I gave in gracefully. Satisfied that I’d made the concession, Richard announced he had to write an article about the post-Communist rockers for some American West Coast magazine, and he wanted to get it written and faxed before he went to bed. He swept the remains of his takeaway into the carrier bags and gave me a swift hug. “I love you, Brannigan,” he muttered gruffly into my ear.
I fell asleep with the words of Dean Friedman’s “Love Is Not Enough” swirling round my head like a mantra. I woke up alone the next morning, and not particularly surprised by that. I felt strangely deflated, as if something I’d been anticipating hadn’t happened. I wasn’t sure if that was to do with Michael or Eichard. Either way, I didn’t like the feeling that my state of mind was dependent on anyone else. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water pour down. A friend of mine who’s into all that New Age stuff reckons a shower cleanses your aura. I don’t know about that, but it always helps me put things into perspective.
By the time I walked through the office door, I was feeling in control of my life again. That might have had something to do with the miracle of finding a parking meter that was nearer the office than my house. Parking in this city gets worse by the day. I’ve been seriously wondering how much it would cost to bribe the security men at the BBC building across the road to let me park my car inside their compound. Probably more than I earn.
Shelley was on the phone, so I headed straight for the cof-feemaker, a shiny chrome cappuccino machine that my partner, the gadget king of the North West, bought us for a treat after a grateful client gave us a bonus because we’d done the job faster than Speedy Gonzales. Somehow, I couldn’t see either of our current employers rewarding my swiftness. I was beginning to feel like I was wading through cement on both cases.
Before I could fill the scoop with coffee, I heard Shelley say, “Hang on, she’s just walked in.”
I turned to see her waving the phone at me. “Alexis,” Shelley said.
I headed for my office. “Coffee?” It was a try-on, I admit it. Mortensen and Brannigan adopts a firm “you want it, you make it” policy on coffee. But every now and again, Shelley takes pity on me.
I guess I didn’t look needy enough, for there were no signs of her crossing the office after she’d switched the call through. I sighed and picked up the phone. ‘“Morning,” I said.
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” the familiar Liverpudlian voice rasped. “Here am I, bringing you tidings from the front line and you greet me with all the eager anticipation of a woman expecting bad news from her dentist.”
“It’s your own fault. Never come between a woman and her cappuccino,” I retorted crisply.
I heard the sound of smoke being inhaled, then a husky chuckle. “Some of us don’t need coffee this late in the day. Some of us have already done half a day’s work, KB.”
“Self-righteousness doesn’t become you,” I snarled. “Did you call for a reason, or did you just want to be told there’s something clever about having a job that starts in the middle of the night?”
“There’s gratitude for you,” Alexis said cheerfully. “I call you up to pass on vital information, and what thanks do I get?“
I took a deep breath. “Thank you, 0 bountiful one,” I groveled. “So what’s this vital piece of information?”
“What have you got to swap for it?”
I thought for a moment. “You can borrow my leather jacket for a week.”
“Too tight under the armpits. What’s the matter, KB.? Got no gossip to trade? What’s happening with the insurance man?”
If the Chronicle’s editor ever decides he needs to pacify the antismoking lobby and fire Alexis, she’ll never starve. She could set up tomorrow in a booth on Blackpool pier. She wouldn’t even have to change her name. Gypsy Alexis Lee sounds just fine to me. “We had dinner last night,” I said abruptly.
“And?”
“And nothing. Dinner at That Cafe\ he came in for coffee, Richard barged in waving a Chinese, they squabbled like two dogs over a bone, he went home.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone, what do you take me for? On second thought, don’t answer that. Trust me, Alexis, nothing’s happening with the insurance man. You’ll be the first to know if and when there is. Now, cut the crap and tell me what you rang for.”
“Okay. The jungle drums have obviously been beating after that piece I did yesterday on the robberies.”
Nothing warms the cockles of the heart like the smug self-satisfaction of being right. “So what’s the word on the street?”
“I don’t know about the street. I’m working the stately-home circuit these days,” Alexis replied disdainfully. “I’ve just come off the blower with a punter called Lord James Ballantrae.”
“Who’s he?”
“I’m not entirely sure of all the titles, since I’ve not looked him up in Debrett yet, but he’s some sort of Scotch baron.”
“You mean he’s in the whiskey trade?”
“No, soft girl, he’s a baron and he comes from Scotland, though you’d never know to hear him talk.”
“So has he been burgled too?”
“Yeah, but that’s not why he rang. Apparently, after he got turned over, he had a chat with some of his blue-blood buddies and found there was a lot of it about, so they got together in a sort of semi-informal network to pool their info and help other rich bastards to avoid the same happening to them. One of them spotted the story I did and told him about it, so he rang me for a chat. I’m doing a news feature on him and his gang, about how they’re banding together to foil the robbers. And get this. They call themselves the Nottingham group.” She paused expectantly.
I took the bait. It was a small price to pay to keep the wheels of friendship oiled. “Go on, tell me. I know you’re dying to. Why the Nottingham group?”
“After the Sheriff of Nottingham. On account of their goal is to stop these robbin‘ hoods from ripping off their wealth to redistribute to the selected poor.”
“Nice one,” I said. “You going to give me his number?” I copied down Alexis’s information and stuck the Post-it note on my phone. “Thanks.”
“Is that it? What about ‘I owe you one’?” Nobody’s ever accused Alexis of being a shrinking violet. “I don’t. You’re paying me back for your exclusive last night.” “Okay. You free for lunch?”
“Doubt it, somehow. What about tonight? Richard and I are going to the multiscreen. Do you two want to join us?”
“Sorry, we’ve already booked for Blade Runner at the Cornerhouse.”
Typical. “Don’t forget your Foucault,” I said. I was halfway out of my chair, destination coffee machine, when the phone rang again. Suppressing a snarl, I grabbed it and injected a bit of warmth into my voice. “Good morning, Kate Brannigan speaking.” “It’s Trevor Kerr here.”
I wished I hadn’t bothered with the warmth. “Hello, Mr. Kerr. What news?”
“I could ask you the same thing, since I’m paying you to investigate this business,” he grumbled. “I’m ringing to let you know that my lab people have come up with some results from the analysis I asked them to carry out.”
Not a man to give credit where it’s due, our Mr. Kerr. I stifled a sigh and said, “What did they discover?”
“A bloody nightmare, that’s what. About half the samples they tested aren’t bloody KerrSter.”
“Cyanide?” I asked, suddenly anxious.
“No, nothing like that. Just a mixture of chemicals that wouldn’t clean anything. Not only would they not clean things, there are certain surfaces they’d ruin. Anything with a sealed finish like floor tiles or worktops. Bastards!” Kerr spat.
“Are these common chemicals, or what?”
“Ever heard of caustic soda? That’s how bloody common we’re talking here.”