ichard's cab wasn't home when we got there. I wasn't sure whether to be pleased or not. On the one hand, I wanted him to see me with Michael Haroun. If it took a bit of the green-eyed monster to make Richard start thinking about where our relationship was headed, so be it. On the other hand, the last thing I wanted was for him to throw a jealous wobbler in front of someone who was potentially a useful source, if not a prospective client.

"You live alone, then?" Michael asked casually as we walked up the path.

"Yes and no," I said. "I have a relationship with the man next door, but we don't actually live together." I unlocked the door, switched off the burglar alarm and led him through the living room into the conservatory that links both houses. "This is the common ground," I said. "We each reserve the right to lock the door into the conservatory." I wasn't quite sure why I was telling Michael all this. Maybe there was still a smidgen of lust running riot through my hormones.

Michael followed me back into the living room, closing the patio doors behind him. "Coffee?" I asked. "Or would you pre­fer a drink?"

He smiled mischievously. "That depends."

"Oh, you'll be driving," I told him. Even if I'd been young, free and single, he'd have been driving, I told myself firmly.

He pulled a rueful face and said, "It had better be coffee, then."

I'd just finished grinding the beans when I heard the clat­tering of Richard's engine. I glanced out of the window and watched the hot-pink customized Volkswagen Beetle convert­ible nose into the space between Michael's car and my Leo Gemini turbo super coupe, a trophy from the case which had put our relationship on the line in the first place. I kept mean­ing to trade it in for something more suited to surveillance work, the coupe being about as unobtrusive as Chatsworth on a council estate. But it was such a pleasure to drive, I hadn't got round to it yet.

Back in the living room, Michael clearly wasn't brooding on his rebuff. He was absorbed in the computer games reviews again. "Coffee won't be long," I said.

He closed the magazine and replaced it in the rack. Either he had very good manners, or he was as obsessively tidy as I was. Richard calls it anal retentive, but I don't see why you have to live in a tip just to prove you're laid-back. Before we could get back into computer games, I heard the patio doors on the far side of the conservatory open. Richard's yell of greeting penetrated even my closed doors. "Brannigan, I'm home," he called.

Seconds later, he appeared at my doors, brandishing the un­mistakable carrier bag of a Chinese takeaway. He pulled the door back, took in Michael and grinned. "Hi," he said expan­sively. I estimated three joints. "You two still working?"

"We finished ages ago," I said sweetly. "Michael came back for coffee."

"Right," said Richard, oblivious to the implication I was thrusting under his nose. "You won't mind if I join you, then?"

Without waiting for an answer, he plonked himself down on the sofa opposite Michael and unpacked his takeaway. "I'm Richard Barclay, by the way," he said, extending a hand across the table to Michael. "You wait for Brannigan to remember her manners, you could be dead."

"Michael Haroun," he said, shaking Richard's hand. "Pleased to meet you." Yes, an insurance man born and bred. Only an estate agent could have lied more convincingly.

Richard jumped to his feet and headed for the door. "Chop­sticks and bowls for three?" he asked. "Sorry, Mike, I wasn't expecting company, but there's probably enough to go round."

"We've just had dinner, Richard," I said. "I did leave you a message."

"Yeah, I know," he grinned. "But I've never known you refuse a salt-and-pepper rib, Brannigan."

"Sorry about that," I said as he left.

Michael winked. "Gives me a chance to suss out the compe­tition."

I didn't like the idea that I was some kind of prize, even if it was gratifying to know that he was interested in more than re­covering Henry Naismith's Monet. And he didn't even have the excuse of a previous encounter in the British Museum. "What makes you think there's a competition?" I asked sweetly.

Michael leaned back against the sofa and stretched his legs out. "I thought you were the detective. Kate, if you two were as happy as pigs, you'd have left me sitting in the car wonder­ing where exactly I'd made the wrong move."

Before I could reply, Richard was back. "I'll get the coffee," I said, annoyed with myself for my transparency. By the time I got back, Richard and Michael were getting to know each other. And they say women are bitches.

"So, what do you do when you're not chipping a oner off people's car-theft claims because your assessor spoke to the next-door neighbor who revealed that the ashtray was full?" Richard asked through a mouthful of shiu mai.

As I sat down next to him, Michael smiled at me and said, "I play computer games. Like Kate."

I poured the coffee in silence and let the boys play. "All a bit sedentary," Richard remarked, loading his bowl with fried rice and what looked like chicken hoi nam.

"Oh, I work out down at the gym," Michael said. I believed him. I could feel the hard muscles in the arm pressed against mine.

Richard nodded, as if confirming a guess. "Thought as much," he said. "Bit too pointless for me, all that humping metal around. I prefer something a bit more social for keeping in shape. But then, I suppose it can't be easy finding people who want to play with you when you're an insurance claims manager," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Bit like be­ing a VAT man."

