Kick Back (25 page)

“We can try to speed things up at our end. But if we're going to have to find outside mortgagers to finance the remortgages, that's almost certainly going to slow the process down,” Liz said. I could hear the worry in her voice, in spite of the tinny quality of the bug's relay.

“Don't worry,” Jack soothed. “It's all going to be OK.”

Not if I had anything to do with it, it wasn't.

Bank managers or traffic wardens. It's got to be a close-run thing which we hate the most. I mean, if you got the chance to embarrass someone on prime-time TV, would you choose the bank manager who refused your overdraft or the traffic warden who ticketed your car while you nipped into Marks & Spencer for a butty? I only had to talk to the guy in charge of Ted Barlow's finances to know that he deserved the worst that Jeremy Beadle could do.

To begin with, he wouldn't even talk to me, not even to arrange an appointment. “Client confidentiality,” he explained superciliously. I told him through clenched teeth that I probably knew more about his client's current problems than he did, since I was employed by said client. I restrained myself from mentioning that Mortensen and Brannigan had standards of confidentiality and service that were a damn sight higher than his. We don't sell our customer list to junk mail financial services outfits; we don't indulge ourselves on the old boys' network to blackball people whose faces don't fit; and, strangely enough, we actually work the hours that suit our clients rather than ourselves.

But Mr. Leonard Prudhoe wasn't having any. Finally, I had to give up. There was only one way I was going to get to see this guy. I rang Ted and asked him to set the meeting up. “Have you sorted it all out?” he asked. “Do you know what's been going on?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “But whatever you do, don't so much as hint to anyone, and I mean anyone, that anything's changed.” I explained that he'd have to set up a meeting with Prudhoe so we could get the whole thing sorted out. “Then, if you come to the office beforehand, I'll fill you in first.”

“Can't you tell me now? I'm on pins,” he said.

“I've got a couple of loose ends to tie up, Ted. But if you can fix up to see Prudhoe this afternoon, I should be able to give you chapter and verse then. OK?”

The relief in his voice was heartwarming. “I can't tell you how pleased I am, Miss Brannigan. You've no idea what it's been like, wondering if I was going to lose everything I've worked for. You've just got no idea,” he burbled on.

I might not have, but I had a shrewd idea who did. When I managed to disentangle myself from his effusive thanks, I wandered through to the outer office. Shelley's fingers were flying over the keyboard as she worked her way through the proposals Bill had put together for our Channel Islands clients. “Ted's little problem,” I said. “I'm just nipping out for a couple of hours to tie up the last loose ends. He should be ringing back to let me know when we're seeing his bank manager. Give me a bell on the mobile when you know.”

She gave me one of her looks. The ones I suspect she reserves for her kids when she thinks they're trying to dodge out without finishing their homework. “You mean it?” she asked.

“Brownie's honor,” I said. “Would I lie to you about something so close to your heart? Are you familiar with the works of Rudyard Kipling?”

She looked at me as if I was out to lunch and not coming back for a long time. “Wasn't he the one who went on about the white man's burden?” she said suspiciously.

“The same. Knew all about keeping the yellow and brown chappies in their places. However, he was not entirely a waste of oxygen. He also wrote the private eye's charter:

“Well, as far as Ted's case is concerned, I know the what, the why, the when, the where and the who. I know most of the how,
and after I've paid a little visit to one of my contacts, I expect to know the lot.” I smiled sweetly as I shrugged into my coat and headed for the door. “Bye, Shelley.”

“You worry me, Brannigan, you really do,” floated after me as I ran downstairs. The day had not been wasted.

Rachel Lieberman was doing front of house at DKL Estates when I walked through the door. The suit she was wearing looked as if it was worth about the same as the deposit on any one of her first-time-buyer properties. I pretended to study the houses for sale while she made appointments for a potential buyer to view a couple. Five minutes later, the grateful house-hunter went on his merry way with a handful of particulars, leaving Rachel and me facing each other across the desk. “Lost your young man?” I asked.

“His mother says he's got a bug. I think it may have more to do with the fact that United won last night,” she said.

