err looked astonished. "You must have made a mistake," he blustered.

"I double-checked," Unsworth said. He jaw set in a line as obstinate as his boss's. "Then I went back down to production and checked again. There's no doubt about it. We've had back one hundred and forty-four containers more than we sent out. And that's not even taking into account the one that the dead man opened, or ones that have already been used, or people who haven't even heard about the recall yet."

"There's got to be some mistake," Kerr repeated. "What about the batch-coding machine? Has anybody checked that it's working okay?"

"I checked with the line foreman myself," Unsworth said. "They've had no problems with it, and I've seen quality con­trol's sheets. There's no two ways about it. We only sent out four hundred and eighty-three. There's a gross of gallon drums of KerrSter that we can't account for sitting in the loading bay. Come and see for yourself if you don't believe me," he added in an aggrieved tone.

"Let's do just that," Kerr said, heaving himself to his feet.

"Come on, Miss Brannigan. Come and see how the workers earn a living."

I followed Kerr out of the room, Unsworth hung back, hold­ing the door open and falling in beside me as we strode down the covered walkway that linked the administration offices to the factory. "It's a real mystery," he offered.

I had my own ideas about what was going on, but for the time being, I decided to keep them to myself. "The drams that have been returned," I said, "are they all sealed, or have some of them already been opened?"

"Some of them have been started on," he said. "The batch went out into the warehouse the Tuesday before last. They'll probably have started taking it out on that Thursday or Friday, going by our normal stockpile levels, so there's been plenty time for people to use them."

"And no one else has reported any adverse effect?"

Unsworth looked uncomfortable. "Not as such," he said.

Kerr half turned to catch my reply. "But?" I asked.

Unsworth glanced at Kerr, who nodded impatiently. "Well, a couple of the wholesalers and one or two of the reps had al­ready had containers from that batch returned," Unsworth admitted.

"Do you know why that was?" I asked.

"Customers complained the goods weren't up to our usual standard," he said grudgingly.

"What sort of complaints?" Kerr demanded indignantly. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

"It's only just come to light, Mr. Kerr. They said the KerrSter wasn't right. One of them claimed it had stripped the finish off the flooring in his office toilets."

Kerr snorted. "He should tell his bloody workforce to stick with Boddingtons. They'll have been pissing that foreign lager all over the bloody tiles."

"Have you had the chance to analyze any of the containers that have come back?" I butted in.

Unsworth nodded. "The lads in the lab worked through the night on samples from some of the drums. There wasn't a trace of cyanide in any of them."

Kerr shouldered open a pair of double doors. As I caught one on the backswing, the smell hit me. It was a curious amalgam of pine, lemon and soapsuds, but pervaded throughout with sharp chemical smells that bit my nose and throat. It was a bit like driving past the chemical works at Ellesmere Port with one of those ersatz air fresheners in the car. The ones that make you feel that a rotting polecat under the driver's seat would be preferable. Bight after the smell came the noise of machinery, overlaid with the bubbling and gurgling of liquid. Kerr climbed a flight of narrow iron stairs and I followed him along a high-level walkway that traveled the length of the factory floor. It was unpleasantly humid. I felt like a damp wash that's just been dumped in the tumble dryer.

Beneath us, vats seethed, nozzles squirted liquid into plas­tic containers and surprisingly few people moved around. "Not many bodies," I said loudly over my shoulder to Unsworth.

"Computer controlled," he said succinctly.

Another avenue to pursue. If the sabotage was internal, perhaps the culprit was simply sending the wrong instructions to the plant. I'd thought this was going to be a straightforward case of industrial sabotage, but my head was beginning to hurt with the permutations it was throwing up.

A couple of hundred yards along the walkway, we descended and cut through a heavy door into a warehouse. Now I know how the Finns feel when they walk into the snow from the sauna. I could feel my pores snapping shut in shock. Here, the air smelled of oil and diesel. The only sound came from fork-lift trucks shunting pallets on and off shelves. "This is the warehouse," Kerr said. I'd never have worked that one out all by myself. "The full containers go through from the factory to packing, where the machines label them, stamp them with batch numbers and seal-wrap them in dozens. Then they come through here on conveyor belts and they're shelved or loaded." He turned to Unsworth. "Where have you stacked the re­calls?"

Before Unsworth could reply, my mobile phone started ring­ing. "Excuse me," I said, moving away a few yards and pulling the phone out. "Kate Brannigan," I announced.

"Tell me," an amused voice said, "is Alexis Lee a real per­son, or is it just your pen name?"

I recognised the voice at once. I moved farther away from Kerr's curious stare and turned my back so he couldn't see that my ears had gone bright red. "She's real all right, Mr. Haroun," I said. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I think it had better be Michael. Otherwise I'd start to suspect you were being unfriendly. I've just been handed the early edition of the Evening Chronicle."

"And what does it say?"

