Clean Break (28 page)

 

Michael looked delighted to see me, greeting me with an unprofessional kiss on the lips. The tingle factor was still firing on all four cylinders, I noted as I moved away and sat demurely on the opposite side of the table from him. “You've been keeping a very low profile,” he complained jocularly. “I've been trying to reach you for days. Your secretary keeps telling me you're unavailable. I was beginning to think you'd gone off me.”

“She wasn't bullshitting,” I said. “I genuinely have been unavailable. I've been out of the country. The good news is that you're not going to have any more trouble from this particular gang of art thieves.”

He leaned forward, his eyes surprised and interested. “Really? They've been arrested?”

“Let's just say the market's collapsed,” I replied. “Take it from me, the racket's over and done with. So you can safely reinsure Henry Naismith's property. They won't be back for a second bite of the cherry.”

Michael ran a hand through his dark hair and shook his head. “This is incredible. What on earth have you been up to? It all sounds very unorthodox.”

“That's a word,” I said.

“You're going to have to tell me more than that,” Michael said, his face and voice equally determined. “It's not that I don't believe you. But I have to explain myself to higher powers, and they're not going to be overly impressed if I tell them I've taken a particular course of action on the say-so of a private eye who isn't even our employee.”

I was growing bored with this story already, and I was still going to have to repeat it more times than the sole survivor of an air crash. “Look, I can't go into great detail. I've still got a lot of talking to do to the police, and there are going to be arrests to come. The bare bones go like this. I got a tip-off from a good source as to who was fencing the goods. I tracked him back to an international criminal consortium who have been using art works as payment in kind for drugs. The fence is out of the game for good, and the police will be closing in on the rest of the syndicate. Without a guaranteed market, the thieves won't be doing any more robberies. I promise you, Michael, it's all over.”

He looked up from the pad where he'd been taking notes. “You're sure? You don't think the fence is going to start up again once everything quietens down?”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Not unless you believe in communications from beyond the grave,” I said.

Michael's mouth opened as he stared at me with new eyes. “He's dead?” His voice was incredulous.

“Very.”

“You didn't … ? It wasn't … ?” A flicker of fear showed in his eyes.

I snorted with ironic laughter. “Please,” I said. “I didn't kill him, Michael, I only set him up. And my payoff was getting to discover the body.”

He looked faintly queasy. I can't say I blamed him. “Is there any chance of recovering any of the stolen paintings?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I shouldn't think so. I'm afraid you're going to have
to bite the bullet and cough up. But like I said, you won't be having any repeat business from this team.”

“What can I say?” He spread his hands. “I'm impressed. Look, I can't make any promises at this stage, but I'd be interested in working with you in future. On a more official basis.”

“Fine by me. Anything you need sorting, give us a call and we'll talk.” Normally, I'd have been punching the air in jubilation at landing a client as major as Fortissimus. Today, all I could muster was a moment's satisfaction. Fortissimus had been too expensive an acquisition.

I got to my feet. “And on a personal note,” Michael added, his eyes crinkling in a smile, “when can I see you again?”

“Tomorrow night?” I suggested. “Meet me in the bar at the Cornerhouse at half past seven?”

“Fine. See you then.”

I sketched a wave and moved towards the door. He bounded to his feet and caught up with me on the threshold. He tried to put his arms round me in a hug, but I backed off. “Not in business hours,” I said defensively. “If we're going to work together, we need some ground rules. Rule one, no messing about on the company's time.”

His mouth turned down ruefully. “Sorry. You're absolutely right. See you tomorrow. Stay lucky.”

I stopped off at the Cigar Store café for a bite to eat and a cappuccino, then went back to the office to pick up the Kerrchem reports from Shelley. “Nice work,” she remarked as she handed me two neatly bound copies.

“Yeah,” I said, my lack of conviction obvious.

“So what's the problem?”

I told her my reservations about Sandra Bates and her boyfriend. At the end of my tale, Shelley nodded sympathetically. “I see what you mean,” she said. “Are you going to front them up and see what they've got to say for themselves?”

“I hadn't planned on it,” I said. “I was just going to hand over the reports to Trevor Kerr and the cops and let them get on with it. I can't pretend murder isn't police business, can I?”

“No, but if they're not the killers, maybe you should go and talk
to them. They might have some useful ideas as to who actually is doing the killing.”

She was right, of course. Before I blew their lives out of the water, I should at least talk to Sandra Bates and Simon Morley. “What if they leg it?” I protested weakly.

“If you drop off the reports with Kerr and Jackson and go straight round there, they won't have time to leg it, will they? This isn't a lead that Jackson's going to sit on till morning, is it?”

 

Half an hour later, I was walking up the path of 37 Alder Way. I'd sent Kerr's copy of the report round by motorbike courier, and I'd left Jackson's copy with his sergeant. I estimated I probably had a maximum of half an hour before the police came knocking.

Sandra Bates opened the door. Her first reaction was bemused bewilderment, then, clearly remembering what I'd been asking about, she tried to close the door. I stepped forward, shoving my shoulder between the door and jamb. “What's going on?” she demanded.

“Too slow, Sandra,” I said. “An innocent woman would have spoken sooner. We need to talk.”

“You're not a student,” she accused me, eyes narrowing.

“Correct.” I handed her one of my business cards. “I'm Kate Brannigan. I'm working for Kerrchem, and we need to talk.”

“I've got nothing to say to you,” she said desperately, her voice rising.

From inside the house, Simon Morley's voice joined in. “What's going on, Sandra?”

“Go
away
,” she said to me, shoving the door harder.

“Sandra, would you rather talk to me about industrial sabotage or to the police about murder?” I replied, leaning back against the door. “You've got ten seconds to decide. I know all about the scam. There's no hiding place.”