“You just can't get the help these days,” I commiserated.

“You can say that again. Anyway, what can I do for you? Still hunting for your mysterious con artists?”

I'd already decided that whoever was supplying Jack McCafferty and Liz with the information they needed, it wasn't Rachel Lieberman. I hadn't made that decision purely on women's intuition. I reckoned she'd have found a way politely to show me the door if she'd been involved. So I smiled and said, “Nearly at the end of the road. I was hoping you could help me out with a couple of loose ends.”

“Fire away,” she said. “You've got me quite intrigued. My son was enthralled when I told him I was helping a private eye with her inquiries. So I owe you some co-operation. It's not easy for a mother to impress a ten-year-old, you know.”

“Do you store all the details of your rented properties on your computer?”

“It all goes in there, whether it's for rental or for sale,” she said.

“So how does the Warrington office get your data, and vice versa?”

“I don't mean to be rude, but how well do you understand computers?” she asked.

I grinned. “If you left me alone with yours for half an hour, I
could probably figure it out for myself,” I said. I was almost certainly exaggerating, but she wasn't to know. Now, if I had Bill with me, he'd definitely be in there before I'd had time to brew a pot of coffee.

“I'll save you the bother,” she replied. “Twice a day, at one and again at five, I access the Warrington office computer via a modem. The software identifies any new files, or files that have been modified since the machines last conversed. Then it exports those files from my machine and imports the ones from the Warrington computer. The system also warns me in the unusual event of the same file having been modified by both offices.”

“Sounds like a nifty bit of programming,” I said.

“Our software was written by my brother-in-law, so he had to make sure it does what it's supposed to, or I'd make his life hell,” Rachel said. I could imagine. One of the things I learned in law school was, never cross a Jewish princess.

“Now for the hard question,” I said.

“I can guess. Who has access to the computers?” she asked. I nodded. “Is this really necessary?” I nodded again. “And I suppose you won't be satisfied if I tell you that they're only accessible to members of my staff?” I began to feel like I was following the bouncing ball.

“You want names, do you?” she said.

“Photographs would be even better,” I said.

Her eyebrows arched, then she snorted with laughter. “Have you ever considered a career in estate agency? With cheek like yours, you could stand in the middle of a decaying slum with rising damp, dry rot and subsidence and persuade the clients that the property has unique potential that only they are capable of exploiting.”

“Kind of you, but I prefer catching crooks to becoming one,” I said.

“It's flattery that's supposed to get results, not insults,” she retorted. “All the same, would you mind terribly keeping an eye on the shop while I attempt to meet your demands?”

I even went so far as to sit behind the desk while Rachel disappeared into the back office. I suppose she could have been
phoning the baddies to tip them off, but I didn't think so. Luckily, no one came in during the few minutes she was gone. Thursday morning obviously isn't the busy time for estate agents. Rachel returned with an envelope of photographs. “Here we are,” she said. “We had a staff Christmas dinner last year. The only person who's new since then is Jason, and you've already met him.”

Rachel handed me the bundle of snaps. They'd celebrated in one of the Greek tavernas, and the pictures had obviously been put back in reverse order, for the first few showed one of those organized riots that the Greeks, like the Scots, call dancing. There was no one that I recognized. I carried on. Then, on the seventh photograph, shot from the opposite end of the table, there she was. Small, neat features, sharp chin, face wider across the red eyes. Just like Diane Shipley's sketch, except that her natural hair was dark blonde, cut short in a feathered, elfin style. I pointed to the woman. “Who's that?”

Rachel's face seemed to close down on me. “Why? What makes you ask?”

“I don't think you want me to answer that,” I said gently. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Liz Lawrence. She works two afternoons a week in our Warrington office. She has done for nearly three years. I think you must be making a mistake, Miss Brannigan. She's … she's a nice woman. She works hard,” Rachel insisted.

I sighed. Sometimes this job makes me feel like the bad fairy who tells children there's no Santa Claus. The worst of it was that I had another sackload of disillusion to dump on someone before the day was over.

