Val McDermid - Kick Back

‘Great. When can we get together on this?’

Over the phone, I could hear the sound of Josh turning the pages in his diary. ‘You hit me on a bad week,’ he said. ‘I suppose you need this stuff yesterday?’

‘Afraid so. Sorry.’

He sucked his breath in over his teeth, the way plumbers are trained to do when they look at your central-heating system. ‘Today’s Tuesday. I’m snowed under today, but I can get to it tomorrow,’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘But my time’s backed up solid Thursday, Friday I’m in London … Listen, can you do breakfast Thursday? I meant it when I said it was a bad week.’

I took a deep breath. I’m never at my best first thing, but business is business. ‘Thursday breakfast is fine,’ I lied. ‘Where would you like?’

‘You choose, it’s your money,’ Josh replied.

We settled on the Portland at seven-thirty. They have this team of obliging hall porters who park your car for you, which in my opinion is a major advantage at that time of the morning. I checked my watch again. I didn’t have time enough to develop and print my surveillance films. Instead, I settled for opening a file on Ted Barlow in my database.

Colonial Conservatories occupied the last unit before the industrial estate gave way to a sewage farm. What really caught the eye was the conservatory he’d built on the front of the unit. It was about ten foot deep and ran the whole thirty-foot width of the building. It had a brick foundation, and was separated into four distinct sections by thin brick pillars. The first section was classic Victorian Crystal Palace style, complete with plastic replica finials on the roof. Next was the Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady school of conservatory, a riot of stained panels whose inaccuracies would give any botanist the screaming habdabs. Third in line was the Spartan conservatory. A bit like mine, in fact. Finally, there was the Last Days of the Raj look – windows forming arches in a plastic veneer that gave the appearance, from a considerable distance, of being mahogany. Just the place to sit on your rattan furniture and summon the punkah wallah to cool you down. You get a lot of that in South Manchester.

Inside the conservatory, I could see Colonial Conservatories’ offices. I sat in the car for a moment, taking in the set-up. Just inside the door was a C-shaped reception desk. Behind it, a woman was on the phone. She had a curly perm that looked like Charles I’s spare wig. Occasionally, she tapped a key on her word processor and gave the screen a bored stare before returning to her conversation. Over to one side, there were two small desks, each equipped with a phone and a pile of clutter. No one was at either desk. On the back wall, a door led into the main building. Over in the far corner, a small office had been divided off with glass partitions. Ted Barlow was standing in shirtsleeves in this office, his tie hanging loose and the top button of his shirt open, slowly working his way through the contents of a filing cabinet drawer. The rest of the reception was taken up with display panels.

I walked into the conservatory. The receptionist said brightly into the phone, ‘Hold the line, please.’ She flicked a switch then turned her radiance on me. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked in a little girl’s voice.

‘I have an appointment with Mr Barlow. My name’s Brannigan. Kate Brannigan.’

‘One moment, please.’ She ran a finger down the page of her open desk diary. Her nail extensions mesmerized me. Just how could she type with those claws? She looked up and caught my stare, then smiled knowingly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll just see if he’s ready for you.’ She picked up a phone and buzzed through. Ted looked round him in a distracted way, saw me, ignored the phone and rushed across the reception area.

‘Kate,’ he exclaimed. ‘Thanks for coming.’ The receptionist cast her eyes heavenwards. Clearly, in her view, the man had no idea how bosses are supposed to behave. ‘Now, what do you need to know?’

I steered him towards his office. I had no reason to suspect the receptionist of anything other than unrealistic aspirations, but it was too early in the investigation to trust anyone. ‘I need a list of addresses of all the conservatories you’ve fitted in the last six months where the customers have taken out remortgages to finance them. Do you keep track of that information?’

He nodded, then stopped abruptly just outside his office. He pointed to a display board that showed several houses with conservatories attached. The houses were roughly similar – medium-sized, mostly detached, modern, all obviously surrounded on every side by more of the same. Ted’s face looked genuinely mournful. ‘That one, that one and that one,’ he said. ‘I had photographs taken of them after we built them because we were just about to do a new brochure. And when I went back today, they just weren’t there any more.’

I felt a frisson of relief. The one nagging doubt I had had about Ted’s honesty was resolved. Nasty, suspicious person that I am, I’d been wondering if the conservatories had ever been there in the first place. Now I had some concrete evidence that they had been spirited away. ‘Can you give me the name of the photographer?’ I asked, caution winning over my desire to believe in Ted.

‘Yes, no problem. Listen, while I sort this stuff out for you, would you like me to get one of the lads to show you round the factory? See how we actually do the business?’

I declined politely. The construction of double-glazed conservatories wasn’t a gap in my knowledge I felt the need to plug. I settled for the entertaining spectacle of watching Ted wrestle with his filing system. I sat down in his chair and picked up a leaflet about the joys of conservatories. I had the feeling this might be a long job.

The deathless prose of Ted’s PR consultant stood no chance against the smartly dressed man who strode into the showroom, dumped a briefcase on one of the two small desks and walked into Ted’s office, grinning at me like we were old friends.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Jack McCafferty,’ he added, thrusting his hand out towards me. His handshake was firm and cool, just like the rest of the image he projected. His brown curly hair was cut close at the sides and longer on top, so he looked like a respectable version of Mick Hucknall. His eyes were blue and had the dull sheen of polished sodalite against the lightly tanned skin of his face. He wore an olive green double-breasted suit, a cream shirt and a burgundy silk tie. The ensemble looked about five hundred pounds’ worth to me. I felt quite underdressed in my terracotta linen suit and mustard cowl-necked sweater.

‘Kate, Jack’s one of my salesmen,’ Ted said.

‘Sales team ,’ Jack put him right. From his air of amused patience, I gathered it was a regular correction. ‘And you are?’

‘Kate Brannigan,’ I said. ‘I’m an accountant. I’m putting together a package with Ted. Pleased to meet you, Jack.’

Ted looked astonished. Lying didn’t seem to be his strong suit. Luckily, he was standing behind Jack. He cleared his throat and handed me a bulky blue folder. ‘Here are the details you wanted, Kate,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything that’s not clear, just give me a call.’

‘OK, Ted.’ I nodded. I had one or two questions I wanted to ask him, but not ones that fitted my exciting new persona of accountant. ‘Nice to meet you, Jack.’

‘Nice. That’s a word. Not the one I would have used for meeting you, Kate,’ he replied, a suggestive lift to one eyebrow. As I walked back across the reception area and out to my car, I could feel his eyes on me. I felt pretty sure I wouldn’t like what he was thinking.