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.”
He sighed. “Come round tomorrow morning after eleven. I’ll discuss it with you then.”
“Thank you, Olive,” I said to dead air.
I checked my watch. Half past four. Just time to nip round to the office and collect Trevor Kerr’s list of former staff. I swapped the smart clothes for a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt and took my bike. It would be quicker than the car this time of day, and besides, I wanted the exercise. I found Shelley in the throes of preparing the quarterly VAT return. “Kate,” she said grimly. “Just the person I wanted to see.” She waved a small bundle of crumpled receipts at me. “I know it’s really unreasonable of me, but do you suppose you could enlighten me as to what precisely these bills are for? Only, by my calculations we’re due a VAT inspection some time within the next six months, and I don’t think they’re going to be thrilled by your idea of keeping records. ‘Miscellaneous petty cash’ isn’t good enough, you know.”
I groaned. “Can’t you just make it up?” I wheedled, picking up the top receipt. “This is from the electrical wholesalers; just call it batteries or lightbulbs or cassette tapes. Use your imagination. We don’t often let you do that,” I added with a smile.
Shelley curled her lip. “I don’t have an imagination. I’ve never found it necessary. You’re not leaving here till you’ve told me what’s what. And if you make it up, I can blame you when the VAT inspector doesn’t believe me.”
It didn’t take me as long as I feared. Imagination is not something I’ve ever lacked. What I couldn’t remember, I invented. There wasn’t a VAT person in the land who’d dare question what I needed thirty-five meters of speaker wire for. Having mollified the real boss at Mortensen and Brannigan, I grabbed my fax and headed out the door before she could think of something else that would keep me from my work.
In the short interval that I’d been out, both Gizmo and Ballantrae had been back to me. The name and address attached to the phone didn’t fill me with confidence. Cradaco International, 679A Otley Road, Leeds. On an impulse, I grabbed the phone and rang Josh’s office. The man himself was in a meeting, but Julia, his personal assistant, was free. I pitched her into hitting the database right away and finding out whatever details Cradaco International had filed at Companies House. I hung on while she looked. Now that everything’s on line, information it used to take days to dig out of dusty files is available at the touch of a fingertip.
She didn’t keep me waiting long. “Kate? As you thought, it’s an off-the-shelf company. Share capital of one pound. Managing director James Connery. Company secretary Sean Bond. Uh-oh. Does something smell a bit fishy to you, Kate?”
I groaned. “Any other directors?”
“Have a guess?”
“Miss Moneypenny? M?” I said resignedly.
“Nearly. Miss Penny Cash.”
I sighed. “You’d better give me the addresses, just in case.” I copied down three addresses in Leeds. At least they were all in the same city. One trip would check out the directors and the company. “You’re a pal, Julia,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. You could do me a small favor in return,” she said.
“Try me.”
“Could you ask Richard if there’s any chance he could get me a bootleg tape of the Streisand Wembley concerts?” she asked.
I’d never have put cut-glass upper-middle-class Julia down as a Streisand fan, but there’s no accounting for taste. “It’s a bit off his beat, but I’ll see what I can do,” I promised.
Time to get back to Ballantrae. He answered on the first ring. “I think I’ve got the very thing for you,” he said. “How does an Anglo-Saxon belt buckle sound?”