called.
Seconds later, he appeared at my doors, brandishing the unmistakable carrier bag of a Chinese takeaway. He pulled the door back, took in Michael and grinned. “Hi,” he said expansively. I estimated three joints. “You two still working?”
“We finished ages ago,” I said sweetly. “Michael came back for coffee.”
“Right,” said Richard, oblivious to the implication I was thrusting under his nose. “You won’t mind if I join you, then?”
Without waiting for an answer, he plonked himself down on the sofa opposite Michael and unpacked his takeaway. “I’m Richard Barclay, by the way,” he said, extending a hand across the table to Michael. “You wait for Brannigan to remember her manners, you could be dead.”
“Michael Haroun,” he said, shaking Richard’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Yes, an insurance man born and bred. Only an estate agent could have lied more convincingly.
Richard jumped to his feet and headed for the door. “Chopsticks and bowls for three?” he asked. “Sorry, Mike, I wasn’t expecting company, but there’s probably enough to go round.”
“We’ve just had dinner, Richard,” I said. “I did leave you a message.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grinned. “But I’ve never known you refuse a salt-and-pepper rib, Brannigan.”
“Sorry about that,” I said as he left.
Michael winked. “Gives me a chance to suss out the competition.”
I didn’t like the idea that I was some kind of prize, even if it was gratifying to know that he was interested in more than recovering Henry Naismith’s Monet. And he didn’t even have the excuse of a previous encounter in the British Museum. “What makes you think there’s a competition?” I asked sweetly.
Michael leaned back against the sofa and stretched his legs out. “I thought you were the detective. Kate, if you two were as happy as pigs, you’d have left me sitting in the car wondering where exactly I’d made the wrong move.”
Before I could reply, Richard was back. “I’ll get the coffee,” I said, annoyed with myself for my transparency. By the time I got back, Richard and Michael were getting to know each other. And they say women are bitches.
“So, what do you do when you’re not chipping a oner off people’s car-theft claims because your assessor spoke to the next-door neighbor who revealed that the ashtray was full?” Richard asked through a mouthful of shiu mai.
As I sat down next to him, Michael smiled at me and said, “I play computer games. Like Kate.”
I poured the coffee in silence and let the boys play. “All a bit sedentary,” Richard remarked, loading his bowl with fried rice and what looked like chicken hoi nam.
“Oh, I work out down at the gym,” Michael said. I believed him. I could feel the hard muscles in the arm pressed against mine.
Richard nodded, as if confirming a guess. “Thought as much,” he said. “Bit too pointless for me, all that humping metal around. I prefer something a bit more social for keeping in shape. But then, I suppose it can’t be easy finding people who want to play with you when you’re an insurance claims manager,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Bit like being a VAT man.”
“I’ve never had any problems finding people to play with,” Michael drawled. I had no trouble believing that. “What exactly is it that you do to keep fit, Richard? Squash? Real tennis? Polo? Or do you prefer raves?”
Richard almost choked on his food. Neither of us rushed to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Recovering, he swallowed hard and said, “I’m a footie man myself. Local league. Every Sunday morning, never mind the weather.”
Michael smiled. Remember that poem? “The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold”? “I’ve never been much into mud myself,” he said sweetly.
“Had a good evening?” I chipped in before things got out of hand.
Richard nodded. “Been down the Academy listening to East European grunge bands. Some good sounds.” He gave me one of his perfect smiles. “How’s your workload progressing?”
I shrugged. “Slowly,” I said. “Michael’s been giving me some background on the art front, and I’ve got Alexis to chuck a few bricks into the pond. It’s a question of waiting to see what floats to the surface.”
“And we all know what floats,” Richard said drily, glancing at Michael.
Michael decided enough was enough. He drained his mug and put it down on the coffee table. “I’d better be on my way,” he said. “Busy day tomorrow.”
We both stood up. “I’ll see you out,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Richard,” Michael said politely on his way out the door.
“Feeling’s entirely mutual,” Richard said ironically.
On the doorstep, I thanked Michael for dinner. “It was a pleasant change,” I said.
“I can see that,” Michael said. “Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
I only hesitated for a moment. “That’d be nice,” I admitted.
“Let me know how your investigation progresses,” he said. “Stay in touch.” He leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. He smelled of warm, clean animal, the last traces of his aftershave lingering muskily underneath. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as my body tingled.
I turned my head and met his lips in a swift, breathless kiss. Before it could turn into anything more, I stepped back. “Drive safely,” I said.
I watched him walk to his car, enjoying the light bounce of his step. Then, I took a deep breath and walked back indoors.
After Michael had gone, Richard polished off the remains of his Chinese, making no comment on my choice of company for the evening. He asked if I wanted to see a movie the following evening and we bickered companionably about what we’d go and see, me holding out for Blade Runner: The Director’s Cut, revisiting the Cornerhouse for the umpteenth time. “No way,” Richard had said emphatically. “I’m not going to the Corner-house. I’m getting too old for art houses. They’re full of politically correct wankers trying to pretend they understand the articles in the Modern Review. You can’t move for people rabbiting about semiotics and Fbucault and deconstruction.” He paused, then got to the real reason. “Besides, they don’t sell popcorn or Haagen-Dazs. You can’t call that a night out at the movies.”
I gave in gracefully. Satisfied that I’d made the concession, Richard announced he had to write an article about the post-Communist rockers for some American West Coast magazine, and he wanted to get it written and faxed before he went to bed. He swept the remains of his takeaway into the carrier bags and gave me a swift hug. “I love you, Brannigan,” he muttered gruffly into my ear.
I fell asleep with the words of Dean Friedman’s “Love Is Not Enough” swirling round my head like a mantra. I woke up alone the next morning, and not particularly surprised by that. I felt strangely deflated, as if something I’d been anticipating hadn’t happened. I wasn’t sure if that was to do with Michael or Eichard. Either way, I didn’t like the feeling that my state of mind was dependent on anyone else. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water pour down. A friend of mine who’s into all that New Age stuff reckons a shower cleanses your aura. I don’t know about that, but it always helps me put things into perspective.
By the time I walked through the office door, I was feeling in control of my life again. That might have had something to do with the miracle of finding a parking meter that was nearer the office than my house. Parking in this city gets worse by the day. I’ve been seriously wondering how much it would cost to bribe the security men at the BBC building across the road to let me park my car inside their compound. Probably more than I earn.
Shelley was on the phone, so I headed straight for the cof-feemaker, a shiny chrome cappuccino machine that my partner, the gadget king of the North West, bought us for a treat after a grateful client gave us a bonus because we’d done the job faster than Speedy Gonzales. Somehow, I couldn’t see either of our current employers rewarding my swiftness. I was beginning to feel like I was wading through cement on both cases.
Before I could fill the scoop with coffee, I heard Shelley say, “Hang on, she’s just walked in.”
I turned to see her waving the phone at me. “Alexis,” Shelley said.
I headed for my office. “Coffee?” It was a try-on, I admit it. Mortensen and Brannigan adopts a firm “you want it, you make it” policy on coffee. But every now and again, Shelley takes pity on me.
I guess I didn’t look needy enough, for there were no signs of her crossing the office after she’d switched the call through. I sighed and picked up the phone. ‘“Morning,” I said.
