Kick Back (10 page)

I moved close enough to get a whiff of the old man. It was enough to make me pray we could conduct our business out in the farmyard. Cartwright said, “Gary says you're after Tom Harris. What I did with him was all legal, all above board.”

“I know that, Mr. Cartwright. I just need to speak to Tom, and no one seems to know where I can find him. I hoped maybe you would know.”

He tucked his gun under one arm and fumbled in the deep pocket of his grimy corduroy trousers and produced a document which he waved under my nose. “That's all I know,” he said.

I reached for it, but he snatched it back. “You can look but you mustn't touch,” he said, just like a five-year-old. I held my breath and moved close enough to read it. It was an agreement between Henry George Cartwright of Stubbleystall Farm and Thomas Richard Harris of 134 Bolton High Road, Ramsbottom. I didn't have to read any further. I had more bells ringing in my head than Oxford on May morning. I smiled politely, thanked Harry Cartwright and got back in my car. Looking bewildered, Gary folded himself in beside me and we shot back down the track again.

Thomas Richard Harris. Tom, Dick and Harry. If Thomas Richard Harris was a straight name, I was Marie of Romania.

 

By eleven on Friday morning, I was stir crazy. Shelley was thrilled that I was stymied on our two paying jobs, the conservatories and the pharmaceuticals, and she wasn't about to let me bunk off and follow the clues to Alexis's con man. I was trapped in an office with a woman who wanted me to do paperwork, and I had no excuse to get away. By ten, all my files were up to date. By eleven, my case notes were not only written but polished to the point where I could have joined a writers' group and read them out. At five past eleven, I rebelled. Clutching the Ted Barlow file, I sailed through the outer office, telling Shelley I was following a new lead. It led me all the way to the Cornerhouse coffee shop, where I browsed through the file as I sipped a cappuccino. As I plowed through my interview notes yet again, it hit me. There was something I could
do while I was waiting for my Monday morning appointment at the Land Registry.

DKL Estates, the estate agents Diane Shipley had mentioned, was a shopfront opposite Chorlton Baths. DKL looked reasonably prosperous, but I realized almost immediately that there was a good reason for that. They specialized in renting, and in selling the kind of first-time-buyer properties that shift even at the bottom of a recession. There are always people desperate to climb on to the property ladder, not to mention the poor sods trading down. It looked to me as if they'd also got a significant number of ex-council houses on their books, which took a bit of courage. Their gamble seemed to have paid off in terms of customers, though. One woman walked in just ahead of me, but there were already a couple of other serious browsers. I joined them in their study of properties for sale.

The woman I had followed in selected a couple of sets of details, then approached the young man behind the desk that sat at an angle to the room. He looked as if he should be in a classroom swotting for his GCSEs. I know they say you should worry when the policemen start looking younger, but estate agents? She asked in a low, cultivated voice if she might arrange to view both properties. I was surprised; she was wearing a knitted Italian suit that couldn't have cost less than three hundred pounds, her shoes looked like they'd come from Bally or Ravel, the handbag was a Tula, and I'd have put money on the mac being a four-hundred-pound Aquascutum. Put it another way, she didn't look like a terraced house in Whalley Range was her idea of a des. res. Maybe she was looking for a nice little investment.

As I studied her, the lad behind the desk was phoning to fix her up with viewing appointments. I took in the grooming: the polished nails, the immaculately styled dark brown hair, the expert make-up that accentuated her dark eyes. I had to admire her style, even though it's one I've no desire to aspire to.

I'd stared too long, however. The woman must have felt my eyes on her, for she turned her head sharply and caught my gaze. Her eyes seemed to open wider and her eyebrows climbed. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the agency. I was
gobsmacked. I didn't know her from a hole in the ground, but she clearly knew me. Or maybe I should say, she clearly knew who I was.

The lad looked up from his pad and realized his customer was halfway out of the door. “Madam,” he wailed. “Madam, if you'll just give me a minute …” She ignored him and kept walking without a backward glance.

