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“I just want to check the house out.”
“You’ve done enough for one night,” Richard replied. “Come on, Kate, don’t be silly. You’re supposed to be taking it easy. Alexis wouldn’t expect any more.”
I shook off his restraining hand. “I’ve got to make sure I know which house it is,” I said. “I’m not about to do anything more adventurous than that.” Which was nothing less than the truth. At least for the time being.
Forty minutes later, I was striding openly up the drive of “Hazledene.” That’s a tip I learned very early on in this game. Never skulk, creep or sidle when you can boldly go. There’s nothing less suspicious than someone who looks as if they know where they’re going and have a perfect right to be there. Luckily, the drive was tarmacked, so there was no chance of anyone in the house hearing me crunch gravel underfoot.
Richard had delivered me back to the hotel after we’d strolled past the residence of B. Lomax, Builder. I’d told him I was going to settle down with the TV then have an early night. I hadn’t specified when, or that that was all on my agenda. However, he’d trotted off happily to check out the local bands, kindly leaving his car keys behind in anticipation of finding something he might enjoy drinking. I gave him fifteen minutes to get clear, then I drove back to the side street near Lomax’s.
The house was solid, four-square and looked as if it would still
A black BMW 3-series sat on the curve of drive that swept round the front of the house. The van was parked round the side, blocking the doors of a large detached wooden garage. There were no lights showing at the front of the house, except for a stained-glass lantern above the sturdy front door. I moved as cautiously as my stiffness would allow, keeping the van between me and the house. When I reached the end of the van’s cabin, I could see a couple of patches of light spilling out on to the lawn at the back of the house.
It was almost spookily silent. The hum of traffic was so distant I had to make a conscious effort to hear it. I slipped back to the side of the van and carefully took my mini flashlight out of my bag and shone it on the side of the van. It was impossible to tell what was behind the bolt-on plywood panel. However, I was a Girl Guide. I’d also taken the precaution of raiding the tool box in Richard’s boot. The small wrench I’d selected was perfect for the job.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t. The top set of bolts were just too high for me. And there was nothing immediately obvious to stand on. So I made the best of a bad job and undid the four bolts along the bottom edge of the panel. They came off smoothly. The fact that they weren’t rusted on seemed suspicious to me.
I pushed a screwdriver under the edge of the panel and levered it away an inch or so. By twisting my head round and angling the torch under the panel, I could just make out the “Renew-Vations” logo along the side of the van. Bingo! I made a note of the phone number, then screwed the bolts back in place. Even that small effort was enough to have me breaking out in a sweat. I really felt like going back to the hotel and crawling into bed, but I didn’t want to waste the opportunity of having a good nose around while my
I slipped back down to the front of the van and studied the garage. The van was parked about two feet away from the double doors. They were held shut by a heavy bolt with a padlock. I’ve never been very good at picking locks, in spite of the expert tuition of my friend Dennis the burglar, and I didn’t really feel up to it. Then I realized that if I stood on the bumper of the van, I might just be able to see through the grimy windows at the top of the doors. That would at least tell me whether or not it was worth going into my master cracksman routine.
I eased myself up and leaned forward against the doors, which gave a creak that nearly gave me a coronary. I held my breath, but nothing stirred. I gritted my teeth and raised the torch above my head, so it was shining through the glass and into the garage.
My hunch about the garage had been right. But I didn’t have to indulge in any breaking and entering to see all the proof I needed.
Chapter 12
I waited till Richard was halfway through his second cup of coffee before I gave him the good news. “You can go back to Manchester if you like,” I said, nonchalantly buttering a slice of toast.
“Do what?” he spluttered.
“You can go back to Manchester if you like.” I glanced at my watch. “In fact, if you shoot off in the next half-hour, you’ll probably be back in time for your football match,” I added, smiling sweetly. I’ve never understood why Richard feels the need to run around a muddy field with a bunch of his fellow overgrown schoolboys every Sunday morning. I keep telling him he doesn’t need an excuse to go to the pub at Sunday lunchtime, but he’s adamant that this ritual is a vital part of his life. He’d been grumbling about missing his game ever since I’d pitched him into staying over in Buxton.
“But what about this guy? Lomax, or Harris, or whatever he’s called. I thought you had it all to do?”
