Clean Break (2 page)

“Heat-seeking thermonuclear missiles?” I'd hazarded.

“A dog. You get a big Alsatian, give him the run of the place and your professional thief doesn't want to know. When I was at it, there wasn't an alarm system in the world that I wouldn't have a pop at. But dogs? Forget it.”

Unfortunately, clients aren't too keen on having Rottweilers running around on their priceless Oriental carpets. They're too worried about finding dog hairs—or worse—on the Hepplewhite. So Birchfield Place had relied, like most stately homes, on a state-of-the-art mix of hard-wired detectors on doors and windows, passive infrared detectors at all key points and pressure-activated alert pads in front of any items of significance. Given the fail-safes I'd put in place, I couldn't for the life of me see how anyone could have got through my system undetected without setting off enough bells to drive Quasimodo completely round the twist.

I turned off the motorway and headed into the depths of the
leafy Cheshire stockbroker, soap star and football player belt. As usual, I almost missed the gap in the tall hedgerow that marked the end of Birchfield Place's drive. The trippers' entrance was round the back, but I had no intention of parking in a field half a mile from the house. I yanked the wheel round just in time and turned on to a narrow ribbon of road curling between fields where placid sheep didn't even glance up from their chewing as I passed. I always feel slightly edgy out in the country; I don't know the names of anything and very quickly develop anxiety about where my next meal is coming from. Give me an urban landscape where no sensible sheep would think for even a fleeting moment it might safely graze. The field gave way to thick coppices of assorted trees that looked like they'd been on the planet longer than my Granny Brannigan. Then, suddenly, the drive took a sharp righthand bend and I shot out of the trees to a full frontal view of Birchfield Place.

Built by some distant Naismith who had done some unmentionable service to his monarch, the house looked as if it should be on a postcard or a jigsaw. The passage of time had skewed its black beams and white panels just enough to make sure no self-respecting building society would grant you a mortgage on it. It never looked real to me.

I pulled up beside an anonymous Ford which I assumed belonged to the police on account of the radio. A peacock screamed in the distance, more shattering to my composure than any amount of midnight sirens. I only knew it was a peacock because Henry had told me the first time one had made me jump out of my skin. Before I could reach out for the ancient bell-pull, the door swung open and Henry smiled apologetically at me. “I really appreciate this, Kate,” he said.

“All part of the service,” I said reassuringly. “The police here?”

“An Inspector Mellor from the Art Squad,” Henry said as he led the way across the inner courtyard to the Great Hall, where the Impressionist paintings hung incongruously. “He doesn't say much.”

We passed through the Hall Porch, whose solid oak door looked like it had taken a few blows from a heavy sledge hammer. At the
door of the Great Hall, I put out a hand to delay Henry. “So what exactly happened?”

Henry rubbed his jaw. “The alarm woke me. Just before three, according to the clock. I checked the main panel. It said Hall Porch, Great Hall door, Great Hall and pressure pads. I phoned the police to confirm it wasn't a false alarm, and ran downstairs. When I got to the hall, there was nobody in sight and the Monet was gone. They must have been in and out again in less than five minutes.” He sighed. “They obviously knew what they were looking for.”

“Didn't the beeper on the courtyard security lights waken you?” I asked, puzzled.

Henry looked sheepish. “I turned the beeper off. We've been having a bit of a problem with foxes, and I got fed up with being wakened up night after night.” I said nothing. I hoped the look on my face said it for me. “I know, I know,” Henry said. “I don't think Inspector Mellor's overly impressed either. Shall we?”

I followed him into the hall. It was a surprisingly bright room for the period. It was two stories high, with a whitewashed vaulted roof and gallery for Blondel unplugged. The wall that gave on to the inner courtyard had a couple of feet of wood paneling above floor level, then it was hundreds of tiny leaded panes of glass to a height of about eight feet. The outer wall's paneling was about four feet high before it gave way to more windows. I didn't envy the window cleaner. At the far end was a raised dais where Henry's distant ancestors had sat and lorded it over the plebs and railed against the iniquities of the window tax. It was around the dais that the paintings hung. A tall, thin man was stooped like a crane over the space where the Monet used to be. As we entered, he turned towards us and fixed me with a glum stare.

