“Nice one, Kate,” he wheezed as he bounced back off the ropes.

“Bit of luck, your punters might decide it would be bad for their reputations if they weigh in as witnesses when it comes to court.” It wasn’t much consolation but it was all I could think of.

“Never mind their reputation, it wouldn’t be too good for their health,” he said darkly. “Anyway, I’ve got one or two things on the boil. Just a bit of insurance just in case I do go down. Make sure Debbie and the kids don’t go without if I’m away.”

I didn’t ask what kind of insurance. I know better. We worked out in silence for a while. I was upset at the thought of only seeing Dennis with a visiting order for the next couple of years, but there was nothing I could do to help him out, and he knew that as well as I did. Even though we have more attitudes in common than seems likely on the surface, there are areas of each other’s lives we take care to avoid. Mostly, they’re to do with knowledge that either of us would feel uncomfortable about keeping to ourselves. I don’t tell him when I’m about to drop people in it that he knows, and he doesn’t tell me about things I’d feel impelled to pass on to the cops.

After fifteen minutes of dodging each other round the ring, we were both sweating. I lost concentration for a moment, which was all it took. Next thing I knew, I was on my back staring at the strip lights.

“Sloppy,” Dennis remarked.

I scrambled up to find him leaning on the ropes. I could have knocked the wind out of him with one kick. Or maybe not. I’ve come into contact with that rock-hard diaphragm before. “Got a lot on my mind,” I said.

“Anything I can help with?” he asked. Typical Dennis. Didn’t matter how much crap of his own he had to sort out, he was still determined to stay in the buddy role.

“Maybe,” I said, slipping between the ropes and heading for the neat stack of scruffy towels on a shelf.

Dennis followed me, and we sat companionably on a bench while we talked. I gave him a brief outline of the Kerrchem case. “You know anybody who’s doing schneid cleaning fluid?” I ended up.

He shook his head. “I don’t know anybody that stupid,” he said scornfully. “There’s not nearly enough margin in it, is there? And it’s bulky. Costs you a lot to shift it round, and you can’t exactly set up a street-corner pitch with it, can you? There was a team from Liverpool tried schneid washing powder a couple of years back. They’d done a raid on a chemical firm, nicked one of their vans to do the getaway. There were a couple of drums of chemicals in the back, and they decided not to waste it, so they printed up some boxes and flogged it on the markets. Nasty stuff. Took the skin off your fingers if you tried handwashing. Mind you, there weren’t any of them ‘difficult’ stains left. That’s because there wasn’t a lot of clothes left.”

“So you don’t reckon it’s any of the usual faces?”

Dennis shook his head. “Like I said, you’d have to be stupid to go for that when there’s plenty of hooky gear around with bigger profits and a lot less risk. I reckon you’re looking closer to home on this one. This is a grudge match.”

“An ex-employee? A competitor?” Even though it’s a long way removed from his world, it’s always worth bouncing ideas off Dennis.

Dennis shrugged. “You’re the corporate expert. Is this the kind of stunt big business pulls these days? I’d heard things were getting a bit tough out there, but bumping people off is a bit heavy for a takeover bid.”

“So an ex-employee, you reckon?”

“That’s where I’d put my money. Stands to reason, they’re the ones with a real grudge, and there’s no comeback. And what about them thingamabobs… what do they call it? When they give you the bullet and make you sign a bit of paper saying you can’t go off and sell all their secrets to the opposition?”

“Golden handcuffs,” I said ruefully. I was slipping. That should have been one of the first half-dozen questions I asked Trevor Kerr.

“Yeah well, nobody likes being stuck in a pair of handcuffs, don’t matter whether they’re gold or steel,” Dennis said with feeling. “It was me, I’d feel pretty cheesed. ‘Specially if I was one of them boffins whose expertise goes out of date faster than a Marks and Spencer ready meal.”

I stretched an arm round his muscular shoulders and hugged him. “You’re a pal, Dennis.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “That it? You consulted the oracle?”

“That’s it. Unless you know an international gang of art thieves.”

“Art thieves?” he asked, sounding interested.

“They’re been working all over the country, turning over stately homes. They go for one item and crash in through the nearest door or window. No finesse, just sledgehammers. Straight in and out. Obviously very professional. Sound like anybody you know?”

Dennis pulled a face. “I’m well out of touch with that scene,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m off for a shower. Will you still be here when I’m done?”

I glanced at my watch. “No, got to run.” Whatever else happened today, I couldn’t leave Richard standing around at the multiscreen.

“See you round, kid,” Dennis said, walking off.

“Yeah. And Dennis…”

He looked over his shoulder, the changing room door half open.

“If there’s anything I can do…”

Dennis’s smile was as crooked as his business. “You’ll know,” he said.

Back at the car, I hit the phone. Sheila the Dragon Queen tried to tell me Trevor Kerr was in a meeting, but my civil-servant impersonation was no match for her. I had good teachers; I once devoted most of my spare time for six months to screwing housing benefits out of a succession of bloody-minded officials.

“Trevor Kerr,” the phone barked at me.

“Kate Brannigan here. I’ve spoken to the police, who were very interested in what I had to tell them about the fake KerrSter,” I said. “They said they would investigate that angle.”

“You pulled me out of a production meeting to tell me that?” he demanded.

“Not only that,” I said mildly. It was an effort. If he carried on like this, I reckoned there was going to be a five percent surliness surcharge on Trevor Kerr’s bill.

“What, then?”

“You mentioned you’d had a round of redundancies,” I said.

“So?”

“I wondered if anyone who’d gone out the door had been subject to a golden handcuffs deal.”

There was a moment’s silence. “There must have been a few,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s standard practice for anybody working in research or in key production jobs.”

“I’ll need a list.”

“You’ll have one,” he said.

“Have it faxed to my office,” I replied. “The number’s on the card.” I cut the connection. That’s the great thing with mobile phones. There are so many black holes around that nobody dares accuse you of hanging up on them anymore.

I took out my notebook and rang the number Alexis had given me earlier. The voice that answered the phone didn’t sound like Lord James Ballantrae. Not unless he’d had an unfortunate accident. “I’m looking for Lord Ballantrae,” I said.

“This is his wife,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“My name is Kate Brannigan. I’m a private investigator in Manchester. I understand Lord Ballantrae is the coordinator of a group of stately-home owners who have been burgled recently. One of my clients has had a Monet stolen, and I wondered if Lord Ballantrae could spare me some time to discuss it.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to do so. Bear with me a moment, I’ll check the diary.” I hung on for an expensive minute. Then she was back. “How does tomorrow at ten sound?”

“No problem,” I said.

“Now, if you’re coming from Manchester, the easiest way is to come straight up the M6, then take the A7 at Carlisle as far as Hawick, then the A698 through Kelso. About six miles past Kelso, you’ll see a couple of stone gateposts on the left with pineapples on top of them. You can’t miss them. That’s us. Castle Dumdivie. Did you get all that?”