Clean Break by Val McDermid Page B

changing room door half open.
    â€œIf there’s anything I can do …”
    Dennis’s smile was as crooked as his business. “You’ll know,” he said.
    Back at the car, I hit the phone. Sheila the Dragon Queen tried to tell me Trevor Kerr was in a meeting, but she was no match for my civil servant impersonation. I had good teachers; I once devoted most of my spare time for six months to screwing housing benefit out of a succession of bloody-minded officials.
    â€œTrevor Kerr,” the phone barked at me.
    â€œKate Brannigan here. I’ve spoken to the police, who were very interested in what I had to tell them about the fake KerrSter,” I said. “They said they would investigate that angle.”
    â€œYou pulled me out of a production meeting to tell me that?” he demanded.
    â€œNot only that,” I said mildly. It was an effort. If he carried on like this, I reckoned there was going to be a five percent surliness surcharge on Trevor Kerr’s bill.
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œYou mentioned you’d had a round of redundancies,” I said.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œI wondered if anyone who’d gone out the door had been subject to a golden handcuffs deal.”
    There was a moment’s silence. “There must have been a few,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s standard practice for anybody working in research or in key production jobs.”
    â€œI’ll need a list.”
    â€œYou’ll have one,” he said.
    â€œHave it faxed to my office,” I replied. “The number’s on the card.” I cut the connection. That’s the great thing with mobile phones. There are so many black holes around that nobody dares accuse you of hanging up on them any more.
    I took out my notebook and rang the number Alexis had given me earlier. The voice that answered the phone didn’t sound like
Lord Ballantrae. Not unless he’d had an unfortunate accident. “I’m looking for Lord Ballantrae,” I said.
    â€œThis is his wife,” she said. “Who’s calling?”
    â€œMy name is Kate Brannigan. I’m a private investigator in Manchester. I understand Lord Ballantrae is the coordinator of a group of stately home owners who have been burgled recently. One of my clients has had a Monet stolen, and I wondered if Lord Ballantrae could spare me some time to discuss it.”
    â€œI’m sure he’d be happy to do so. Bear with me a moment, I’ll check the diary.” I hung on for an expensive minute. Then she was back. “How does tomorrow at ten sound?”
    â€œNo problem,” I said.
    â€œNow, if you’re coming from Manchester, the easiest way is to come straight up the M6, then take the A7 at Carlisle as far as Hawick, then the A698 through Kelso. About six miles past Kelso, you’ll see a couple of stone gateposts on the left with pineapples on top of them. You can’t miss them. That’s us. Castle Dumdivie. Did you get all that?”
    â€œYes, thank you,” I said weakly. I’d got it, all right. A good three to four hours’ driving.
    â€œWe’ll look forward to seeing you then,” Lady Ballantrae said. She sounded remarkably cheerful. It was nice to know one of us was.

9
    Richard didn’t even stir when the alarm cut through my dreams at ten to six like a hot wire through cheese. I staggered to the shower, feeling like my eyes had closed only ten minutes before. Until I started this job, I didn’t even know there were two six o’clocks in the same day. Richard still doesn’t. I suppose that’s why he suggested a club after the latest Steven Spielberg, enough popcorn to feed Bosnia and burgers and beer at Starvin’ Marvin’s authentic American diner. We’d been having fun together, and I didn’t want it to end on a sour note, so I’d agreed with the proviso that I could be a party pooper at one. It goes without