ometimes I wonder how clients managed to go to the bathroom before they hired us. Trevor Kerr was clearly one of those that think once they've hired you, you're responsible for everything up to and including emptying the wastepaper bins at night. He was adamant that it was down to me to go and see the detectives investigating the death of Joey Morton, the Stockport publican, to inform them that the person who was sabotaging Kerrchem's products was probably the one they should be beating up with rubber hoses. Incidentally, never be­lieve the politicians and top coppers who tell you that sort of thing can't happen now all interviews are tape-recorded. There are no tape recorders in police cars or vans, and I've heard of cases where it's taken three hours for a police car to travel two inner-city miles.

I wasn't relishing telling some overworked and overstressed police officer how to run an inquiry. If there's one thing your average cop hates more than becoming the middleman in a do­mestic, it's being put on the right track by a private eye. I was even less thrilled when Kerr told me who the investigating of­ficer was. Detective Inspector Cliff Jackson and I were old sparring partners. The first time one of my cases ended in murder, he was running the show. He hadn't exactly covered himself in glory, twice arresting the wrong person before the real killer had eventually ended up behind bars, largely as a re­sult of some judicious tampering by Mortensen and Branni-gan. You'd think he'd have been grateful. Think again.

I drove out to the incident room in Stockport. The one time I'd have welcomed being stuck in traffic, I cruised down Stock-port Road without encountering a single red light. My luck was still out to lunch when I arrived at the police station. Jack­son was in. I didn't even have to kick my heels while he pre­tended to be too busy to slot me in right away.

He didn't get up when I was shown into his office. He hadn't changed much: still slim, hair still dark and barbered to within an inch of its life, eyes still hidden behind a pair of tinted prescription lenses. His dress sense hadn't improved any. He wore a white shirt with a heavy emerald green stripe, the sleeves rolled up over his bony elbows. His tie was shiny poly­ester, in a shade of green that screamed for mercy against the shirt. "I wasn't expecting to see you again," he greeted me un­graciously.

"Nice to see you too, Inspector," I said pleasantly. "But let's not waste our time on pleasantries. I wanted to talk to you about Joey Morton's death."

"I see," he said. "Go on, then, talk."

I told him all he needed to know. "So you see," I concluded, "it looks like someone had got it in for Kerrchem, and Joey Morton just got in the way."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture. It didn't erase the frown he'd had since I first walked through the door. "Very interesting, Miss Brannigan," he said. "I take it you're planning to pursue your own inquiries along these lines?"

"It's what I'm paid to do," I said.

"This is a possible murder inquiry," he said sententiously. "There's no place for you poking round in it."

"Inspector, in case you've forgotten, it was me that came to you. I'm trying to be helpful," I said, forcing my jaw to un­clench.

"And your 'help' is duly noted," he said. "It's our job now. If you interfere with this investigation like you did the last time, I'll have no hesitation in arresting you. Is that clear?"

I stood up. I know five foot three isn't exactly intimidating, but it made me feel better. "I'll do my job, Inspector. And when I've done it, I'll tell you where you can find your killer."

I tried to slam the door behind me, but it had one of those hydraulic arms. Instead of a satisfying crash, I ended up with a twisted wrist. I was still fizzing when I got back to the car, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Down at the Thai boxing gym, I could work out my rage and frustration and, with a bit of luck, acquire some information too.

I like the gym. It's a no-frills establishment, which means I tend not to run into clients there. As well as the boxing gym, it's got a weight room and basic changing facilities. The only draw­back is that there are never enough showers at busy times. Judging by the number of open lockers, that wasn't going to be a problem today. I emerged from the women's changing room in the breeze-block drill hall to find my mate Dennis O'Brien lounging in a director's chair in his sweats. He was reading the Chronicle, his mobile phone, cigarettes and a mug of tea strate­gically placed on the floor by his feet. Dennis used to be a seri­ous burglar, the kind who turn over the vulgar suburban houses of the nouveau riche. But it all came on top for him when a young lad he'd brought in to help him with a big job managed to drop the safe on Dennis's leg as they were making their get­away. He left Dennis lying on the drive with a broken ankle. By the time the cops arrived, he'd crawled half a mile. When he got out of prison three years later, he swore he was never going to do anything that would get him taken away from his kids again. As far as I know, he's kept his word, with one exception. The lad who abandoned him still walks with a limp.

It was Dennis who got me into Thai boxing. He believes all women should have self-defense skills, and when he discovered I'd been relying on nothing more than charm and a reasonable turn of speed, he'd dragged me down to the gym. His daugh­ter's been a finalist in the national championships for the last three years running, and he lets her beat me up on a regular basis, just to remind me that there are people out there who could cause me serious damage. As if I needed reminding af­ter some of the shit I've been through in recent years.

Now he's out of major-league villainy and into "a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of ducking and diving," Dennis has taken to using the gym as his corporate headquarters. I don't suppose the management mind. All the locals know Dennis's draconian views on drugs, so his presence keeps the gym clear of steroid abuse. And there are never any fights outside the ring. He's not known in South Manchester as Dennis the Menace for nothing.

I checked out a couple of black lads working the heavy bags at the far end of the room. They were too far away to overhear. "Your backside will start looking like Richard's car if you carry on like that," I said, smiling over the top of his paper.

"At last, someone worth sparring with," Dennis said, bounc­ing to his feet. "How's it hanging, kid?"

"By a fingernail," I said, bending over to start my warm-up exercises. "What do you know?" I glanced over at Dennis, who was mirroring my movements.