“I decided that since it’s Alexis’s business, she can come over and help me with the legwork. And I didn’t think spending a Sunday in Buxton with Alexis was your idea of a good time,” I said solicitously.
The waitress arrived with his full English breakfast and my scrambled eggs just then, so we had a pause while he scoffed one of his fried eggs before it congealed. “So what exactly is Alexis going to do that I can’t?” he asked suspiciously. “I’m not sure I trust the pair of you let loose together. I mean, if this is the guy that ripped off Alexis, isn’t she going to go apeshit when she sees him? And you’re in no fit state to take anybody on right now.”
I was touched. It was worrying. A year before, I’d have bitten the
He looked doubtful. “I don’t know,” he said through a mouthful of sausage. “You drag me over to this God-forsaken hole, you make me eat the worst Chinese I’ve ever had in my life, with the possible exception of the one in Saltcoats where there was a prawn in the banana fritter, you send me off to endure the most derivative and listless music I’ve heard since Billy Joel’s last album, then you tell me you’re replacing me with an evening paper hackette! What’s a man to think?”
“Just be grateful I’m not making you stay here for Sunday lunch, pal,” I replied with a grin. “Look, I’ll be fine. I promise not to take any risks.” That was a promise I could make with hand on heart. After all, I’d already taken all the risks I needed to take where T. R. Harris was concerned.
“All right,” he said. “As long as you promise me one other thing?” I raised my eyebrows in a question. “Promise me you’ll force Alexis to take several risks. Preferably of the potentially fatal kind.” I told you he pretends they hate each other.
“Pig,” I said mildly. “If Alexis heard you say that, she’d be cut to the quick.”
“Heard him say what?” Alexis boomed threateningly as she pulled out a chair and threw herself into it, waving at the waitress. “Good morning, children,” she greeted us. “Full English,” she added to the waitress.
“Kate’s in no state for anything strenuous—”
“Lucky Kate!” Alexis interrupted Richard, ducking her head in a louche wink.
“So I said if anyone’s got to take any physical risks, it had better be you,” he concluded, on his dignity.
“Well, of course, it stands to reason,” Alexis replied. “First sign of danger, you’re off over the nearest distant horizon, leaving us women to deal with the physical risks.”
I thought he was going to choke. “You’d better get a move on if you’re going to make it back in time for the match,” I said, treading on Alexis’s toe under the table.
Richard glanced at his watch, said, “Shit!” and shoveled the rest of his breakfast down in record time. Then he pushed back his chair, got to his feet, downed a cup of tea in a oner and planted a greasy kiss somewhere in the region of my mouth. “See you tonight, Brannigan,” he said, then headed for the door.
“Typical male,” Alexis called after him. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
By now, we had more viewers than BSkyB TV. The rest of the breakfasters were agog. “Shut up,” I muttered 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.
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
“Great job,” I said, meaning it. “Can you do me a favor? 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
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 an
d 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.
“Wait a minute!” I said sharply. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to follow him,” Alexis said sharply. “And then I’m going to front him up.” She shoved the car into gear.
I pulled it out again. “No you’re not,” I told her.
“I bloody am!” Alexis exploded. “That bastard is walking around with five grand of our money, and I want it back.”
“Look, cool it,” I commanded. Alexis obviously recognized I meant it, for she subsided, showing her feelings by revving the engine at irregular intervals. “Now you know his name and where he lives, you can lay your hands on him any time you want to. And so can the cops.”
Alexis shook her head. “No cops. I want our money back, and if the guy’s in custody, he’s not earning. All I want is to front him up and get our money back.”
“Fronting him up isn’t going to get your money back. He’ll just laugh at you. And even if you go round with some of your less pleasant associates, I’m not convinced he’s the kind of guy who’d be scared into handing the money over.”
“So what do you suggest? I just lie down and die?”
“No. I know it’s a bit radical, but why don’t you sue him? As long as you don’t use Cheetham, that is,” I added, trying to get her to lighten up a bit.
“Because it’ll take forever,” Alexis wailed.
“It doesn’t have to. You get your solicitor to write a letter demanding payment, and if he doesn’t cough up, you get her or him to issue a Statutory Demand, which means Lomax has to pay up within a certain time or you petition for bankruptcy. And since what he’s done is illegal, he’s not likely to quibble about repaying your money as soon as you start making legal noises,” I explained.