Kick Back (14 page)

I think Richard saw the exhaustion in my face, since he caved in without a performance for once. We both picked at the food for a few minutes, then demanded the bill frostily. The waiter appeared oblivious to our dissatisfaction until Richard subtracted the ten percent service charge from the bill. This was clearly a novel experience, and one that the waiter wasn't standing on for.

I couldn't handle the aggravation, so I walked downstairs to the street, while Richard was explaining in words of several syllables to the waiter why he had no intention of paying a shilling for service. I was leaning against the door jamb, wondering how long I'd have to wait to see another human being, when the patron saint of gumshoes looked down on me and decided it was time I got something approaching an even break.

A white Transit van came down a side street facing me and turned on to the main street. Following my current obsession, I made a mental note of the name on the panels bolted on to the side of the van. “B. Lomax, Builder,” I read. His was one of the yards I'd visited that afternoon. The van drew up, and I heard the driver's door open and close, though I couldn't see anything since the van was between us. I guessed that the driver was heading for the pizzeria I'd noticed on the opposite side of the street.

Just then, Richard emerged, a grim smile on his face. “Crack it?” I asked.

“I got him to knock a couple of quid off as well, on account of the ribs had triggered off an allergy and given you an asthma attack.”

I don't have asthma. As far as I am aware, I'm allergic to nothing
except bullshit. I pointed this out to Richard as we walked back to the car. “So?” he replied. “They don't know that, do they? And besides …”

“Shut up!” I interrupted, guessing what was coming next. “I do
not
need to be told that I look shitty enough to be suffering from an asthma attack.”

“Please yourself,” he said.

I eased myself into the car, then screeched in excitement. “It's him, Richard, it's him!” I shouted, digging Richard in the ribs more savagely than I intended.

“Who?” he yelped.

“The guy I'm looking for,” I yelled, unable to take my eyes off the man who had come out carrying three pizzas which he was carefully placing on the passenger seat of the white Transit. It was the man I'd seen with Cheetham, the same man I'd seen in the Renew-Vations van, the man I strongly suspected was also T. R. Harris.

“That's the guy that came horsing out of the pub at lunchtime,” Richard said, on the ball as ever.

“I know. I think he's the guy who ripped off Alexis and Chris,” I told him.

“So let's see where he goes,” Richard said. He waited till our man climbed back into the driver's seat before starting the distinctive Beetle engine. A hot pink VW convertible wasn't the car I'd have chosen to tail someone in, but then I didn't have a choice.

“Keep as far back as you can,” I cautioned him.

We stayed where we were as the van pulled out and drove slowly towards a mini-roundabout, where the driver paused momentarily. As he turned right, Richard released the clutch and shot off in pursuit. When we turned, we could just see the tail lights of the van rounding the bend ahead. Moments later, we came round the bend to see the van turning at the traffic lights. “Go for it,” I shouted at Richard as the lights changed to amber.

He stamped on the accelerator and hauled on the steering wheel, cornering with a shriek of rubber. Thank God for low profile tires and customized Beetles. The van was still in sight, and we followed it sedately through another set of lights and up a hill.
Then it pulled into a drive. I let my breath out in a sigh of relief. It's harder than most people think to tail another vehicle. A good thirty percent of the time you lose them completely.

“Well done. But don't slow down,” I told Richard. “Just pull up round the next corner.”

He drew up a few seconds later and I was out of the car before he'd switched off the engine. The aches and pains I'd forgotten in the excitement of the chase suddenly reasserted themselves. I winced as I straightened up and tottered back down the street, which gave Richard the chance to catch up with me.

“What d'you think you're doing?” he demanded. “You should be in bed, not tearing round the back streets of Buxton.”

“I just want to check the house out.”

“You've done enough for one night,” Richard replied. “Come on, Kate, don't be silly. You're supposed to be taking it easy. Alexis wouldn't expect any more.”

