Kick Back

14

I sat in the back of a bright yellow van, headphones clamped to my ears. My friend Dennis sat next to me, looking for inspiration in the pages of an Elmore Leonard. To anyone wandering along this Stockport cul-de-sac, it looked like a British Telecom van. The inside would have completely confounded them. Instead of racks of tools, spare parts and cable, there were a couple of leather car seats, the kind you get in top-of-the-range Volvos or Mercs, and a table, all bolted to the floor. There was a portable colour TV and a video fixed to the top of a fridge. There was also a hatch in the floor. The van belongs to Sammy, one of Dennis's mates. I don't want to know what he uses it for on a regular basis. I know for sure it isn't anything to do with telecommunications.

Dennis O'Brien and I have been friends now for years. I know he's a criminal, and he knows I put criminals out of business. But in spite of, or maybe because of, that we've each got a lot of respect for the other. I respect him because in his own way he's a highly skilled craftsman who sticks rigidly to his own rules and values. They might not be the same as mine, but who's to say mine are any better? After all, this society that puts burglars behind bars is the same society that helps the really big bandits like Robert Maxwell thrive.

I owe Dennis a lot. My martial arts skills, my knowledge of lock-picking, and the part of Mortensen and Brannigan's income that depends on being able to think like a burglar so you can construct a security system that will defeat the real thing. He likes having me around because he thinks I'm a good role model for his teenage daughter. There's no accounting for tastes.

After I got back from the Land Registry, I'd rung Dennis on his mobile phone. It's a fascinating thing, the mobile phone. In London, when one starts ringing in a pub, chances are it's someone in the City on the receiving end. In Manchester, it's a bob to a gold clock it's a villain. It's a mystery to me how they get past the credit-worthiness checks that the airtime companies run. Now I think about it, they've probably got their very own airtime company, Criminal Communications, or Funny Phones, just for bad lads. With absolutely no directory enquiries service.

Anyway, I caught Dennis at a good time, so I invited him to find Sammy and help me out. I didn't even have to mention money before he agreed. He's nice like that, is Dennis. Unlike me, he doesn't think a friend in need is a pain in the arse. Which is why I was sitting in a fake Telecom van while Sammy was planting Mortensen and Brannigan's bugs in the three-bedroomed semi that Brian and Mary Wright were renting through DKL Estates.

Normally, when we use surveillance equipment, we place it ourselves. It's seldom a problem, since more often than not we're being paid by the person who is in charge of the place we're bugging. It usually arises because a boss suspects one of their subordinates of a) flogging information to a competitor; b) embezzling money or goods from the firm; or c) just a bit of good, old-fashioned internecine warfare against the boss. In those cases, we just wander in after closing time and drape the place in all the electronic surveillance a body could want. Sometimes, however, we have to be a little more discreet. While Bill and I have an agreement that we won't do things that are outrageously illegal, we occasionally find ourselves technically a little bit on the wrong side of the law when acquiring information. In situations like that, one of us insinuates ourself into the building in question by some subterfuge or other. Personally, I always find the most effective one is to claim to be the woman who's come to refill the tampon dispensers. Not a lot of security guards want to look too closely inside your boxes.

However, in this case, none of the usual ploys would work. And I didn't really want either Brian or Mary Wright to see me, since I'd be the person hanging round the street checking out the surveillance tapes. Hence Sammy's van. I'd given him a quick crash course in how to take apart the phone sockets and install the simple bug I'd decided to use. It consisted of a phone tap and a tiny voice-activated mike that would pick up the conversation in the room itself. The bug had a range of about one hundred and fifty metres, though reception in the metal-walled van wasn't as good as it would be once I'd transferred my receiver into the unobtrusive rented Fiesta where I could leave it sitting on the parcel shelf.

Sammy had marched up the path in his Telecom overalls ten minutes ago, and the woman who answered the door had let him in without even asking to see the carefully forged ID card he always carries. Perhaps she'd tried to dial out in the five minutes since I'd fiddled with her phone at the junction box round the corner. The reason I know about all these exotic things is that I once had a fling with a Telecom engineer. He came to install a second line in my bungalow for my computer modem and fax machine and stayed for a month. He had wonderfully dexterous fingers, and, as a bonus, he taught me everything I'd ever need to know about the British telephone system. Unfortunately, he felt the need to tell me it five times over. When he started telling me for the sixth time about new developments in fibre optic technology, I knew he'd have to go or I'd be risking a murder charge.

What I was waiting for now was the sound of Sammy's voice over my headphones. As soon as I was receiving him loud and clear, I'd nip back to the junction box, restore the telephone to full working order, and leave the receiver in my car wired up to a very clever tape recorder that a sound engineer friend of Richard's built for me. It links the mechanisms of six Walkmans to a signal-activated mike/receiver. When the bug's signal comes in, the first tape starts running. When the counter mechanism hits a certain number, it sets tape two running and switches off tape one. And so on. So, it gives a minimum of six hours recording time when you're not actually there listening in.