“How bizarre,” I said, approaching the desk. “Do you always have that effect on women?”

“It takes all sorts,” he said with a cynical resignation that would have been depressing in a man ten years his senior. “At least she took the details with her. If she wants to view, she can always phone. Maybe she remembered an appointment.”

I agreed. Privately, I was dredging my memory of recent cases, trying to see if I could place the elegant brunette. I gave up after a few seconds when the lad asked if he could help me. “I'd like to talk to whoever's in charge,” I said.

He smiled. “Can you tell me what it's in connection with? I might be able to help.”

I took a business card out of my wallet, the one that says Mortensen and Brannigan: Security Consultants. “I don't mean to appear rude, but it's a confidential matter,” I told him.

He looked slightly disconcerted, which made me wonder what little scam DKL were up to. He pushed his chair back and said, “If you'd care to wait a moment?” as he reversed across the room and through a door in the far corner. He emerged less than a minute later, looking slightly shaken. “If you'd care to go through, Mrs. Lieberman will see you now.”

I flashed him a quick, reassuring smile, then opened the door. As I entered the back office, a woman I put in her late forties rose from a typist's chair behind an L-shaped desk. On one leg of the desk, an Apple Mac stood, its monitor showing a full page mock-up of some house details. Mrs. Lieberman extended a well-manicured hand displaying a few grands' worth of gold, sapphires and diamonds. “Miss Brannigan? I'm Rachel Lieberman. Do sit down. How may I help you?” I instantly realized who had taught the young man in the front office his style.

I gave her the quick once-over as I settled into a comfortable chair. Linen suit over a soft sueded silk blouse. Her brown hair, with the odd thread of silver, was swept up into a cottage loaf above a sharp-featured face that was just beginning to blur around the jawline. Her brown eyes looked shrewd, emphasized by the slight wrinkles that appeared as she studied me right back. “It's to do with a matter I'm looking into on behalf of a client. I'm sorry to arrive without an appointment, but I was in the area, so I thought I'd drop by on the off-chance of catching you,” I started. She looked as if she didn't believe a word of it, a smile twitching at one corner of her mouth. “I wonder if you can clear something up for me. I realize that your main office is in Warrington, but are you actually the owner of DKL, or do you manage this branch?”

“I own the company, Miss Brannigan.” Her voice had had most of the northern accent polished off. “I have done since my husband died three years ago. Daniel Kohn Lieberman, hence the name of the company. What, if anything, does that have to do with your client?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Lieberman, except that I shouldn't imagine a manager would have the authority to release the information I'm after. Mind you, a mere employee probably wouldn't grasp the importance of it, either.” I tried that on for size. I hoped she was a woman who'd respond to flattery. If not, that left me with nothing but threats, and I hate to threaten anyone in daylight hours. It takes so much more energy.

“And what exactly is this information?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair and fiddling with a gold pen.

“I'd like to level with you, if I may. My company specializes in white-collar crime, and I'm investigating a serious fraud. We're looking at a six-figure rip-off here, probably more like a million. I suspect that the perpetrators may be using properties on a short-term lease for their particular scheme.” Mrs. Lieberman was listening, her head cocked on one side. So far, no reaction was making it through to the surface. I soldiered on.

“One of the addresses I'm looking at was rented through your agency. What I'm trying to do here is to find a common factor. The thing is, I'm beginning to think the renting of the houses is a key
factor in the way the fraud is organized, and I hoped that if I gave you the addresses of the other houses I suspect have been involved, then you could check for me and see if they are on your books.” I paused. I wanted some feedback. I'd never have made a politician.

Mrs. Lieberman straightened up in her chair and drew her lower lip under her teeth. “And that's all you want to know? Whether or not they're on my books?”

“Not quite all, I'm afraid. Whether they are now or have ever been on your books is the first step. Once we've established that, I want to ask you the names of the owners.”

