8
Within ten minutes of leaving Gary's, we were driving up an unmetalled track. I stopped at a five-barred gate festooned with barbed wire, and Gary jumped out to open it. When he closed it behind me, he sprinted for the car. He'd barely slammed the door behind him when a pair of huge Dobermans hurled themselves at the passenger side of the car, barking and slavering hysterically. Gary grinned, which convinced me he wasn't the full shilling. 'Bet you're glad you brought me along,' he said.
I slammed the car into gear and continued up the track. Half a mile on, my headlights picked out a low stone building in the gathering rural gloom. The roof appeared to sag in the middle, and the window frames looked so rotten that I couldn't help thinking the first winter gales would have the glass halfway across the farmyard. I could tell it was a farmyard by the smell of manure. I drove as close as I could to the door, but before I could cut the engine, an elderly man appeared in the doorway. As confidently predicted by Gary, he was brandishing an over- and-under double-barrelled shotgun. Just then, the dogs arrived and started a cacophony of barking that made my fillings hurt. I
'What now?' I demanded of Gary.
The old man approached. He wore a greasy cardigan over a collarless shirt that might have started its life the colour of an oily rag, but I doubted it. He walked right up to the car and stared through the window, the gun barrels pointing ominously through the glass. My opinion of T.R. Harris's bottle had just gone up a hundred per cent. Having satisfied himself that my passenger really was Gary, Cartwright stepped back a few feet and whistled to the dogs. They dropped at his feet like logs.
Gary said, 'If s OK, you can get out.' He opened his door and climbed out. Warily, I followed.
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 ploughed 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 once-over as I settled into a comfortable chair. Linen suit
