He stayed on Roundhay Road, then, just by the park, he turned left and drove up Prince’s Avenue, through the manicured green of playing fields and enough grass to walk all the dogs of Leeds simultaneously. Where the avenue shaded into Street Lane, he turned right into a drive. I cruised past with a sidelong glance that revealed the Merc pulling into a double garage, then found a place to park round the corner. I kicked off the stilettos and pulled on the leggings I’d left in the car. I wriggled out of the Lycra mini and got out of the car, stuffing my feet into my Reeboks. Then I strolled back along Prince’s Avenue. Clearly, being a fence was a lot more lucrative than being a private eye. Baldy’s house was set back from the road, a big detached job in stone blackened with a century and a half of industrial pollution. Not much change out of a quarter of a million for that one, by my reckoning. Probably the most popular man in the street too; they say good fences make good neighbors! I carried on down the road and bought an ice cream from one of the vans by the park gates. I sat on a wall and ate my cone, keeping an eye on Baldy’s house the while.
Five minutes later, an Audi convertible pulled in to the drive. A blond woman got out, followed by two girls in the kind of posh school uniform that has straw boaters in the summer term. From where I was sitting, the girls looked to be in their early teens. The woman left the car on the drive and followed the girls into the house. I finished my ice cream and walked back to the car. I drove round for a few minutes, trying to find a suitable place for a stakeout. Eventually, I parked just round the bend on the forecourt of a row of shops. I couldn’t see the whole house from there, but I could see the door and the drive, but I hoped that by not parking outside anyone else’s house, I’d escape the worst excesses of the neighborhood watch. If I was going to have to come back tomorrow, I’d ring the local police and tell them I was in the area on a surveillance to do with a noncriminal matter. What’s a few white lies between friends? I took out the phone and rang the local library and asked them to check the address on the electoral roll. They told me the residents listed at that address were Nicholas and Michelle Turner. At last, I had a name that hadn’t come from the pages of lan Fleming.
Just after six, the woman came out again with the girls, each carrying a holdall. They drove off, passing me without a glance. They came back after eight, all with damp hair. I deduced they’d been indulging in some sporting activity. That’s why I’m a detective. At half past eight, I phoned the Flying Pizza, a few hundred yards up the road, and ordered myself a takeaway pizza. Ten minutes later, I walked up and collected it, using their loo at the same time. I ate the pizza in the car, taking care not to drop my olives on Shelley’s immaculate carpet and upholstery. At nine, my phone rang. “Kate? It’s Michael Haroun,” the voice on the other end announced.
I jerked upright, ran a hand through my hair and smiled. As if he could see me. Pathetic, really. “Hello, Michael,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you were free for a drink this evening? You could give me a progress report.”
“No, and no. I’m working, and you’re not my client. Not that that means we can’t have a friendly drink together,” I added hastily, in case he thought I was being unfriendly.
“You can’t blame me for trying,” he said. “I do have an interest.”
“In the ease or in me?” I asked tartly.
“Both, of course. When are you going to finish work?”
“Not for a while yet, and I’m over in Leeds.” I hoped the regret I felt was being transmitted through the ether.
“In Leeds? What are you doing there?”
“Just checking out an anonymous tip-off.”
“So you’re making progress? Great!”
“I never said I was working on Henry’s case,” I said. “We do have more than one client, you know.”
“Okay, okay, I get the message, keep your nose out, Haroun. I’m sorry you can’t make it tonight. Maybe we could get together soon?”
“Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow? I might have a clearer idea what my commitments are then.”
“I’ll do that. Nice to talk to you, Kate.”
“Ditto.” After that little interlude, my surveillance seemed even more unbearably tedious. When the radio told me it was time for a book at bedtime, I decided to call it a day. It didn’t look like Nicholas Turner or my buckle were going anywhere tonight.
When I got home, I picked up the Kerrchem file I’d left there when I’d got changed earlier. I skimmed the list of former employees, and one name jumped straight out at me. I hadn’t been mistaken about Simon Morley. He’d been a lab technician at Kerrchem, made redundant with golden handcuffs six months before. He’d been the one I hadn’t been able to contact because he’d moved. At least I knew where he was now. And I had a funny feeling that I knew just what he was doing in his overalls.
15
I pulled up on the forecourt of the shops in Street Lane at five to seven in Bill’s Saab Turbo convertible. One of the first rules of surveillance is to vary the vehicle you’re sitting round in. Luckily, when Bill had gone off to Australia, he’d left me with a set of keys for his house and the car. I’d left Shelley’s Rover in Bill’s garage, with a message on the office answering machine telling her to hang on to the coupe for the time being. I felt sure this was a hardship she’d be able to bear, always supposing she didn’t leap to the conclusion that the reason I wasn’t back with her Rover was that her beloved heap was in some garage being restored to its former glory.
It had been a toss-up whose house I was going to sit outside this morning. On the one hand, if I didn’t keep close tabs on Nicholas Turner, having the buckle bugged would have been a complete waste of time. On the other hand, Simon Morley’s little adventures in cleaning had already cost a man his life. I’d lain awake, tossing and turning to the point where Richard, who normally sleeps like a man in persistent vegetative state, had sat up in bed and demanded to know what was going on. He’d eventually persuaded me to talk the dilemma over with him, something I always used to do but had been avoiding since his involvement in the car fraud case caused us both so much grief.
“You’ve got to go after the fence,” he finally said.
“Why?”
“Because if you lose him this time, you’ll never get a second bite of the cherry. Sooner or later, someone’s going to spot that your buckle isn’t just a fake but a bugged fake, and then you’re going to be on someone’s most-wanted list. And if this Simon Morley really has killed some bloke accidentally, he’s going to be a damn sight more careful what he puts in his chemical soup in future. I’d be surprised if he’s still at it. Maybe I should give him a bell; if he’s such a shit-hot chemist, I know some people who’d be delighted to have him on the payroll.”
I smacked his shoulder. “I’ve told you before about the people you hang out with.”
He grinned. “Only joking. You know I’m allergic to anything stronger than draw. Anyway, Brannigan, you should go for the fence.”