main office is in Warrington, but are you actually the owner of 3KL, or do you manage this branch?'
'I own the company, Miss Brannigan.' Her voice had had most of the northern accent polished off. 'I have done since my husband died three years ago. Daniel Kohn Lieberman, hence he name of the company. What, if anything, does that have to lo with your client?'
'Nothing, Mrs… Lieberman, except that I shouldn't imagine a manager would have the authority to release the information 'm after. Mind you, a mere employee probably wouldn't grasp he importance of it, either.' I tried that on for size. I hoped she was a woman who'd respond to flattery. If not, that left me with nothing but threats, and I hate to threaten anyone in daylight hours. It takes so much more energy.
'And what exactly is this information?' she asked, leaning forward in her chair and fiddling with a gold pen.
'I'd like to level with you, if I may. My company specializes n white-collar crime, and I'm investigating a serious fraud. We’re looking at a six-figure rip-off here, probably more like a trillion. I suspect that the perpetrators may be using properties in a short-term lease for their particular scheme.' Mrs… Lieberman was listening, her head cocked on one side. So far, no reaction was making it through to the surface. I soldiered on.
'One of the addresses I'm looking at was rented through your agency. What I'm trying to do here is to find a common factor.
The thing is, I'm beginning to think the renting of the houses is a key factor in the way the fraud is organized, and I hoped that if I gave you the addresses of the other houses I suspect have been involved, then you could check for me and see if they are on your books.' I paused. I wanted some feedback. I'd never have made a politician.
Mrs. Lieberman straightened up in her chair and drew her lower lip under her teeth. 'And that's all you want to know? Whether or not they're on my books?'
'Not quite all, I'm afraid. Whether they are now or have ever been on your books is the first step. Once we've established that, I want to ask you the names of the owners.'
She shook her head. 'Out of the question. I'm sure you'll appreciate that. We're looking at very confidential matters here. There are only a few agencies that specialize in rental properties in this area, and we are by far the biggest. I act as agent for almost three hundred rental properties, the bulk of them on short-term leases. So you can imagine how important it is that my clients know they can trust me. I can't possibly start giving you their names. And I can't believe you really expected me to. I'm sure you don't release information like that about your clients.'
'What sort of a pattern did you have in mind, Miss Brannigan?'
I sighed. That's what I don't know, Mrs… Lieberman. So far, all I have to go on is that I think most of the addresses involved in this scam have been rented. In one case that I'm sure about, I know that the couple who rented the house shared the surname of the couple who actually owned it.'
Rachel Lieberman leaned back in her chair and gave me the once-over again. I felt like a newly discovered species of plant -strange, exotic and possibly poisonous. After what seemed to me to be a very long time, she nodded to herself, as if satisfied.
'I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Brannigan. If you give me the addresses you're interested in, I'll look through my records and see what I can come up with. Frankly, I have to say, I think it'll be a waste of time, but then I wasn't doing anything this evening anyway. I'll call you and let you know. Will Monday morning do, or would you prefer me to ring you at home over the weekend?'
I grinned. Deep down, Mrs… Lieberman was a woman after my own heart.
I spent the afternoon with Ted Barlow, doing the boring stuff of checking back through all his records, making notes of ex-salesmen who'd been sacked, and learning exactly how a conservatory is installed. I glanced at the dashboard clock as I got back behind the wheel of my Nova. Just after seven. I figured I'd be quicker picking up the motorway than going home by the more direct crosstown route. A few minutes later, I was doing eighty in the middle lane, the Pet Shop Boys blasting out of all four speakers. The huge arc of Barton Bridge glittered against the sky, sweeping the motorway over the dark ribbon of the Manchester Ship Canal. As the bridge approached, I moved over to the inside lane, positioning myself to change motorways at the exit on the far side. I was singing 'Where the streets have no name' at full belt when I automatically registered a white Ford Transit coming up outside me in the middle lane.
I paid no attention to the van as it drew level then slightly ahead. Then, suddenly, his nose was turning in front of me. My brain tripped into slow motion. Everything seemed to last forever. All I could see out of the side of my car was the white side of the van, closing in on me fast. I could see the bottom edge of some logo or sign, but not enough to identify any of the letters. I could hear screaming, then I realized it was my own voice.
The nightmare was happening. The van swiped into me, crushing the door of my car against my right side. At the same time, the car skidded sideways into the crash barrier. I could hear the scream of metal on metal, I could feel the rise in temperature from the friction heat, I could see the barrier buckle, I could hear myself sobbing 'Don't break, bastard thing, don't break!'
The front of my car seemed to be sandwiched between the struts of the crash barrier. I was tilted forward at a crazy angle. Below me, I could see the lights twinkling on the black water of the Ship Canal. The cassette player was silent. So was the engine. All I could hear was the creaking of the stressed metal of the crash barrier. I tried to open the driver's door, but my right arm was clamped in place by the crushed door. I tried to wriggle round to open it with my left arm, but it was no use. I was trapped. I was hanging in space, a hundred feet above the empty depths of the canal. And the Ford Transit was long gone.
9
I came to a very important decision sitting in a cubicle in the casualty department of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Time for a yuppie phone. I mean, have you been in a casualty department lately? Because I was a road traffic accident, I was whizzed straight through the waiting area on a trolley and deposited in a cubicle. Not that that meant I was going to be attended to any more quickly, oh no. I realized pretty soon I was supposed to regard this as my very own personal waiting room. And me not even a private patient!
I stuck my head out of the curtains after about ten minutes and asked a passing nurse where I could find a phone. She barked back at me, 'Stay where you are, doctor will be with you as soon as she can.' I sometimes wonder if the words that people hear are the same ones that come out of my mouth.
I tried again a few minutes later. Different nurse. 'Excuse me, I was supposed to be meeting someone before I had this accident, and he'll be worried.' Not bloody likely, I thought. Not while we're in the same calendar month. 'I really need to phone him,' I pleaded. I didn't want sympathy, nor to allay his non-existent worries. I simply didn't feel up to walking the half-mile home or coping with a taxi. Yes, all right, I admit it, I was shaken up. To hell with the tough guy private eye image. I was trembling, my body felt like a 5' 3' bruise, and I just wanted to pull the covers over my head.
The second nurse had clearly graduated from the same charm school. 'Doctor is very busy. She doesn't have time to wait for you to come back from the phone.'
'But doctor isn't here,' I said. 'I'm not convinced that doctor is even in this hospital.'
'Please wait in the cubicle,' she ordered as she swept off. That was when I realized that my resistance to a mobile phone was a classic case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. Never mind that they always ring at the least convenient moment. Never mind that even the lightest ones are heavy enough to turn your handbag into an offensive weapon or wreck the line of your jacket. At least they can summon knights in shining armour. I'll rephrase that. At least they can summon rock journalists with customized hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertibles.
They let me at a phone about an hour and a half later, when they'd finally got round to examining me, X- raying me and prodding all the most painful bits. The doctor informed me that I had deep bruising to my spine, ribs, right arm, and right leg, and some superficial cuts to my right hand, where the starburst from the driver's window had landed. Oh, and shock, of course. They gave me some pain killers and told me I'd be fine in a few
