KICK BACK
Val McDermid
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
First published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz 1993 and Orion Books Ltd 1999
Copyright © Val McDermid 1993
Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey / Arcangel Images
Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
Source ISBN: 9780008344900
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2019 ISBN: 9780007327638
Version: 2019-11-05
Praise for Val McDermid
The queen of crime is still at the top of her game
INDEPENDENT
No one can tell a story like she can
DAILY EXPRESS
One of todays most accomplished crime writers
LITERARY REVIEW
McDermid remains unrivalled
OBSERVER
Incredibly suspenseful
SUNDAY MIRROR
This is crime writing of the very highest order
THE TIMES
A gripping page-turner
METRO
A terrific read
DAILY TELEGRAPH
Dedication
To Lavender Linoleum Lovers Everywhere
Epigraph
Property is theft
Pierre Joseph Proudhon
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Val McDermid
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Val McDermid
About the Publisher
1
The Case of the Missing Conservatories. Sounds like the Sherlock Holmes story Conan Doyle didnt get round to writing because it was too boring. Let me tell you, I was with Conan Doyle on this one. If it hadnt been for the fact that our secretarys love life was in desperate need of ECT, theres no way Id have got involved. Which, as it turned out, might have been no bad thing.
I was crouched behind the heavy bulk of the elevator machinery, holding my breath, desperately praying Id pick the right moment to make my move. I knew I wouldnt get a second chance with a nasty bag of works like Vohauls hit man. I caught sight of him as he emerged from the stairwell. I leaped to my feet and threw myself at one of the pair of heavy pulley attachments suspended from the ceiling. It shot across the room towards my relentless opponent. At the last minute he turned, spotted it and ducked, letting it whistle over his head. My mouth dried with fear as he caught sight of me and headed menacingly in my direction. I dodged round the elevator machinery, trying to keep it between us so I could make a dash for the stairs. As he rushed after me, I desperately swung the other pulley towards him. It caught him on the side of the head, the momentum plunging him over the lip of the lift shaft into the blackness below. Id done it! Id managed to stay alive!
I let my breath out in a slow sigh of relief and leaned back in the chair, hitting the key that offered me the Save Game option. A glance at my watch told me it was time to leave Space Quest III for the day. Id had the half-hour lunch break that was all I could spare in my partner Bills absence. Besides, I knew that our secretary Shelley would be returning from her own lunch break any minute now, and I didnt want her wandering in and catching me at it. While the cats away, the mouse plays Space Quest, and all that, which isnt very business-like behaviour for a partner in a security consultancy and private investigation agency. Even if Im only the junior partner.
That particular week, I was the only show in town. Bill had abandoned ship for the fleshpots (or should that be lobster pots?) of the Channel Islands to run a computer security course for a merchant bank. Which meant that Kate Brannigan was the only functioning half of Mortensen and Brannigan, as far as the UK mainland was concerned. Say it fast like that and we sound like major players instead of a two-operative agency that handles a significant chunk of the white-collar crime in the North West of England.
I headed for the cupboard off my office that doubles as the ladies loo and office darkroom. I had a couple of films that needed processing from my weekend surveillance outside a pharmaceutical companys lab. PharmAce Supplies had been having some problems with their stock control. Id spent a couple of days working on the inside as a temporary lab assistant, long enough to realize that the problem wasnt what went on in working hours. Someone was sneaking in when the lab was locked and helping himself or herself, then breaking into the computer stock records to doctor them. All I needed to discover was the identity of the hacker, which had been revealed after a couple of evenings sat cramped in the back of Mortensen and Brannigans newest toy, a Little Rascal van that wed fitted out specifically for stake-out work. Hopefully, the proof that incriminated the senior lab technician was in my hand, captured forever on the fastest film that money could buy.
I was looking forward to half an hour in the darkroom, away from phones that didnt seem to have stopped ringing since Bill left. No such luck. Id barely closed the blackout curtain when the intercom buzzed at me like that horrible drill dentists use to smooth off a filling. The buzzing stopped and Shelleys distorted voice came at me like Donald Duck on helium. Kate, I have a client for you, I deciphered.
I sighed. The Tooth Fairys revenge for playing games on the office computer. I was playing in my own time, I muttered, in the vain hope that would appease the old bag. Kate? Can you hear me? Shelley honked.
Theres no appointment in the book, I tried.
Its an emergency. Can you come out of the darkroom, please?
I suppose so, I grumbled. I knew there was no point in refusing. Shelley is quite capable of letting a full minute pass, then hammering on the door claiming an urgent case of Montezumas Revenge from the Mexican taco bar downstairs where she treats herself to lunch once a week. She always varies the days so I can never catch her out in a lie.
Still grumbling, I let myself back into my office. Before Id taken the three steps back to my chair, Shelley was in the room, closing the door firmly behind her. She looked slightly agitated as she crossed to my desk, an expression about as familiar on her face as genuine compassion is on Baroness Thatchers. She handed me a new-client form with the name filled in. Ted Barlow. Tell me about it, I said, resigning myself.
