Kick Back (12 page)

He got back to me ten minutes later. “None of our vans has reported any accidents last night,” he said. “However, one of our Transits was stolen from the depot on Thursday night. So I suppose it's possible that was the van you saw.”

Thursday night. Just after I'd talked to Chalmers at PharmAce's office. The only thing I needed now was proof. Perhaps after we'd fronted up the errant lab technician, we could persuade him to confess. By then, maybe I'd be fit enough to make his kidneys feel the way mine felt.

We were just about to leave when the phone rang again. “Leave it,” Richard shouted from halfway down the hall. But I can't help myself. I waited till the answering machine clicked in.

“This is Rachel Lieberman calling Kate Brannigan on Saturday …” was broadcast before I got to the phone.

“Mrs. Lieberman?” I gasped. “Sorry, I was just walking through the door. Did you manage to go through those details?”

“There is a pattern, Miss Brannigan. All but one of those properties are now or have been on our books. They are all rented out on short-term leases of between three and six months. And in every case, the tenants have shared the surname of the real owners.”

I nearly took a deep breath to calm my nerves before I remembered that wasn't part of my current repertoire. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Lieberman,” I said. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“You're welcome. I enjoy a challenge now and again,” she replied, a warmth in her voice I hadn't heard before. “It may not mean much, however. These are common names—Smith, Johnson, Brown; it's not such a big coincidence. By the way, I don't know if you're interested, but after I'd worked through these details I checked out recent rentals. There are three other properties where the same pattern seems to be repeated. One was rented three
months ago, the other two months ago and the third three weeks ago.”

I closed my eyes and sent up a prayer of thanks. “I'm interested, Mrs. Lieberman. I don't suppose …”

She cut me off. “Miss Brannigan, I like to think I've got good judgement. I faxed the addresses to your office overnight. I'm not happy with the idea that my business is being used, however innocently, in any kind of fraud. Keep me posted, won't you?”

Keep her posted? I could find myself sending Chanukah cards this year!

I didn't get much chance to mull over what Rachel Lieberman had told me. I find I have some difficulty in concentrating when Edward the Second and the Red Hot Polkas are being played at a volume that makes my fillings vibrate. I know this is a measure of my personal inadequacy, but we all have to live with our little weaknesses. And it was keeping the chauffeur happy. I decided to put my new information in the section of my brain marked “pending.” Besides, until I'd been to the Land Registry, and collated all the information from there, from Ted's records and the material Josh's Julia had faxed to the office the previous afternoon, I didn't want to fall in love with any theories that might distort my judgement.

We made it to Buxton before lunch with only a couple of wrong turnings. I'm not quite sure what I expected, but it wasn't what I got. There's a grandiose little opera house with a conservatory that some spiritual ancestor of Ted Barlow's had installed. I'd have loved to have heard the salesman's pitch. “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Councillor, if I could show you a way to enhance the touristic value of your opera house for less than the product of a penny rate, I take it that would be something you would be pleased to go along with?” There's also a magnificent Georgian crescent that ought to blow your socks off, but it's been allowed to run to seed, rather like an alcoholic duchess who's been at the cooking sherry. Frankly, I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. If this was the jewel in the crown of the Peak District, I wasn't keen on seeing the armpit. I guess growing up in Oxford spoiled me for any architecture in the grand style that isn't kept in tip-top condition.

Like Oxford, Buxton is a victim of its own publicity. Everyone knows Oxford because of the university; what they don't realize is
that it's really much more like Detroit. It's the motor car that puts money in the pockets of Oxford's shopkeepers, not the privileged inhabitants of the colleges. Walking round Buxton, it didn't take me long to figure out that it isn't culture or the spa that keeps the wheels of commerce turning there. It's limestone.

Richard was as enamored of the place as I was. Before we'd walked the length of the rather dismal main street, he'd already started grumbling. “I don't know why the hell you had to drag me here,” he muttered. “I mean, look at it. What a dump. And it's raining.”

