“What about the color of your money?” I demanded.

He leaned across. For a wild moment, I thought his hand was heading for my legs, but he carried on to the glove box. It fell open to reveal bundles of notes. I could see they were fifties, banded into packs of a thousand. There were ten of them. He picked one up and riffled it in my face, so I could see it was fifties all the way through. Then he slammed the glove box shut again. “Satisfied?”

“You will be,” I said, reaching into my bag. I took out the buckle, wrapped in an ordinary yellow duster. I opened it up and displayed the buckle. “Anglo-Saxon,” I said. “From High Hammerton Hall.”

“I know where it’s from,” he said brusquely, taking a loupe out of his pocket and picking up the buckle. I hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of the blood in my ears as he examined it. I could feel a prickle of sweat under the foundation on my upper lip. “Is this the real thing or is it a fake?” he asked.

I pointed to the twenty-grand car sitting next to us. “Is that a real Leo Gemini turbo super coupe or is it a fake? Behave. It’s the business,” I said aggressively.

“There’s been nothing in the papers,” he said.

“I can’t help that, can I? What do you want me to do, issue a press release?”

A half-smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “You done much of this sort of thing?” he asked.

“What d’you want, a fucking CV? Listen, all you need to know is that I can deliver the goods, and I haven’t got a record, which makes me a damn sight better bet than Dennis and Frankie. D’you want this or not?” I held my hand out for the buckle.

“Oh, I think my clients will be happy with this,” he said, pocketing the buckle and the loupe. “Help yourself.” He gestured toward the glove box, at the same time taking a card out of his inside pocket. I grabbed the money and stuffed it in my bag.

“Cheers,” I said.

He handed me the card. It was one of those ones you get made up on those instant print machines at railway stations and motorway services. I’d passed one minutes before. All it had on it was his mobile number. “Next time, phone me before you do the job and I’ll tell you whether we want the piece or not.”

“No sweat,” I said, opening the door. “I like a man who knows what he wants.” I closed the door with a soft click and got behind the wheel of the coupe. The fence showed no sign of moving, so I started the engine and drove off. As I joined the motorway, I clocked him a few cars behind me. I stayed in the inside lane, and he made no move to catch me up, never mind overtake me. I left the motorway at the next junction, going round the roundabout twice to make certain he wasn’t following me, then I turned down the Halifax road. Shelley got out of the Rover as I pulled in behind her. I jumped out of the coupe and raced for the Rover, pulling off my jacket as I ran. Shelley had left the engine running, as I’d asked her to.

“Speak to you later,” I shouted as I put the car in gear, did an illegal U-turn at the first opportunity and tore back to the motorway. The receiver for the bug beeped reassuringly at me. He was already five kilometers away from me, and climbing. I floored the accelerator as I rejoined the M62. The car seemed sluggish after the coupe, but it didn’t take long to push it up to ninety. I pulled off the wig and ran a hand through my hair. I’d left a packet of moist tissues on the passenger seat of the Rover, and I used a handful of them to scrub the makeup off my face.

According to the tracer screen, the fence’s direction had changed slightly. As I’d expected, he’d turned off on the M621 for Leeds. I followed, noting that I’d narrowed the distance between us. He was only 2.7 kilometers ahead of me now. I really needed to be a lot closer before he turned off and lost me in a maze of city streets. Luckily, the M621 runs downhill, and he was sticking to a speed that wouldn’t get him picked up by the speed cameras. By the time we came to the Wetherby and Harrogate slip road, I was close enough to glimpse his pale green roof leave the motorway. Fortunately, there was a fair bit of traffic, so I was able to keep a couple of cars between us. In the queue at the Armley roundabout, I pulled on my denim shirt over the vest, completing the transformation from the waist up. I had a momentary panic when he entered the tunnels of the inner-city ring road and the signal disappeared from the receiver. But as soon as we emerged into daylight, the beep came back. I kept him in sight as we approached the complex confluence of roads at Sheepscar, one car behind as he swung right into Roundhay Road. I reckoned he had no idea that he was being followed, since he wasn’t doing any of the things you do when you think you’ve got a tail; no jumping red lights, no sudden turns off the main road, no lane switching.

He stayed on Roundhay Road, then, just by the park, he turned left and drove up Prince’s Avenue, through the manicured green of playing fields and enough grass to walk all the dogs of Leeds simultaneously. Where the avenue shaded into Street Lane, he turned right into a drive. I cruised past with a sidelong glance that revealed the Merc pulling into a double garage, then found a place to park round the corner. I kicked off the stilettos and pulled on the leggings I’d left in the car. I wriggled out of the Lycra mini and got out of the car, stuffing my feet into my Reeboks. Then I strolled back along Prince’s Avenue. Clearly, being a fence was a lot more lucrative than being a private eye. Baldy’s house was set back from the road, a big detached job in stone blackened with a century and a half of industrial pollution. Not much change out of a quarter of a million for that one, by my reckoning. Probably the most popular man in the street too; they say good fences make good neighbors! I carried on down the road and bought an ice cream from one of the vans by the park gates. I sat on a wall and ate my cone, keeping an eye on Baldy’s house the while.

Five minutes later, an Audi convertible pulled in to the drive. A blond woman got out, followed by two girls in the kind of posh school uniform that has straw boaters in the summer term. From where I was sitting, the girls looked to be in their early teens. The woman left the car on the drive and followed the girls into the house. I finished my ice cream and walked back to the car. I drove round for a few minutes, trying to find a suitable place for a stakeout. Eventually, I parked just round the bend on the forecourt of a row of shops. I couldn’t see the whole house from there, but I could see the door and the drive, but I hoped that by not parking outside anyone else’s house, I’d escape the worst excesses of the neighborhood watch. If I was going to have to come back tomorrow, I’d ring the local police and tell them I was in the area on a surveillance to do with a noncriminal matter. What’s a few white lies between friends? I took out the phone and rang the local library and asked them to check the address on the electoral roll. They told me the residents listed at that address were Nicholas and Michelle Turner. At last, I had a name that hadn’t come from the pages of lan Fleming.

Just after six, the woman came out again with the girls, each carrying a holdall. They drove off, passing me without a glance. They came back after eight, all with damp hair. I deduced they’d been indulging in some sporting activity. That’s why I’m a detective. At half past eight, I phoned the Flying Pizza, a few hundred yards up the road, and ordered myself a takeaway pizza. Ten minutes later, I walked up and collected it, using their loo at the same time. I ate the pizza in the car, taking care not to drop my olives on Shelley’s immaculate carpet and upholstery. At nine, my phone rang. “Kate? It’s Michael Haroun,” the voice on the other end announced.

I jerked upright, ran a hand through my hair and smiled. As if he could see me. Pathetic, really. “Hello, Michael,” I said. “What can I do for you?”