Five minutes later, I heard, 'Two sugars, love,” booming in my ears. Thanks to Sammy, I was all wired up and ready to roll. Half an hour later, I was back in the office, ready to debrief Bill. He was, of course, horrified about my brush with death on Barton Bridge. Together we went through Paul's photos and the report from his surveillance of PharmAce, Bill muttering into his thick blond beard about the temerity of anyone who would mess with his partner.

'Paul's done a good job there. You did absolutely the right thing, laying him on like that,' he rumbled, shuffling the pics together into a neat pile. 'I'll go and see them this afternoon.' He got to his feet, shouting, 'Shelley? Get Brian Chalmers at PharmAce and tell him I'm on my way to see him.'

'Wait a minute,' I protested, angry at what felt like Bill pulling rank. 'I'd planned to take those pictures over myself.'

'I'm sure you did,' he said. 'And I don't have a problem with the way you've handled things. But I want someone with Chalmers when he fronts up the lab technician. And I'd rather it was me if only to show this creep that he's up against more than a one-woman show. If it was him that ran you off the road, he's got to be made to realize that there's no point in trying to write you off because it's not just you who knows what he's up to. Besides, we need a lot more information about this stolen van, and you've got enough on your plate right now with your missing conservatories.'

I couldn't find any good reason for arguing with Bill. Personally, if I had his six foot plus towering over me, I'd admit to just about anything to get him to back off. So I left him to it. On my way out the door, I picked up the hand-held computer scanner which had been his monthly contribution to the office gadget mountain back in June. At last, I had found a use for it. As I crossed the outer office, Shelley said, 'Ted Barlow's been on. That's the second time today. He's really starting to get desperate. He says he can pay his staff this week's wages, but he's not sure about next week. He wants to know if he should warn them or whether you think you'll have sorted it out by then.'

I sighed. 'I'm doing my best, Shelley,' I said.

'Can't you do it a bit faster, Kate? Ted's scared he's going to lose his business.'

'Shelley, I'm dancing as fast as I can, OK,' I snapped, and stomped into my office. I'm ashamed to admit that I slammed the door. Unfortunately, I used the muscles that were still solid as a rock from the accident, so I lost out on comfort as well as dignity. Just to put the tin lid on it, the vibration of the door caused the last three leaves on the rubber plant to fall off. I threw the plant in the bin and made a note to stop by the florist in the morning. I'd had nine weeks out of that rubber plant, which was approaching a record for me and the chlorophyll kingdom.

I picked up the phone, dialled Josh's number and asked for Julia. I've never actually met her but her voice conjures up this image of a bright-eyed blonde with her hair in a neat bun, a Country Casuals suit and the hips of a girl raised on the Pony Club. The nearest I ever got to that was reading Bunty.

'Hello, Kate,' she enthused down the phone at me. 'Fabulous little challenge, darling!' I swear she really does say 'darling'.

'Any joy?' I asked gruffly. For some reason Julia always brings out the peasant in me.

'I only tried three of them,' she said. 'With the charges all being held by the same finance company, I had to be a little bit cautious. However, the interesting thing is that, in each case, what we're looking at is a hundred percent remortgage. The people I spoke to all said the same thing. "There's not a shilling of equity left for your client." So there you have it, Kate.'

I could have kissed her. But she'd probably have misunderstood and taken my name off her database. I thanked her prettily, just like my mother always told me to, put down the phone and yelled 'Yo!' in satisfaction. The way things were heading, I was going to make Shelley a very happy woman.

I booted up my computer and entered my notes. Then I used the scanner on the Land Registry documents and saved them all to disc. It wasn't as easy as it was supposed to be, since the scanner had the unhelpful tendency to turn things into gobbledygook unless I kept my hand steady as a rock. I felt virtuous enough after all that to ring Richard and suggest a movie that evening. 'Sorry, Brannigan,” he said. 'I'm going to a rave.'

Richard may be four years older than me, but at times he makes me feel like my Granny Brannigan. Except that my Irish Granny B would probably love the idea of an all-night party where you can dance as much as you want. She'd even feel at home with the smell of the Vicks Vapor Rub that the ravers massage each other with in their bizarre search to improve the high of the designer drug cocktails they swallow. 'Why?' I asked.

I could picture the shrug. 'I need to keep in touch. Besides, they've got this new DJ. He's only thirteen and I want to take a look.' Thirteen. Dear God, the Little Jimmy Osmond of Acid House. 'You can come if you want,' he added.

