Clean Break by Val McDermid Page A

mind,” I said.
    â€œAnything I can help with?” he asked. Typical Dennis. Didn’t matter how much crap of his own he had to sort out, he was still determined to stay in the buddy role.
    â€œMaybe,” I said, slipping between the ropes and heading for the neat stack of scruffy towels on a shelf.
    Dennis followed me, and we sat companionably on a bench while we talked. I gave him a brief outline of the Kerrchem case. “You know anybody who’s doing schneid cleaning fluid?” I ended up.
    He shook his head. “I don’t know anybody that stupid,” he said scornfully. “There’s not nearly enough margin in it, is there? And it’s bulky. Costs you a lot to shift it around, and you can’t exactly set up a street-corner pitch with it, can you? There was a team from Liverpool tried schneid washing powder a couple of years back. They’d done a raid on a chemical firm, nicked one of their vans to do the getaway. There were a couple of drums of chemicals in the back, and they decided not to waste it so they printed up some boxes and flogged it on the markets. Nasty stuff. Took the skin off your fingers if you tried hand-washing. Mind you, there weren’t any of them ‘difficult’ stains left. That’s because there wasn’t a lot of clothes left.”
    â€œSo you don’t reckon it’s any of the usual faces?”
    Dennis shook his head. “Like I said, you’d have to be stupid to
go for that when there’s plenty of hooky gear around with bigger profits and a lot less risk. I reckon you’re looking closer to home on this one. This is a grudge match.”
    â€œAn ex-employee? A competitor?” Even though it’s a long way removed from his world, it’s always worth bouncing ideas off Dennis.
    Dennis shrugged. “You’re the corporate expert. Is this the kind of stunt big business pulls these days? I’d heard things were getting a bit tough out there, but bumping people off is a bit heavy for a takeover bid.”
    â€œSo an ex-employee, you reckon?”
    â€œThat’s where I’d put my money. Stands to reason, they’re the ones with a real grudge, and there’s no comeback. And what about them thingumabobs … what do they call it? When they give you the bullet and make you sign a bit of paper saying you can’t go off and sell their secrets to the opposition?”
    â€œGolden handcuffs,” I said ruefully. I was slipping. That should have been one of the first half-dozen questions I asked Trevor Kerr.
    â€œYeah well, nobody likes being stuck in a pair of handcuffs, don’t matter whether they’re gold or steel,” Dennis said with feeling. “It was me, I’d feel pretty cheesed. Specially if I was one of them boffins whose expertise goes out of date faster than a Marks and Spencer ready meal.”
    I stretched an arm round his muscular shoulders and hugged him. “You’re a pal, Dennis.”
    â€œI haven’t done anything,” he said. “That it? You consulted the oracle?”
    â€œThat’s it. Unless you know an international gang of art thieves.”
    â€œArt thieves?” he asked, sounding interested.
    â€œThey’ve been working all over the country, turning over stately homes. They go for one item and crash in through the nearest door or window. No finesse, just sledgehammers. Straight in and out. Obviously very professional. Sound like anybody you know?”
    Dennis pulled a face. “I’m well out of touch with that scene,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m off for a shower. Will you still be here when I’m done?”
    I glanced at my watch. “No, got to run.” Whatever else happened
today, I couldn’t leave Richard standing around at the multi-screen.
    â€œSee you around, kid,” Dennis said, walking off.
    â€œYeah. And Dennis …”
    He looked over his shoulder, the