Simon's tall figure loomed behind Sandra in the hall. “What's … ? Wait a minute, you were at the factory this morning.” He looked down at Sandra. “What the hell's going on?”

“She's a private detective,” Sandra spat out.

“Simon, we need to talk,” I said, struggling to maintain a
responsible façade with my shoulder jammed painfully between two bits of wood. “I know about the fake KerrSter, I've got videos of your factory and your delivery run this morning, I know exactly how Sandra's working the fiddle at her end. You're already in the frame for product tampering and attempted blackmail. Do you really want two counts of murder adding to the list?”

“Let her in,” Simon said dully. Sandra looked up pleadingly at him, but he simply nodded. “Do it, love,” he said.

I followed them into a living room that came straight from Laura Ashley without any intervening application of taste. I chose an armchair upholstered in a mimsy floral chintz, and they sat down together on a matching sofa. Sandra's hand crept out and clutched Simon's. “There's no way you can wriggle out of the scam,” I said brutally. “But I don't think murder was on the agenda.”

“I haven't killed anybody,” Simon said defiantly, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“It doesn't look that way,” I said.

“Look, I admit I wanted to get my own back on Kerrchem,” he said.

“The golden handcuffs?” I asked.

He nodded. “That was bad enough, but then I found out they were refusing to give me a proper reference.”

I frowned. Nobody at Kerrchem had indicated that anyone had left under a cloud. “Why?” I said.

“It was my department head, Keith Murray. He screwed up on a research project I was working on with him and it ended up costing the company about twenty grand in wasted time and materials. It was just before the redundancies were going to be announced and everybody was twitchy about their jobs, and he blamed me for the cockup. Now, because of that, personnel say I can't have a good reference. So I've ended up totally shafted. Never mind waiting six months, I'll be waiting six years before anybody gives me a responsible research job again. Kerrchem owes me.” The words spilled out angrily, tumbling out in the rush of a normally reticent man who's had enough.

“So you decided to take it out in blackmail?”

“Why not?” he asked defiantly.

“Apart from the fact that it's illegal, no reason at all,” I said tartly. “What about the two people who died?”

“That's got nothing to do with us,” Sandra butted in. “You've got to believe us!” She looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

“She's right,” Simon said, patting Sandra's knee with his free hand. “The papers said they'd died from cyanide poisoning—that's right, isn't it?” I nodded. “Well, then,” he said. “All the stuff I've been using is over-the-counter chemicals, mostly ones Sandra's picked up through work. I've got no access to cyanide. I've got none in the warehouse or here. You can search all you like, but you can't tie us in to any cyanide. Look, all we wanted was to get some money out of Trevor Kerr. Why would we kill people if that was what we were trying to do? It'd be daft. You pay off somebody who's wrecking your commercial operation, you do it quiet so the opposition don't get to hear about it. You don't go to the police. You don't pay off murderers. You can't hide murder.”

“What about the note? The one that came after the first death? That implied there would be more if Kerrchem didn't pay up,” I said.

This time, Sandra did start crying. “I said we shouldn't have sent that one,” she sobbed, pulling her hand away from Simon and punching ineffectually at his chest.

Gently, Simon gripped her wrists, then pulled her into a tight hug. “You were right, I'm sorry,” he told her. Then he turned back to me. “I thought if we pretended to be more ruthless than we were, Kerr might cough up. It was stupid, I see that now. But he got me so mad when he just ignored the first note and nobody seemed to notice what we were doing. I had to make him pay attention.”

“So if you're not doing the killings, who is?” I demanded, finally getting round to the reason why I'd put myself through another harrowing encounter.

I was too late. Before Simon could answer, the doorbell rang, followed by a tattoo of knocking. “Police, open up,” I heard someone shout from the other side of the door. I thought about making a run for it through the back door, but the way my luck had been running lately, I'd probably have been savaged by a police dog.

The pair on the sofa had the wide-eyed look of rabbits transfixed by car headlights. By the time they got it together to let the cops in, their front door was going to be matchwood. With a sigh, I got to my feet and prepared for another jolly chat with Detective Inspector Cliff Jackson.

My encounter with Jackson reminded me of the old radical slogan: help the police, beat yourself up. After listening to the usual rant about obstructing the police, withholding evidence and interfering with witnesses, I needed a drink. I was only a couple of miles away from the Cob and Pen, the pub where Joey Morton had breathed his last, which clinched the decision.

If they'd gone into mourning over the death of mine host, it hadn't been a prolonged period of grief. It was pub quiz night, and the place was packed. In the gaps between the packed bodies, I got the impression of a bar that had been done out in the brewery version of traditional country house: dark, William Morris-style wallpaper, hunting prints, and bookshelves containing all those 1930s best sellers that no one has read since 1941, not even in hospital out-patients' queues. No chance of anyone nicking them, that was for sure.

I bought myself a vodka and grapefruit juice and retreated into the furthest corner from the epicenter of the quiz. I squeezed on the end of a banquette, ignored by the other four people surrounding the nearby table. They were much too involved in arguing about the identity of the first Welsh footballer to play in the Italian league. There was no chance of engaging any of the bar staff in a bit of gossip, not even lubricated with the odd tenner. They were too busy pulling pints and popping the caps off bottles of Bud. I sipped my drink and waited for an interval in the incessant trivia questions. Eventually, they announced a fifteen-minute break.

The foursome round my table sat back in their seats. “John Charles,” I said. They looked blankly at me. “The first Welshman to
play in Italy. John Charles.” Amazing the junk that invades your brain cells when you live with a football fan.

“Really?” the lad with the pen and the answer sheet said.

“Truly.”

The one who'd been rooting for Charles against the other three grinned and clapped me on the back. “Told you so,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”