“Talk about a scam,” he said. “These bastards with their country houses really know how to pull a con job on the punters. Anyway, we end up having to do a third job, this time for fuck all, just to get ourselves square. I mean, he’s obviously dealing with the kind of money that can buy a lot of very vicious muscle. You don’t mess with that.”
“But everything’s hunky-dory now, is it?”
He nodded, eating smoke. “Sweet.”
“Great,” I said. “Then you won’t mind putting the two of us together, will you, Dennis?”
11
ONCE UPON A TIME I HAD A FLING WITH A TELECOM ENGINEER. It didn’t end happily ever after, but he taught me more than I’ll ever need to know about crossed lines. Along the way, before I accepted that great sex wasn’t a long-term compensation for the conversational skills of Bonzo the chimpanzee, I met some very useful people. I met some bloody boring ones too, and unfortunately the crossover between the two groups was disturbingly large. Even more unfortunately, I was going to have to talk to one of them.
After I’d finally convinced Dennis that I wasn’t going to back off and that the price of his liberty was putting me together with his fence, it hadn’t taken me long to squeeze the phone number of the contact out of him. He’d left, grumbling that I was getting in over my head and I needn’t come running to him when the roof fell in. Naturally, we both knew that in the event of such an architectural disaster, the combined emergency services of six counties wouldn’t keep him away.
I watched his car drive away, not entirely certain I was doing the right thing. But I knew I couldn’t turn Dennis over to the cops. It wasn’t just about friendship, though that had been the key factor in my decision, no doubt about that. But I hadn’t been lying when I said I wanted the people behind the whole shooting match. Without them, the robberies wouldn’t end. They’d just find another Dennis to do the dirty work and carry the can. Besides, I wanted Henry’s Monet back, and Dennis didn’t have it anymore.
After Dennis had gone, I rediscovered my appetite and wolfed the sandwich from the fridge before settling down to the thankless task of calling Gizmo. Gizmo works for Telecom as a systems engineer, which suits him down to the ground since he’s the ultimate computer nerd. The first time I met him, he was even wearing an anorak. In a nightclub. I later discovered it was rare as hen’s teeth to catch Gizmo out on the town. Normally, the only thing that will prise him away from his computer screen is the promise of a secret password that will allow him to penetrate to the heart of some company’s as yet virgin network. He’s only ever happy when his modem’s skittering round the world’s bulletin boards. Gizmo would much rather be wandering round the Internet than the streets of Manchester. I thought Bill and I were pretty nifty movers round the intangible world of computer communications till I met Gizmo. Then I realized our joint hacking skills were the equivalent of comparing a ten-year-old’s “What I did on my holidays” essay with Jan Morris on just about anywhere.
I looked Gizmo up in my Filofax. There were several points of contact listed there. I tried his phone, but it was engaged. What a surprise. I booted up my computer, loaded up my comms software and logged on to the electronic mail network that Mortensen and Brannigan subscribe to. I typed a message asking Gizmo to call me urgently and sent it to his mailbox.
The phone rang five minutes later. I’d specifically asked him to call me person-to-person. The last thing I wanted was to relay my request to him over the Net. You never know who’s looking in, no matter how secure you think you are. That’s one of the first things Gizmo taught me. “Kate?” he said suspiciously. Gizmo doesn’t like talking; he prefers people to know only the constructed personality he releases over the computer network.
“Hi, Gizmo. How’s life?” Silly question, really. Gizmo and life are barely on speaking terms.
“Just got myself a state-of-the-art rig,” he said. “She’s so fast, it’s beautiful. So, what’s going down with you?”
“Busy, busy. You know how it is. Gizmo, I need some help. Usual terms.” Fifty quid in used notes in a brown envelope through his letter box. He comes so cheap because he loves poking around other people’s computers in the same way that some men like blondes with long legs.
“Speak, it’s your dime,” he said. I took that for agreement.
“I’ve got a mobile number here that I need a name and address for.”
“Is that all?” He sounded disappointed. I gave him the number. “Fine,” he said. “I should be back to you later today.”
“You’re a star, Giz. If I’m not here, leave a message on the machine. The answering machine. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The next call was to Lord Ballantrae. “I think I’ve got a lead,” I told him. “To the fence, not the principal behind the robberies. But I need some help.”
“That’s quick work,” he said. “Fire away. If I can do, I will do.”
“I need something to sell him. Not a painting, something fairly small but very valuable. Not small as in brooch, but maybe a small statuette, a gold goblet, that kind of thing. Now, I know that some of your associates have taken to displaying copies rather than the real thing. One of those dummies would be ideal, provided that it would pass muster on reasonably close scrutiny. You think you can come up with something like that?” I asked.
“Hmm,” he mused. “Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you.”
Two down, one to go. I dialed a number from memory and said, “Mr. Abercrombie, please. It’s Kate Brannigan.” The electronic chirrup of the Cuckoo Waltz assaulted my eardrums as I waited for whatever length of time Clive Abercrombie deemed necessary to put me firmly in my place. Olive is a partner in one of the city’s prestige jewelers. He would say the prestige jewelers. That’s the kind of pretentious wally he is. We pulled dive’s nuts out of the fire on a major counterfeiting scam a couple of years back, and I know that deep down he’s eternally grateful, though he’d die before he’d reveal it to a mere tradesperson like me. His gratitude had turned into a mixed blessing, however. It was thanks to Olive’s recommendation that we’d got the case that had put Richard behind bars and me at risk of parting company with my life. By my reckoning, that meant he still owed me.
We were on the third chorus when he deigned to come on the line. “Kate,” he said cautiously. Obviously I wasn’t important enough to merit solicitous inquiries about my health. Not a stupid man, Olive. He’s clearly sussed out that Richard and I are not in the market for a diamond solitaire.
“Good afternoon, Olive,” I said sweetly. “I find myself in need of a good jeweler, and I can’t think of anyone who fits the bill better than you.”
“You flatter me,” he said, flattered.
“I’m like you, Olive. When I need a job doing, I come to the experts.”
“A job?” he echoed.
“A little bit of tinkering,” I said soothingly. “Tomorrow, probably. Will one of your master craftspeople have a little time to spare for me then?”
“That depends on what we’re talking about,” he said warily. “I hope you’re not suggesting something illegal, Kate.”
“Would I?” I said, trying to sound outraged.
“Quite possibly,” he said dryly. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“I don’t have all the details yet, but it would involve… a slight addition to an existing piece.”