I shook off his restraining hand. “I've got to make sure I know which house it is,” I said. “I'm not about to do anything more adventurous than that.” Which was nothing less than the truth. At least for the time being.

 

Forty minutes later, I was striding openly up the drive of “Hazledene.” That's a tip I learned very early on in this game. Never skulk, creep or sidle when you can boldly go. There's nothing less suspicious than someone who looks as if they know where they're going and have a perfect right to be there. Luckily, the drive was tarmacked, so there was no chance of anyone in the house hearing me crunch gravel underfoot.

Richard had delivered me back to the hotel after we'd strolled past the residence of B. Lomax, Builder. I'd told him I was going to settle down with the TV then have an early night. I hadn't specified when, or that that was all on my agenda. However, he'd trotted off happily to check out the local bands, kindly leaving his car keys behind in anticipation of finding something he might enjoy drinking. I gave him fifteen minutes to get clear, then I drove back to the side street near Lomax's.

The house was solid, four-square and looked as if it would still
be standing after the nuclear holocaust. I suppose it needed to be like that to survive Buxton winters. I'll say this for the Victorians; they really knew how to build things to last. I bet designers get down on their hands and knees every morning and give thanks for the death of that particular tradition. The drive was lined on one side with a solid privet hedge and tall trees that looked as if they'd been there as long as the gray stones of the house. As I neared the house, I moved closer to the hedge, letting myself be absorbed into its shadow.

A black BMW 3-series sat on the curve of drive that swept round the front of the house. The van was parked round the side, blocking the doors of a large detached wooden garage. There were no lights showing at the front of the house, except for a stained-glass lantern above the sturdy front door. I moved as cautiously as my stiffness would allow, keeping the van between me and the house. When I reached the end of the van's cabin, I could see a couple of patches of light spilling out on to the lawn at the back of the house.

It was almost spookily silent. The hum of traffic was so distant I had to make a conscious effort to hear it. I slipped back to the side of the van and carefully took my mini flashlight out of my bag and shone it on the side of the van. It was impossible to tell what was behind the bolt-on plywood panel. However, I was a Girl Guide. I'd also taken the precaution of raiding the tool box in Richard's boot. The small wrench I'd selected was perfect for the job.

Unfortunately, I wasn't. The top set of bolts were just too high for me. And there was nothing immediately obvious to stand on. So I made the best of a bad job and undid the four bolts along the bottom edge of the panel. They came off smoothly. The fact that they weren't rusted on seemed suspicious to me.

I pushed a screwdriver under the edge of the panel and levered it away an inch or so. By twisting my head round and angling the torch under the panel, I could just make out the “Renew-Vations” logo along the side of the van. Bingo! I made a note of the phone number, then screwed the bolts back in place. Even that small effort was enough to have me breaking out in a sweat. I really felt like going back to the hotel and crawling into bed, but I didn't want to waste the opportunity of having a good nose around while my
man was otherwise engaged with a pizza and a couple of guests.

I slipped back down to the front of the van and studied the garage. The van was parked about two feet away from the double doors. They were held shut by a heavy bolt with a padlock. I've never been very good at picking locks, in spite of the expert tuition of my friend Dennis the burglar, and I didn't really feel up to it. Then I realized that if I stood on the bumper of the van, I might just be able to see through the grimy windows at the top of the doors. That would at least tell me whether or not it was worth going into my master cracksman routine.

I eased myself up and leaned forward against the doors, which gave a creak that nearly gave me a coronary. I held my breath, but nothing stirred. I gritted my teeth and raised the torch above my head, so it was shining through the glass and into the garage.

My hunch about the garage had been right. But I didn't have to indulge in any breaking and entering to see all the proof I needed.

I waited till Richard was halfway through his second cup of coffee before I gave him the good news. “You can go back to Manchester if you like,” I said, nonchalantly buttering a slice of toast.

“Do what?” he spluttered.

