“You're sure about that, are you?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, recovering his poise, “I've known him and his family for years, and if he's not a lorry driver, he's done a good job of fooling the lot of us. I was at university with his sister.” It was a great performance.
I had no evidence. All I had were a lot of suspicions and one or two coincidences. It wasn't nearly enough to harass a member of the Law Society. “I'll be seeing you around,” I said, trying to make it sound like a threat rather than a promise. I stalked off, the effect rather spoiled by the limp.
I found Richard waiting crossly on the pavement outside the pub. “At last!” he sighed. “Do you need to go to a chemist for some laxatives, or were you just enjoying the
Buxton Advertiser
so much you didn't notice the time? I've been standing here like patience on a flaming monument.”
“Did you happen to notice a guy tearing out of the pub a few minutes ago? Black leather jacket, brown hair, moody looking?” I asked, ignoring his complaints.
“Hasn't realized he's too old for the James Dean impersonation? That the one?”
“That's right. I don't suppose you noticed where he went?”
“He took off across the park,” Richard said, waving a hand in the vague direction of the Pavilion Gardens. “Why? Did he do a runner without paying for his butty or something?”
“I think that was our man. T. R. Harris himself. Shit! If I could only remember the name on his van!” I snarled.
Richard looked blank. “But he wasn't driving a van.”
“He was the last time I saw him. It was some dreadful pun of a name,” I muttered, opening the paper again and scanning the ads.
“Bricks and Motor? Mean and Roofless?” Richard wittered on as I continued my fruitless scrutiny.
Then an advert caught my eye. “Doing up your house? Don't touch a thing till you've called us. Cliff Scott & Sons.” Then, in bold capitals, “Renovations our speciality.” I let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Renew-Vations,” I announced triumphantly.
“Yeah, right,” Richard said, giving me the kind of uneasy look we normally reserve for those in the later stages of dementia.
The look didn't go away as I marched back into the pub and asked for their phone book. While I was waiting, I noticed Cheetham had been joined by a stylish and attractive brunette with a clutch of carrier bags. Judging by the logos, she hadn't been to Safeway for a frozen chicken. She was stroking Cheetham's thigh proprietorially while he appeared to be conducting an inquisition about the carrier bags. Then the phone book arrived and I had to drag my attention away from them. Surprise, surprise. Renew-Vations didn't have a listing. Back to Plan A.
Amazingly enough, Richard was still standing on the pavement when I emerged from the pub for a second time. He had the look of a man who has decided that happiness lies along the line of least resistance. “What now, my love,” he sang in a bad imitation of Shirley Bassey as he attempted to sweep me into his arms. I dodged, wincing, and he instantly stopped. “Sorry, Brannigan, I keep forgetting you're one of the walking wounded.”
I didn't need reminding. I was beginning to feel tired and a bit shaky. To be honest, I was glad of the chance to sit in the car while Richard drove me round the builders' yards I'd marked. Again, we drew a blank. There was no sign of a van marked Renew-Vations. Or, come to that, T. R. Harris. Questioning local residents established
that six out of nine builders drove white Transits. Four of them answered the general description of Tom Harris. When I asked where they banked, I got some very strange looks and not a lot of help.
By four o'clock, I was worn out. But I wasn't ready to give up, in spite of Richard's heavy hints about it being time to go home.
“I've got an idea,” I said as we drove back towards the town center. “Why don't we find ourselves a nice little hotel and book in for the night? That way, you won't have to drive me back here tomorrow.”
“You what?” he exploded. “Spend a
night
in this dump? You have got to be kidding, Brannigan. I'd rather go to a Richard Clayderman concert.”
“That could be arranged,” I muttered. “Look, I've got a gut feeling about this guy. I need to find out his name and where he lives. I'm not going to be able to do that in Manchester.”
“So wait for a weekday when there are some builders around in their yards and the builders' merchants are open,” Richard said reasonably.