"Do you really need me to tell you?" he asked, still sounding amused.

"I forgot to bring my crystal ball with me. If you want to hang on, I'll see if I can find a chicken to disembowel so I can check out the entrails."

He laughed. It was a sound I could easily get used to. "It'd be a lot simpler to pop into a newsagent."

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Oh no. I'd hate to spoil the surprise. Tell me, Kate... Do you mind if I call you Kate?"

"It sounds like a reasonable euphemism."

"Okay, Kate. Do you fancy dinner some evening?"

"Michael, it may not look like it, but I fancy dinner every evening." I couldn't believe the way I was flirting. I'd read bet­ter lines than that in teenage romances. Up until now, I'd al­ways managed to avoid them, even when I was a teenager.

Bless him, he laughed again. I like a man who doesn't seize on the first sign of weakness. "Are you free this evening?"

I pretended to think. Let's face it, I'd have turned down Mel Gibson, Scan Bean, Lynford Christie and Daniel Day Lewis for dinner with Michael Haroun. I didn't pretend for too long, in case he lost interest. "I can be. As long as it's after seven."

"Great. Shall I pick you up?"

That was a harder decision. I didn't want to let myself for­get that this was a business dinner. On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt to give Richard something to think about. I gave Michael the address and we agreed on half past seven. Unlike everybody on TV who uses a mobile phone, I hit the" end but­ton with a flourish, then turned back to a scowling Trevor Kerr.

"Sorry about that," I lied. "Somebody I've been trying to get hold of on another investigation. Now, Mr. Unsworth, you were going to show us these recalled containers."

The next half hour was one of the more boring ones in my life, made doubly so by the fact that I was itching to get my hands on the Chronicle. I finally escaped at half past eleven, leaving Trevor Kerr with the suggestion that his chemists should analyze the contents of a random sample of the con­tainers. Only this time, they wouldn't just be looking for cyanide. They'd be checking to see whether the KerrSter in the drums was the real thing. Or something quite different and a whole lot nastier.

By the third newsagent's, I'd confirmed what I'd always sus­pected about Farnworth. It's a depressing little dump that civ­ilization forgot. Nobody had the Chronicle. They wouldn't have it till sometime in the afternoon. They all looked deeply of­fended and incredulous when I explained that no, the Bolton Evening News just wouldn't be the same. I had to possess my soul in patience till I hit the East Lanes. Road. I sat on a garage forecourt reading the results of Alexis's research. She'd done me proud.

CULTURAL HERITAGE VANISHES

A series of spectacular robberies has been hushed up by police and stately-home owners.

Now fears are growing that a gang of professional thieves are stripping Britain of valuable artworks that form a key part of the nation's heritage. Among the stolen pieces are paintings by French Impressionists Monet and Cezanne, and a bronze bust by the Italian Baroque mas­ter Bernini. Also missing is a collection of Elizabethan miniature paintings by Nicholas Hilliard. Together, the thieves haul is estimated at nearly £10 million.

The cover-up campaign was a joint decision made by several police forces and the owners of the stately homes in question. Police did not want publicity because they were following up leads and did not want the thieves to know that they had realized one gang was behind the thefts.

And the owners were reluctant to admit the jewels of their collections had gone missing in case public atten­dance figures at their homes dropped off as a result.

Some owners have even resorted to hanging replicas of the missing masterpieces in a bid to fool the public.

The latest victim of the audacious robbers is the owner of a Cheshire manor house. Police have refused to reveal his identity, but will only say that a nineteenth-century French painting has been stolen.

The cheeky thieves have adopted the techniques of the pair who caused outrage at the Lillehammer Olympics when they stole Edvard Munch's The Scream.

They break in through the nearest door or window, go straight to the one item they have selected and make their getaway. Often, they are in the house or gallery for no more than a minute.

A police source said last night, "There's no doubt that we are dealing with professionals who may well steal to order. There are obviously a limited number of outlets for their loot, and we are making inquiries in the art world."

One of the robbed aristos, who was only prepared to talk anonymously, said, "It's not just the heritage of this country that is at stake. It's our businesses. We em­ploy a lot of people and if the public stop coming be­cause our most famous exhibits have been stolen, it will have repercussions.

"We do our best to maintain tight security, but you can never keep the professional out."

There was some more whinging in the same vein, but noth­ing startling. Call me nitpicky, but I've never understood how the art of several European cultures has come to be a key part of our British heritage, unless it symbolizes the brigand spirit that made the Empire great. That aside, I reckoned Alexis's story would achieve what I hoped for. With a bit of luck, the nationals would pick the story up the next morning, and the jungle drums would start beating. Soon it would be time for a chat with my friend Dennis. If he ever decides to go completely straight, he could make a living as a journalist. I've never known anybody absorb or disseminate so much criminal intelligence. I'm just grateful some of it comes my way when I need it.

