Kick Back (7 page)

“The common factor that all those houses shared, it eventually transpired, was that they had all been canvassed by the same
double-glazing firm in the weeks previous to the burglary. And of course, the canvassers had established whether both husband and wife were working, thus uncovering which houses were empty during the day. The police suspected my client and paid a visit to his bankers. They, of course, were only too aware that after a grim spell my client's account had started to look very healthy again, and that much of his recent incomings had been in cash. After the police visit, they put two and two together and regrettably made a pig's ear of it. Partly the fault of my client, who had omitted to mention his recent investment in a couple of amusement arcades.” Josh's sardonic tone told me all I needed to know about his opinion of slot machines as investments.

“It was, of course, all sorted out in the fullness of time. The burglaries were the brainchild of a couple of former employees, who paid backhanders to unemployed youths of their acquaintance to go and get jobs as canvassers with this double-glazing firm and report back to them. However, my client had an extremely sticky time in the interim. That experience leads me to suspect the bank think your Mr. Barlow is the brains behind whatever is going on here. You said they mentioned a high default rate on remortgages?”

“That's about all they did say,” I replied. “More toast?” Josh nodded. I waved the toast rack plaintively at a passing waitress and waited for Josh's next pearl of wisdom.

“If I were you, that's where I'd start looking.” He sat back with the air of a conjuror who has just completed some amazing feat. I wasn't impressed, and I guess it showed.

He sighed. “Kate, if I were you, I'd ask my friendly financial wizard to run a credit check on all those good people who have taken out remortgages and whose conservatories have now vanished.”

I still wasn't getting it. “But what would that show?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Josh admitted. He didn't know? I waited for the sky to fall, but incredibly it didn't. “But whatever happens, you'll know a lot more about them than you do now. And I have that curious tingling in my stomach that tells me that's the right place to look.”

I trust Josh's tingle. The last time I had personal experience of it, I quadrupled my savings by buying shares in a company he had a
good feeling about. The truly convincing thing was that he told me to offload them a week before they crashed spectacularly following the arrest of their chairman for fraud. So I said, “OK. Go ahead. I'll fax you the names and addresses this morning.”

“Splendid,” he said. I wasn't sure if he was addressing me or the waitress placing a rack of fresh toast in front of him.

As he attacked the toast, I asked, “When will you have the info for me?”

“I'll fax it across to you as soon as I get it myself. Probably tomorrow. Mark it for Julia's attention when you send the details over. I'm hopelessly tied up today, but it's just routine, she can do it standing on her head. What I will also do is have a quiet word with a guy I know in Royal Pennine Bank's fraud section. No names, no pack drill, but he might be able to shed some light as to the general principle of the thing.”

“Thanks, Josh. That'll be a big help.” I gave my watch a surreptitious glance. Seven minutes till we got into the next billable hour. “So how's your love life?” I hazarded.

 

Martin Cheetham's office was in the old Corn Exchange, a beautiful golden sandstone building that, in aerial photographs, looks like a wedge of cheese, the windows pocking the surface like dozens of crumbly holes. The old exchange floor is now a sort of indoor flea market in bric-à-brac, antiques, books and records, while the rest of the building has been turned into offices. There are still a few of the traditional occupants—watch menders, electric razor repairers—but because of the unusual layout, the rest range from pressure groups who rent a cubbyhole to small legal firms who can rent a suite of offices that fit their needs exactly.

The office I was looking for was round the back. The reception room was small to the point of poky, but at least the receptionist had a fabulous view of Manchester Cathedral. I hoped she was into bullshit Gothic. She was in her late forties, the motherly type. Within three minutes, I was clutching a cup of tea and a promise that Mr. Cheetham would be able to squeeze me in within the half-hour. She had waved away my apologies for not having an
appointment. I couldn't understand how she kept her job, with all this being polite to the punters.