She shook her head. “Out of the question. I'm sure you'll appreciate that. We're looking at very confidential matters here. There are only a few agencies that specialize in rental properties in this area, and we are by far the biggest. I act as agent for almost three hundred rental properties, the bulk of them on short-term leases. So you can imagine how important it is that my clients know they can trust me. I can't possibly start giving you their names. And I can't believe you really expected me to. I'm sure you don't release information like that about your clients.”

“
Touché
. But surely you can tell me if a particular property is on your books? Then when you call up the details on your screen, you might notice a pattern emerging.”

“What sort of a pattern did you have in mind, Miss Brannigan?”

I sighed. “That's what I don't know, Mrs. Lieberman. So far, all I have to go on is that I think most of the addresses involved in this scam have been rented. In one case that I'm sure about, I know that the couple who rented the house shared the surname of the couple who actually owned it.”

Rachel Lieberman leaned back in her chair and gave me the once-over again. I felt like a newly discovered species of plant—strange, exotic and possibly poisonous. After what seemed to me to be a very long time, she nodded to herself, as if satisfied.

“I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Brannigan. If you give me the addresses you're interested in, I'll look through my records and see what I can come up with. Frankly, I have to say, I think it'll be a waste of time, but then I wasn't doing anything this evening
anyway. I'll call you and let you know. Will Monday morning do, or would you prefer me to ring you at home over the weekend?”

I grinned. Deep down, Mrs. Lieberman was a woman after my own heart.

 

I spent the afternoon with Ted Barlow, doing the boring stuff of checking back through all his records, making notes of ex-salesmen who'd been sacked, and learning exactly how a conservatory is installed. I glanced at the dashboard clock as I got back behind the wheel of my Nova. Just after seven. I figured I'd be quicker picking up the motorway than going home by the more direct crosstown route. A few minutes later, I was doing eighty in the middle lane, the Pet Shop Boys blasting out of all four speakers. The huge arc of Barton Bridge glittered against the sky, sweeping the motorway over the dark ribbon of the Manchester Ship Canal. As the bridge approached, I moved over to the inside lane, positioning myself to change motorways at the exit on the far side. I was singing “Where the streets have no name” at full belt when I automatically registered a white Ford Transit coming up outside me in the middle lane.

I paid no attention to the van as it drew level then slightly ahead. Then, suddenly, his nose was turning in front of me. My brain tripped into slow motion. Everything seemed to last forever. All I could see out of the side of my car was the white side of the van, closing in on me fast. I could see the bottom edge of some logo or sign, but not enough to identify any of the letters. I could hear screaming, then I realized it was my own voice.

The nightmare was happening. The van swiped into me, crushing the door of my car against my right side. At the same time, the car skidded sideways into the crash barrier. I could hear the scream of metal on metal, I could feel the rise in temperature from the friction heat, I could see the barrier buckle, I could hear myself sobbing, “Don't break, bastard thing, don't break!”

The front of my car seemed to be sandwiched between the struts of the crash barrier. I was tilted forward at a crazy angle. Below me, I could see the lights twinkling on the black water of the Ship Canal. The cassette player was silent. So was the engine. All
I could hear was the creaking of the stressed metal of the crash barrier. I tried to open the driver's door, but my right arm was clamped in place by the crushed door. I tried to wriggle round to open it with my left arm, but it was no use. I was trapped. I was hanging in space, a hundred feet above the empty depths of the canal. And the Ford Transit was long gone.

I came to a very important decision sitting in a cubicle in the casualty department of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Time for a yuppie phone. I mean, have you been in a casualty department lately? Because I was a road traffic accident, I was whizzed straight through the waiting area on a trolley and deposited in a cubicle. Not that that meant I was going to be attended to any more quickly, oh no. I realized pretty soon I was supposed to regard this as my very own personal waiting room. And me not even a private patient!

I stuck my head out of the curtains after about ten minutes and asked a passing nurse where I could find a phone. She barked back at me, “Stay where you are, doctor will be with you as soon as she can.” I sometimes wonder if the words that people hear are the same ones that come out of my mouth.