“I think you'll find the rain isn't just falling on Buxton,” I said.

“I wouldn't bank on it,” he replied gloomily. “It's a damn sight colder than it was in Manchester. I don't see why it shouldn't be a damn sight wetter too.” He stopped and stared with hostility at the steamed-up window of a chip shop. “What the hell are we doing here, Brannigan?”

“I'm just doing what you told me,” I said sweetly.

“What
I
told you? How d'you figure that one out? I never said let's go and find the most horrible tourist attraction in the North West and spend the day wandering round it in the rain.” He does a good line in outrage, does Richard. Before he got into his stride and started ranting for England, I relented.

I slipped my arm through his, more for support than to show solidarity. “The guy who ripped off Alexis and Chris has some connection with Buxton,” I explained. “He used a hooky name to pull off the scam, and the only clue I've got on him is that his bank account is in Buxton.” Richard's mouth opened, but I carried on relentlessly. “And before you remind me that your bank account is still in Fulham, let me point out that this guy is supposedly a builder and the account in question appears to be a business account.”

“So what do we do? Wander round Buxton asking people if they know any iffy builders who might have ripped off our friends? Oh, and here's the big clue. We know which bank he keeps his overdraft in! I mean, do we even know what this guy looks like?”

“Alexis says he's in his late twenties, early thirties. Wavy brown hair, medium height, regular features. According to another witness,
brown hair, big muscles, fancies himself, drives a white Transit,” I said.

“A white Transit?” Richard interrupted. “Jesus! You don't think it was him that tried to run you off the road last night?”

“Behave,” I told him. “Half the tradesmen in the world drive Transits, and half of them are white. You can't go round suspecting every plumber, joiner or glazier in Greater Manchester. Whoever this guy is, he hasn't got the remotest notion that I'm even interested in him, never mind that I'm after him for fraud.”

“Sorry,” Richard said. “So what do we do, then?”

“The first thing we do is we buy a local paper and then we find a nice place to have lunch, and while you're stuffing your greedy little face, I will study the paper and see who the local builders are. Then, after lunch, we will behave like tourists and do a tour of Buxton. Only, instead of taking in the sights, we'll be taking in the builders' yards.”

“But there won't be anyone there on a Saturday afternoon,” Richard objected.

“I know that,” I said through tight lips. “But there will be neighbors. You know. The sort of net-twitchers who can tell you what people drive, what they look like and whether vans marked ‘T. R. Harris, Builders' ever find their way into the yard.”

Richard groaned. “And I'm missing Man United and Arsenal for this.”

“I'll buy lunch,” I promised. He pulled a doubtful face. “And dinner.” He brightened up.

We ended up in a pub near the opera house that looked like it had been single-handedly responsible for Laura Ashley's profits last year. The chairs were upholstered in a fabric that matched the wallpaper, and the mahogany-stained wood of the furniture was a perfect match for the big free-standing oval bar in the center of the big room. In spite of the décor, however, they were still clearly not catering for anything other than a local clientele. Richard complained bitterly because their idea of designer beer was a bottle of brown ale. He ended up nursing a pint of lager, then insisted on sitting in a side bar with a view of the door so if anyone he knew came in he could swap his drink for my vodka and grapefruit
juice. Humoring him, I settled for a view of the rest of the room. Luckily, the food was good. Wonderful sandwiches, stunning chips. Proper chips, big fat brown ones like my Granny Brannigan used to make in a chip pan so old and well-used that it was black. And the campaign to keep Richard happy got a boost when he discovered Sticky Toffee Pudding on the sweet menu.

After his second helping, we were ready to make a move. I staggered upstairs to the ladies' while Richard attempted to scrape the pattern off the plate. Coming back down the wide staircase, I got the kind of surprise that makes people miss their footing and end up looking like human pretzels in hallways. It also has the unfortunate side effect of attracting an enormous amount of attention. Luckily, because of my brush with permanent disability the night before, I was clutching the banister tightly.

