Kick Back (3 page)

In spite of my natural skepticism, I was impressed. Whatever was going on with Ted Barlow's conservatories, it looked like it wasn't the man himself who was up to something. “What about his competitors? Would they be looking to put the shaft in?” I asked.

“Hmm,” Mark mused. “I wouldn't have thought so. He's not serious enough to be a worry to any of the really big-time boys. He's strictly small, reputable and local. Whatever's going down here needs someone like you to sort it out. And if you do clear it up, because he's such a good friend, I'll even waive my ten percent commission for sending him to you!”

“If I wasn't a lady, I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, Buckland. Ten percent!” I snorted. “Just for that, I'm putting the lunch invitation on hold. Thanks for the backgrounder, anyway. I'll do my best for Ted.”

“Thanks, Kate. You won't be sorry. You sort him out, he'll be your friend for life. Pity you've already got a conservatory, eh?” He was gone before I could get on my high horse. Just as well, really. It took me a good thirty seconds to realize he'd been at the wind-up and I'd fallen for it.

I wandered through to the outer office to give Shelley the new-client form and the cash, for banking. To my surprise, Ted Barlow was still there, standing awkwardly in front of Shelley's desk like a kid who's hung behind after class to talk to the teacher he has a crush on. As I entered, Shelley looked flustered and quickly said, “I'm sure Kate will have no trouble following these directions, Mr. Barlow.”

“Right, well, I'll be off then. I'll be seeing you later, Miss Brannigan.”

“Kate,” I corrected automatically. Miss Brannigan makes me feel like my spinster great-aunt. She's not one of those indomitable old biddies with razor-sharp minds that we all want to be when we're old. She's a selfish, hypochondriacal, demanding old manipulator and I have this superstitious fear that if I let enough people call me Miss Brannigan, it might rub off on me.

“Kate,” he acknowledged nervously. “Thank you very much, both of you.” He backed through the door. Shelley was head down, fingers flying over the keyboard, before the door was even halfway closed.

“Amazing how long it takes to give a set of directions,” I said sweetly, dropping the form in her in-tray.

“I was just sympathizing with the man,” Shelley replied mildly. It's not always easy to tell with her coffee-colored skin, but I'd swear she was blushing.

“Very commendable, too. There's a grand in this envelope. Can you pop down to the bank with it? I'd rather not leave it in the safe.”

“You do right. You'd only spend it,” Shelley retorted, getting her own back. I poked my tongue out at her and returned to my own office. I picked up the phone again. This time, I rang Josh Gilbert. Josh is a partner in a financial services company. They specialize in providing advice and information to the kind of people who are so
paranoid about ending up as impoverished senior citizens that they cheerfully do without while they're young enough to enjoy it, just so they can sit back in comfort in their old age, muttering, “If I had my youth again, I could be waterskiing now …” Josh persuades them to settle their shekels in the bosoms of insurance companies and unit trusts, then sits back planning for his own retirement on the fat commissions he's just earned. Only difference is, Josh expects his retirement to begin at forty. He's thirty-six now, and tells me he's well on target. I hate him.

Of course, he was with a client. But I'd deliberately made my call at ten minutes to the hour. I figured that way he'd be able to call me back between appointments. Three minutes later, I was talking to him. I briefly outlined Ted Barlow's problem. Josh said, “Mmm,” a lot. Eventually, he said, “I'll check your guy out. And I'll do some asking around, no names, no pack drill. OK?”

“Great. When can we get together on this?”

Over the phone, I could hear the sound of Josh turning the pages in his diary. “You hit me on a bad week,” he said. “I suppose you need this stuff yesterday?”

“Afraid so. Sorry.”

He sucked his breath in over his teeth, the way plumbers are trained to do when they look at your central-heating system. “Today's Tuesday. I'm snowed under today, but I can get to it tomorrow,” he muttered, half to himself. “But my time's backed up solid Thursday, Friday I'm in London … Listen, can you do breakfast Thursday? I meant it when I said it was a bad week.”

