Kick Back by Val McDermid

they are on your books.” I paused. I wanted some feedback. I’d never have made a politician.
    Mrs. Lieberman straightened up in her chair and drew her lower lip under her teeth. “And that’s all you want to know? Whether or not they’re on my books?”
    â€œNot quite all, I’m afraid. Whether they are now or have ever been on your books is the first step. Once we’ve established that, I want to ask you the names of the owners.”
    She shook her head. “Out of the question. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that. We’re looking at very confidential matters here. There are only a few agencies that specialize in rental properties in this area, and we are by far the biggest. I act as agent for almost three hundred rental properties, the bulk of them on short-term leases. So you can imagine how important it is that my clients know they can trust me. I can’t possibly start giving you their names. And I can’t believe you really expected me to. I’m sure you don’t release information like that about your clients.”
    â€œ Touché . But surely you can tell me if a particular property is on your books? Then when you call up the details on your screen, you might notice a pattern emerging.”
    â€œWhat sort of a pattern did you have in mind, Miss Brannigan?”
    I sighed. “That’s what I don’t know, Mrs. Lieberman. So far, all I have to go on is that I think most of the addresses involved in this scam have been rented. In one case that I’m sure about, I know that the couple who rented the house shared the surname of the couple who actually owned it.”
    Rachel Lieberman leaned back in her chair and gave me the once-over again. I felt like a newly discovered species of plant—strange, exotic and possibly poisonous. After what seemed to me to be a very long time, she nodded to herself, as if satisfied.
    â€œI’ll tell you what I’ll do, Miss Brannigan. If you give me the addresses you’re interested in, I’ll look through my records and see what I can come up with. Frankly, I have to say, I think it’ll be a waste of time, but then I wasn’t doing anything this evening
anyway. I’ll call you and let you know. Will Monday morning do, or would you prefer me to ring you at home over the weekend?”
    I grinned. Deep down, Mrs. Lieberman was a woman after my own heart.
    Â 
    I spent the afternoon with Ted Barlow, doing the boring stuff of checking back through all his records, making notes of ex-salesmen who’d been sacked, and learning exactly how a conservatory is installed. I glanced at the dashboard clock as I got back behind the wheel of my Nova. Just after seven. I figured I’d be quicker picking up the motorway than going home by the more direct crosstown route. A few minutes later, I was doing eighty in the middle lane, the Pet Shop Boys blasting out of all four speakers. The huge arc of Barton Bridge glittered against the sky, sweeping the motorway over the dark ribbon of the Manchester Ship Canal. As the bridge approached, I moved over to the inside lane, positioning myself to change motorways at the exit on the far side. I was singing “Where the streets have no name” at full belt when I automatically registered a white Ford Transit coming up outside me in the middle lane.
    I paid no attention to the van as it drew level then slightly ahead. Then, suddenly, his nose was turning in front of me. My brain tripped into slow motion. Everything seemed to last forever. All I could see out of the side of my car was the white side of the van, closing in on me fast. I could see the bottom edge of some logo or sign, but not enough to identify any of the letters. I could hear screaming, then I realized it was my own voice.
    The nightmare was happening. The van swiped into me, crushing the door of my car against my right side. At the same time, the car skidded sideways into the crash