Kickback

through clenched teeth at Alexis. I waved goodbye to Richard, and he left, giving me a smile and a wink. 'Honestly,' I complained. 'What are you like? And don't tell me he started it, because you're each as bad as the other. Thank God we're not trying to do some quiet, unobtrusive undercover!'

'Sorry,' Alexis said unrepentantly. 'Anyway, now the Gary Lineker of the Press corps has departed, tell me all about it! You only gave me the bare bones over the phone.' She lit a cigarette and squinted at me through the smoke.

I started to tell her how I'd tracked down T.R. Harris, but she interrupted me impatiently. 'Not my stuff,' she said. 'You! Tell me how you are? I mean, I don't want to make you feel even worse, but you don't look like a woman who should be chasing the guys in the black hats all over Derbyshire. God, Kate, you shouldn't have been running around after Harris yesterday! You should have been in bed, recovering.'

I shook my head. 'With Richard ministering to my every need? Have you any idea what my kitchen would look like after he'd had a free rein in there for twenty-four hours?' I shuddered. 'No thanks. Besides, I was quite glad to have something to take my mind off what happened. Knowing there's someone out there who either wants to kill you or wants to warn you off so badly they're prepared to risk killing you isn't very relaxing.'

'Any idea who's behind it?' Alexis asked. She couldn't help herself. Once she'd established she was a caring friend, she just had to go into journo mode.

'I think it might have a connection to a job I'm working on. I should have a better idea in a day or two. Don't worry, you'll be the first to know when there's anything fit to print,' I reassured her.

That's not why I was asking,' Alexis scolded. 'Aren't you worried that they’ll have another go?'

'I suppose they might. But no one followed us yesterday. I've put a new face on the job in question, and I should be able to get it cleared up tomorrow. I feel like I've done everything I can to minimize the risk.'

The waitress arrived and dumped a steaming plateful in front of Alexis. It was the second time that morning I'd had to look at enough fried food to feed a Romanian orphanage for a week, and I began to feel faintly queasy. 'So, tell me about T.R. Harris,' Alexis prompted as she ground out her cigarette.

I filled her in on my search for the missing builder. 'And when I shone my torch in the garage window, there it was,' I ended up.

The other panel?' Alexis asked.

The same. The one that says 'T.R. Harris, Builder'. Of course, I still need you to ID the guy, but I reckon that's just a formality'

'So Cheetham set the whole thing up?' Alexis demanded. 'I'll kill the little shit when I get my hands on him.'

'I'm still not sure exactly what his role in the whole thing was,' I said. 'He's obviously in it up to the eyeballs, but I'm not sure who's been pushing who.'

'Does it matter? The pair of them are crooks! Let me tell you, they're both going to regret the day they crossed me and Chris!' Alexis fumed. She ran a hand through her hair angrily then lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs.

'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,' I soothed. 'First things first. We've got to make sure we've got the right guy, that there's not some innocent explanation for what I've seen.'

'Oh yes? Like what?' Alexis scoffed. 'Like Cheetham is secretly working undercover for the Fraud Squad?'

“No like B. Lomax, Builder, is renting out his garage to T.R. Harris, Builder. Like B. Lomax, Builder, is an old friend of Martin Cheetham's who introduced them to each other, and Cheetham, like you, is an innocent dupe.' That shut her up long enough for me to explain I was going to check out of my room.

Back upstairs, I dialled Paul Kingsley's home number. It was a call that could comfortably have waited till later in the day, but I was desperate to know if the surveillance had worked out. Paul answered on the third ring. Luckily, he didn't sound like a man who's just been roused from sleep. 'How did it go?' I asked after we'd got the pleasantries out of the way.

‘Just as you predicted it would,' he said, unable to keep the disappointment from showing. They can't help themselves, can they? 'Our man turned up about nine o'clock, loaded up his hatchback with boxes and took off into the night.'

'Did he seem at all suspicious?' I asked.

'He drove all round the car park before he parked up by the loading bay. Then he did the circuit on foot,” Paul said.

'I take it he didn't spot you?' It was a safe bet. Paul's a good operator. He's a commercial photographer who thinks it's great fun to do the odd job for us. I think it makes him feel like James Bond, and he's probably got more professional pride in his work than those of us who do it for a full-time living.

Paul chuckled. 'Nah. They've got these industrial-sized rubbish bins. I was inside one.' See what I mean? There's no way I'd have spent an evening communing with maggots in the line of duty. Apart, of course, from the occasional journalistic piss-up Richard drags me along to.

'And you got pics?'

'I did. I popped back to my darkroom to dev and print them later. I've got great shots of him prowling round, loading up, then transferring the gear to an unmarked Renault van at Knutsford motorway services,' Paul said proudly.

'You managed to follow him?' I was impressed. It was more than I'd achieved.

'I got lucky,' he admitted. 'I had to wait till he was out of sight before I could get out of the bin, and I'd left my car round the back of the warehouse next door. But he was headed the same direction as I was going, and I was obviously luckier with the lights. I pulled up at a junction in Stretford, and there he was, right in front of me. So I stayed with him, and snapped the handover. And I got the van's number, so you can find out who's handling the stuff at the other end.'

'Great job,' I said, meaning it. 'Can you do me a favour? Can you drop the prints in tomorrow at the office and tell Shelley what they're about? I won't be in first thing, but I'll get to it later in the day'

'No problem. Oh, and Kate?'

'Mmm?'

Thanks for thinking of me,' he said, sounding sincere. I'll never understand men. Stand them in a dustbin for hours and you've made their Saturday night.

Alexis was pacing up and down the hall, doing that agitated flicking of the filter when there's no loose ash that smokers do when they're feeling twitchier than nicotine can soothe. When she saw me, she stopped pacing and started rattling her car keys, unnerving the poor receptionist who was trying to do my bill.

Reluctantly, I climbed into Alexis's car. Journalists seem to need to take the office with them in all its horror wherever they go. Alexis's Peugeot contained more old newspapers than the average chip shop could use in a week. The ashtray had been full since a month after she bought the car last year. The parcel shelf was home to a clutch of old notebooks that slid back and forwards every time she cornered, and there was a portable computer terminal that lived under the passenger seat and bruised the passenger's heels every time Alexis braked. I'd be ashamed to let anyone in my car if it was like that, but journalists always seem strangely proud of their mobile rubbish dumps.

First, we went to the local cop shop and checked out the electoral roll. There were two residents at that address, Brian and Eleanor Lomax. His wife, I presumed. Next, we slowly drove past the house. The black BMW had gone, but the van was still parked outside. I told Alexis to park up, and she turned the car round in the side street and drove back towards Lomax's house. She stopped about one hundred yards away from the house. We could see the front door and the drive, though we couldn't actually see the van.

Alexis, as much a veteran of the stake-out as me, pulled a paperback out of her handbag and settled back in her seat to read, secure in the knowledge that any movement round the house would instantly register in her peripheral vision. Me, I sucked peppermints and listened to the radio.

It was a couple of hours before there was any sign of life. We both spotted him at the same moment. Alexis sat up in her seat and chucked her book into the back seat. Brian Lomax had appeared round the side of the house and was walking down the drive. He wore the familiar black leather blouson and jeans, this time with a cream polo-neck sweater. At the end of the drive, he turned right, down the hill and towards the traffic lights.

That him?' I asked. Nothing like the obvious question.

Alexis nodded grimly. T.R. Harris. I'd know the bastard anywhere.' She turned the ignition key and the Peugeot coughed into life.