Beneath us, vats seethed, nozzles squirted liquid into plastic containers and surprisingly few people moved around. “Not many bodies,” I said loudly over my shoulder to Unsworth.
“Computer controlled,” he said succinctly.
Another avenue to pursue. If the sabotage was internal, perhaps the culprit was simply sending the wrong instructions to the plant. I’d thought this was going to be a straightforward case of industrial sabotage, but my head was beginning to hurt with the permutations it was throwing up.
A couple of hundred yards along the walkway, we descended and cut through a heavy door into a warehouse. Now I know how the Finns feel when they walk into the snow from the sauna. I could feel my pores snapping shut in shock. Here, the air smelled of oil and diesel. The only sound came from fork-lift trucks shunting pallets on and off shelves. “This is the warehouse,” Kerr said. I’d never have worked that one out all by myself. “The full containers go through from the factory to packing, where the machines label them, stamp them with batch numbers and seal-wrap them in dozens. Then they come through here on conveyor belts and they’re shelved or loaded.” He turned to Unsworth. “Where have you stacked the recalls?”
Before Unsworth could reply, my mobile phone started ringing. “Excuse me,” I said, moving away a few yards and pulling the phone out. “Kate Brannigan,” I announced.
“Tell me,” an amused voice said, “is Alexis Lee a real person, or is it just your pen name?”
I recognised the voice at once. I moved farther away from Kerr’s curious stare and turned my back so he couldn’t see that my ears had gone bright red. “She’s real all right, Mr. Haroun,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I think it had better be Michael. Otherwise I’d start to suspect you were being unfriendly. I’ve just been handed the early edition of the Evening Chronicle.”
“And what does it say?”
“Do you really need me to tell you?” he asked, still sounding amused.
“I forgot to bring my crystal ball with me. If you want to hang on, I’ll see if I can find a chicken to disembowel so I can check out the entrails.”
He laughed. It was a sound I could easily get used to. “It’d be a lot simpler to pop into a newsagent.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Oh no. I’d hate to spoil the surprise. Tell me, Kate… Do you mind if I call you Kate?”
“It sounds like a reasonable euphemism.”
“Okay, Kate. Do you fancy dinner some evening?”
“Michael, it may not look like it, but I fancy dinner every evening.” I couldn’t believe the way I was flirting. I’d read better lines than that in teenage romances. Up until now, I’d always managed to avoid them, even when I was a teenager.
Bless him, he laughed again. I like a man who doesn’t seize on the first sign of weakness. “Are you free this evening?”
I pretended to think. Let’s face it, I’d have turned down Mel Gibson, Scan Bean, Lynford Christie and Daniel Day Lewis for dinner with Michael Haroun. I didn’t pretend for too long, in case he lost interest. “I can be. As long as it’s after seven.”
“Great. Shall I pick you up?”
That was a harder decision. I didn’t want to let myself forget that this was a business dinner. On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to give Richard something to think about. I gave Michael the address and we agreed on half past seven. Unlike everybody on TV who uses a mobile phone, I hit the“ end button with a flourish, then turned back to a scowling Trevor Kerr.
“Sorry about that,” I lied. “Somebody I’ve been trying to get hold of on another investigation. Now, Mr. Unsworth, you were going to show us these recalled containers.”
The next half hour was one of the more boring ones in my life, made doubly so by the fact that I was itching to get my hands on the Chronicle. I finally escaped at half past eleven, leaving Trevor Kerr with the suggestion that his chemists should analyze the contents of a random sample of the containers. Only this time, they wouldn’t just be looking for cyanide. They’d be checking to see whether the KerrSter in the drums was the real thing. Or something quite different and a whole lot nastier.
By the third newsagent’s, I’d confirmed what I’d always suspected about Farnworth. It’s a depressing little dump that civilization forgot. Nobody had the Chronicle. They wouldn’t have it till sometime in the afternoon. They all looked deeply offended and incredulous when I explained that no, the Bolton Evening News just wouldn’t be the same. I had to possess my soul in patience till I hit the East Lanes. Road. I sat on a garage forecourt reading the results of Alexis’s research. She’d done me proud.
CULTURAL HERITAGE VANISHES
A series of spectacular robberies has been hushed up by police and stately-home owners.
Now fears are growing that a gang of professional thieves are stripping Britain of valuable artworks that form a key part of the nation’s heritage. Among the stolen pieces are paintings by French Impressionists Monet and Cezanne, and a bronze bust by the Italian Baroque master Bernini. Also missing is a collection of Elizabethan miniature paintings by Nicholas Hilliard. Together, the thieves haul is estimated at nearly £10 million.
The cover-up campaign was a joint decision made by several police forces and the owners of the stately homes in question. Police did not want publicity because they were following up leads and did not want the thieves to know that they had realized one gang was behind the thefts.
And the owners were reluctant to admit the jewels of their collections had gone missing in case public attendance figures at their homes dropped off as a result.
Some owners have even resorted to hanging replicas of the missing masterpieces in a bid to fool the public.
The latest victim of the audacious robbers is the owner of a Cheshire manor house. Police have refused to reveal his identity, but will only say that a nineteenth-century French painting has been stolen.
The cheeky thieves have adopted the techniques of the pair who caused outrage at the Lillehammer Olympics when they stole Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
They break in through the nearest door or window, go straight to the one item they have selected and make their getaway. Often, they are in the house or gallery for no more than a minute.
A police source said last night, “There’s no doubt that we are dealing with professionals who may well steal to order. There are obviously a limited number of outlets for their loot, and we are making inquiries in the art world.“
One of the robbed aristos, who was only prepared to talk anonymously, said, “It’s not just the heritage of this country that is at stake. It’s our businesses. We employ a lot of people and if the public stop coming because our most famous exhibits have been stolen, it will have repercussions.
“We do our best to maintain tight security, but you can never keep the professional out.”
There was some more whinging in the same vein, but nothing startling. Call me nitpicky, but I’ve never understood how the art of several European cultures has come to be a key part of our British heritage, unless it symbolizes the brigand spirit that made the Empire great. That aside, I reckoned Alexis’s story would achieve what I hoped for. With a bit of luck, the nationals would pick the story up the next morning, and the jungle drums would start beating. Soon it would be time for a chat with my friend Dennis. If he ever decides to go completely straight, he could make a living as a journalist. I’ve never known anybody absorb or disseminate so much criminal intelligence. I’m just grateful some of it comes my way when I need it.
For the time being, I headed back to the office, stopping to pick up a couple of pizzas on the way. I knew Shelley would be waiting behind the door with a pile of paperwork that would cause more concussion than a rolling pin. At least a pizza offering might reduce the aggro to a minimum.