For the time being, I headed back to the office, stopping to pick up a couple of pizzas on the way. I knew Shelley would be waiting behind the door with a pile of paperwork that would cause more concussion than a rolling pin. At least a pizza of­fering might reduce the aggro to a minimum.

I was halfway through the painful process of signing checks when Josh arrived. I pretended astonishment. "Josh!" I ex­claimed. "It's between the hours of one and three and you're not in a restaurant! What's happened? Has the Stock Market collapsed?"

His sharp blue eyes crinkled in the smile that he's practiced to maximize his resemblance to Robert Bedford. Frankly, I'm surprised the light brown hair hasn't been bleached to perfect it, since Josh is a man whose energies are devoted to only two things-making lots of money and women. His track record with the latter is dismal; luckily he's a lot more successful with the former, which is how he's ended up as the senior partner of one of the city's most successful master brokerages. Shelley de­veloped a theory about Josh and women after she did her A-level psychology. She reckons that behind the confident facade there lurks a well of low self-esteem. So when it comes to women, his subconscious decides that any woman with half a brain and a shred of personality wouldn't spend more than five minutes with him. The logical extension of that is that any woman who sticks around for more than six weeks must by definition be a boring bimbo, and thus he shouldn't be seen dead with her.

Me, I think he just likes having fun. He swears he plans to retire when he turns forty, and that's early enough to think about settling down. I like him because he's always treated me as an equal, never as a potential conquest. I'm glad about that; I'd hate to lose my fast track into the bowels of the financial world. Believe me, the Nikkie Index doesn't burp without Josh knowing exactly what it had for dinner.

Josh flicked an imaginary speck of dust off one of the clients' chairs and sat down, crossing his elegantly suited legs. "Things are changing in the big bad world of money, you know," he said. "The days of the three-hour lunch are over. Ex­cept when it's you that's buying, of course." He tossed a file onto my desk.

"You've stopped doing lunch?" I waited for the world to stop turning.

"Today, I had a Marks and Spencer prawn sandwich in the office of one of my principal clients. Washed down with a rather piquant sparkling mineral water from the Welsh val­leys. An interesting diversification from coal mining, don't you think?"

I picked up the file. "Kerrchem?" "The same. Want the gossip, since I'm here?" I gave him my best suspicious frown. "Is this going to cost me?"

He pouted. "Maybe an extra glass of XO?" "It's worth it," I decided. "Tell me about it." "Okay. Kerrchem is a family firm. Started in nineteen thirty-four by Josiah Kerr, the grandfather of the present chairman, chief executive and managing director, Trevor Kerr. They made soap. They were no Lever Brothers, though they've always provided a reasonable living for the family. Trevor's father, Hartley, was a clever chap, by all accounts, had a chemistry degree and he made certain they spent enough on R and D to keep ahead of the game. He moved them into the industrial cleaning market." All this off the top of his head. One of the secrets of Josh's success is a virtually photographic memory for facts and figures. Figures of the balance sheet variety, that is.

"Hartley Kerr was an only child," he continued. "He had three kids-Trevor, Margaret and Elizabeth. Trevor, though the youngest, owns forty-nine percent of the shares, Margaret and Elizabeth own twenty percent each. The remaining eleven percent is held by Hartley Kerr's widow, Elaine Kerr. Elaine is in her early seventies, in full possession of her mar­bles, lives in Bermuda and takes little part in things except for voting against Trevor at every opportunity. Trevor's sons are still at school, but he has three nephews who work at Kerr­chem. John Hardy works in R and D, his brother, Paul, is in accounts and Margaret's son, Will Tomasiuk, is in sales. Trevor is, by all accounts, a complete and utter shit, but against all the odds, he appears to run the company well. Never been a history of industrial problems. Financially and fiscally, all seems aboveboard. Frankly, Kate, if Kerrchem were going public, they're exactly the kind of company I'd ad­vise you to put your money in if you wanted to keep it unspectacularly safe. Before people started dying, that is."

"I suppose that rules out an insurance job, then. Is every­body in the family happy with Trevor's stewardship? No young bucks snapping at his heels?"

Josh shook his head. "That's not the word on the Exchange floor. The old lady only votes against Trevor because she thinks he's not a patch on his old man and she wants to make a point. And the nephews have all learned the business from the bottom up, but they're all climbing the greasy pole at an impressive rate. So, no, that kite won't fly, Kate." He glanced at a watch so slim it looked anorexic and uncrossed his legs. "You're a star, Josh. I owe you a meal." "Fix up a date with Julia, would you? I don't have my diary with me." He stood up and I came round the desk to swap kisses on both cheeks. I watched £500 worth of immaculate tailoring walk out the door. Not even that amount of dosh to spend on clothes could make me spend my days talking about pension funds and unit trusts.

On the other hand, all it took to get me salivating at the thought of an evening's conversation about insurance was a profile from an ancient carving. Maybe I wasn't such a smart cookie after all.