Henry performed the introductions while Inspector Mellor and I weighed each other up. He looked more patrician than Henry, with a high forehead over a beaky nose and a small, cupid's bow mouth. At his request, I ran him through the security arrangements. He nodded noncommittally as he listened, then said, “Not a lot more you could have done, short of having CCTV.”

“Professional job, yeah?” I said.

“No doubt about it. They obviously chose their target, cased
the place thoroughly, then did a quick in and out. No identifiable forensic traces, according to my colleagues who turned up after the event.” Mellor looked as depressed as I felt.

“Does it put you in mind of anyone in particular?” I asked.

Mellor shrugged. “I've seen jobs like this, but we haven't managed an arrest on any of them yet.”

Henry closed his eyes and sighed. “Is there any chance of getting my Monet back?” he asked wearily.

“If I'm honest, sir, not a lot. Thieves like this only take what they've already got a market for,” Mellor said. “Sooner or later, we'll get a lucky break and we'll nail them. It could be on this case. What I'd like to do is send a couple of my lads over when your staff are next in. These thieves will have been round the house more than once. It's just possible one of your attendants noticed repeat visitors.”

“They'll be in at half past nine on Thursday,” Henry said. “The house is closed to the public on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, excepting bank holidays.”

Mellor turned away and spent a few minutes studying the Boudin, the Renoir and the two Pissarros that flanked the space where the Monet had been. “Personally,” he said softly, “I'd have gone for the Boudin.”

Not me. The Monet would have looked much better with my color scheme. But maybe Inspector Mellor's living room was bluebased rather than green, cream and peach. While Henry escorted Mellor off the premises, I mooched around the hall, wondering what to do next. Mellor's plan to interrogate the staff had disposed of the only idea I had for pursuing any kind of investigation. I slumped in the attendant's chair by the door and stared down the hall at the wires sticking out of the ancient paneling where the Monet had been attached to the alarm system and the wall. Inspiration failed to strike; but then, nothing does in this country any more.

When Henry came back, I forced myself upright and said brightly, “Well, Henry, Mellor didn't sound too optimistic about what the forces of law and order can achieve. Looks like it's down to me to get your Monet back.”

Henry tugged at the lobe of his ear and looked uncomfortable. “Is there much point, Kate?” he asked. “I mean, if the specialists don't know where to start looking, how can you expect to succeed?”

“People have a tendency to tell me things they don't necessarily want to share with the police. And that includes insurance companies. I also have more unorthodox sources of information. I'm sure I can develop leads the police will never encounter.” It was all true. Well, all except the last sentence.

“I don't know, Kate. These are professional thieves. Looking at the state of the porch door, they're clearly quite comfortable with a considerable degree of violence. I'm not sure I'm entirely happy about you pursuing them,” he said dubiously.

“Henry, I might only be five foot three, but I can look after myself,” I said, trying not to think about the last occasion where I'd told the men in my life the same damn lie. The scar on my head was just a distant twinge when I brushed my hair now, but the scar inside went a lot deeper. I hadn't exactly lost my bottle; I'd just acquired an overdose of wariness.

“Besides,” I carried on, seeing his look of frank disbelief, “you're entitled to the first thirty hours of my time for free, according to your contract.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” His reserve was nailed firmly in place again, the eyes locked on the middle distance.

“Apart from anything else, me nosing around will convince your insurance company that you're not trying it on,” I added.

His eyes narrowed, like a man who's seen a bloody great wave heading straight for his bows. “Why should they think that?” he said sharply.

“It wouldn't be the first time somebody's set up their own burglary for the insurance,” I said. “It happens all the time round where I live.” A frown flickered across Henry's face. “There's nothing you want to tell me, Henry, is there?” I added apprehensively.

“There's no earthly reason why I should arrange this,” he said stiffly. “The police and the insurance company are welcome to check the books. We're making a profit here. House admissions are up on last year, the gift shop has increased its turnover by
twenty-five percent and the Great Hall is booked for banquets almost every Saturday between now and February. The only thing I'm concerned about is that I'm due to leave for Australia in three weeks and I'd like the matter resolved by then.”

“I'd better get weaving, in that case,” I said mildly.