I moved gingerly down the last few stairs and slipped round the back of the oval bar where I could study my prey rather less obviously. Halfway down the stairs may well be a nice place to sit, but it sure as hell is an appalling place to do a stake-out. I edged round the bar, getting a couple of strange looks from the barman, till I could see them in the mirror without them being able to get a clear view of me.

Over at a small table in the bay window, Martin Cheetham was deep in earnest conversation with someone I'd seen before. The hunk with the van who'd looked straight through me outside the Corn Exchange after I'd interviewed Cheetham. Today, they were both out of their working clothes. Cheetham wore a pair of cords and an Aran sweater, while his companion looked even hunkier than before in a blue rugby shirt tucked into a pair of Levi's. There was a black leather blouson slung over the arm of his chair. Whatever they were talking about, Cheetham wasn't happy. He kept leaning forward, clutching his glass of beer tightly. His body was like a textbook illustration of tension.

By contrast, his companion looked as relaxed as a man on his holidays. He leaned back in his seat, casually smoking a slim cigar. He kept flashing smiles at Cheetham which didn't reassure him one little bit. They'd have reassured me if I'd been on the receiving end, no messing. He was seriously sexy.

Unfortunately, it was beginning to look as if he might just be seriously villainous too. Here was Martin Cheetham, the man who had offered the land deal to Alexis and Chris, sitting drinking and talking with a guy in Buxton that I had pegged as a builder. And Alexis and Chris had been cheated out of their money on a deal arranged by the same Martin Cheetham with T. R. Harris, a builder with Buxton connections. I tried to remember the name on the van the hunk had parked outside the Corn Exchange, but the brain cell that had been taking care of the information appeared to be one of the ones that perished on Barton Bridge.

I realized that watching the pair of them wasn't really getting me anywhere. I needed to be able to hear their conversation. I gave the layout of the room some attention. Obviously, I didn't want Cheetham to see me. Of course, if he was innocent of any shady dealing, he'd have no problem with my presence. But I was beginning to have serious suspicions about his role in the business, so I wasn't about to take the chance.

I figured that if I cut across the room behind Cheetham, I could slide along an empty banquette till I was just behind him. From there, I should be able to hear something of their conversation. It wouldn't require much in the way of stealth, which was just as well, given the condition of my body. I made it across the room, but as I was edging towards the end of the banquette the hunk caught sight of me. He was instantly alert, sitting up and leaning forward to say something to Cheetham. The solicitor immediately swivelled round in his chair. I was well and truly blown.

Bowing to the inevitable (not a position that comes naturally to me), I got up and walked towards them. Cheetham's face registered momentary panic, and he cast a look over his shoulder to his companion, who flicked an alert look at me and said something inaudible to Cheetham. Cheetham ran a nervous hand through his dark hair then took a step towards me. “Miss Brannigan, what a surprise, let me buy you a drink,” he said without drawing breath. He stepped to his left, blocking the way past him.

In total frustration, I watched his companion turn on his heel and practically run out of the bar. I gave Cheetham the hard stare. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the color
had vanished from under his tan, leaving him looking like he'd suddenly developed cirrhosis. “I was hoping you'd introduce me to your friend,” I said, making the best of a bad job.

His smile barely made it to his lips, never mind his dark eyes. “Er, no, sorry, he had to rush.” He picked up his glass and took a swift sip. “Do let me buy you a drink, Miss Brannigan,” he pleaded.

“No thanks. I was just leaving myself. Do you have a lot of friends in the building trade, Mr. Cheetham?”

He looked as if he wanted to burst into tears. “The building trade? I'm sorry, I'm not at all sure that I understand you.”

“Your friend. The one who just left? He's a builder, isn't he?”

He gave a nervous laugh. It sounded like a spaniel choking on a duck feather. From the look on his face, he realized it hadn't really worked either. He shifted gear and tried for the throwaway approach. “You must be mistaken. John's a lorry driver. He works for one of the quarry companies.”