“You can go back to Manchester if you like.” I glanced at my watch. “In fact, if you shoot off in the next half-hour, you'll probably be back in time for your football match,” I added, smiling sweetly. I've never understood why Richard feels the need to run around a muddy field with a bunch of his fellow overgrown schoolboys every Sunday morning. I keep telling him he doesn't need an excuse to go to the pub at Sunday lunchtime, but he's adamant that this ritual is a vital part of his life. He'd been grumbling about missing his game ever since I'd pitched him into staying over in Buxton.

“But what about this guy? Lomax, or Harris, or whatever he's called. I thought you had it all to do?”

“I decided that since it's Alexis's business, she can come over and help me with the legwork. And I didn't think spending a Sunday in Buxton with Alexis was your idea of a good time,” I said solicitously.

The waitress arrived with his full English breakfast and my scrambled eggs just then, so we had a pause while he scoffed one of his fried eggs before it congealed. “So what exactly is Alexis going to do that I can't?” he asked suspiciously. “I'm not sure I trust the pair of you let loose together. I mean, if this is the guy that ripped off Alexis, isn't she going to go apeshit when she sees him? And you're in no fit state to take anybody on right now.”

I was touched. It was worrying. A year before, I'd have bitten the
head off any man who suggested I might not be up to looking after myself. Now, I was touched. Definitely worrying. “It'll be fine,” I said. “After we had that lucky break last night, I realized there wasn't anything more I could do till Alexis had positively ID'd the guy.” I hadn't told Richard about my little excursion. Judging by his concern for my health, it was probably just as well.

He looked doubtful. “I don't know,” he said through a mouthful of sausage. “You drag me over to this God-forsaken hole, you make me eat the worst Chinese I've ever had in my life, with the possible exception of the one in Saltcoats where there was a prawn in the banana fritter, you send me off to endure the most derivative and listless music I've heard since Billy Joel's last album, then you tell me you're replacing me with an evening paper hackette! What's a man to think?”

“Just be grateful I'm not making you stay here for Sunday lunch, pal,” I replied with a grin. “Look, I'll be fine. I promise not to take any risks.” That was a promise I could make with hand on heart. After all, I'd already taken all the risks I needed to take where T. R. Harris was concerned.

“All right,” he said. “As long as you promise me one other thing?” I raised my eyebrows in a question. “Promise me you'll force Alexis to take several risks. Preferably of the potentially fatal kind.” I told you he pretends they hate each other.

“Pig,” I said mildly. “If Alexis heard you say that, she'd be cut to the quick.”

“Heard him say what?” Alexis boomed threateningly as she pulled out a chair and threw herself into it, waving at the waitress. “Good morning, children,” she greeted us. “Full English,” she added to the waitress.

“Kate's in no state for anything strenuous—”

“Lucky Kate!” Alexis interrupted Richard, ducking her head in a louche wink.

“So I said if anyone's got to take any physical risks, it had better be you,” he concluded, on his dignity.

“Well, of course, it stands to reason,” Alexis replied. “First sign of danger, you're off over the nearest distant horizon, leaving us women to deal with the physical risks.”

I thought he was going to choke. “You'd better get a move on if you're going to make it back in time for the match,” I said, treading on Alexis's toe under the table.

Richard glanced at his watch, said, “Shit!” and shoveled the rest of his breakfast down in record time. Then he pushed back his chair, got to his feet, downed a cup of tea in a oner and planted a greasy kiss somewhere in the region of my mouth. “See you tonight, Brannigan,” he said, then headed for the door.

“Typical male,” Alexis called after him. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

“The only reason it's safe to leave things in your hands is that all the real work's been done already,” Richard shouted back.

By now, we had more viewers than BSkyB TV. The rest of the breakfasters were agog. “Shut up,” I muttered through clenched teeth at Alexis. I waved goodbye to Richard, and he left, giving me a smile and a wink. “Honestly,” I complained. “What are you like? And don't tell me he started it, because you're each as bad as the other. Thank God we're not trying to do some quiet, unobtrusive undercover!”