Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

Dennis shrugged. “You’re the corporate expert. Is this the kind of stunt big business pulls these days? I’d heard things were getting a bit tough out there, but bumping people off is a bit heavy for a takeover bid.”

“So an ex-employee, you reckon?”

“That’s where I’d put my money. Stands to reason, they’re the ones with a real grudge, and there’s no comeback. And what about them thingamabobs… what do they call it? When they give you the bullet and make you sign a bit of paper saying you can’t go off and sell all their secrets to the opposition?”

“Golden handcuffs,” I said ruefully. I was slipping. That should have been one of the first half-dozen questions I asked Trevor Kerr.

“Yeah well, nobody likes being stuck in a pair of handcuffs, don’t matter whether they’re gold or steel,” Dennis said with feeling. “It was me, I’d feel pretty cheesed. ‘Specially if I was one of them boffins whose expertise goes out of date faster than a Marks and Spencer ready meal.”

I stretched an arm round his muscular shoulders and hugged him. “You’re a pal, Dennis.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “That it? You consulted the oracle?”

“That’s it. Unless you know an international gang of art thieves.”

“Art thieves?” he asked, sounding interested.

“They’re been working all over the country, turning over stately homes. They go for one item and crash in through the nearest door or window. No finesse, just sledgehammers. Straight in and out. Obviously very professional. Sound like anybody you know?”

Dennis pulled a face. “I’m well out of touch with that scene,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m off for a shower. Will you still be here when I’m done?”

I glanced at my watch. “No, got to run.” Whatever else happened today, I couldn’t leave Richard standing around at the multiscreen.

“See you round, kid,” Dennis said, walking off.

“Yeah. And Dennis…”

He looked over his shoulder, the changing room door half open.

“If there’s anything I can do…”

Dennis’s smile was as crooked as his business. “You’ll know,” he said.

Back at the car, I hit the phone. Sheila the Dragon Queen tried to tell me Trevor Kerr was in a meeting, but my civil-servant impersonation was no match for her. I had good teachers; I once devoted most of my spare time for six months to screwing housing benefits out of a succession of bloody-minded officials.

“Trevor Kerr,” the phone barked at me.

“Kate Brannigan here. I’ve spoken to the police, who were very interested in what I had to tell them about the fake KerrSter,” I said. “They said they would investigate that angle.”

“You pulled me out of a production meeting to tell me that?” he demanded.

“Not only that,” I said mildly. It was an effort. If he carried on like this, I reckoned there was going to be a five percent surliness surcharge on Trevor Kerr’s bill.

“What, then?”

“You mentioned you’d had a round of redundancies,” I said.

“So?”

“I wondered if anyone who’d gone out the door had been subject to a golden handcuffs deal.”

There was a moment’s silence. “There must have been a few,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s standard practice for anybody working in research or in key production jobs.”

“I’ll need a list.”

“You’ll have one,” he said.

“Have it faxed to my office,” I replied. “The number’s on the card.” I cut the connection. That’s the great thing with mobile phones. There are so many black holes around that nobody dares accuse you of hanging up on them anymore.

I took out my notebook and rang the number Alexis had given me earlier. The voice that answered the phone didn’t sound like Lord James Ballantrae. Not unless he’d had an unfortunate accident. “I’m looking for Lord Ballantrae,” I said.

“This is his wife,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“My name is Kate Brannigan. I’m a private investigator in Manchester. I understand Lord Ballantrae is the coordinator of a group of stately-home owners who have been burgled recently. One of my clients has had a Monet stolen, and I wondered if Lord Ballantrae could spare me some time to discuss it.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to do so. Bear with me a moment, I’ll check the diary.” I hung on for an expensive minute. Then she was back. “How does tomorrow at ten sound?”

“No problem,” I said.

“Now, if you’re coming from Manchester, the easiest way is to come straight up the M6, then take the A7 at Carlisle as far as Hawick, then the A698 through Kelso. About six miles past Kelso, you’ll see a couple of stone gateposts on the left with pineapples on top of them. You can’t miss them. That’s us. Castle Dumdivie. Did you get all that?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said weakly. I’d got it, all right. A good three to four hours driving.

“We’ll look forward to seeing you then,” Lady Ballantrae said. She sounded remarkably cheerful. It was nice to know one of us was.

richard didn’t even stir when the alarm cut through my dreams at ten to six like a hot wire through cheese. I staggered to the shower, feeling like my eyes had closed only ten minutes before. Until I started this job, I didn’t even know there were two six o’clocks in the same day. Richard still doesn’t. I suppose that’s why he suggested a club after the latest Steven Spielberg, enough popcorn to feed Bosnia and burgers and beer at Starvin‘ Marvin’s authentic American diner. We’d been having fun together, and I didn’t want it to end on a sour note, so I’d agreed, with the proviso that I could be a party pooper at one. It goes without saying that we were still dancing at two.

Even a ten-minute power shower couldn’t convince my body and my brain that I’d had more than three hours sleep. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t jacked in the law degree after two years, so I could have become a nine-to-five crown prosecutor. I put a pot of strong coffee on to brew while I dressed. Just what do you wear for a Scottish baron that won’t look like a limp dishrag after four hours behind the wheel? I ended up with navy leggings, a cream cotton Aran jumper and a military-style navy wool blouson that I inherited from Alexis. I’d told her in the shop that it made her look too heavy in the hips, but would she listen?

By the third cup of coffee, I felt like I could be trusted to drive without causing a major pileup. Not that there was a lot of traffic round to test my conviction. For once, it was sheer pleasure to motor down the East Lanes, road. No boy racers wanting to get into a traffic-lights grand prix with my coupe, no little old men with porkpie hats and pipes dithering between lanes, no macho reps waving their mobile phones like battle honors. Just blissful open road spread out before me and Deacon Blue’s greatest hits. Since I was going to Scotland, I thought I’d better opt for the native sound. When I left the motorway at Carlisle, it was just after eight. I promised myself breakfast at the first greasy spoon I passed, forgetting what roads in the Scottish borders are like. There was nothing for the best part of an hour, and then it was Hawick. I ended up with a bacon-and-egg roll from a bakery washed down with a carton of milky industrial effluent that they claimed was coffee.

At a quarter to ten, I spotted the gateposts. When Lady Ballantrae had said pineapples, I was expecting some discreet little stone ornaments. What I got.was two squat pillars topped with carved monstrosities the size of telephone kiosks. She’d been right when she said I couldn’t miss them. I turned into a narrow corridor between two beech hedges taller than my house. The road curved round in a gentle arc. Abruptly, the trees stopped and I found myself in a grassy clearing dominated by Lord Ballantrae’s house. I use the term “house” loosely. At one end of the sprawling building was a massive square stone tower with a sharply pitched roof. Extending out from it, built in the same forbidding gray stone, was the main house. The basic shape was rectangular, but it was dotted with so many turrets, buttresses and assorted excrescences that it was hard to grasp that at first. The whole thing was surmounted by an incongruous white belvedere with a green roof.