Clean Break

Wordlessly, I nodded and followed his broad shoulders back down the hall. He moved like a man who played a lot of sport. It wasn’t hard to imagine him in the same role as I’d first seen his likeness.

When I was about fourteen, we’d gone on a school trip to the British Museum. I’d been so engrossed in the Rosetta Stone, I’d got separated from the rest of the group and wandered round for ages looking for them. That’s how I stumbled on the Assyrian bas-reliefs. As soon as I saw them, I understood for the first time in my life that it wasn’t entirely bullshit when critics said that great art speaks directly to us. These enormous carvings of the lion hunt didn’t so much speak as resonate inside my chest like the bass note of an organ. I fell in love with the archers and the charioteers, their shoulder-length hair curled as tight as poodle fur, their profiles keen as sparrowhawks. I must have spent an hour there that day. Every time I went to London on shopping trips after that, I always found an excuse to slip away from my mates as they trawled Oxford Street so I could nip to the museum for a quick tryst with King Ashurbanipal. If Aslan had come along and breathed life into the carving of the Assyrian king, he would have walked off the wall looking just like Michael Haroun, his glowing skin the colour of perfect roast potatoes. OK, so he’d swapped the tunic for a Paul Smith shirt, Italian silk tie and chinos, but you don’t make much progress up the corporate ladder wearing a mini-skirt unless you’re a woman. Just one look at Michael Haroun and I was an adoring adolescent all over again, Richard a distant memory.

I followed Haroun meekly into his office. The opulence of the atrium hadn’t quite made it this high. The furniture was functional rather than designed to impress. At least he overlooked the recently renovated Rochdale Canal (European funding), though the view of the Canal Café must have been a depressing reminder of the rest of the world enjoying itself while he was working. We settled down on the L-shaped sofa at right angles to each other, my adolescent urge to jump on him held in check by the low coffee table between us. Haroun dumped the file he’d been carrying on the table. ‘I hear good things about your agency, Ms Brannigan,’ he said. From his tone, I gathered he couldn’t quite square what he’d heard with my moonstruck gaze.

I forced myself to get a grip and remember I was twice the age of that romantic teenager. ‘You’ve obviously been talking to the clients who haven’t been burgled,’ I said in something approaching my normal voice.

‘No security system is burglar-proof,’ he said gloomily.

‘But some are better than others. And ours are better than most.’

‘That’s certainly how it looked when we first agreed the premium. It’s one of the factors we consider when we set the rate. That and how high-risk the area is.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. My postcode is M13,’ I complained.

He pulled a face and sucked his breath in sharply, the way plumbers are trained to do when they look at your central heating system. ‘And I thought you security consultants made a good living.’

‘It’s not all a hellhole,’ I said sharply.

He held his hands up and grinned. I felt the years slide away again and struggled to stay in the present. ‘Henry Naismith called to say you’d be coming in. He faxed me a preliminary claim,’ he said.

‘I’m investigating the theft on Henry’s behalf, and he thought it might be helpful if we had a chat,’ I said briskly.

‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Of course, one of our staff investigators will also be looking into it, but I see no reason why we can’t talk to you as well. Can you run it past me?’

I went through everything I’d learned from Henry and Inspector Mellor. Haroun took notes. ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ I finished up, ‘Inspector Mellor mentioned they’d had other burglaries with a similar style. Were any of them insured with you?’

Haroun nodded. ‘Yes, unfortunately. Off the top of my head, I’d say three others in the last nine months. And that’s where we have a problem.’

‘We as in you and me, or we as in Fortissimus?’

‘We as in Mr Naismith and Fortissimus.’

‘Does that mean you’re not going to tell me about it?’

Haroun stared down at the file. ‘Client confidentiality. You should understand that.’

‘I wouldn’t be here if Henry didn’t trust me. Why don’t you give him a call and confirm that you can tell me anything you would tell him? That way, I get it from the horse’s mouth rather than via Chinese whispers.’

His straight brows twitched. ‘Even if he agreed, it wouldn’t be fair of me to have the conversation with you before I have it with him.’

‘So get Henry over. I don’t mind waiting.’ As long as I can keep looking at you, I added mentally.

