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a builder, for Christ’s sake. He can lay his hands on a grand in cash, just like that. That’s not straight, not in the normal definition of the word,’ I protested.

      ‘OK, so maybe the taxman doesn’t know about every shilling he makes. But that doesn’t make you a bad person, now does it, Kate?’

      ‘So give me the truth, not the advertising copy.’

      Mark sighed. ‘You’re a hard woman, Brannigan.’ Tell me about it, I thought cynically. ‘Right. Ted Barlow is probably my oldest friend. He was my best man, first time round. I was an usher at his wedding. Unfortunately, he married a prize bitch. Fiona Barlow was a slut and the last guy to find out was Ted. He divorced her five years ago and since then he’s become a workaholic. He started off as a one-man-band, doing a bit of replacement windows stuff. Then a couple of friends asked him if he could do them a conservatory. They lived in real punter property, you know, Wimpey, Barratt, something like that. They got Ted to create this Victorian-style conservatory, all stained glass and UPVC. Of course, monkey see, monkey want. Half the estate wanted one, and Ted was launched in the conservatory business. Now, he’s got a really solid little firm, a substantial turnover, and he’s done it the straight way. Which, as you know, is pretty bloody unusual in the home improvement game.’

      In spite of my natural scepticism, I was impressed. Whatever was going on with Ted Barlow’s conservatories, it looked like it wasn’t the man himself who was up to something. ‘What about his competitors? Would they be looking to put the shaft in?’ I asked.

      ‘Hmm,’ Mark mused. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s not serious enough to be a worry to any of the really big-time boys. He’s strictly small, reputable and local. Whatever’s going down here needs someone like you to sort it out. And if you do clear it up, because he’s such a good friend, I’ll even waive my ten per cent commission for sending him to you!’

      ‘If I wasn’t a lady, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, Buckland. Ten per cent!’ I snorted. ‘Just for that, I’m putting the lunch invitation on hold. Thanks for the backgrounder, anyway. I’ll do my best for Ted.’

      ‘Thanks, Kate. You won’t be sorry. You sort him out, he’ll be your friend for life. Pity you’ve already got a conservatory, eh?’ He was gone before I could get on my high horse. Just as well, really. It took me a good thirty seconds to realize he’d been at the wind-up and I’d fallen for it.

      I wandered through to the outer office to give Shelley the new-client form and the cash, for banking. To my surprise, Ted Barlow was still there, standing awkwardly in front of Shelley’s desk like a kid who’s hung behind after class to talk to the teacher he has a crush on. As I entered, Shelley looked flustered and quickly said, ‘I’m sure Kate will have no trouble following these directions, Mr Barlow.’

      ‘Right, well, I’ll be off then. I’ll be seeing you later, Miss Brannigan.’

      ‘Kate,’ I corrected automatically. Miss Brannigan makes me feel like my spinster great aunt. She’s not one of those indomitable old biddies with razor-sharp minds that we all want to be when we’re old. She’s a selfish, hypochondriacal, demanding old manipulator and I have this superstitious fear that if I let enough people call me Miss Brannigan, it might rub off on me.

      ‘Kate,’ he acknowledged nervously. ‘Thank you very much, both of you.’ He backed through the door. Shelley was head down, fingers flying over the keyboard, before the door was even halfway closed.

      ‘Amazing how long it takes to give a set of directions,’ I said sweetly, dropping the form in her in-tray.

      ‘I was just sympathizing with the man,’ Shelley replied mildly. It’s not always easy to tell with her coffee-coloured skin, but I’d swear she was blushing.

      ‘Very commendable, too. There’s a grand in this envelope. Can you pop down to the bank with it? I’d rather not leave it in the safe.’

      ‘You do right. You’d only spend it,’ Shelley retorted, getting her own back. I poked my tongue out at her and returned to my own office. I picked up the phone again. This time, I rang Josh Gilbert. Josh is a partner in a financial services company. They specialize in providing advice and information to the kind of people who are so paranoid about ending up as impoverished senior citizens that they cheerfully do without while they’re young enough to enjoy it, just so they can sit back in comfort in their old age, muttering, ‘If I had my youth again, I could be waterskiing now …’ Josh persuades them to settle their shekels in the bosoms of insurance companies and unit trusts, then sits back planning for his own retirement on the fat commissions he’s just earned. Only difference is, Josh expects his retirement to begin at forty. He’s thirty-six now, and tells me he’s well on target. I hate him.

      Of course, he was with a client. But I’d deliberately made my call at ten minutes to the hour. I figured that way he’d be able to call me back between appointments. Three minutes later, I was talking to him. I briefly outlined Ted Barlow’s problem. Josh said, ‘Mmm,’ a lot. Eventually, he said, ‘I’ll check your guy out. And I’ll do some asking around, no names, no pack drill. OK?’

      ‘Great. When can we get together on this?’

      Over the phone, I could hear the sound of Josh turning the pages in his diary. ‘You hit me on a bad week,’ he said. ‘I suppose you need this stuff yesterday?’

      ‘Afraid so. Sorry.’

      He sucked his breath in over his teeth, the way plumbers are trained to do when they look at your central-heating system. ‘Today’s Tuesday. I’m snowed under today, but I can get to it tomorrow,’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘But my time’s backed up solid Thursday, Friday I’m in London … Listen, can you do breakfast Thursday? I meant it when I said it was a bad week.’

      I took a deep breath. I’m never at my best first thing, but business is business. ‘Thursday breakfast is fine,’ I lied. ‘Where would you like?’

      ‘You choose, it’s your money,’ Josh replied.

      We settled on the Portland at seven-thirty. They have this team of obliging hall porters who park your car for you, which in my opinion is a major advantage at that time of the morning. I checked my watch again. I didn’t have time enough to develop and print my surveillance films. Instead, I settled for opening a file on Ted Barlow in my database.

      Colonial Conservatories occupied the last unit before the industrial estate gave way to a sewage farm. What really caught the eye was the conservatory he’d built on the front of the unit. It was about ten foot deep and ran the whole thirty-foot width of the building. It had a brick foundation, and was separated into four distinct sections by thin brick pillars. The first section was classic Victorian Crystal Palace style, complete with plastic replica finials on the roof. Next was the Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady school of conservatory, a riot of stained panels whose inaccuracies would give any botanist the screaming habdabs. Third in line was the Spartan conservatory. A bit like mine, in fact. Finally, there was the Last Days of the Raj look – windows forming arches in a plastic veneer that gave the appearance, from a considerable distance, of being mahogany. Just the place to sit on your rattan furniture and summon the punkah wallah to cool you down. You get a lot of that in South Manchester.

      Inside the conservatory, I could see Colonial Conservatories’ offices. I sat in the car for a moment, taking in the set-up. Just inside the door was a C-shaped reception desk. Behind it, a woman was on the phone. She had a curly perm that looked like Charles I’s spare wig. Occasionally, she tapped a key on her word processor and gave the screen a bored stare before returning to her conversation. Over to one side, there were two small desks, each equipped with a phone and a pile of clutter. No one was at either desk. On the back wall, a door led into the main building. Over in the far corner, a small office had been divided off with glass partitions. Ted Barlow was standing in shirtsleeves in this office, his tie hanging loose and the top button of his shirt open, slowly working his way through the contents of a filing cabinet drawer. The rest of the reception was taken up with display panels.

      I walked into the conservatory.

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