Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

On the other hand, all it took to get me salivating at the thought of an evening’s conversation about insurance was a profile from an ancient carving. Maybe I wasn’t such a smart cookie after all.

I’D ALMOST FORGOTTEN THERE ARE RESTAURANTS THAT DON’T serve dim sum. For as long as I’ve known Richard, he’s maintained that if you don’t.use chopsticks on it, it ain’t food. And Josh has recently taken to extracting his payment in-kind in Manchester ’s clutch of excellent Thai restaurants. I’m not sure if that’s down to the food or the subservient waitresses. Either way, I’d entirely lost touch with anything that hadn’t come out of a wok. Which made Michael Haroun a refreshing change in more ways than one.

He’d arrived promptly at twenty-nine minutes past seven. I’d grown so used to Richard’s flexible idea of time that I was still applying eye pencil when the doorbell rang. I nearly poked my eye out in shock, and had to answer the door with a tissue covering the damage. Eat your heart out, Cindy Crawford. Michael lounged against the doorframe, looking drop-dead gorgeous in blue jeans, navy silk blouson and an off-white collarless linen shirt that sure as hell hadn’t come from Marks and Spencer. My stomach churned, and I don’t think it was hunger. “Long John Silver, I presume,” he said.

“Watch it, or I’ll set the parrot on you,” I replied, stepping back and waving him in.

He shrugged away from the door and followed me down the hall. I gestured toward the living room and said, “Give me a minute.”

Back in the bathroom, I repaired the damage and surveyed myself in the full-length mirror. Navy linen trousers, russet knitted silk teeshirt, navy silk tweed jacket. I looked like I’d taken a bit of trouble, without actually departing from the businesslike image. Michael wasn’t to know this was my newest, smartest outfit. Besides, I’d told Richard my evening engagement was a business meeting, and I wasn’t entirely ready for him to get any other ideas if he saw me leave.

I rubbed a smudge of gel over my fingers and thrust them through my hair, which I’ve kept fairly short since I was shorn without consultation earlier in the year. My right eye still looked a bit red, but this was as good as it was going to get. A quick squirt of Richard’s Eternity by Calvin Klein and I was ready.

I walked down the hall and stood in the doorway. Michael obviously hadn’t heard me. He was deep in a computer-gaming magazine. Bonus points for the boy. I cleared my throat. “Ready when you are,” I said.

He looked up and smiled appreciatively. “I don’t want to sound disablist,” he said, “but I have to admit I prefer the two-eyed look.” He closed the magazine and stood up. “Shall we go?”

He drove a top-of-the-range Citroen. “Company car?” I asked, looking forward to the prospect of being driven for a change.

“Yeah, but they let me choose. I’ve always had a soft spot for Citroen. I think the DS was one of the most beautiful cars ever built,” he said as he did a neat three-point turn to get out of the parking area outside my bungalow. “My father always used to drive one.”

That told me Michael Haroun hadn’t grown up on a council estate with the arse hanging out of his trousers. “Lucky you,”

I said with feeling. “My dad works for Rover, so my childhood was spent in the back of a Mini. That’s how I ended up only five foot three. The British equivalent of binding the feet.”

Michael laughed as he hit a button on the CD player and Bonnie Raitt filled the car. Richard would have giggled helplessly at something so middle-of-the-road. Me, I was just glad of something that didn’t feature crashing guitars or that insistent zippy beat that sounds just like a fly hitting an incinerator. We turned out of the small “single professionals” development where I live and into the council estate. To my surprise, instead of heading down Upper Brook Street toward town, he turned left. As we headed down Stockport Road, my heart sank. I prayed this wasn’t going to be one of those twelve-kilometer drives to some pretentious bistro in the sticks with compulsory spinach pancakes and only one choice of vodka.

“You into computer games, then?” I asked. Time to check out just how much I had in common with this breathtaking profile.

“I have a 486 multimedia system in my spare room. Does that answer the question?”

“It’s not what you’ve got, it’s what you do with it that counts,” I replied. As soon as I’d spoken, I wished I was on a five-second-delay loop, like radio phone-ins.

He grinned and listed his current favorites. We were still arguing the relative merits of submarine simulations when he pulled up outside a snooker supplies shop in an unpromising part of Stockport Road. A short walk down the pavement brought us to That Cafe, an unpretentious restaurant done out in thirties style. I’d heard plenty of good reports about it, but I’d never quite made it across the door before. The locale had put me off, for one thing. Call me fussy, but I like to be sure that my car’s still going to be waiting for me after I’ve finished dinner.

The interior looked like flea market meets Irish country pub, but the menu had me salivating. The waitress, dressed in jeans, a Deacon Blue T-shirt, big fuck-off Doc Marten boots and a long white French waiter’s apron, showed us to a quiet corner table next to a blazing fire. Okay, they only had one vodka, but at least it wasn’t some locally distilled garbage with a phony Russian name.

As our starters arrived, I said ruefully, “I wish finding Henry Naismith’s Monet was as easy as a computer game.”

“Yeah. At least with games, there’s always a bulletin board you can access for hints. I suppose you’re out on your own with this,” Michael said.

“Not entirely on my own,” I corrected him. “I do have one or two contacts.”

He swallowed his mouthful of food and looked slightly pained. “Is that why you agreed to have dinner with me?” he asked.

“Only partly.”

“What was the other part?” he asked, obviously fishing.

“I enjoy good scoff, and I like interesting conversation with it.” I was back in control of myself, the adolescent firmly stuffed back into the box marked “not wanted on voyage.”

“And you thought I’d be an interesting conversationalist, did you?”

“Bound to be,” I said sweetly. “You’re an insurance man, and right now insurance claims are one of my principal interests.”

We ate in silence for a few moments, then he said, “I take it you were behind the story in the Chronicled”

I shrugged. “I like to stir the pot. That way, the scum rises to the surface.”

“You certainly stirred things around our office,” Michael said dryly.

“The people have a right to know,” I said, self-righteously quoting Alexis.

“Cheers,” Michael said, clinking his glass against mine. “Here’s to a profitable relationship.”

“Oh, you mean Fortissimus are going to hire Mortensen and Brannigan?” I asked innocently.

He grinned again. This time I noticed his teeth, so even, so white I had to suspect them of being crowns. Or maybe they were naturally perfect, just like his profile. “I think I’ll pass on that one. I simply meant that with luck, you might track down Henry Naismith’s Monet.”

“Speaking of which,” I said. “I spoke to Henry this afternoon. He says your assessor had just been there.”

“That’s right,” Michael said cagily.

“Henry says your man put a very interesting suggestion to him. Purely in confidence. Now, would that be the kind of confidence you’re already privy to?”

Michael carefully placed his fork and knife together on the plate and mopped his lips with the napkin. “It might be,” he said cautiously. “But if it were, I wouldn’t be inclined to discuss it with someone who has a hot line to the front page of the Chronicle.”