I drove back to Manchester with a lot on my mind. I don't like secrets. It's one of the reasons I became a private eye in the first place. I especially don't like them when they're ones my client is keeping from me.

The atrium of Fortissimus Insurance told me all I needed to know about where Henry's massive premiums were going. The company had relocated in Manchester from the City, doubtless tempted by the wodges of cash being handed out by various inner city initiative programers. They'd opted for a site five minutes' walk down Oxford Road from the rather less palatial offices of Mortensen and Brannigan. Handy, we'd thought, if they ever needed any freelance investigating, though if they had done, it hadn't been our door they'd come knocking on. They probably preferred firms with the same steel-and-glass taste in interior decor, and prices to match.

Like a lot of new office complexes in Manchester, Fortissimus had smacked a brand new modern building behind a grandiose Victorian façade. In their case, they'd acquired the front of what had been a rather grand hotel, its marble and granite buffed to a shine more sparkling than its native century had ever seen. The entrance hall retained some of the original character, but the glassed-in atrium beyond the security desk was one hundred percent
fin de
quite another
siècle
. The pair of receptionists had clearly absorbed their customer care course. Their grooming was immaculate, their smiles would have made a crocodile proud, and the mid-Atlantic twang in their “Good morning, how may I help you?” stopped short of making my ears bleed. Needless to say, they were as misleading as the building's façade. After I'd given them my card, asked for Michael Haroun and told them his department, I still had to kick my heels for ten minutes while they ran their debriefing on the weekend's romantic encounters, rang Mr. Haroun, filled out a visitor's pass and told me Mr. Haroun would be waiting for me at the lift.

I emerged on the fifth floor to find they'd been economical with the truth. There was no Mr. Haroun, and no one behind the desk marked “Claims Inquiries” either. Before I could decide which direction to head in, a door down the hallway opened and someone backed out, saying, “And I want to compare those other cases. Karen, dig out the files, there's a love.”

He swivelled round on the balls of his feet and
déjà vu
swept over me. Confused, I just stood and stared as he walked towards me. When he got closer, he held out his hand and said, “Ms. Brannigan? Michael Haroun.”

For a moment, I was speechless and paralyzed. I must have been gawping like a starving goldfish, for he frowned and said, “You are Ms. Brannigan?” Then, suspicion appeared in his liquid sloe eyes. “What's the matter? Am I not what you expected? I can assure you, I am head of the claims division.”

Power returned to my muscles and I hurriedly reached out and shook his hand. “Sorry,” I stammered. “Yes, I … Sorry, you're the spitting image of … somebody,” I stumbled on. “I was just taken aback, that's all.”

He gave me a look that told me he'd already decided I was either a racist pig or I didn't have all my chairs at home. His smile was strained as he said, “I didn't realize I had a doppelgänger. Shall we go through to my office and talk?”

Wordlessly, I nodded and followed his broad shoulders back down the hall. He moved like a man who played a lot of sport. It wasn't hard to imagine him in the same role as I'd first seen his likeness.

When I was about fourteen, we'd gone on a school trip to the British Museum. I'd been so engrossed in the Rosetta Stone, I'd got separated from the rest of the group and wandered round for ages looking for them. That's how I stumbled on the Assyrian bas-reliefs. As soon as I saw them, I understood for the first time in my life that it wasn't entirely bullshit when critics said that great art speaks directly to us. These enormous carvings of the lion hunt didn't so much speak as resonate inside my chest like the bass note of an organ. I fell in love with the archers and the charioteers, their shoulder-length hair curled as tight as poodle fur, their profiles
keen as sparrowhawks. I must have spent an hour there that day. Every time I went to London on shopping trips after that, I always found an excuse to slip away from my mates as they trawled Oxford Street so I could nip to the museum for a quick tryst with King Ashurbanipal. If Aslan had come along and breathed life into the carving of the Assyrian king, he would have walked off the wall looking just like Michael Haroun, his glowing skin the color of perfect roast potatoes. OK, so he'd swapped the tunic for a Paul Smith shirt, Italian silk tie and chinos, but you don't make much progress up the corporate ladder wearing a mini-skirt unless you're a woman. Just one look at Michael Haroun and I was an adoring adolescent all over again, Richard a distant memory.