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  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 plowed through my interview notes yet again, it hit me. There was something I could

  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

  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 quick once-over as I settled into a comfortable chair. Linen suit over a soft sueded silk blouse. Her brown hair, with the odd thread of silver, was swept up into a cottage loaf above a sharp-featured face that was just beginning to blur around the jawline. Her brown eyes looked shrewd, emphasized by the slight wrinkles that appeared as she studied me right back. “It’s to do with a matter I’m looking into on behalf of a client. I’m sorry to arrive without an appointment, but I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by on the off-chance of catching you,” I started. She looked as if she didn’t believe a word of it, a smile twitching at one corner of her mouth. “I wonder if you can clear something up for me. I realize that your main office is in Warrington, but are you actually the owner of DKL, 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 the name of the company. What, if anything, does that have to do with your client?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Lieberman, except that I shouldn’t imagine a manager would have the authority to release the information I’m after. Mind you, a mere employee probably wouldn’t grasp the 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 in white-collar crime, and I’m investigating a serious fraud. We’re looking at a six-figure rip-off here, probably more like a million. I suspect that the perpetrators may be using properties on 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

  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.”

  “Touché. But surely you can tell me if a particular property is on your books? Then when you call up the details on your screen, you might notice a pattern emerging.”

  “What sort of a pattern did you ha
ve 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

  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

  Chapter 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 armor. 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 days.

  I went through to the waiting room, hoping Richard wouldn’t be long. A uniformed constable walked over and sat down beside me. “Miss Brannigan?” he said.

  “That’s right.” I was beyond surprise. The pain killers had started to work.

  “It’s about the accident. A few questions, I’m afraid.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That was my first mistake. My ribs had decided to go off duty for the night and I ended up doubled over in a gasping cough. Of course, that was precisely the moment Richard chose to arrive. The first I knew of it was the yell. “Oi, you, leave her alone! Jesus, don’t you think she’s been through enough tonight?” Then he was crouched in front of me, gazing up into my eyes, genuine fear and concern in his face. “Brannigan,” he murmured. “You’re not fit to be let out on your own, you know that?”

  If I hadn’t feared it would kill me, I’d have laughed. This, from the man who gets to the corner shop and forgets what he went out for? All of a sudden, I felt very emotional. Must have been the combination of the shock and the drugs. I felt a hot tear trickle down my nose. “Thanks for coming,” I said in a shaky voice.

  Richard patted my shoulder softly, then straightened up. “Can’t

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop mumbled. “But I need to get some details of the accident from Miss Brannigan. So we can take appropriate action.”

  Richard appeared to relax slightly. Uh-oh, I thought. “And you can’t wait till morning? You have to harass an innocent woman? What’s your problem, pal? Got no real criminals out there in the naked city tonight?”

  The constable looked hunted. His eyes flickered round the room, desperately seeking a Tardis. I took pity. “Richard, leave it. Just take me home, please. If the constable needs some details, he can follow us there.”

  Richard shrugged. “OK, Brannigan. Let’s roll.”

  We were halfway to the door when the cop caught up with us. “Em, excuse me, I don’t actually have your address.”

  Richard said “Four,” I said “Two” then we chorused “Coverley Close.” The copper looked completely bemused.

  “Em, can I ask you to take me with you, sir? I’m afraid I haven’t any transport here.” The poor lad looked mortified. He looked even more mortified folded into the back seat of Richard’s Beetle, helmet on his knees.

  By the time I had dragged my weary body up the path, I was seriously considering a jacuzzi as well as a mobile phone. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for a police interview. But I wanted to get it over with.

  We got name, address, date of birth and occupation (security consultant) out of the way while Richard brewed up. The constable looked utterly bewild
ered when Richard dumped the tray on my coffee table, announced that I was out of milk and wandered off into the conservatory. As Richard came back clutching half a bottle of milk, I put the young copper out of his misery.

  “The conservatory runs across the back of both houses,” I explained. “That way, we don’t get under each other’s feet.”

  “She means she gets out of washing my dishes and my socks,”

  I outlined what had happened on Barton Bridge. I have to admit it was satisfying to see both Richard and the copper turn pale as I gave them the details. “And then the fire brigade arrived and cut me free. Just about the time I should have been eating my first crispy prawn wonton,” I added, for Richard’s benefit.

  The constable cleared his throat. “Did you see the driver of the van at all, miss?”

  “No. I wasn’t paying attention till it was too late. Far as I was concerned, it was just a van overtaking me.”

  “And did the van have any identification?”

  “There was something, but I couldn’t see what. It was higher than the top of my window. I could just catch the bottom couple of inches. And I didn’t get his number, either. I was too occupied with the thought of plunging into the Ship Canal. I mean, have you seen the state of the water in there?”

  The constable looked even greener. He took a deep breath. “And was it your impression that this was a deliberate attempt to run you off the road?”

  The $64,000 question. I tried to look innocent. It wasn’t that I felt like being a hero and sorting it all out myself. I just couldn’t cope with a long interrogation right then. Besides, that would mean giving them the kind of confidential client information that we’re supposed to guard with our lives, and I couldn’t do that without consulting Bill. “Officer, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that,” I said. “I mean, this is Manchester, not LA. I suppose I was in the guy’s blind spot. If he was tired, or he’d had a few too many on the way home from work, he probably didn’t even register I was there. Then when he hit me, he panicked, especially if he’d had a drink. I don’t think it’s anything more sinister than that.”