Haroun inclined his head, conceding. ‘I’ll call him,’ he said.

He was gone for the best part of ten minutes. Instead of fishing a computer magazine out of my shoulder bag, or dictating a report into my microcassette recorder, I daydreamed. What about is nobody’s business but mine.

When Haroun came back, he looked serious. ‘I’ve explained the situation to Mr Naismith, and he was quite insistent that I should discuss the ramifications with you.’

I was too well brought up to say, ‘I told you so,’ but according to Richard I’ve cornered the market in smug smiles. I hoped I wasn’t displaying one of them right then. ‘So, tell me about it,’ I said, locking eyes.

Haroun held my gaze for a long few seconds before turning back to his file. ‘As I said, we’ve had other incidents very similar to this. These thefts have all been from similar properties – medium-sized period properties that are open to the public. In each case, the thieves have broken in as near to the target as they could get. In a couple of cases, they’ve smashed through a window, but in a property like Birchfield Place, that obviously wasn’t appropriate. They ignore the alarms, go straight to the object they’re after, whip it off the wall or out of its case and get out. We estimate the longest they’ve been inside a property is five minutes. In most cases, that’s barely enough time to alert the police or the security guards, never mind get anyone to the site.’

‘Very professional,’ I commented. ‘And?’

‘We’re very unhappy about it. It’s costing us a lot of money. Normally, we’d simply have to bite the bullet and increase premiums accordingly.’

‘I hear the sound of a “but” straining at the leash,’ I said.

‘You have very acute hearing, Ms Brannigan.’

‘Kate,’ I smiled.

‘Well, Kate,’ he said, echoing the smile, ‘here comes the “but”. The first of our clients to be robbed in this way was targeted again three months later. Following that, my bosses took a policy decision that in future, after stately homes had been robbed once, we would refuse to reinsure unless and until their security was increased to an acceptable level.’

He might have looked like an ancient Assyrian, but Michael Haroun sounded exactly like a twentieth-century insurance man. We won’t make a drama out of a crisis; we’ll make a full-scale tragic grand opera. Pay your spiralling premiums for ten years good as gold, and then when you really need us, we’ll be gone like thieves in the night. Nothing like it for killing adolescent fantasies stone dead. ‘And what exactly is your definition of “an acceptable level”?’ I asked, hoping he was receiving the cold sarcasm I was sending.

‘Obviously, it varies from case to case.’

‘In Henry’s case then?’

Haroun shrugged. ‘I’d have to get one of our assessors out there to make an accurate judgement.’

‘Go on, stick your neck out. I know that comes as easy to an insurance man as it does to an ostrich, but give it a go.’ I kept my voice light with an effort. This was my security system he was damning.

He scowled, obviously needled. ‘Based on past experience, I would suggest a security guard on a 24-hour basis in the rooms where the most valuable items are sited.’

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You really believe in getting shut of clients who have the temerity to get robbed, don’t you?’

‘On the contrary. We want to ensure that neither we nor our clients are exposed to unacceptable losses,’ he said defensively.

‘The cost of that kind of security could make the difference between profit and loss to an operation the size of Henry’s. You must know that.’

Haroun spread his hands out and shrugged. ‘He can always put up the admission charges if it’s that crucial to the economics of running the place.’

‘So you’re saying that as of now Birchfield Place is uninsured?’

‘No, no, you misunderstand me. But we will retain a portion of the payout on the stolen property until the security levels are rendered acceptable. Kate, we do care about our clients, but we have a business to run too, you must see that.’ His eyes pleaded, and my fury melted. This was bad for my business, so I forced myself to my feet.

‘We’ll keep in touch,’ I said.

‘I’d like that,’ he said, getting to his feet and nailing me with the sincerity in his voice.

As we walked back to the lift, my brain checked in again. ‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘How come I haven’t been reading about these raids in the papers?’

Haroun smiled the thin smile of a lizard. ‘We like to keep things like this as low profile as possible,’ he said. ‘It does our clients’ business no good at all if the public gain the impression that the choicest exhibits in their collections are no longer there. The thefts have been quite widely scattered, and the policy has been only to release the information to local press, and even then to keep it very low key. You know the sort of thing: “Thieves broke in to Bloggs Manor last night, but were disturbed before they could remove the Manor’s priceless collection of bottle tops.”’

