no,’ Kerr said, clearly alarmed. ‘The last thing I want is for the blackmailers to find out I’m talking to a private detective.’
One of the ones that watches too many movies. That was all I needed to make my day. ‘No problem. You come to me.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You see, I think they’re watching me.’
Just when you thought it was safe to pick up the phone…‘I know how disturbing threats can be when you’re not accustomed to being on the receiving end,’ I tried. ‘Perhaps we could meet on neutral ground. Say in the lounge of the Midland?’
The reassuring tone hadn’t worked. ‘No,’ Kerr said urgently. ‘Not in public. It’s got to look completely normal. Have you got a boyfriend, Ms Brannigan?’
* * *
I should have put the phone down then and there, I realized four hours later as I tried to explain to Richard that a crumpled cream linen suit might be fine for going on the razz with Mick Hucknall, but there was no way it would help him to pass as a member of the Round Table. ‘Bloody hell, Brannigan,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m old enough to dress myself.’
I ignored him and raked through his wardrobe, coming up with a fairly sober double-breasted Italian suit in dark navy. ‘This is more like it,’ I said.
Richard scowled. ‘I only wear that to funerals.’
I threw it on the bed. ‘Not true. You wore it to your cousin’s wedding.’
‘You forgotten her husband already? Anyway, I don’t see why you’re making me get dressed up like a tailor’s dummy. After the last time I helped you out, you swore you’d never let me near your work again,’ he whinged as he shrugged out of the linen jacket.
‘Believe me, if Bill wasn’t out of the country, I wouldn’t be asking you,’ I said grimly. ‘Besides, not even you can turn a Round Table treasure hunt and potluck supper into a life-threatening situation.’
Richard froze. ‘That’s a bit below the belt, Brannigan,’ he said bitterly.
‘Yeah, well, I’m going next door to find something suitably naff in my own wardrobe. Come through when you’re ready.’
I walked down Richard’s hall and cut through his living room to the conservatory. Back in my own house, I allowed myself a few moments of deep breathing to regain my equilibrium. A few months before, I had enlisted Richard’s help in what should have been a straightforward case of car fraud. Only, as they say in all the worst police dramas, it all went pear-shaped. Spectacularly so. Richard ended up behind bars, his life in jeopardy, and I nearly got myself killed tracking down the real villains. As if that hadn’t been enough, I’d also been landed with looking after his eight-year-old son Davy. And me with the maternal instincts of a Liquorice Allsort.
The physical scars had healed pretty quickly, but the real damage was to our relationship. You’d think he’d have been grateful that I sorted everything out. Instead, he’d been distant, sarcastic and out a lot. It hadn’t been grim all the time, of course. If it had been, I’d have knocked it on the head weeks earlier. We still managed to have fun together, and sometimes for nearly a week things would be just like they used to be; lots of laughs, a few nights out, communal Chinese takeaways and spectacular sex. Then the clouds would descend, usually when I was up to the eyeballs in some demanding job.
This was the first time since our run-in with the drug warlords that I’d asked Richard to do anything connected with work. I’d argued with Trevor Kerr that there must be a less complicated way for us to meet, but Clever Trevor was convinced that he was right to take precautions. I nearly asked him why he was hiring a dog and still barking himself, but I bit my tongue. Business hadn’t been so great lately that I could afford to antagonize new clients before they were actually signed up.
With a sigh, I walked into my own bedroom and considered the options. Richard says I don’t have a wardrobe, just a collection of disguises. Looking at the array of clothes in front of me, I was tempted to agree with him. I pulled out a simple tailored dress in rough russet silk with a matching bolero jacket. I’d bought it while I’d been bodyguarding a Hollywood actress who was over here for a week to record an episode in a Granada drama series. She’d taken one look at the little black number I’d turned up in on the first evening and silently written me a cheque for five hundred pounds to go and buy ‘something a little more chic, hon’. I’m not proud; I took the money and shopped. Alexis and I hadn’t had so much fun in years.
I stepped into the dress and reached round to zip it up. Richard got there before me. He leaned forward and kissed me behind the ear. I turned to gooseflesh and shivered. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bad day. Let’s go and see how the other half lives.’
The address Trevor Kerr had given me was in Whitefield, a suburb of mostly semis just beyond the perennial roadworks on the M62. It’s an area that’s largely a colony of the upwardly mobile but not strictly Orthodox Jews who make up a significant proportion of Manchester’s population. Beyond the streets of identical between-the-wars semis lay our destination, one of a handful of architect-designed developments where the serious money has gravitated. My plumber got the contract for one of them, and he told me about a conversation with one of his customers. My plumber thought the architect had made a mistake, because the plans showed plumbing for four dishwashers – two in the kitchen and two in the utility room. When he queried it, the customer looked at him as if he was thick as a yard of four-by-two and said, ‘We keep kosher and we entertain a lot.’ There’s nothing you can say to that.
The house I’d been directed to looked more Frankenstein than Frank Lloyd Wright. It had more turrets and crenellations than Windsor Castle, all in bright red Accrington brick. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to be potless,’ Richard remarked as we parked. It had a triple garage and hard-standing for half a dozen cars, but tonight was clearly party night. Richard’s hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertible looked as out of place as Cinderella at a minute past midnight. When the hostess opened the door, I smiled. ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘We’re with Trevor Kerr,’ I added.
The frosting on her immaculate coiffure spilled over on to the hostess’s smile. ‘Do come in,’ she said.
The man who’d been hovering in the hall behind her stepped forward and said, ‘I’m Trevor Kerr.’ He signalled with his eyebrows towards the stairs and we followed him up into a den that looked like it had been bought clock, stock and panel from a country house. The only incongruity was the computer and fax machine smack in the middle of the desk. ‘We won’t be disturbed here,’ he said. ‘It’ll be at least half an hour before the host distributes the clues and we move off. Perhaps your friend would like to go downstairs and help himself to the buffet?’
I could hear Richard’s hackles rising. ‘Mr Barclay is a valued associate of Mortensen and Brannigan. Anything you say is safe with him,’ I said stiffly. I dreaded to think how many people Richard could upset at a Round Table potluck buffet.
‘That’s right,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not just scenery.’
Kerr looked uncomfortable but he wasn’t really in a position to argue. As he settled himself in an armchair, we studied each other. Not even a hand-stitched suit could hide a body gone ruinously to seed. I was tempted to offer some fashion advice, but I didn’t think he’d welcome the news that this year bellies are being worn inside the trousers. He couldn’t have been much more than forty, but his eyes would have been the envy of any self-respecting bloodhound and his jowls would have set a bulldog a-quiver. The only attractive feature