“The only problem is that I'm doing this job as a favor for Alexis. Bill's back from the Channel Islands on Monday morning, and he's not going to be thrilled if I'm off doing a freebie instead of the jobs I'm paid for. I'd really like to try and get this cleared up tomorrow. Besides, I've got to go to the Land Registry on Monday,” I added, laying on the pathos.
Richard scowled. “OK, Brannigan, you win.”
Had he ever doubted I would?
11
It was a whole new adventure in pain, finding a hotel room in Buxton acceptable to Richard. For a start, it had to have a color television and a phone in the bedroom. It had to have a proper bar, not a poxy built-in cocktail bar like darts and snooker players have in one corner of the lounge. It also had to feel like part of the twentieth century, which ruled most of them out. His final insistence was that it had a lift, on account of I was injured, couldn't they see that? After he'd ranted at the woman in the Tourist Information Office about the plight of the disabled, we finally ended up in an extremely pleasant establishment overlooking the park. At least, they were pleasant as we booked in. I had this horrible feeling that by the time we left, relations would be a lot more strained. When Richard gets one on him, the staff at Buckingham Palace would be hard pressed to meet his demands.
I headed straight for the bath to ease my aching limbs, while Richard turned on the TV and collapsed on the bed, complaining about the lack of a) a remote control and b) satellite television. I have to confess I wasn't sorry. My head was splitting, and I didn't think I could put up with his usual channel hopping or MTV at full volume without giving way to the urge to commit GBH. I closed the bathroom door so I didn't have to listen to his comments on the football match reports, and subsided thankfully into the hot water while I attempted to order my thoughts.
First, the conservatories. Thanks to Rachel Lieberman, I now knew that the houses where the conservatories had disappeared had all been rented. It seemed that the people who had rented them shared their surname with the real owners. Was there any significance in the fact that they'd all been rented through DKL? Or
was it simply that DKL was one of the few agencies around who specialized in rental property? What I didn't understand was where the conservatories had gone, or how the con with the second mortgages had been worked. After all, these days, financial institutions are a little bit fussier than they used to be about who they lend money to. The other problem was that I didn't have the first idea of who was pulling the scam. Maybe there was something I wasn't understanding, but the more I found out, the more it seemed to me that there wasn't necessarily any connection between Ted Barlow and the criminals. But until I figured out how it worked, I couldn't see a way of finding out who was behind it. It was enormously frustrating. Perhaps it would all become clearer after I'd been to the Land Registry and studied the stuff Julia had dug up.
Next, PharmAce. I felt reasonably certain that Paul Kingsley, the freelance operative I'd laid on for tonight, would come up with the necessary photographs. But after the previous night's run-in on the bridge, I felt a more personal interest in the case. If it had been a PharmAce van that had tried to cut short my promising career, then I wanted to know who had done it so someone could make him feel as shaky if not as sore as I was feeling.
And finally, the case of the bent builder. I had a gut feeling about “John.” There were too many coincidences piling up. Besides, there was a matter of professional pride at stake here. I reckoned I'd always managed to impress Alexis with my skills, largely because she only ever saw the end result. I didn't want her to start seeing the feet of clay.
However, I still didn't have any bright ideas about how to find the elusive “John,” alias “T. R. Harris,” and the bath was starting to cool off. Gingerly, I pushed myself up till I was perched on the end of the bath, then I swung my legs over the edge and on to the floor. I wrapped myself in a generous bath sheet and joined my beloved, who was now pouring scorn on a mindless game show.
I snuggled up to him and he paused in his stream of invective long enough to say, “Have they got a Chinese in Buxton?”
“Try looking in the paper. Or the phone book. Or ring reception.”
The last suggestion obviously required the least effort. While he
made the receptionist's day, I staggered back to the bathroom and struggled into my clothes, wishing I'd thought to bring an overnight bag. Luckily, my handbag always contains a tiny bottle of foundation and a functional compact with eye-shadows, blusher, mascara and lipstick, so I managed to hide the black shadows under my eyes and the bruise on my jaw.
