'Did you happen to notice a guy tearing out of the pub a few minutes ago? Black leather jacket, brown hair, moody looking?' I asked, ignoring his complaints.

'Hasn't realized he's too old for the James Dean impersonation? That the one?'

That's right. I don't suppose you noticed where he went?'

'He took off across the park,' Richard said, waving a hand in the vague direction of the Pavilion Gardens. 'Why? Did he do a runner without paying for his butty or something?'

'I think that was our man. T.R. Harris himself. Shit! If I could only remember the name on his van!' I snarled.

Richard looked blank. 'But he wasn't driving a van.'

'He was the last time I saw him. It was some dreadful pun of a name,' I muttered, opening the paper again and scanning the ads.

'Bricks and Motor? Mean and Roofless?' Richard wittered on as I continued my fruitless scrutiny.

Then an advert caught my eye. 'Doing up your house? Don't touch a thing till you've called us. Cliff Scott amp; Sons.' Then, in bold capitals, 'Renovations our speciality.' I let out a sigh of satisfaction. 'Renew-Vations,' I announced triumphantly.

'Yeah, right,' Richard said, giving me the kind of uneasy look we normally reserve for those in the later stages of dementia.

The look didn't go away as I marched back into the pub and asked for their phone book. While I was waiting, I noticed Cheetham had been joined by a stylish and attractive brunette with a clutch of carrier bags. Judging by the logos, she hadn't been to Safeway for a frozen chicken. She was stroking Cheetham's thigh proprietorially while he appeared to be conducting an inquisition about the carrier bags. Then the phone book arrived and I had to drag my attention away from them. Surprise, surprise. Renew-Vations didn't have a listing. Back to Plan A.

Amazingly enough, Richard was still standing on the pavement when I emerged from the pub for a second time. He had the look of a man who has decided that happiness lies along the line of least resistance. 'What now, my love,' he sang in a bad imitation of Shirley Bassey as he attempted to sweep me into his arms. I dodged, wincing, and he instantly stopped. 'Sorry, Brannigan, I keep forgetting you're one of the walking wounded.'

I didn't need reminding. I was beginning to feel tired and a bit shaky. To be honest, I was glad of the chance to sit in the car while Richard drove me round the builders' yards I'd marked. Again, we drew a blank. There was no sign of a van marked Renew-Vations. Or, come to that, T.R. Harris. Questioning local residents established that six out of nine builders drove white Transits. Four of them answered the general description of Tom Harris. When I asked where they banked, I got some very strange looks and not a lot of help.

By four o'clock, I was worn out. But I wasn't ready to give up, in spite of Richard's heavy hints about it being time to go home.

'I've got an idea,' I said as we drove back towards the town centre. 'Why don't we find ourselves a nice little hotel and book in for the night? That way, you won't have to drive me back here tomorrow.'

“You what?' he exploded. 'Spend a night in this dump? You have got to be kidding, Brannigan. I'd rather go to a Richard Clayderman concert.'

That could be arranged,' I muttered. 'Look, I've got a gut feeling about this guy. I need to find out his name and where he lives. I'm not going to be able to do that in Manchester.'

'So wait for a weekday when there are some builders around in their yards and the builders' merchants are open,' Richard said reasonably.

The only problem is that I'm doing this job as a favour for Alexis. Bill's back from the Channel Islands on Monday morning, and he's not going to be thrilled if I'm off doing a freebie instead of the jobs I'm paid for. I'd really like to try and get this cleared up tomorrow. Besides, I've got to go to the Land Registry on Monday,' I added, laying on the pathos.

Richard scowled. 'OK, Brannigan, you win.'

Had he ever doubted I would?

11

It was a whole new adventure in pain, finding a hotel room in Buxton acceptable to Richard. For a start, it had to have a colour television and a phone in the bedroom. It had to have a proper bar, not a poxy built-in cocktail bar like darts and snooker players have in one corner of the lounge. It also had to feel like part of the twentieth century, which ruled most of them out. His final insistence was that it had a lift, on account of I was injured, couldn't they see that? After he'd ranted at the woman in the Tourist Information Office about the plight of the disabled, we finally ended up in an extremely pleasant establishment overlooking the park. At least, they were pleasant as we booked in. I had this horrible feeling that by the time we left, relations would be a lot more strained. When Richard gets one on him, the staff at Buckingham Palace would be hard pressed to meet his demands.

I headed straight for the bath to ease my aching limbs, while Richard turned on the TV and collapsed on the bed, complaining about the lack of a) a remote control and b) satellite television. I have to confess I wasn't sorry. My head was splitting, and I didn't think I could put up with his usual channel hopping or MTV at full volume without giving way to the urge to commit GBH. I closed the bathroom door so I didn't have to listen to his comments on the football match reports, and subsided thankfully into the hot water while I attempted to order my thoughts.

First, the conservatories. Thanks to Rachel Lieberman, I now knew that the houses where the conservatories had disappeared had all been rented. It seemed that the people who had rented them shared their surname with the real owners. Was there any significance in the fact that they'd all been rented through DKL? Or was it simply that DKL was one of the few agencies around who specialized in rental property? What I didn't understand was where the conservatories had gone, or how the con with the second mortgages had been worked. After all, these days, financial institutions are a little bit fussier than they used to be about who they lend money to. The other problem was that I didn't have the first idea of who was pulling the scam. Maybe there was something I wasn't understanding, but the more I found out, the more it seemed to me that there wasn't necessarily any connection between Ted Barlow and the criminals. But until I figured out how it worked, I couldn't see a way of finding out who was behind it. It was enormously frustrating. Perhaps it would all become clearer after I'd been to the Land Registry and studied the stuff Julia had dug up.

Next, PharmAce. I felt reasonably certain that Paul Kingsley, the freelance operative I'd laid on for tonight, would come up with the necessary photographs. But after the previous night's run-in on the bridge, I felt a more personal interest in the case. If it had been a PharmAce van that had tried to cut short my promising career, then I wanted to know who had done it so someone could make him feel as shaky if not as sore as I was feeling.

And finally, the case of the bent builder. I had a gut feeling about 'John'. There were too many coincidences piling up. Besides, there was a matter of professional pride at stake here. I reckoned I'd always managed to impress Alexis with my skills, largely because she only ever saw the end result. I didn't want her to start seeing the feet of clay.

However, I still didn't have any bright ideas about how to find the elusive 'John', alias T.R. Harris', and the bath was starting to cool off. Gingerly, I pushed myself up till I was perched on the end of the bath, then I swung my legs over the edge and on to the floor. I wrapped myself in a generous bath sheet and joined my beloved, who was now pouring scorn on a mindless game show.