‘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.
I pulled up half a mile down the road and had a quick look through the file. Most of the properties seemed to be over in Warrington, so I decided to leave them till morning. The light was already starting to fade, and by the time I’d driven over there, there would be nothing to see. However, there were half a dozen properties nearby where Ted had fitted conservatories. He’d already visited one of them and discovered that the conservatory had gone. On my way home, I decided I might as well take a quick look at the others. I pulled my A-Z out of the glove box and mapped out the most efficient route that included them all.
The first was at the head of a cul-de-sac in a nasty sixties estate, one of a pair of almost-detached houses, linked only by their garages in a bizarre Siamese twinning. I rang the bell, but there was no response, so I walked down the narrow path between the house and the fence to the back garden. Surprise, surprise. There was no conservatory. I studied the plan so I could work out exactly where it had been. Then I crouched down and scrutinized the brickwork on the back wall. I didn’t really expect to find anything, since I wasn’t at all sure what I should even be looking for. However, even my untrained eye noticed a line of faint markings on the wall. It looked like someone had given it a going over with a wire brush – enough to shift the surface grime and weathering, that was all.
Intrigued, I stood up and headed for the next destination. 6 Wiltshire Copse and 19 Amundsen Avenue were almost identical. And they were both minus conservatories. However, the next two remortgages I visited still had their conservatories firmly anchored to the houses. I trekked back to my car for the fifth time, deeply depressed after too much exposure to the kind of horrid little houses that give modern a bad name. I thought of my own home, a bungalow built only three years before, but constructed by a builder who didn’t feel the need to see how small a bedroom you could build before the human mind screams, ‘No!’ My lounge is generous, I don’t have to climb over anything to get in and out of bed and my second bedroom is big enough for me to use as an office, complete with sofa bed for unavoidable visitors. But most of these overgrown sheds looked as if they’d have been pressed to provide one decent-sized bedroom, never mind three.
The irony was that they were probably worth more than mine because they were situated on bijou developments in the suburbs. Whereas my little oasis, one of thirty ‘professional person’s dwellings’, was five minutes from every city centre amenity. The downside was that it was surrounded by the kind of inner-city housing they make earnest Channel 4 documentaries about. The locale had brought the price down far enough for me also to afford the necessary state-of-the-art alarm system.
I decided home was where I should head for. Darkness was falling, so I wouldn’t be able to continue my fascinating study of late-twentieth-century bricklaying. Besides, people were getting home from work and I was beginning to feel a little conspicuous. It was only a matter of time before some overzealous Neighbourhood Watch vigilante called the cops, an embarrassment I could well do without. I drove out of the opposite end of the estate to the one I’d come in by, and suddenly realized I was only a couple of streets away from Alexis’s house.
Alexis Lee is probably my best friend. She’s the crime reporter on the Manchester Evening Chronicle. I guess the fact that we’re both women who’ve broken into what is traditionally a male preserve helped build the bond between us. But apart from our common interest in things criminal, she’s also saved me more money than anyone else I know. I can think of at least a dozen times when she’s prevented me from making very costly mistakes in expensive dress shops. And, at the risk of making her sound like a stereotype, she’s got that wonderful, rich Liverpudlian sense of humour that