By the time I'd finished, Richard was raring to go. I couldn't help feeling it was a little early for dinner and said so. “I'm hungry,” Richard said. I raised my eyebrows. He smiled sheepishly. “The receptionist said there's a pub that does live music on a Saturday night. Local bands, that sort of thing. I thought you'd probably want an early night, and I thought I might drop by later and see if there was anything worth listening to.”
Which translated as, “This trip looks like a wash-out. If one of us can get something out of it, it won't have been a complete waste of time.” One of the ways rock journos like Richard get their stories is to maintain good relations with the record company A & R men. They're the ones who sign up new acts and build them into the next U2. So Richard's always on the look-out for U3 so he can tip the wink to one of his mates.
“No problem,” I sighed. “Let's go and eat.” It was easier to give in, especially since I didn't think waiting till later would improve my appetite. The reaction to the accident seemed to have set in, and I was secretly grateful at the thought of an early night without having to worry about entertaining Richard.
The Chinese restaurant was in the main street, above a travel agency. Considering it was half past six on a Saturday night, the place was surprisingly busy. At least a dozen tables were occupied. We both took that as an indication that the food must be reasonable. I should have known better. All the other signs said the opposite. The fish tank was filled with goldfish rather than koi carp, the tables were already set with spoon and fork, there wasn't a Chinese character in sight on the menu, which was heavy on the sweet and sour and the chop suey. I've never fancied chop suey, not since someone told me with malice aforethought that it's Chinese for “mixed bits.” Besides, it's not even a proper Chinese dish, just something they invented to keep the Yanks happy.
Richard grunted in outrage as he read the menu. As the waiter returned with our two halves of lager, Richard opened his wallet and pulled out a heavily creased piece of paper which he unfolded and waved under the waiter's nose. The waiter studied the Chinese characters gravely. At least he seemed to recognize Richard's favorite half-dozen Dim Sum dishes. A while ago, he persuaded the manager of his regular restaurant in town to write them down for him in case of emergency. This was clearly an emergency. The waiter cleared his throat, carefully folded up the paper and handed it back to Richard.
“No Dim Sum,” he said.
“Why not? I've shown you what I want,” Richard protested.
“No Dim Sum. Bamboo not hygienic,” the waiter retorted. He walked off before Richard could find his voice.
“Bamboo not hygienic?” Richard finally echoed, incredulity personified. “I have now heard everything. Dear God, Brannigan, what have you got me into this time?”
I managed to pacify him long enough to order, which was my next mistake. They didn't do salt and pepper ribs, but barbecue ribs were on the menu. They were orange. I don't mean glossy reddish brown. I mean orange, as in Jaffa. The taste defied description. Even Richard was stunned into silence. He took a swig of tea to get rid of it, and nearly gagged. After a cautious sip, I understood why. Clearly unaccustomed to people wanting Chinese tea, they'd served us a pot of very weak yet stewed tea bag.
I thought it couldn't get worse, but it did. When the main courses arrived, I thought Richard was going to burst a blood vessel. The sweet and sour pork consisted of a mound of perfectly spherical balls topped with a lurid red sauce that I'd bet contained enough E numbers to render half the population of Buxton hyperactive. The chicken in black bean sauce looked as if it had been knitted, and the fillet steak Cantonese appeared to have escaped from the Mister Minit heel bar. The waiter refused to understand that we wanted chopsticks and bowls. The final indignity came when I took the lid off the fried rice. It was pink. I swear to God, it was pink. Richard just sat staring at it all, as if it was a bad joke and the real food would arrive in a minute.
I took a deep breath, and said, “Just try to think of it as one of those things we do for love.”
“Does that mean if I threw it at the waiter, you'd think I didn't love you any more?” Richard growled.
“Not exactly. But I don't think it's going to get any better and I don't feel strong enough to cope with you shredding the waiter just as an act of revenge. Let's just eat what we can and go.” Normally, I'd have been the first to complain, but I didn't have the energy. Besides, I couldn't face the thought of trailing round Buxton trying to find somewhere half-decent to eat.