Val McDermid - Kickback

He stamped on the accelerator and hauled on the steering wheel, cornering with a shriek of rubber. Thank God for low profile tyres and customized Beetles. The van was still in sight, and we followed it sedately through another set of lights and up a hill. Then it pulled into a drive. I let my breath out in a sigh of relief. It's harder than most people think to tail another vehicle. A good thirty per cent of the time you lose them completely.

'Well done. But don't slow down,' I told Richard. 'Just pull up round the next corner.'

He drew up a few seconds later and I was out of the car before he'd switched off the engine. The aches and pains I'd forgotten in the excitement of the chase suddenly reasserted themselves. I winced as I straightened up and tottered back down the street, which gave Richard the chance to catch up with me.

'What d'you think you're doing?' he demanded. 'You should be in bed, not tearing round the back streets of Buxton.'

'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 be standing after the nuclear holocaust. I suppose it needed to be like that to survive Buxton winters. I'll say this for the Victorians; they really knew how to build things to last. I bet designers get down on their hands and knees every morning and give thanks for the death of that particular tradition. The drive was lined on one side with a solid privet hedge and tall trees that looked as if they'd been there as long as the grey stones of the house. As I neared the house, I moved closer to the hedge, letting myself be absorbed into its shadow.

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 man was otherwise engaged with a pizza and a couple of guests.

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.

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 head off any man who suggested I might not be up to looking after myself. Now, I was touched. Definitely worrying. 'It'll be fine,” I said. 'After we had that lucky break last night, I realized there wasn't anything more I could do till Alexis had positively ID'd the guy' I hadn't told Richard about my little excursion. Judging by his concern for my health, it was probably just as well.

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?'