 

Ted's suit was having yet another outing. When I got back to the office, he was perched on the edge of Shelley's desk, looking as cheerfu3l as a bloodhound whose quarry has just disappeared into the river. “And you know what garages are,” I heard him say as I came in. “They don't know when they'll have either van back on the road.”

“More problems?” I asked.

“You're not kidding. Two of my three vans are off the road.
Which means my installations have slowed right down. It's a disaster,” Ted said mournfully.

“Are you sure it's just a coincidence?” Shelley demanded. “On top of everything else, it's beginning to sound as if somebody's got it in for you!”

Ted managed to look both wounded and baffled. “I don't think so, Shelley, love,” he said. “It's just been bad luck. I mean, the first one was parked up when it happened. Somebody'd obviously smacked into it in the pub car park while Jack was busy inside.”

“Jack McCafferty? What was he doing with one of the vans? Surely he's got nothing to do with installations?” I asked, too sharply. They both gave me odd looks.

“He borrows it now and again. He runs a little disco business with his brother-in-law, and sometimes they're double booked so he borrows one of my vans overnight to run the disco gear around in,” Ted said. The final piece slotted into place.

Then I remembered what kind of vans Colonial Conservatories use. My stomach felt like I'd eaten too much ice cream too fast. “What night was it that he had the accident, Ted?” I asked.

Ted frowned and cast his eyes upwards. “Let me see … It must have been Monday night. Yes, Monday. Because we were running round like lunatics Tuesday trying to fit everything in, and that's why Pete was going too fast to stop at the roundabout. And now we're two vans down, and no sign of either of them back till next week at the very earliest.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a flicker of movement as Shelley's hand sneaked out to pat Ted's.

Oh well, at least it hadn't been Ted's white Transit van that had tried to push me off Barton Bridge. “I wish I had some good news for you, Ted,” I said, “but I'm afraid it's a bit mixed. We're not due at the bank for another half-hour yet. D'you want to come into my office and I'll run it past you before we go and see Prudhoe?”

 

I thought I wasn't going to be able to get Ted to the bank. When I unfolded the tale of Jack's treachery, he went white round the mouth and headed for the door. Luckily, the sight of Shelley's astonished face slowed him down long enough for me to grab his arm and steer him into a seat. Shelley got a medicinal brandy into
him and he recovered the power of speech. “I'll kill the bastard,” he ground out between clenched jaws. “I swear to God, I'll kill him.”

“Don't be silly,” Shelley said briskly. “Kate will have him put in prison and that's much more satisfying,” she added. Taking me to one side while Ted stared into the bottom of his empty glass, she muttered, “Which bastard are we talking about here?”

I gave her the last five seconds of the tale, which was enough to get her crouching beside Ted, murmuring the kind of comfort that it's embarrassing to witness. Of course, that was when Detective Chief Inspector Della Prentice chose to put in an appearance. I immediately steered her towards the door and said, “Ted, I'll see you downstairs in five minutes.”

I'd rung Della as soon as Shelley gave me a time for the meeting with Prudhoe. I figured it would save me a bit of time if I outlined the case to her at the same time as I told the bank. I knew that the bank might be less than thrilled, but frankly, they were just going to have to lump it. I still had to find enough proof to nail Brian Lomax, and I simply didn't have the time to go into a ritual dance with Ted Barlow's bank manager about ethics.

Leonard Prudhoe was just as I'd expected. Smooth, supercilious, but above all, gray. From his silver hair to his shiny gray loafers, he was a symphony in the key of John Major. The only splash of color was the angry purple zit on his neck. God knows how it had the temerity to sit there. Also, as I'd expected, he treated us like a pair of naughty children who've been reported to the head so they can learn how the grown-ups behave. “Now, Miss Brannigan, I believe you think you might have some information pertinent to Mr. Barlow's current problems. But what I really can't understand is why you feel it necessary to have Chief Inspector Prentice present, charming as it is to make her acquaintance. I'm sure she's not in the least concerned with our little difficulties …”