the scam has made us. And doing it my way is why we're still safe, even though Ted's bank's put the shaft into him. There's no obvious pattern, that's the thing. Don't forget, we're in the middle of a recession. There'll be real mortgage defaulters in there as well as the ones we've pulled,” he said reassuringly. It was really frustrating not being able to see their faces and body language.

“Except that they'll still have conservatories attached to their houses. They won't have been up all night once a month dismantling a conservatory and loading it into a van so that Jack McCafferty can spirit it away and sell it on to some unsuspecting punter who thinks they're getting a real bargain! I'm telling you, Jack, it's time to pull out!”

“Calm down,” he urged her. “There's no hurry. It'll take them months to sort this mess out. Look, this one's in the home stretch. We can go and see a mortgage broker tomorrow and blag our way into a remortgage on this place, no bother. Where are we up to with the other two?”

“Just let me check. You know I don't trust myself to keep it all in my head,” she said accusingly. I heard the sound of briefcase locks snapping open and the rustle of paper. “10 Cherry Tree Way, Warrington. You've done the credit check, I've got the new bank account set up, I've taken off the mail redirect, and I've got the mortgage account details. 31 Lark Rise, Davenport. All we've got on that is the credit check. I cancelled the mail redirect yesterday.” I really had got a result tonight. The two addresses Liz had just read
out were identical with the ones Rachel Lieberman had already given me.

“So can we speed them up? Bring them in ahead of schedule?” Jack asked.