To obtain a full British passport, you have to fill in a complicated form, have your photographic identity attested by a supposedly reputable member of the community who's known you for at least two years, and send it off to the passport office. Then you sit back and wait for a few weeks while the wheels of bureaucracy grind exceeding slow. If you're in a hurry, you take yourself off to one of the five passport offices on the UK mainland – London, Liverpool, Newport, Peterborough or Glasgow. I remember the performance well. Richard and I booked a fortnight's holiday in July driving round California in a Winnebago. Two days before we were due to leave, he materialized in my office mid-morning to announce his passport was out of date. Of course, he was too busy to sort it out himself, could I possibly…?

If you get there on the stroke of nine, they deign to take your paperwork off you and tell you to come back in four hours' time. If you're late, you have to wait in the queue and pray they get round to you before closing time. If that was where Brian Lomax was headed, he was clearly determined to avoid queuing all day.

He headed straight for the centre of Liverpool, and parked his car in the multi-storey nearest the passport office at ten to nine. I stayed in my car and watched him through the door of India Buildings. He might well have been headed for any of the offices on any floor except the fifth, but I doubted it. He was out within twenty minutes but, instead of going straight back to his car, he headed off towards the city centre. I swore steadily under my breath as I tried to keep him in sight. As long as he didn't turn into a pedestrian precinct, I might just be OK.

I was and I wasn't. About a mile from the passport office, Brian Lomax marched purposefully into a travel agency.

23

I burst through the door, fighting back the tears, rushed up to the assistant and wailed, 'Where's he taking her? Tell me! I've got a right to know where he's going with the bitch!' Then I burst into tears and collapsed into the chair that Brian Lomax had just vacated.

'I know it's stupid, but I still love him,' I sobbed. 'Whatever he might have done with that cow, he's still my husband.' Through the tears I could see the travel agent looking completely stricken. Her mouth was opening and closing.

'For God's sake, put me out of my misery! Let me know the worst. You're a woman, you should understand,' I added, accusingly.

Another woman pushed the younger assistant out of the way. 'What is it, queen?' she said soothingly.

'My h-husband,' I hiccuped. 'He's got a girlfriend, I just know it. So I've been following him. When he came in here, I thought, he's taking her away, never mind that me and the kids haven't had a holiday for two years. And something just snapped. You've got to tell me,' I added, on a rising note. Then I gulped noisily.

'Sharon,' the older woman said. The gentleman who was just in.'

'Lomax,' I said. That's his name. Brian Lomax.'

'Mr. Lomax,' the woman echoed. 'What was he after, Sharon?'

'I thought we weren't supposed to discuss clients?' the younger girl muttered.

'Have you got no heart, girl? That could be you one day. Us girls have got to stick together,' the woman said. Then to me she said, 'Men. They're all the same, eh, girl?' Thank God for the legendary hearts of gold of Liverpudlians.

I nodded and made a great show of trying to get myself under control while Sharon nervously jabbed the keys of her computer with nails that would have had Cruella de Vil looking to her laurels. There, Dot,” she said, pointing at the screen.

The older woman nodded sagely and swung the screen round so I could see it for myself. 'Whatever he might be up to, he's not going off with her,' she said. 'Look. He's only booked for one person. Fly/drive to Florida. Flight, car hire and accommodation vouchers, including single person supplement.' As she spoke, I was taking it all in. Airline, flight number, price. Flying out of Manchester on Monday night. 'He paid in cash an' all,' Dot added. 'Now that's something we don't see a lot of in here these days.'

'What about his tickets?' I demanded. 'I bet he's not having them sent to the house.'

'No,' Dot said. 'With him going on Monday, he'll get them off the ticket agent at the airport.'

'Selfish bastard,' I spat.

'You're not kiddin', girl,' Dot said. 'Still, look on the bright side. At least he's not got the cow with him, has he?'

I got to my feet. 'By the time I've finished with him, he won't be fathering any more kids in a hurry,' I said.

'Attagirl!' Dot called after me as I stormed out of the travel agency.

By the time I rounded the corner and climbed into the Fiesta, which had miraculously escaped a parking ticket, the reaction to my performance had set in. My legs felt like jelly and my hands were shaking. Thank God for the solidarity of women whose men done them wrong.

So Alexis had been right, I thought as I drove back more sedately along the M62. Brian Lomax was about to do a runner. And the only thing that could stop him was me finding out what exactly he'd been up to. I decided to spend the rest of the day ignoring all distractions and getting to the bottom of Martin Cheetham's files. But before I did that, I reckoned I deserved the breakfast I'd missed out on earlier. On the horizon, I could see the Burtonwood motorway services building, a dead ringer for the Roman Catholic cathedral in Liverpool. If I tell you that the locals call the house of God 'the concrete wigwam', maybe you'll get the picture.

I pulled off the road and cruised into the car park. And there it was. Smack bang in the middle of the car park: Brian Lomax's E-type. I parked the car then cautiously explored the service area. He wasn't in the shop, or playing the video arcade machines. I finally spotted him in the cafeteria, alone except for a huge fry-up. Goodbye breakfast. With a sigh, I returned to my car and headed for the service road that led back to the motorway. When I reached the petrol pumps, I pulled off and parked. I nipped in to the shop and bought a bottle of mineral water and a bacon and egg sandwich, the nearest I was going to get to a proper breakfast that day. Back at the car, I let the engine idle while I ate my butty and waited for Lomax. I couldn't help myself; since the gods had handed him back to me on a plate, I just had to see what he was up to.

Quarter of an hour later, we were heading back towards Manchester. The traffic was heavy by now, but the E-type was so distinctive it was easy to tail. On the outskirts, he took the M63 towards Stockport. He turned off at the cheaper end of Cheadle, where you don't have to be able to play bridge or golf to be allowed to buy a house, and cut across to the terraced streets that huddle round Stockport County's football ground. Tailing him through the tight grid of narrow streets was a lot trickier, but luckily I didn't have to do it for long. And Lomax acted like the idea of being followed hadn't even crossed his mind.

He pulled up outside a house where a couple of workmen seemed to be removing the windows, and a youth up a ladder was clearing moss out of the guttering. A sign on the ladder had the familiar Renew-Vations logo, as did the scruffy van parked with two wheels on the kerb. Lomax had a few words with the workmen, then went inside. Ten minutes later, he re-emerged, gave them the thumbs-up sign then drove off.

We went through the same routine a couple more times, in Reddish then in Levenshulme. All the houses were elderly terraced properties in streets that looked as if they were struggling upwards rather than plunging further downhill. On the third house, it clicked. These were some of the most recent purchases in the RV directory. I was actually looking at the houses Cheetham and Lomax had bought cheap to do up and sell dear.