He looked glum. "Tell you the truth, Kate, I'm in the shit," he said.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Remember that nice little earner I told you about awhile back? My crime prevention scheme?"

How could I forget? Dennis's latest scam involved parting villains from large wads of money by persuading them they were buying a truckload of stolen merchandise from him. Den­nis would show them a sample of the goods (bought or shoplifted from one of the dozens of wholesalers down at Strangeways) and arrange a handover the following day in a motorway service area. Only, once the punters had swapped their stash for the keys to the alleged wagonload and Dennis's car was a distant puff of exhaust, the crooks would discover that the keys he'd handed them didn't open a single truck on the lorry park. Crime prevention? Well, if Dennis was taking their money off them, they wouldn't be inciting anyone else to steal something for them to buy, now would they?

"Somebody catch up with you?" I gasped between sit-ups.

"Worse than that," he said gloomily. "I set up a meet at An-derton Services on the Sixty-one. Ten grand for a wagon of Levis. Everything's going sweet as a Sunday morning shag when it all comes on top. All of a sudden, there's more fuzz than you get on crowd control at a United-City match. I legged it over the footbridge and dived into the ladies' toilet. Sat there for two hours. I went back over just in time to see the cops loading my Audi on to a tow truck. I couldn't fucking be­lieve it, could I?" Dennis grunted as he did a handful of squat thrusts.

"Somebody tip them off about you?" I asked, fastening a body protector over my front.

"You kidding me? This wasn't regular Old Bill, this was the Drugs Squad. They'd only been staking the place out because they'd had a tip a big crack deal was going down. They see somebody handing over a wad of cash, and they jump to the wrong conclusion."

"So what's happening?" I asked, pulling the ropes apart and climbing into the ring.

Dennis followed me and we began to circle each other cau­tiously. "They lifted my punter and accused him of being a drug baron." He snorted. "That dick couldn't deal a hand of poker, never mind a key of crack. Anyway, he's so desperate to get out of the shit he's drowning in that he coughs the lot. Next morning, they're round my house mob-handed. The wife was mortified."

"They charging you?" I asked, swinging a swift kick in to­ward Dennis's knee.

He sidestepped and twisted round, catching me over the right hip. "Got to, haven't they? Otherwise, they come away from their big stakeout empty-handed. Theft, and obtaining by deception."

I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. Dennis might have been clean as far as the law is concerned for half a dozen years now, but with his record, he was looking at doing time. I feinted left and pivoted on the ball of my foot to bring my right leg up in a fast arc that caught Dennis in the ribs.

"Nice one, Kate," he wheezed as he bounced back off the ropes.

"Bit of luck, your punters might decide it would be bad for their reputations if they weigh in as witnesses when it comes to court." It wasn't much consolation but it was all I could think of.

"Never mind their reputation, it wouldn't be too good for their health," he said darkly. "Anyway, I've got one or two things on the boil. Just a bit of insurance just in case I do go down. Make sure Debbie and the kids don't go without if I'm away."

I didn't ask what kind of insurance. I know better. We worked out in silence for a while. I was upset at the thought of only seeing Dennis with a visiting order for the next couple of years, but there was nothing I could do to help him out, and he knew that as well as I did. Even though we have more attitudes in common than seems likely on the surface, there are areas of each other's lives we take care to avoid. Mostly, they're to do with knowledge that either of us would feel uncomfortable about keeping to ourselves. I don't tell him when I'm about to drop people in it that he knows, and he doesn't tell me about things I'd feel impelled to pass on to the cops.

After fifteen minutes of dodging each other round the ring, we were both sweating. I lost concentration for a moment,

which was all it took. Next thing I knew, I was on my back staring at the strip lights.

"Sloppy," Dennis remarked.

I scrambled up to find him leaning on the ropes. I could have knocked the wind out of him with one kick. Or maybe not. I've come into contact with that rock-hard diaphragm before. "Got a lot on my mind," I said.

"Anything 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.

"Maybe," 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 round, 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 handwashing. Mind you, there weren't any of them 'dif­ficult' stains left. That's because there wasn't a lot of clothes left."

"So 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."

"An 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."

"So an ex-employee, you reckon?"

"That'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 thingamabobs... 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 all their secrets to the opposition?"

"Golden handcuffs," I said ruefully. I was slipping. That should have been one of the first half-dozen questions I asked Trevor Kerr.

"Yeah 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."

"I haven't done anything," he said. "That it? You consulted the oracle?"

"That's it. Unless you know an international gang of art thieves."

"Art thieves?" he asked, sounding interested.

"They're 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 multiscreen.

"See you round, kid," Dennis said, walking off.

"Yeah. And Dennis..."

He looked over his shoulder, the changing room door half open.

"If 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 my civil-servant impersonation was no match for her. I had good teach­ers; I once devoted most of my spare time for six months to screwing housing benefits out of a succession of bloody-minded officials.

"Trevor Kerr," the phone barked at me.

"Kate 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."

"You pulled me out of a production meeting to tell me that?" he demanded.

"Not 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.

"What, then?"

"You mentioned you'd had a round of redundancies," I said.

"So?"

"I 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."

"I'll need a list."

"You'll have one," he said.

"Have 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 anymore.

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 James Ballantrae. Not unless he'd had an un­fortunate accident. "I'm looking for Lord Ballantrae," I said.

"This is his wife," she said. "Who's calling?"

"My 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."

"I'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?"

"No problem," I said.

"Now, 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?"

"Yes, thank you," I said weakly. I'd got it, all right. A good three to four hours driving.

"We'll look forward to seeing you then," Lady Ballantrae said. She sounded remarkably cheerful. It was nice to know one of us was.