“I wondered if you were free for a drink this evening? You could give me a progress report.”

“No, and no. I’m working, and you’re not my client. Not that that means we can’t have a friendly drink together,” I added hastily, in case he thought I was being unfriendly.

“You can’t blame me for trying,” he said. “I do have an interest.”

“In the ease or in me?” I asked tartly.

“Both, of course. When are you going to finish work?”

“Not for a while yet, and I’m over in Leeds.” I hoped the regret I felt was being transmitted through the ether.

“In Leeds? What are you doing there?”

“Just checking out an anonymous tip-off.”

“So you’re making progress? Great!”

“I never said I was working on Henry’s case,” I said. “We do have more than one client, you know.”

“Okay, okay, I get the message, keep your nose out, Haroun. I’m sorry you can’t make it tonight. Maybe we could get together soon?”

“Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow? I might have a clearer idea what my commitments are then.”

“I’ll do that. Nice to talk to you, Kate.”

“Ditto.” After that little interlude, my surveillance seemed even more unbearably tedious. When the radio told me it was time for a book at bedtime, I decided to call it a day. It didn’t look like Nicholas Turner or my buckle were going anywhere tonight.

When I got home, I picked up the Kerrchem file I’d left there when I’d got changed earlier. I skimmed the list of former employees, and one name jumped straight out at me. I hadn’t been mistaken about Simon Morley. He’d been a lab technician at Kerrchem, made redundant with golden handcuffs six months before. He’d been the one I hadn’t been able to contact because he’d moved. At least I knew where he was now. And I had a funny feeling that I knew just what he was doing in his overalls.

15

I pulled up on the forecourt of the shops in Street Lane at five to seven in Bill’s Saab Turbo convertible. One of the first rules of surveillance is to vary the vehicle you’re sitting round in. Luckily, when Bill had gone off to Australia, he’d left me with a set of keys for his house and the car. I’d left Shelley’s Rover in Bill’s garage, with a message on the office answering machine telling her to hang on to the coupe for the time being. I felt sure this was a hardship she’d be able to bear, always supposing she didn’t leap to the conclusion that the reason I wasn’t back with her Rover was that her beloved heap was in some garage being restored to its former glory.

It had been a toss-up whose house I was going to sit outside this morning. On the one hand, if I didn’t keep close tabs on Nicholas Turner, having the buckle bugged would have been a complete waste of time. On the other hand, Simon Morley’s little adventures in cleaning had already cost a man his life. I’d lain awake, tossing and turning to the point where Richard, who normally sleeps like a man in persistent vegetative state, had sat up in bed and demanded to know what was going on. He’d eventually persuaded me to talk the dilemma over with him, something I always used to do but had been avoiding since his involvement in the car fraud case caused us both so much grief.

“You’ve got to go after the fence,” he finally said.

“Why?”

“Because if you lose him this time, you’ll never get a second bite of the cherry. Sooner or later, someone’s going to spot that your buckle isn’t just a fake but a bugged fake, and then you’re going to be on someone’s most-wanted list. And if this Simon Morley really has killed some bloke accidentally, he’s going to be a damn sight more careful what he puts in his chemical soup in future. I’d be surprised if he’s still at it. Maybe I should give him a bell; if he’s such a shit-hot chemist, I know some people who’d be delighted to have him on the payroll.”

I smacked his shoulder. “I’ve told you before about the people you hang out with.”

He grinned. “Only joking. You know I’m allergic to anything stronger than draw. Anyway, Brannigan, you should go for the fence.”

“You sure?” I asked, still doubtful.

“I’m sure.”

“And what about the ten grand?”

Richard shrugged. “Hang on to it for now. We all need walking-round money.”

“It’s a lot to be walking round with. Shouldn’t I be paying it back to the insurance company, or somebody?”

“They don’t know you’ve got it, they’re not going to miss it. Maybe you should just look on it as an early Christmas bonus for Mortensen and Brannigan.”

“I don’t know.

“Trust me. I’m not a doctor,” he said, wrapping his arms round me and nuzzling the back of my neck. Instant goose-flesh. You can’t fight your gonads. I hadn’t even wanted to try. Michael who?

The Turner household came to life round half past seven. The curtains in the master bedroom opened, and I caught a glimpse of Nicholas in his dressing gown. This time I’d come fully equipped for surveillance. I had a video camera in the well of the passenger seat, cunningly hidden in a bag made of oneway fabric which allowed the camera to see out but prevented anyone seeing in. I had a pair of high-powered binoculars in my bag, and my Nikon with a long lens attached sitting on the passenger seat. And five hundred quid of walking-round money in the inside pocket of my jacket. I’d left the other nine and a half grand with Richard, who had strict instructions to pay it into a building society account which I hold in a false name for those odd bits and pieces of money that it’s sometimes advisable to lose for a while.

At quarter past eight, Mrs. Turner and her two daughters emerged, the girls in the same smart school uniform. The Audi drove off. Two hours later, the Audi came back. Mrs. Turner staggered indoors with enough Tesco carrier bags to feed Bosnia. Then nothing for two more hours. At a quarter to one, Mrs. T came out, got into the Audi and drove off. She came back at ten past two, when I was halfway through my Flying Pizza special. If something didn’t happen soon, I was either going to die of boredom or go home. Apart from anything else, Radio Four loses its marbles between three and four in the afternoon, and I didn’t think I could bear to listen to an hour of the opinions of those who are proof positive that care in the community isn’t working.

Half an hour later, the front door opened, and Nicholas Turner came out. He was carrying a briefcase and a suit carrier. He opened the garage, dumped the suit carrier in the boot and reversed out into the road. “Geronimo,” I muttered, starting my engine. Within seconds, the screen told me that he had the buckle with him. I eased out into the traffic and followed him back through the park.

The traffic was pretty much nose to tail as we came down the hill toward the city center, so it wasn’t hard to stay in touch with the Mercedes. I kept a couple of cars between us, which meant I got snagged up a couple of times at red lights, but there wasn’t enough free road for him to make much headway. I realized pretty soon he was heading for the motorways, which took some of the pressure off. I caught up with him just before he hit the junction where he had to choose between the M621 toward Manchester and the Ml for the south and east. He ignored the first slip road and roared off down the Ml. In the Saab, it was easy to keep pace with him, which was another good reason for having swapped the Rover. I kept about half a mile behind him to begin with, since I didn’t want to lose him at the M62 junction. Sure enough, he turned off, heading east toward Hull.

We hammered down the motorway, the speedo never varying much either side of eighty-five. He’d obviously heard the same rumor I had about that being the speed cameras’ trigger point. When we hit Hull, he followed the signs for the ferry port. I followed, with sinking heart. At the port, he parked and went into the booking office. I got into the queue in time to hear him book the car and himself on to that night’s ferry. I didn’t have any choice. I had to do the same thing.