“Anything I can help with?” he asked. Typical Dennis. Didn’t matter how much crap of his own he had to sort out, he was still determined to stay in the buddy role.
“Maybe,” I said, slipping between the ropes and heading for the neat stack of scruffy towels on a shelf.
Dennis followed me, and we sat companionably on a bench while we talked. I gave him a brief outline of the Kerrchem case. “You know anybody who’s doing schneid cleaning fluid?” I ended up.
He shook his head. “I don’t know anybody that stupid,” he said scornfully. “There’s not nearly enough margin in it, is there? And it’s bulky. Costs you a lot to shift it round, and you can’t exactly set up a street-corner pitch with it, can you? There was a team from Liverpool tried schneid washing powder a couple of years back. They’d done a raid on a chemical firm, nicked one of their vans to do the getaway. There were a couple of drums of chemicals in the back, and they decided not to waste it, so they printed up some boxes and flogged it on the markets. Nasty stuff. Took the skin off your fingers if you tried handwashing. Mind you, there weren’t any of them ‘difficult’ stains left. That’s because there wasn’t a lot of clothes left.”
“So you don’t reckon it’s any of the usual faces?”
Dennis shook his head. “Like I said, you’d have to be stupid to go for that when there’s plenty of hooky gear around with bigger profits and a lot less risk. I reckon you’re looking closer to home on this one. This is a grudge match.”
“An ex-employee? A competitor?” Even though it’s a long way removed from his world, it’s always worth bouncing ideas off Dennis.
Dennis shrugged. “You’re the corporate expert. Is this the kind of stunt big business pulls these days? I’d heard things were getting a bit tough out there, but bumping people off is a bit heavy for a takeover bid.”
“So an ex-employee, you reckon?”
“That’s where I’d put my money. Stands to reason, they’re the ones with a real grudge, and there’s no comeback. And what about them thingamabobs… what do they call it? When they give you the bullet and make you sign a bit of paper saying you can’t go off and sell all their secrets to the opposition?”
“Golden handcuffs,” I said ruefully. I was slipping. That should have been one of the first half-dozen questions I asked Trevor Kerr.
“Yeah well, nobody likes being stuck in a pair of handcuffs, don’t matter whether they’re gold or steel,” Dennis said with feeling. “It was me, I’d feel pretty cheesed. ‘Specially if I was one of them boffins whose expertise goes out of date faster than a Marks and Spencer ready meal.”
I stretched an arm round his muscular shoulders and hugged him. “You’re a pal, Dennis.”
“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “That it? You consulted the oracle?”
“That’s it. Unless you know an international gang of art thieves.”
“Art thieves?” he asked, sounding interested.
“They’re been working all over the country, turning over stately homes. They go for one item and crash in through the nearest door or window. No finesse, just sledgehammers. Straight in and out. Obviously very professional. Sound like anybody you know?”
Dennis pulled a face. “I’m well out of touch with that scene,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m off for a shower. Will you still be here when I’m done?”
I glanced at my watch. “No, got to run.” Whatever else happened today, I couldn’t leave Richard standing around at the multiscreen.
“See you round, kid,” Dennis said, walking off.
“Yeah. And Dennis…”
He looked over his shoulder, the changing room door half open.
“If there’s anything I can do…”
Dennis’s smile was as crooked as his business. “You’ll know,” he said.
Back at the car, I hit the phone. Sheila the Dragon Queen tried to tell me Trevor Kerr was in a meeting, but my civil-servant impersonation was no match for her. I had good teachers; I once devoted most of my spare time for six months to screwing housing benefits out of a succession of bloody-minded officials.
“Trevor Kerr,” the phone barked at me.
“Kate Brannigan here. I’ve spoken to the police, who were very interested in what I had to tell them about the fake KerrSter,” I said. “They said they would investigate that angle.”
“You pulled me out of a production meeting to tell me that?” he demanded.
“Not only that,” I said mildly. It was an effort. If he carried on like this, I reckoned there was going to be a five percent surliness surcharge on Trevor Kerr’s bill.
“What, then?”
“You mentioned you’d had a round of redundancies,” I said.
“So?”
“I wondered if anyone who’d gone out the door had been subject to a golden handcuffs deal.”
There was a moment’s silence. “There must have been a few,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s standard practice for anybody working in research or in key production jobs.”
“I’ll need a list.”
“You’ll have one,” he said.
“Have it faxed to my office,” I replied. “The number’s on the card.” I cut the connection. That’s the great thing with mobile phones. There are so many black holes around that nobody dares accuse you of hanging up on them anymore.
I took out my notebook and rang the number Alexis had given me earlier. The voice that answered the phone didn’t sound like Lord James Ballantrae. Not unless he’d had an unfortunate accident. “I’m looking for Lord Ballantrae,” I said.
“This is his wife,” she said. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Kate Brannigan. I’m a private investigator in Manchester. I understand Lord Ballantrae is the coordinator of a group of stately-home owners who have been burgled recently. One of my clients has had a Monet stolen, and I wondered if Lord Ballantrae could spare me some time to discuss it.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to do so. Bear with me a moment, I’ll check the diary.” I hung on for an expensive minute. Then she was back. “How does tomorrow at ten sound?”
“No problem,” I said.
“Now, if you’re coming from Manchester, the easiest way is to come straight up the M6, then take the A7 at Carlisle as far as Hawick, then the A698 through Kelso. About six miles past Kelso, you’ll see a couple of stone gateposts on the left with pineapples on top of them. You can’t miss them. That’s us. Castle Dumdivie. Did you get all that?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said weakly. I’d got it, all right. A good three to four hours driving.
“We’ll look forward to seeing you then,” Lady Ballantrae said. She sounded remarkably cheerful. It was nice to know one of us was.
9
richard didn’t even stir when the alarm cut through my dreams at ten to six like a hot wire through cheese. I staggered to the shower, feeling like my eyes had closed only ten minutes before. Until I started this job, I didn’t even know there were two six o’clocks in the same day. Richard still doesn’t. I suppose that’s why he suggested a club after the latest Steven Spielberg, enough popcorn to feed Bosnia and burgers and beer at Starvin‘ Marvin’s authentic American diner. We’d been having fun together, and I didn’t want it to end on a sour note, so I’d agreed, with the proviso that I could be a party pooper at one. It goes without saying that we were still dancing at two.
Even a ten-minute power shower couldn’t convince my body and my brain that I’d had more than three hours sleep. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t jacked in the law degree after two years, so I could have become a nine-to-five crown prosecutor. I put a pot of strong coffee on to brew while I dressed. Just what do you wear for a Scottish baron that won’t look like a limp dishrag after four hours behind the wheel? I ended up with navy leggings, a cream cotton Aran jumper and a military-style navy wool blouson that I inherited from Alexis. I’d told her in the