‘You just omit to mention that they had it away on their toes with the Constable,’ I said cynically.

‘Something like that,’ he agreed. The lift pinged and I stepped inside as the doors opened. ‘Nice talking to you, Kate.’

‘We must do it again some time,’ I said before the doors cut him off from me. The day was looking up. Not only had I met Michael Haroun, but I knew where to go next.

I’m convinced that the security staff at the Manchester Evening Chronicle think I work there. Maybe it’s because I know the door combination. Or maybe it’s because I’m in and out of the building with a confident wave several times a week. Either way, it’s handy to be able to stroll in and out at will. Their canteen is cheap and cheerful, a convenient place to refuel when I’m at the opposite end of town from the office. That day, though, I wasn’t after a bacon butty and a mug of tea. My target was Alexis Lee, the Chronicle’s crime correspondent and my best buddy.

I walked briskly down the newsroom, no one paying any attention. I could probably walk off with the entire computer network before anyone would notice or try to stop me. Mind you, if I’d laid a finger on the newsdesk TV, I’d have been lynched before I’d got five yards.

I knew Alexis was at her desk. I couldn’t actually see her through the wall of luxuriant foliage that surrounds her corner of the office. But the spiral of smoke climbing towards the air-conditioning vent was a clear indicator that she was there. When they installed the computer terminals at the Chronicle, the management tried to make the newsroom a no-smoking zone. The policy lasted about five minutes. Separating journalists from nicotine is about as easy as separating a philandering government minister from his job.

I stuck my head round the screen of variegated green stuff. Alexis was leaning back in her seat, feet propped up on the rim of her wastepaper bin, dabbing her cigarette vaguely at her mouth as she frowned at her terminal. I checked out her anarchic black hair. Its degree of chaos is a fairly accurate barometer of her stress levels. The more uptight she gets, the more she runs her hands through it. Today, it looked like I could risk interrupting her without getting a rich gobful of Scouse abuse.

‘I thought they paid you to work,’ I said, moving through the gap in the leaves into her jungle cubbyhole.

She swung round and grinned. ‘All right, KB?’ she rasped in her whisky-and-cigarettes voice.

‘I think I’m in love, but apart from that, I’m fine.’ I pulled up the other chair.

Alexis snorted and went into Marlene Dietrich growl. ‘Falling in love again, never wanted to,’ she groaned. ‘Though I’m ninety-two, I can’t help it. I’ve told you before, it’s about time you got shut of the wimp.’ She and Richard maintain this pretence of hostility. He’s always giving her a bad time for being a siren chaser, and she pretends to despise him for devoting his life to the trivia of rock journalism. But underneath, I know there’s a lot of affection and respect.

‘Who said anything about Richard?’ I asked innocently.

‘And there’s me thinking you two were getting things sorted out between you,’ she sighed. ‘So who’s the lucky man? I mean, I’m assuming that you haven’t seen the light, and it is a fella.’

‘His name’s Michael Haroun. But don’t worry, it’s only lust. It’ll pass as soon as I have a cold shower.’

‘So what does he do, this sex object?’

I pulled a face. ‘You’re going to laugh,’ I said.

‘Probably,’ Alexis agreed. ‘So you might as well get it over with.’

‘He’s in insurance.’

I’d been right. She did laugh, a deep, throaty guffaw that shook the leaves. I half expected an Amazonian parrot to fly out from among the undergrowth and join in. ‘You really know how to pick them, don’t you?’ Alexis wheezed.

‘You don’t pick sex objects, they just happen,’ I said frostily. ‘Anyway, nothing’s going to happen, so it’s all academic anyway. Things between me and Richard might have seen better days, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.’

‘So you don’t want me to call Chris and get her to build a brick wall across the conservatory?’

Alexis’s girlfriend Chris is the architect who designed the conservatory that runs along the back of the two houses Richard and I live in, linking them yet allowing us our own space. It had been the perfect solution for two people who want to be together but whose lifestyles are about as compatible as Burton and Taylor. ‘Restrain yourself, Alexis. I’m not about to let my hormones club my brain into submission.’

