Val McDermid - Kick Back

He’d been one step ahead of me. ‘Will a grand do?’ he asked, pulling a thick envelope from his inside pocket.

It was my turn to nod helplessly. ‘I thought you’d want cash,’ he went on. ‘Us builders can always lay hands on a few bob in readies when we have to. Rainy day money. That way, you always make sure the important people get paid.’ He handed the envelope over. ‘Go ahead, count it, I won’t be offended,’ he added.

I did as he said. It was all there, in used twenties. I pressed the intercom. ‘Shelley? Can you give Mr Barlow a receipt for one thousand pounds’ cash on his way out? Thanks.’ I got to my feet. ‘I’ve got one or two things to sort out here, Ted, but I’d like to meet you later this afternoon at your office. Four o’clock OK?’

‘That’s great. Shall I leave the directions with your secretary?’ He sounded almost eager. This could get to be a lot of fun, I thought to myself as I showed Ted out. He headed for Shelley’s desk like a homing pigeon.

Much as I’d taken to Ted, I learned very early on in this game that liking someone is no guarantee of their honesty. So I picked up the phone and rang Mark Buckland at SecureSure. His secretary didn’t mess me about with tales of fictitious meetings since Mark’s always pleased to hear from Mortensen and Brannigan. It usually means a nice little earner for him. SecureSure supply a lot of the hardware we recommend in our role as security consultants, and even with the substantial discount he offers us, Mark still makes a tidy profit.

‘Hi, Kate!’ he greeted me, his voice charged with its normal overdose of enthusiasm. ‘Now, don’t tell me, let me guess. Ted Barlow, am I right?’

‘You’re right.’

‘I’m glad he took my advice, Kate. The guy is in deep shit, and he doesn’t deserve it.’ Mark sounded sincere. But then, he always does. That’s the main reason he can afford to drive around in seventy grand’s worth of Mercedes coupé.

‘That’s what I was ringing you about. No disrespect, but I need to check out that the guy’s kosher. I don’t want to find myself three days down the road with this and some bank clerk giving me the hard word because our Mr Barlow’s got a track record with more twists and turns than a sheep track,’ I said.

‘He’s kosher all right, Kate. The guy is completely straight. He’s the kind that gets into trouble because he’s too honest, if you know what I mean.’

‘Oh, come on, Mark. It’s me you’re talking to. The guy’s a builder, for Christ’s sake. He can lay his hands on a grand in cash, just like that. That’s not straight, not in the normal definition of the word,’ I protested.

‘OK, so maybe the taxman doesn’t know about every shilling he makes. But that doesn’t make you a bad person, now does it, Kate?’

‘So give me the truth, not the advertising copy.’

Mark sighed. ‘You’re a hard woman, Brannigan.’ Tell me about it, I thought cynically. ‘Right. Ted Barlow is probably my oldest friend. He was my best man, first time round. I was an usher at his wedding. Unfortunately, he married a prize bitch. Fiona Barlow was a slut and the last guy to find out was Ted. He divorced her five years ago and since then he’s become a workaholic. He started off as a one-man-band, doing a bit of replacement windows stuff. Then a couple of friends asked him if he could do them a conservatory. They lived in real punter property, you know, Wimpey, Barratt, something like that. They got Ted to create this Victorian-style conservatory, all stained glass and UPVC. Of course, monkey see, monkey want. Half the estate wanted one, and Ted was launched in the conservatory business. Now, he’s got a really solid little firm, a substantial turnover, and he’s done it the straight way. Which, as you know, is pretty bloody unusual in the home improvement game.’

In spite of my natural scepticism, I was impressed. Whatever was going on with Ted Barlow’s conservatories, it looked like it wasn’t the man himself who was up to something. ‘What about his competitors? Would they be looking to put the shaft in?’ I asked.

‘Hmm,’ Mark mused. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s not serious enough to be a worry to any of the really big-time boys. He’s strictly small, reputable and local. Whatever’s going down here needs someone like you to sort it out. And if you do clear it up, because he’s such a good friend, I’ll even waive my ten per cent commission for sending him to you!’

‘If I wasn’t a lady, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, Buckland. Ten per cent!’ I snorted. ‘Just for that, I’m putting the lunch invitation on hold. Thanks for the backgrounder, anyway. I’ll do my best for Ted.’

‘Thanks, Kate. You won’t be sorry. You sort him out, he’ll be your friend for life. Pity you’ve already got a conservatory, eh?’ He was gone before I could get on my high horse. Just as well, really. It took me a good thirty seconds to realize he’d been at the wind-up and I’d fallen for it.

I wandered through to the outer office to give Shelley the new-client form and the cash, for banking. To my surprise, Ted Barlow was still there, standing awkwardly in front of Shelley’s desk like a kid who’s hung behind after class to talk to the teacher he has a crush on. As I entered, Shelley looked flustered and quickly said, ‘I’m sure Kate will have no trouble following these directions, Mr Barlow.’

‘Right, well, I’ll be off then. I’ll be seeing you later, Miss Brannigan.’

‘Kate,’ I corrected automatically. Miss Brannigan makes me feel like my spinster great aunt. She’s not one of those indomitable old biddies with razor-sharp minds that we all want to be when we’re old. She’s a selfish, hypochondriacal, demanding old manipulator and I have this superstitious fear that if I let enough people call me Miss Brannigan, it might rub off on me.

‘Kate,’ he acknowledged nervously. ‘Thank you very much, both of you.’ He backed through the door. Shelley was head down, fingers flying over the keyboard, before the door was even halfway closed.

‘Amazing how long it takes to give a set of directions,’ I said sweetly, dropping the form in her in-tray.

‘I was just sympathizing with the man,’ Shelley replied mildly. It’s not always easy to tell with her coffee-coloured skin, but I’d swear she was blushing.

‘Very commendable, too. There’s a grand in this envelope. Can you pop down to the bank with it? I’d rather not leave it in the safe.’

‘You do right. You’d only spend it,’ Shelley retorted, getting her own back. I poked my tongue out at her and returned to my own office. I picked up the phone again. This time, I rang Josh Gilbert. Josh is a partner in a financial services company. They specialize in providing advice and information to the kind of people who are so paranoid about ending up as impoverished senior citizens that they cheerfully do without while they’re young enough to enjoy it, just so they can sit back in comfort in their old age, muttering, ‘If I had my youth again, I could be waterskiing now …’ Josh persuades them to settle their shekels in the bosoms of insurance companies and unit trusts, then sits back planning for his own retirement on the fat commissions he’s just earned. Only difference is, Josh expects his retirement to begin at forty. He’s thirty-six now, and tells me he’s well on target. I hate him.

Of course, he was with a client. But I’d deliberately made my call at ten minutes to the hour. I figured that way he’d be able to call me back between appointments. Three minutes later, I was talking to him. I briefly outlined Ted Barlow’s problem. Josh said, ‘Mmm,’ a lot. Eventually, he said, ‘I’ll check your guy out. And I’ll do some asking around, no names, no pack drill. OK?’