I took a deep breath. I'm never at my best first thing, but business is business. “Thursday breakfast is fine,” I lied. “Where would you like?”

“You choose, it's your money,” Josh replied.

We settled on the Portland at seven-thirty. They have this team of obliging hall porters who park your car for you, which in my opinion is a major advantage at that time of the morning. I checked my watch again. I didn't have time enough to develop and print my surveillance films. Instead, I settled for opening a file on Ted Barlow in my database.

Colonial Conservatories occupied the last unit before the industrial estate gave way to a sewage farm. What really caught the eye was the conservatory he'd built on the front of the unit. It was about ten foot deep and ran the whole thirty-foot width of the building. It had a brick foundation, and was separated into four distinct sections by thin brick pillars. The first section was classic Victorian Crystal Palace style, complete with plastic replica finials on the roof. Next was the Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady school of conservatory, a riot of stained panels whose inaccuracies would give any botanist the screaming habdabs. Third in line was the Spartan conservatory. A bit like mine, in fact. Finally, there was the Last Days of the Raj look—windows forming arches in a plastic veneer that gave the appearance, from a considerable distance, of being mahogany. Just the place to sit on your rattan furniture and summon the punkah wallah to cool you down. You get a lot of that in South Manchester.

Inside the conservatory, I could see Colonial Conservatories' offices. I sat in the car for a moment, taking in the set-up. Just inside the door was a C-shaped reception desk. Behind it, a woman was on the phone. She had a curly perm that looked like Charles I's spare wig. Occasionally, she tapped a key on her word processor and gave the screen a bored stare before returning to her conversation. Over to one side, there were two small desks, each equipped with a phone and a pile of clutter. No one was at either desk. On the back wall, a door led into the main building. Over in the far corner, a small office had been divided off with glass partitions. Ted Barlow was standing in shirtsleeves in this office, his tie hanging loose and the top button of his shirt open, slowly working his way through the contents of a filing cabinet drawer. The rest of the reception was taken up with display panels.

I walked into the conservatory. The receptionist said brightly into the phone, “Hold the line, please.” She flicked a switch then turned her radiance on me. “How may I help you?” she asked in a little girl's voice.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Barlow. My name's Brannigan. Kate Brannigan.”

“One moment, please.” She ran a finger down the page of her
open desk diary. Her nail extensions mesmerized me. Just how could she type with those claws? She looked up and caught my stare, then smiled knowingly. “Yes,” she said. “I'll just see if he's ready for you.” She picked up a phone and buzzed through. Ted looked round him in a distracted way, saw me, ignored the phone and rushed across the reception area.

“Kate,” he exclaimed. “Thanks for coming.” The receptionist cast her eyes heavenwards. Clearly, in her view, the man had no idea how bosses are supposed to behave. “Now, what do you need to know?”

I steered him towards his office. I had no reason to suspect the receptionist of anything other than unrealistic aspirations, but it was too early in the investigation to trust anyone. “I need a list of addresses of all the conservatories you've fitted in the last six months where the customers have taken out remortgages to finance them. Do you keep track of that information?”

He nodded, then stopped abruptly just outside his office. He pointed to a display board that showed several houses with conservatories attached. The houses were roughly similar—medium-sized, mostly detached, modern, all obviously surrounded on every side by more of the same. Ted's face looked genuinely mournful. “That one, that one and that one,” he said. “I had photographs taken of them after we built them because we were just about to do a new brochure. And when I went back today, they just weren't there any more.”

I felt a frisson of relief. The one nagging doubt I had had about Ted's honesty was resolved. Nasty, suspicious person that I am, I'd been wondering if the conservatories had ever been there in the first place. Now I had some concrete evidence that they had been spirited away. “Can you give me the name of the photographer?” I asked, caution winning over my desire to believe in Ted.