One of the reasons I wasn't sorry to quit my law degree was that after two years, I began to realize I'd stand all the way from Manchester to London rather than sit next to a lawyer on a train. There are, of course, notable exceptions, lovely people upon whose competence and honesty I'd stake my life. Unfortunately, Martin Cheetham wasn't one of them. For a start, I couldn't see how anyone could run an efficient practice when their paperwork was stacked chaotically everywhere. On the floor, on the desk, on the filing cabinets, even on top of the computer monitor. For all I could tell, there could be clients lurking underneath there somewhere. He waved me to one of the two surfaces in the room that wasn't stacked with bumf. I sat on the uncomfortable office chair, while he headed for the other, a luxurious black leather all-singing, all-dancing swivel recliner. I suppose that since most conveyancing specialists see very little of their clients he didn't place a high priority on their comfort. He obviously wasn't a fan of the cathedral either, since his chair faced into the room.

While he took his time with Alexis's letter, I took the chance to study him. He was around 5' 8”, slim without being skinny. He was in shirtsleeves, the jacket of a chain-store suit on a hanger suspended from the side of a filing cabinet. He had dark, almost black hair, cut short but stylish, and soulful, liquid dark eyes. He had that skin that looks sallow and unhealthy if it goes without sun for more than a month or so, though right now he looked in the peak of health. He obviously lived on his nerves, for his neat, small feet and hands were twitching and tapping as he read the letter of authority. Eventually, he steepled his fingers and gave me a cautious smile. “I'm not exactly sure how you think I can help, Miss Brannigan,” he said.

“I am,” I told him. “What I have to do in the first instance is to track down T. R. Harris, the builder. Now, it was through you that Miss Lee and Miss Appleby heard this land was available. So, I think you must know something about Mr. T. R. Harris. Also, I figure you must have an address for him since you handled the matter for Miss
Lee and Miss Appleby and presumably had some correspondence with him.”

Cheetham's smile flickered again. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I know very little about Mr. Harris. I knew about the land because I saw it advertised in one of the local papers. And before you ask, I'm sorry, I can't remember which one. I see several every week and I don't keep back numbers.” It looked like they were the only bits of pulped tree he didn't keep. “I have a client who is looking for something similar,” he continued, “but when I made further inquiries, I realized this particular area was too large for him. I happened to mention it to Miss Lee's colleague, and matters proceeded from there.”

“So you'd never met Harris before?”

“I've never met Mr. Harris at all,” he corrected me. “I communicated with his solicitor, a Mr. Graves.” He got up and chose a pile of papers, seemingly at random. He riffled through them and extracted a bundle fastened with a paper clip. He dumped them in front of me, covering the body text of the letter with a blank sheet. “That's Mr. Graves' address and phone number.”

I took out my pad and noted the details on the letterhead. “Had you actually exchanged contracts, then?”

Cheetham's eyes shifted away from mine. “Yes. That's when the deposits were handed over, of course.”

“And you were quite convinced that everything was above board?”

He grabbed the papers back and headed for the haven behind his desk. “Of course. I mean, I wouldn't have proceeded unless I had been. What are you getting at, exactly, Miss Brannigan?” His left leg was jittering like a jelly on a spindrier.

I wasn't entirely sure. But the feeling that Martin Cheetham wasn't to be trusted was growing stronger by the minute. Maybe he was up to something, maybe he was just terrified I was going to make him look negligent, or maybe he just had the misfortune to be born looking shifty. “And you've no idea where I can find Mr. Harris?” I asked.

He shook his head and said, “Absolutely not. No idea whatsoever.”

“I'm a bit surprised,” I said. “I'd have thought that his address would have appeared on the contracts.”

Cheetham's fingers drummed that neat little riff from the “1812 Overture” on the bundle of papers. “Of course, of course, how stupid of me, I didn't even think of that,” he gabbled. Again, he flicked through his papers. I waited patiently, saying nothing. “I'm sorry, this shocking business has really unsettled me. Here we are. How foolish of me. T. R. Harris, 134 Bolton High Road, Ramsbottom.”