He owns a firm that builds and installs conservatories and his bank are calling in his loans, demanding repayment of his overdraft and refusing him credit. He needs us to find out why and to persuade his bank to change their minds, Shelley explained, slightly breathlessly. Well out of character. I was beginning to wonder just what had happened to her over lunch.
Shelley, I groaned. You know thats not our kind of thing. The guys been up to some fiddle, the bank have cottoned on and he wants someone to pull him out of the shit. Simple as that. Theres no money in it, theres no point.
Kate, just talk to him, please? Shelley as supplicant was a new role on me. She never pleads for anything. Even her demands for raises are detailed in precise, well-documented memos. The guys desperate, he really needs some help. Hes not on the fiddle, Id put money on it.
If hes not on the fiddle, hes the only builder that hasnt been since Solomon built the temple, I said.
Shelley tossed her head, the beads woven into her plaits jangling like wind chimes. Whats the matter with you, Kate? she challenged me. You getting too high and mighty for the little people? You only deal with rock stars and company chairmen these days? Youre always busy telling me how proud you are of your dad, working his way up to foreman from the production line at Cowley. If it was your dad out there with his little problem, would you be telling him to go away? This guys not some big shot, hes just a working bloke whos got there the hard way, and now some faceless bank manager wants to take it all away from him. Come on, Kate, wheres your heart? Shelley stopped abruptly, looking shocked.
So she should have done. She was bang out of order. But shed caught my attention, though not for the reason shed thought. I decided I wanted to see Ted Barlow, not because Id been guilt tripped. But I was fascinated to see the man who had catapulted Shelley into the role of a lioness protecting her cubs. Since her divorce, I hadnt seen any man raise her enviable cool by so much as a degree.
Send him in, Shelley, I replied abruptly. Lets hear what the man has to say for himself.
Shelley stalked over to the door and pulled it open. Mr Barlow? Miss Brannigan will see you now. She simpered. I swear to God, this tough little woman who rules her two teenagers like Attila the Hun simpered.
The man who appeared in the doorway made Shelley look as fragile as a Giacometti sculpture. He topped six foot easily, and he looked as if a suit were as foreign to him as a Peruvian nose-flute. Not that he was bulky. His broad shoulders tapered through a deep chest to a narrow waist without a single strain in the seams of his off-the-peg suit. But you could see that he was solid muscle. As if that wasnt enough, his legs were long and slim. It was a body to die for.
Nice legs, shame about the face, though. Ted Barlow was no hunk from the neck up. His nose was too big, his ears stuck out, his eyebrows met in the middle. But his eyes looked kind, with laughter lines radiating out from them. I put him in his mid-thirties, and he didnt seem to have spent too many of those years in an office, if his body language was anything to go by. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous smile not making it as far as the gentle blue eyes.
Come in, sit down, I said, standing up and gesturing towards the two exquisitely comfortable leather and wood chairs Id bought for the clients in a moment of uncharacteristic kindness. He moved uncertainly into the office and stared at the chairs as if not entirely certain he would fit in to them. Thank you, Shelley, I said pointedly as she continued to hang around by the door. She left, reluctantly for once.
Ted lowered himself into the chair and, surprised by the comfort, relaxed slightly. They always work, those chairs. Look like hell, feel like heaven. I pulled a new-client form towards me and said, I need to take a few details, Mr Barlow, so we can see if we can give you the help you need. Shelley might be besotted, but I wasnt giving an inch without good cause. I got the phone numbers and the address an industrial estate in Stockport then asked how hed come to hear of us. I prayed hed picked us out of Yellow Pages so I could dump him without offending anyone except Shelley, but clearly, wiping out Vohauls hit man was to be my sole success of the day.
Mark Buckland at SecureSure said youd sort me out, he said.
You know Mark well, do you? Foolishly, I was still hanging on to hope. Maybe he only knew Mark because SecureSure had fitted his burglar alarm. If so, I could still give him the kiss-off without upsetting the substantial discount that Mark gives us on all the hardware we order from him.
This time, Teds smile lit up his face, revealing the same brand of boyish charm I get quite enough of at home, thank you. Weve been mates for years. We were at school together. We still play cricket together. Opening batsmen for Stockport Viaduct, would you believe?
I swallowed the sigh and got down to it. What exactly is the problem?
Well, its the bank. I got this from them this morning, he said, tentatively holding out a folded sheet of paper.
I put him out of his misery and took it from him. He looked as if Id taken the weight of the world off his broad shoulders. I opened it up and ploughed through the mangled verbiage. The bottom line was he had £74,587.34 outstanding on a £100,000 loan and an overdraft of £6,325.67. The Royal Pennine Bank wanted their money back pronto, or theyd seize his home and his business. And their associate finance company would be writing to him separately, basically to tell him his punters wouldnt be stiffing them for any more loans either. And I thought my bank manager wrote stroppy letters. I could see why Ted was looking gutted. I see, I said. And do you have any idea why they wrote this letter?