‘Is that it, then? You come in here, interrupting the creative process, just to tell me nothing’s happening?’

‘No, I only gave you the gossip so you wouldn’t complain that I was only here to exploit you,’ I said.

Alexis blew out a cloud of smoke and a sigh. ‘All right, what do you want to know?’

‘Is that any way to speak to a valued contact who’s brought you a story?’ I asked innocently.

Alexis tipped forward in her seat and crushed out her cigarette in an already brimming ashtray. ‘Why do I have the feeling that this is the kind of gift that takes more assembling than an Airfix kit?’

3

I left Alexis to hassle the police of six counties in search of the story we both knew was lurking somewhere and headed back to Mortensen and Brannigan. Shelley was busy on the phone, so I went straight through to my office. I stopped in my tracks on the threshold. I heard Shelley finish her call and swung round to glare at her. ‘What exactly is that?’ I demanded.

She didn’t lookup from the note she was writing. ‘What does it look like? It’s a weeping fig.’

‘It’s fake,’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘Silk,’ she corrected me absently.

‘And that makes it OK?’

Shelley finally looked up. ‘Every six weeks you buy a healthy, thriving, living plant. Five weeks later, it looks like locust heaven. The weeping fig will have paid for itself within six months, and even you can’t kill a silk plant,’ she said in matter-of-fact tones that made my fingers itch to get round her throat.

‘If I wanted a schneid plant, I’d have bought one,’ I said.

‘You sound…’

‘“Like one of my kids”,’ I finished, mimicking her calm voice. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s the challenge. One day, I’m going to find a plant that runs riot for me.’

‘By which time the planet will be a desert,’ Shelley said, tossing her head so that the beads she had plaited into her hair jangled like a bag of marbles.

I didn’t dignify that with a reply. I simply marched into my office, picked up the weeping fig and dropped it next to her desk. ‘You like it so much, you live with it,’ I said, stomping back to my office. If she was going to treat me like one of her teenage kids, I might as well enjoy the tantrum. I pulled the brownish remains of the asparagus fern out of the bin and defiantly dumped it on the windowsill.

Before I could do anything more, my phone rang. ‘What now?’ I barked at Shelley.

‘Call for you. A gentleman who refuses to give his name.’

‘Did you tell him we don’t do matrimonials?’

‘Of course I did. I’m not the one who’s premenstrual.’

I bit back a snarl as Shelley put the call through. ‘Kate Brannigan,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I need your help, Ms Brannigan. It’s an extremely confidential matter. Brian Chalmers from PharmAce recommended you.’

‘We’re noted for our client confidentiality,’ I reeled off. ‘As you doubtless know if you’ve spoken to Brian. But I do need to know who I’m talking to.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, long enough for me to hear sufficient background noise to realize my caller was speaking from a bar. ‘My name’s Trevor Kerr. I think the company I run is being blackmailed, and I need to talk to you about it.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I come round to your office this afternoon and have a chat about it?’

‘Christ, no,’ Kerr said, clearly alarmed. ‘The last thing I want is for the blackmailers to find out I’m talking to a private detective.’

One of the ones that watches too many movies. That was all I needed to make my day. ‘No problem. You come to me.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You see, I think they’re watching me.’

Just when you thought it was safe to pick up the phone…‘I know how disturbing threats can be when you’re not accustomed to being on the receiving end,’ I tried. ‘Perhaps we could meet on neutral ground. Say in the lounge of the Midland?’

The reassuring tone hadn’t worked. ‘No,’ Kerr said urgently. ‘Not in public. It’s got to look completely normal. Have you got a boyfriend, Ms Brannigan?’

* * *

I should have put the phone down then and there, I realized four hours later as I tried to explain to Richard that a crumpled cream linen suit might be fine for going on the razz with Mick Hucknall, but there was no way it would help him to pass as a member of the Round Table. ‘Bloody hell, Brannigan,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m old enough to dress myself.’

I ignored him and raked through his wardrobe, coming up with a fairly sober double-breasted Italian suit in dark navy. ‘This is more like it,’ I said.

Richard scowled. ‘I only wear that to funerals.’

I threw it on the bed. ‘Not true. You wore it to your cousin’s wedding.’

