“They’re not. Henry is willing to let you do any tests you want to on the other paintings. Experts, X rays, whatever. He’ll stand by the results. Michael, you owe us a bit of leeway here,” I continued, building up a head of righteous anger. “If it hadn’t been for the investigation Henry instigated, this bunch of robbers would still be emptying your clients’ stately homes more regularly than the phases of the moon. Thanks to Henry, that problem has gone away. And now his honesty is saving you a sizable hole in your balance sheet. Can’t you just be grateful for that?”

I watched his eyes as he calculated his way through what I ‘d just told him. After a few moments, the clouds cleared and he smiled. “I have to hand it to you, Kate,” he said. “You are one smart operator. We have a deal. We don’t pursue your client for fraud, and we reinsure, subject to more than the usual checks. In exchange for which, your client withdraws his claim in respect of his stolen Monet. Get him to put that in writing, will you?”

I held out my hand. “Deal.”

Michael shook my hand, holding on to it rather longer than was necessary. “I do realize I’ve been listening to Jackanory, but this is an outcome I can live with,” he said, needing to end the negotiation in the driving seat.

I let him. I’d got what I wanted. I stood up. “See you tonight.”

“Half past seven, the Market Restaurant. I’ll be there.”

By the time I’d walked back to the office, my brain felt like a bomb site. Fbr once, Shelley took pity on me, leaving me in peace to work my way through the pile of paperwork that had accumulated while I’d been roaming the mean streets. After my recent adventures, I was longing to get back to the relative peace of a tasty bit of computer fraud or even some routine process serving.

Alexis rang just before lunch, demanding to know what part I’d played in the dramatic arrest of Gail Morton and Desmond Halloran. Her own researches had come up with how the couple had met. Apparently, Halloran had been doing a portrait of one of Gail’s friends and she’d gone along for the session to keep her mate company. It had seemingly been lust at first sight. There was a warning, if I’d needed one, about the consequences of letting physical attraction cloud one’s judgment.

In exchange for that nugget, I gave Alexis the lowdown as deep background, and promised her the full story on the drugs-for-art scam just as soon as the various police forces had coordinated their efforts and done their sweep-up of the villains.

When I came off the phone, Shelley wandered into my office with a memo. “New client,” she said. “He’s got a chain of record shops in the North West and his stock seems to be shrinking rather more than it should be. I’ve set up a meeting for you in the main lounge of the Charterhouse at half past three. Okay?”

“Fine,” I sighed. “Make that the last business of the day, would you? I need some quality time with my bathroom.”

“No problem,” Shelley said. Nothing ever is to her. Sometimes, I hate her.

I walked through the impressive doors of the Charterhouse Hotel at twenty-five past three. The huge red bullshit Gothic building, complete with looming tower, is one of Manchester’s landmarks. It used to be the headquarters of Refuge Insurance and occupies a huge block on the corner of Oxford Road and Whitworth Street, bordered on a third side by the brown and sluggish River Medlock. Inside, the decorative glories of Victorian tiling and wood paneling have been left miraculously intact, a monument to a time when labor and materials were cheap enough to make every public building a cathedral to commerce.

I checked at the reception desk, but no one had been asking for me, so I settled down in a chair where I could comfortably see both entrances and where anyone coming in would be bound to see me.

At three thirty-two, Richard walked in. I breathed in sharply, while my stomach contracted in a cramp. At first, he didn’t see me, since he was heading single-mindedly for the reception desk. I had a moment or two to study him. He looked satisfy-ingly hollow-cheeked, the shadows under his eyes visible even at ten yards. I reminded myself sternly that he probably hadn’t been pining, merely enjoying too many late nights on the razz with the rockers. He was wearing Levis and a baggy Joe Bloggs T-shirt under the leather jacket I’d bought him in Florence. As I watched him talk to the receptionist, I felt a pain in my chest.

I saw the receptionist shake her head. He looked round then, and saw me for the first time. I tried to keep my face frozen as our eyes locked. He took an uncertain step in my direction, then stopped.

I stood up and moved a couple of steps away from my chair. It was a Mexican standoff. Shackled by pride and stubbornness, we remained firm, neither willing to be the one.to back down. Before the deadlock could set in stone, a familiar voice from behind my shoulder boomed out, “This isn’t High Noon, you know. You’re supposed to use your gobs.”

I swung round to see Alexis emerge from behind a pillar. “You bastard,” I said.

“I didn’t set this up just to watch the pair of you imitating Easter Island statues,” she complained, walking over to stand midway between us. “Now, one step at a time, approach.”

By this time, both Richard and I were clearly fighting not to smile. In sync, we moved toward each other. God knows what the receptionists were making of the scene. When only Alexis stood between us, she stepped back and said, “I’m out of here. Get it sorted, will you? The pair of you are doing everybody’s heads in.”

I suppose she left then. I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy staring at Richard and remembering all the reasons I feel bound me to this man. Thinking too how right he’d been to resent people’s perception of him as a wimp, when actually he’s the strongest man I know. He’s strong enough to step back and let me get on with my own life, strong enough never to make demands he knows I can’t meet, strong enough to understand that our relationship gives both of us what we need without all the crap neither of us wants.

Somebody had to speak first, and I reckoned it might as well be me. “I missed you,” I said.

“Me too. I’m sorry,” he added, his voice cracking.

“Me too.” I reached out a hand across the space between us. He linked his fingers with mine. “We need to talk,” I said.

Then he smiled, that cute smile that cut me off at the knees the first time I encountered him in a sweaty nightclub, minutes before he reversed straight into my car. “Later,” he said. “Let’s book a room.”

Richard was pouring the last of the vodka from the minibar into a glass for me when I noticed the time. I hoped Michael Haroun wouldn’t still be waiting in the restaurant two hours after we’d arranged to meet. Deep down, I knew I didn’t really care if he was. Sure, picking up some business from Fortissimus would have been nice. But being grown-up means recognizing that some prices are way too high to pay.