'I think I'll pass, Richard. Nothing personal, but frankly I'd rather go on a stake-out.' At least I could choose the music. At least I'd be able to recognize what I was hearing as music…

I left the office just after four, picked up a pizza from the local trattoria and headed back out to Stockport in the Little Rascal. I parked round the corner from the target house, strolled round to the Fiesta and checked out the tape machine. The third was rolling, and I had a quick listen on the headphones. Blue Peter, by the sound of it. That's the trouble with Elint (electronic intelligence, or bugs to you). It has as much discrimination as a hooker on smack. I restrained myself from listening in to the rest of the Blue Peter tape, helped myself to the two I'd made earlier, and locked up the Fiesta.

Back in the van, I munched my pizza and listened to the tapes. The first one featured ten minutes of small talk with Sammy, a phone call to the hairdresser, a phone call to a friend who whined for twenty minutes about her business, her ex and her garage bill. Then the TV had gone on, its tinny sound an interesting contrast to the live voices I'd been hearing. An Australian soap, then a pre-teen comedy drama, then cartoons. I whizzed through the programmes on double speed, ear cocked for any more real conversations amongst the Mickey Mouse squeaks. Nothing.

Bored, I went back to the Fiesta and listened in again. By now, we were on to Granada Reports. Why couldn't my target have been one of these quiet, refined people who don't feel the need of some kind of audio wallpaper? I reset the recording machine with fresh tapes and decided to give my eavesdropping another hour before heading home. I reminded myself that I had a right to some free time of my own. Besides, I was feeling cold and stiff and I was longing to get to grips with my latest computer game purchase. Civilization promised to be the most enthralling strategy game I'd played for a long time, taking the player from the dawn of man to the space age. So far, I hadn't been able to get much further than settlements of tent dwellers who'd just discovered the wheel before the barbarians came along and clobbered us.

I was trying to work out an approach that would be more fruitful when everything changed. The noise in my ears suddenly stopped altogether. For a few heart-stopping seconds I thought she'd discovered the bug. Then I heard a dialling tone and the click of numbers being keyed in. Maybe I'd be able to identify the number when I had the chance to analyse the tape at more length. The phone at the other end rang three times before it was picked up. An answering machine clicked and a man's voice said, 'I'm sorry, I'm not taking calls right now. Leave your message after the bleep, and we'll talk soon.' The voice was cool, with a suggestive edge that made me smile rather than squirm.

After the tone, the woman said, 'Hi, it's me. It's just before seven. I'm going round to my mother's, then I'll be at Colin and Sandra's. See you there. Love you. Bye.' There was a click as she put the phone down. I scrambled out of the car and hurried down the street towards the van. The last thing I wanted was for her to become suspicious of the Fiesta.

I had just shut myself into an atmosphere of stale pizza when a square of light from the front door spilt over the drive of my target's house. The light disappeared as she shut the door and opened the garage. I concentrated on the features. The hair might change, the clothes might change, the height might change with the shoes, but the face wasn't going to, especially the profile. I registered small, neat features, sharp chin, face wider across the eyes. Just like Diane Shipley's sketch. A couple of minutes later, a white Metro emerged and drove past me, heading south towards Hazel Grove. I'd gambled when I parked that if she was going to drive off anywhere, she'd be heading north into Manchester. Wrong again. I did as quick a three-point turn as I could manage, which wasn't fast enough. By the time I reached the end of the road, she was gone. There was just enough traffic around to make it impossible to guess which set of distant tail lights were hers.

There was nothing else for it. I'd just have to go home and bring my own unique blend of civilization to some unsuspecting barbarian tribe. Maybe this time I should develop map-making ahead of ceremonial burial…?

When I got home, my answering machine was flashing. I pressed the playback button. 'Kate, Bill here. I've just got back from PharmAce. We need to talk. This is the number where you can reach me this evening after seven.'

He rattled off a Didsbury number, which I failed to recognize. Hardly surprising. Bill changes his girlfriends as often as Rod Stewart in his bachelor days. When I dialled the number, true to form, a woman's voice answered. While I waited for her to fetch Bill, I conjured up the image her voice generated.

'Twenty-five, Home Counties, graduate, blonde, smokes,' I said when Bill answered.

'Well done, Sherlock. You're two years too generous, though,' he said.

'You said we need to talk. Will the phone do, or shall I come over and meet you for a drink?' I asked maliciously.

"The phone will do nicely,' he said. 'First, the good news. Brian Chalmers is delighted, and has sacked the senior technician on the spot, with no reference. And tomorrow I'm meeting someone from Knutsford CID to see if they'd like to pursue the company receiving the stolen goods.'

'Fine,' I said. 'And the bad news?'

'It wasn't a PharmAce van that ran you off the road. They had a call today from the police in Devon. The van that was stolen from PharmAce was written off in some village on Dartmoor on Friday morning after being used in a supermarket robbery down there. So it couldn't have rammed you on Friday night. Kate, whoever had a go at you on Barton Bridge is still out there.'