‘You forgotten her husband already? Anyway, I don’t see why you’re making me get dressed up like a tailor’s dummy. After the last time I helped you out, you swore you’d never let me near your work again,’ he whinged as he shrugged out of the linen jacket.

‘Believe me, if Bill wasn’t out of the country, I wouldn’t be asking you,’ I said grimly. ‘Besides, not even you can turn a Round Table treasure hunt and potluck supper into a life-threatening situation.’

Richard froze. ‘That’s a bit below the belt, Brannigan,’ he said bitterly.

‘Yeah, well, I’m going next door to find something suitably naff in my own wardrobe. Come through when you’re ready.’

I walked down Richard’s hall and cut through his living room to the conservatory. Back in my own house, I allowed myself a few moments of deep breathing to regain my equilibrium. A few months before, I had enlisted Richard’s help in what should have been a straightforward case of car fraud. Only, as they say in all the worst police dramas, it all went pear-shaped. Spectacularly so. Richard ended up behind bars, his life in jeopardy, and I nearly got myself killed tracking down the real villains. As if that hadn’t been enough, I’d also been landed with looking after his eight-year-old son Davy. And me with the maternal instincts of a Liquorice Allsort.

The physical scars had healed pretty quickly, but the real damage was to our relationship. You’d think he’d have been grateful that I sorted everything out. Instead, he’d been distant, sarcastic and out a lot. It hadn’t been grim all the time, of course. If it had been, I’d have knocked it on the head weeks earlier. We still managed to have fun together, and sometimes for nearly a week things would be just like they used to be; lots of laughs, a few nights out, communal Chinese takeaways and spectacular sex. Then the clouds would descend, usually when I was up to the eyeballs in some demanding job.

This was the first time since our run-in with the drug warlords that I’d asked Richard to do anything connected with work. I’d argued with Trevor Kerr that there must be a less complicated way for us to meet, but Clever Trevor was convinced that he was right to take precautions. I nearly asked him why he was hiring a dog and still barking himself, but I bit my tongue. Business hadn’t been so great lately that I could afford to antagonize new clients before they were actually signed up.

With a sigh, I walked into my own bedroom and considered the options. Richard says I don’t have a wardrobe, just a collection of disguises. Looking at the array of clothes in front of me, I was tempted to agree with him. I pulled out a simple tailored dress in rough russet silk with a matching bolero jacket. I’d bought it while I’d been bodyguarding a Hollywood actress who was over here for a week to record an episode in a Granada drama series. She’d taken one look at the little black number I’d turned up in on the first evening and silently written me a cheque for five hundred pounds to go and buy ‘something a little more chic, hon’. I’m not proud; I took the money and shopped. Alexis and I hadn’t had so much fun in years.

I stepped into the dress and reached round to zip it up. Richard got there before me. He leaned forward and kissed me behind the ear. I turned to gooseflesh and shivered. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bad day. Let’s go and see how the other half lives.’

The address Trevor Kerr had given me was in Whitefield, a suburb of mostly semis just beyond the perennial roadworks on the M62. It’s an area that’s largely a colony of the upwardly mobile but not strictly Orthodox Jews who make up a significant proportion of Manchester’s population. Beyond the streets of identical between-the-wars semis lay our destination, one of a handful of architect-designed developments where the serious money has gravitated. My plumber got the contract for one of them, and he told me about a conversation with one of his customers. My plumber thought the architect had made a mistake, because the plans showed plumbing for four dishwashers – two in the kitchen and two in the utility room. When he queried it, the customer looked at him as if he was thick as a yard of four-by-two and said, ‘We keep kosher and we entertain a lot.’ There’s nothing you can say to that.

The house I’d been directed to looked more Frankenstein than Frank Lloyd Wright. It had more turrets and crenellations than Windsor Castle, all in bright red Accrington brick. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to be potless,’ Richard remarked as we parked. It had a triple garage and hard-standing for half a dozen cars, but tonight was clearly party night. Richard’s hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertible looked as out of place as Cinderella at a minute past midnight. When the hostess opened the door, I smiled. ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘We’re with Trevor Kerr,’ I added.

The frosting on her immaculate coiffure spilled over on to the hostess’s smile. ‘Do come in,’ she said.