"I've never had any problems finding people to play with," Michael drawled. I had no trouble believing that. "What ex­actly is it that you do to keep fit, Richard? Squash? Real ten­nis? Polo? Or do you prefer raves?"

Richard almost choked on his food. Neither of us rushed to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Recovering, he swallowed hard and said, "I'm a footie man myself. Local league. Every Sunday morning, never mind the weather."

Michael smiled. Remember that poem? "The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold"? "I've never been much into mud myself," he said sweetly.

"Had a good evening?" I chipped in before things got out of hand.

Richard nodded. "Been down the Academy listening to East European grunge bands. Some good sounds." He gave me one of his perfect smiles. "How's your workload progressing?"

I shrugged. "Slowly," I said. "Michael's been giving me some background on the art front, and I've got Alexis to chuck a few bricks into the pond. It's a question of waiting to see what floats to the surface."

"And we all know what floats," Richard said drily, glancing at Michael.

Michael decided enough was enough. He drained his mug and put it down on the coffee table. "I'd better be on my way," he said. "Busy day tomorrow."

We both stood up. "I'll see you out," I said.

"Nice to meet you, Richard," Michael said politely on his way out the door.

"Feeling's entirely mutual," Richard said ironically.

On the doorstep, I thanked Michael for dinner. "It was a pleasant change," I said.

"I can see that," Michael said. "Maybe we could do it again sometime."

I only hesitated for a moment. "That'd be nice," I admitted.

"Let me know how your investigation progresses," he said. "Stay in touch." He leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. He smelled of warm, clean animal, the last traces of his aftershave lingering muskily underneath. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as my body tingled.

I turned my head and met his lips in a swift, breathless kiss. Before it could turn into anything more, I stepped back. "Drive safely," I said.

I watched him walk to his car, enjoying the light bounce of his step. Then, I took a deep breath and walked back indoors.

After Michael had gone, Richard polished off the remains of his Chinese, making no comment on my choice of company for the evening. He asked if I wanted to see a movie the following evening and we bickered companionably about what we'd go and see, me holding out for Blade Runner: The Director's Cut, revisiting the Cornerhouse for the umpteenth time. "No way," Richard had said emphatically. "I'm not going to the Corner-house. I'm getting too old for art houses. They're full of polit­ically correct wankers trying to pretend they understand the articles in the Modern Review. You can't move for people rab­biting about semiotics and Fbucault and deconstruction." He paused, then got to the real reason. "Besides, they don't sell popcorn or Haagen-Dazs. You can't call that a night out at the movies."

I gave in gracefully. Satisfied that I'd made the concession, Richard announced he had to write an article about the post-Communist rockers for some American West Coast magazine, and he wanted to get it written and faxed before he went to bed. He swept the remains of his takeaway into the carrier bags and gave me a swift hug. "I love you, Brannigan," he muttered gruffly into my ear.

I fell asleep with the words of Dean Friedman's "Love Is Not Enough" swirling round my head like a mantra. I woke up alone the next morning, and not particularly surprised by that. I felt strangely deflated, as if something I'd been anticipating hadn't happened. I wasn't sure if that was to do with Michael or Eichard. Either way, I didn't like the feeling that my state of mind was dependent on anyone else. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water pour down. A friend of mine who's into all that New Age stuff reckons a shower cleanses your aura. I don't know about that, but it always helps me put things into perspective.

By the time I walked through the office door, I was feeling in control of my life again. That might have had something to do with the miracle of finding a parking meter that was nearer the office than my house. Parking in this city gets worse by the day. I've been seriously wondering how much it would cost to bribe the security men at the BBC building across the road to let me park my car inside their compound. Probably more than I earn.

Shelley was on the phone, so I headed straight for the cof-feemaker, a shiny chrome cappuccino machine that my part­ner, the gadget king of the North West, bought us for a treat after a grateful client gave us a bonus because we'd done the job faster than Speedy Gonzales. Somehow, I couldn't see either of our current employers rewarding my swiftness. I was beginning to feel like I was wading through cement on both cases.

Before I could fill the scoop with coffee, I heard Shelley say, "Hang on, she's just walked in."

I turned to see her waving the phone at me. "Alexis," Shel­ley said.

I headed for my office. "Coffee?" It was a try-on, I admit it. Mortensen and Brannigan adopts a firm "you want it, you make it" policy on coffee. But every now and again, Shelley takes pity on me.

I guess I didn't look needy enough, for there were no signs of her crossing the office after she'd switched the call through. I sighed and picked up the phone. '"Morning," I said.

"Don't sound so enthusiastic," the familiar Liverpudlian voice rasped. "Here am I, bringing you tidings from the front line and you greet me with all the eager anticipation of a woman expecting bad news from her dentist."

"It's your own fault. Never come between a woman and her cappuccino," I retorted crisply.

