“I don’t know, Kate. These are professional thieves. Looking at the state of the porch door, they’re clearly quite comfortable with a considerable degree of violence. I’m not sure I’m entirely happy about you pursuing them,” he said dubiously.
“Henry, I might only be five foot three, but I can look after myself,” I said, trying not to think about the last occasion where I’d told the men in my life the same damn lie. The scar on my head was just a distant twinge when I brushed my hair now, but the scar inside went a lot deeper. I hadn’t exactly lost my battle; I’d just acquired an overdose of wariness.
“Besides,” I carried on, seeing his look of frank disbelief, “you’re entitled to the first thirty hours of my time for free, according to your contract.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course.” His reserve was nailed firmly in place again, the eyes locked on the middle distance.
“Apart from anything else, me nosing around will convince your insurance company that you’re not trying it on,” I added.
His eyes narrowed, like a man who’s seen a bloody great wave heading straight for his bows. “Why should they think that?” he said sharply.
“It wouldn’t be the first time somebody’s set up their own burglary for the insurance,” I said. “It happens all the time round where I live.” A frown flickered across Henry’s face. “There’s nothing you want to tell me, Henry, is there?” I added apprehensively. “There’s no earthly reason why I should arrange this,” he said stiffly. “The police and the insurance company are welcome to check the books. We’re making a profit here. House admissions are up on last year, the gift shop has increased its turnover by twenty-five percent and the Great Hall is booked for banquets almost every Saturday between now and February. The only thing I’m concerned about is that I’m due to leave for Australia in three weeks and I’d like the matter resolved by then.”
“I’d better get weaving, in that case,” I said mildly.
I drove back to Manchester with a lot on my mind. I don’t like secrets. It’s one of the reasons I became a private eye in the first place. I especially don’t like them when they’re ones my client is keeping from me.
2
THE ATRIUM OF FORTISSIMUS INSURANCE TOLD ME ALL I needed to know about where Henry’s massive premiums were going. The company had relocated in Manchester from the City, doubtless tempted by the wodges of cash being handed out by various inner-city initiative programs. They’d opted for a site five minutes’ walk down Oxford Road from the rather less palatial offices of Mortensen and Brannigan. Handy, we’d thought, if they ever needed any freelance investigating, though if they had, it hadn’t been our door they’d come knocking on. They probably preferred firms with the same steel-and-glass taste in interior decor, and prices to match.
Like a lot of new office complexes in Manchester, Portissimus had smacked a brand-new modern building behind a grandiose Victorian facade. In their case, they’d acquired the front of what had been a rather grand hotel, its marble and granite buffed to a shine more sparkling than its native century had ever seen. The entrance hall retained some of the original character, but the glassed-in atrium beyond the security desk was one hundred percent fin de quite another siecle. The pair of receptionists had clearly absorbed their customer-care course. Their grooming was immaculate, their smiles would have made a crocodile proud, and the mid-Atlantic twang in their, “Good morning, how may I help you?” stopped short of making my ears bleed. Needless to say, they were as misleading as the building’s facade. After I’d given them my card, asked for Michael Haroun and told them his department, I still had to kick my heels for ten minutes while they ran their manicured fingernails down lists to find Mr. Haroun’s extension, continued their debriefing on the weekend’s romantic encounters, rang Mr. Haroun, filled out a visitor’s pass and told me Mr. Haroun would be waiting for me at the lift.
I emerged on the fifth floor to find they’d been economical with the truth. There was no Mr. Haroun, and no one behind the desk marked “Claims Inquiries” either. Before I could decide which direction to head in, a door down the hallway opened and someone backed out, saying, “And I want to compare those other cases, Karen. Dig out the files, there’s a love.”
He swiveled round on the balls of his feet and deja vu swept over me. Confused, I just stood and stared as he walked toward me. When he got closer, he held out his hand and said, “Ms. Brannigan? Michael Haroun.”
For a moment, I was speechless and paralyzed. I must have been gawping like a starving goldfish, for he frowned and said, “You are Ms. Brannigan?” Then, suspicion appeared in his liquid sloe eyes. “What’s the matter? Am I not what you expected? I can assure you, I am head of the claims division.”
Power returned to my muscles and I hurriedly reached out and shook his hand. “Sorry,” I stammered. “Yes, I… Sorry, you’re the spitting image of… somebody,” I stumbled on. “I was just taken aback, that’s all.”
He gave me that look that told me he’d already decided that I was either a racist pig or I didn’t have all my chairs at home. His smile was strained as he said, “I didn’t realize I had a doppelganger. Shall we go through to my office and talk?”
Wordlessly, I nodded and followed his broad shoulders back down the hall. He moved like a man who played a lot of sports.
It wasn’t hard to imagine him in the same role as I’d first seen his likeness.
When I was about fourteen, we’d gone on a school trip to the British Museum. I’d been so engrossed in the Rosetta stone I’d got separated from the rest of the group and wandered round for ages looking for them. That’s how I stumbled on the Assyrian bas-reliefs. As soon as I saw them, I realized for the first time in my life that it wasn’t entirely bullshit when critics said that great art speaks directly to us. These enormous carvings of the lion hunt didn’t so much speak as resonate inside my chest like the bass note of an organ. I fell in love with the archers and the charioteers, their shoulder-length hair curled as tight as poodle fur, their profiles keen as sparrow hawks. I must have spent an hour there that day. Every time I went to London on shopping trips after that, I always found an excuse to slip away from my mates as they trawled Oxford Street so I could nip into the museum for a quick tryst with King Ashurbanipal. If Asian had come along and breathed life into the carving of the Assyrian king, he would have walked off the wall looking just like Michael Haroun, his glowing skin the color of perfect roast potatoes. Okay, so he’d swapped the tunic for a Paul Smith shirt, Italian silk tie and chinos, but you don’t make much progress up the corporate ladder wearing a miniskirt unless you’re a woman. Just one look at Michael Haroun and I was an adoring adolescent all over again, Richard a distant memory.
I followed Michael meekly into his office. The opulence of the atrium hadn’t quite made it this high. The furniture was functional rather than designed to impress. At least he overlooked the recently renovated Rochdale Canal (European funding), though the view of the Canal Cafe must have been a depressing reminder of the rest of the world enjoying itself while he was working. We settled down on the L-shaped sofa at right angles to each other, my adolescent urge to jump on him held in check by the low coffee table between us. Michael dumped the file he’d been carrying on the table. “I hear good things about your agency, Ms. Brannigan,” he said. From his tone, I gathered he couldn’t quite square what he’d heard with my moonstruck gaze.
I forced myself to get a grip and remember I was twice the age of that romantic teenager. “You’ve obviously been talking to the clients who haven’t been burgled,” I said in something approaching my normal voice.