I wrote it down, then got to my feet. I didn't feel like someone who's had a full and frank exchange of views, but I could see I wasn't going to get any further with Cheetham unless I had specific questions. And at least I could go for Harris and his solicitor now.

I took a short cut down the back stairs, a rickety wooden flight that always makes me feel like I've stepped into a timewarp. My spirits descended as I did. I still had some conservatories to check out south-west of the city, and I was about as keen on that idea as I was on fronting up T. R. Harris's brief. But at least I was getting paid for that. The thought lifted my spirits slightly, but not as much as the hunk I clapped eyes on as I yanked open the street door. He was jumping out of a Transit van that he'd abandoned on the double yellows, and he was gorgeous. He wore tight jeans and a white T-shirt—on a freezing October day, for God's sake!—stained with plaster and brick dust. He had that solid, muscular build that gives me ideas that nice feminists aren't supposed to even know about, never mind entertain. His hair was light brown and wavy, like Richard Gere's used to be before he found Buddha. His eyes were dark and glittery, his nose straight, his mouth firm. He looked slightly dangerous, as if he didn't give a shit.

He sure as hell didn't give a shit about me, for he looked straight through me as he slammed the van door shut and headed past me into the Corn Exchange. Probably going to terrify someone daft enough not to have paid his bill. He had that determined air of a man in pursuit of what's owed to him. Ah well, you lose some and you lose some. I checked out the van and made a mental note. Renew-Vations, with a Stockport phone number. You never know when you're going to need a wall built. Say across a conservatory …

I stopped by the house to pick up my sports bag. I figured if I was on that side of town anyway, I might as well stop in at the Thai boxing gym and see if there was anyone around to share a quick work-out. It would be better for me than lunch, and besides, after the breakfast I'd had, I needed to do something that would make me feel good about my body. Alexis was long gone, and Richard appeared to have returned to his own home. There was a message on the answering machine from Shelley, so I called in. Sometimes she really winds me up. I mean, I was going to check in anyway, but she'd managed to get her message in first and make me feel like some schoolkid dogging it.

“Mortensen and Brannigan, how may I help you?” she greeted me in the worst mid-Atlantic style. That wasn't my idea, I swear. I don't think it was Bill's either.

“Brannigan, how may I help you?” I said.

“Hi, Kate. Where are you?”

“I'm passing through my living room between tasks,” I replied. “What's the problem?”

“Brian Chalmers of PharmAce called. He says he needs to talk to you. Asap, not lad.” M & B code for “As soon as possible, not life and death.”

“Right. I have to go over to Urmston anyway, so I'll come back via Trafford Park and see him. Can you fix up for me to see him around two? I'll call in for an exact time.”

“Fine. And Ted Barlow rang to ask if you'd made any progress.”

“Tell him I'm pursuing preliminary inquiries and I'll get back to him when I have something solid to report. And are you?”

“Am I what?” Shelley sounded genuinely baffled. That must have been a novel experience for her.

“Making any progress.”

“As I'm always having to remind my two children,” heavy emphasis on the “children,” “there's nothing clever about rudeness.”

“I'll consider my legs well and truly smacked. But are you?”

“That's for me to know and for you to find out. Goodbye, Kate.” I didn't even have time for the goodbye before the line went dead.

It was just before twelve when I managed to find someone who could give me any useful information about my missing conservatories. But when I did, it was worth the wait. Diane Shipley was every private investigator's dream. She lived at the head of Sutcliffe Court, her bungalow commanding a view of the whole close. With a corner of my brain, I had noted the raised flower beds and the ramp leading up to the front door, but it still didn't stop me having my eyes at the wrong level when the door opened. I made the adjustment and found myself staring down into a face like a hawk; short, salt and pepper hair, dark beady eyes, deep set and hooded, narrow nose the shape of a puffin's beak, and, incongruously, a wide and humorous mouth. The woman was in a wheelchair, and it didn't seem to bother her in the slightest.