I heard the sound of smoke being inhaled, then a husky chuckle. "Some of us don't need coffee this late in the day. Some of us have already done half a day's work, KB."

"Self-righteousness doesn't become you," I snarled. "Did you call for a reason, or did you just want to be told there's something clever about having a job that starts in the middle of the night?"

"There's gratitude for you," Alexis said cheerfully. "I call you up to pass on vital information, and what thanks do I get?"

I took a deep breath. "Thank you, 0 bountiful one," I grov­eled. "So what's this vital piece of information?"

"What have you got to swap for it?"

I thought for a moment. "You can borrow my leather jacket for a week."

"Too tight under the armpits. What's the matter, KB.? Got no gossip to trade? What's happening with the insurance man?"

If the Chronicle's editor ever decides he needs to pacify the antismoking lobby and fire Alexis, she'll never starve. She could set up tomorrow in a booth on Blackpool pier. She wouldn't even have to change her name. Gypsy Alexis Lee sounds just fine to me. "We had dinner last night," I said abruptly.

"And?"

"And nothing. Dinner at That Cafe\ he came in for coffee, Richard barged in waving a Chinese, they squabbled like two dogs over a bone, he went home."

"Alone?"

"Of course alone, what do you take me for? On second thought, don't answer that. Trust me, Alexis, nothing's hap­pening with the insurance man. You'll be the first to know if and when there is. Now, cut the crap and tell me what you rang for."

"Okay. The jungle drums have obviously been beating after that piece I did yesterday on the robberies."

Nothing warms the cockles of the heart like the smug self-satisfaction of being right. "So what's the word on the street?"

"I don't know about the street. I'm working the stately-home circuit these days," Alexis replied disdainfully. "I've just come off the blower with a punter called Lord James Ballantrae."

"Who's he?"

"I'm not entirely sure of all the titles, since I've not looked him up in Debrett yet, but he's some sort of Scotch baron."

"You mean he's in the whiskey trade?"

"No, soft girl, he's a baron and he comes from Scotland, though you'd never know to hear him talk."

"So has he been burgled too?"

"Yeah, but that's not why he rang. Apparently, after he got turned over, he had a chat with some of his blue-blood buddies and found there was a lot of it about, so they got together in a sort of semi-informal network to pool their info and help other rich bastards to avoid the same happening to them. One of them spotted the story I did and told him about it, so he rang me for a chat. I'm doing a news feature on him and his gang, about how they're banding together to foil the robbers. And get this. They call themselves the Nottingham group." She paused expectantly.

I took the bait. It was a small price to pay to keep the wheels of friendship oiled. "Go on, tell me. I know you're dying to. Why the Nottingham group?"

"After the Sheriff of Nottingham. On account of their goal is to stop these robbin' hoods from ripping off their wealth to redistribute to the selected poor."

"Nice one," I said. "You going to give me his number?" I copied down Alexis's information and stuck the Post-it note on my phone. "Thanks."

"Is that it? What about 'I owe you one'?" Nobody's ever accused Alexis of being a shrinking violet. "I don't. You're paying me back for your exclusive last night." "Okay. You free for lunch?"

"Doubt it, somehow. What about tonight? Richard and I are going to the multiscreen. Do you two want to join us?"

"Sorry, we've already booked for Blade Runner at the Cornerhouse."

Typical. "Don't forget your Foucault," I said. I was halfway out of my chair, destination coffee machine, when the phone rang again. Suppressing a snarl, I grabbed it and injected a bit of warmth into my voice. "Good morning, Kate Brannigan speaking." "It's Trevor Kerr here."

I wished I hadn't bothered with the warmth. "Hello, Mr. Kerr. What news?"

"I could ask you the same thing, since I'm paying you to in­vestigate this business," he grumbled. "I'm ringing to let you know that my lab people have come up with some results from the analysis I asked them to carry out."

Not a man to give credit where it's due, our Mr. Kerr. I sti­fled a sigh and said, "What did they discover?"

"A bloody nightmare, that's what. About half the samples they tested aren't bloody KerrSter."

"Cyanide?" I asked, suddenly anxious.

"No, nothing like that. Just a mixture of chemicals that wouldn't clean anything. Not only would they not clean things, there are certain surfaces they'd ruin. Anything with a sealed finish like floor tiles or worktops. Bastards!" Kerr spat.

"Are these common chemicals, or what?"

"Ever heard of caustic soda? That's how bloody common we're talking here."

"So cheap as well as common?" I asked.

"A lot bloody cheaper than what we put in KerrSter, let me tell you. So what are you going to do about it?" he demanded pugnaciously.

"You've got a a copycat," I said, ignoring his belligerence. "Either they're trying to wreck your business or else they're simply after a quick buck."

"Even I'd got that far," he said sarcastically. "What I want you to do is find these buggers while I've still got a business left. You hear what I'm saying, Miss Brannigan? Find these bastards, or there won't be a pot left to pay you out of."