“Yes, no problem. Listen, while I sort this stuff out for you, would you like me to get one of the lads to show you round the factory? See how we actually do the business?”

I declined politely. The construction of double-glazed conservatories wasn't a gap in my knowledge I felt the need to plug. I settled for the entertaining spectacle of watching Ted wrestle with
his filing system. I sat down in his chair and picked up a leaflet about the joys of conservatories. I had the feeling this might be a long job.

The deathless prose of Ted's PR consultant stood no chance against the smartly dressed man who strode into the showroom, dumped a briefcase on one of the two small desks and walked into Ted's office, grinning at me like we were old friends.

“Hi,” he said. “Jack McCafferty,” he added, thrusting his hand out towards me. His handshake was firm and cool, just like the rest of the image he projected. His brown curly hair was cut close at the sides and longer on top, so he looked like a respectable version of Mick Hucknall. His eyes were blue and had the dull sheen of polished sodalite against the lightly tanned skin of his face. He wore an olive green double-breasted suit, a cream shirt and a burgundy silk tie. The ensemble looked about five hundred pounds' worth to me. I felt quite underdressed in my terracotta linen suit and mustard cowl-necked sweater.

“Kate, Jack's one of my salesmen,” Ted said.

“Sales
team
,” Jack put him right. From his air of amused patience, I gathered it was a regular correction. “And you are?”

“Kate Brannigan,” I said. “I'm an accountant. I'm putting together a package with Ted. Pleased to meet you, Jack.”

Ted looked astonished. Lying didn't seem to be his strong suit. Luckily, he was standing behind Jack. He cleared his throat and handed me a bulky blue folder. “Here are the details you wanted, Kate,” he said. “If there's anything that's not clear, just give me a call.”

“OK, Ted.” I nodded. I had one or two questions I wanted to ask him, but not ones that fitted my exciting new persona of accountant. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”

“Nice. That's a word. Not the one I would have used for meeting you, Kate,” he replied, a suggestive lift to one eyebrow. As I walked back across the reception area and out to my car, I could feel his eyes on me. I felt pretty sure I wouldn't like what he was thinking.

I pulled up half a mile down the road and had a quick look through the file. Most of the properties seemed to be over in Warrington, so I decided to leave them till morning. The light was already starting to fade, and by the time I'd driven over there, there would be nothing to see. However, there were half a dozen properties nearby where Ted had fitted conservatories. He'd already visited one of them and discovered that the conservatory had gone. On my way home, I decided I might as well take a quick look at the others. I pulled my
A-Z
out of the glove box and mapped out the most efficient route that included them all.

The first was at the head of a cul-de-sac in a nasty sixties estate, one of a pair of almost-detached houses, linked only by their garages in a bizarre Siamese twinning. I rang the bell, but there was no response, so I walked down the narrow path between the house and the fence to the back garden. Surprise, surprise. There was no conservatory. I studied the plan so I could work out exactly where it had been. Then I crouched down and scrutinized the brickwork on the back wall. I didn't really expect to find anything, since I wasn't at all sure what I should even be looking for. However, even my untrained eye noticed a line of faint markings on the wall. It looked like someone had given it a going over with a wire brush—enough to shift the surface grime and weathering, that was all.

Intrigued, I stood up and headed for the next destination. 6 Wiltshire Copse and 19 Amundsen Avenue were almost identical. And they were both minus conservatories. However, the next two remortgages I visited still had their conservatories firmly anchored to the houses. I trekked back to my car for the fifth time, deeply
depressed after too much exposure to the kind of horrid little houses that give modern a bad name. I thought of my own home, a bungalow built only three years before, but constructed by a builder who didn't feel the need to see how small a bedroom you could build before the human mind screams, “No!” My lounge is generous, I don't have to climb over anything to get in and out of bed and my second bedroom is big enough for me to use as an office, complete with sofa bed for unavoidable visitors. But most of these overgrown sheds looked as if they'd have been pressed to provide one decent-sized bedroom, never mind three.