t was a whole new adventure in pain, finding a hotel room in Buxton acceptable to Richard. For a start, it had to have a colour television and a phone in the bedroom. It had to have a proper bar, not a poxy built-in cocktail bar like darts and snooker players have in one corner of the lounge. It also had to feel like part of the twentieth century, which ruled most of them out. His final insistence was that it had a lift, on account of I was injured, couldn't they see that? After he'd ranted at the woman in the Tourist Information Office about the plight of the disabled, we finally ended up in an extremely pleasant establishment overlooking the park. At least, they were pleasant as we booked in. I had this horrible feeling that by the time we left, relations would be a lot more strained. When Richard gets one on him, the staff at Buckingham Palace would be hard pressed to meet his demands.

I headed straight for the bath to ease my aching limbs, while Richard turned on the TV and collapsed on the bed, complaining about the lack of a) a remote control and b) satellite television. I have to confess I wasn't sorry. My head was splitting, and I didn't think I could put up with his usual channel hopping or MTV at full volume without giving way to the urge to commit GBH. I closed the bathroom door so I didn't have to listen to his comments on the football match reports, and subsided thankfully into the hot water while I attempted to order my thoughts.

First, the conservatories. Thanks to Rachel Lieberman, I now knew that the houses where the conservatories had disappeared had all been rented. It seemed that the people who had rented them shared their surname with the real owners. Was there any significance in the fact that they'd all been rented through DKL? Or was it simply that DKL was one of the few agencies around who specialized in rental property? What I didn't understand was where the conservatories had gone, or how the con with the second mortgages had been worked. After all, these days, financial institutions are a little bit fussier than they used to be about who they lend money to. The other problem was that I didn't have the first idea of who was pulling the scam. Maybe there was something I wasn't understanding, but the more I found out, the more it seemed to me that there wasn't necessarily any connection between Ted Barlow and the criminals. But until I figured out how it worked, I couldn't see a way of finding out who was behind it. It was enormously frustrating. Perhaps it would all become clearer after I'd been to the Land Registry and studied the stuff Julia had dug up.

Next, PharmAce. I felt reasonably certain that Paul Kingsley, the freelance operative I'd laid on for tonight, would come up with the necessary photographs. But after the previous night's run-in on the bridge, I felt a more personal interest in the case. If it had been a PharmAce van that had tried to cut short my promising career, then I wanted to know who had done it so someone could make him feel as shaky if not as sore as I was feeling.

And finally, the case of the bent builder. I had a gut feeling about 'John'. There were too many coincidences piling up. Besides, there was a matter of professional pride at stake here. I reckoned I'd always managed to impress Alexis with my skills, largely because she only ever saw the end result. I didn't want her to start seeing the feet of clay.

However, I still didn't have any bright ideas about how to find the elusive 'John', alias T.R. Harris', and the bath was starting to cool off. Gingerly, I pushed myself up till I was perched on the end of the bath, then I swung my legs over the edge and on to the floor. I wrapped myself in a generous bath sheet and joined my beloved, who was now pouring scorn on a mindless game show.

I snuggled up to him and he paused in his stream of invective long enough to say, 'Have they got a Chinese in Buxton?'

'Try looking in the paper. Or the phone book. Or ring reception.'

The last suggestion obviously required the least effort. While he made the receptionist's day, I staggered back to the bathroom and struggled into my clothes, wishing I'd thought to bring an overnight bag. Luckily, my handbag always contains a tiny bottle of foundation and a functional compact with eyeshadows, blusher, mascara and lipstick, so I managed to hide the black shadows under my eyes and the bruise on my jaw.

By the time I'd finished, Richard was raring to go. I couldn't help feeling it was a little early for dinner and said so. 'I'm hungry,' Richard said. I raised my eyebrows. He smiled sheepishly. 'The receptionist said there's a pub that does live music on a Saturday night. Local bands, that sort of thing. I thought you'd probably want an early night, and I thought I might drop by later and see if there was anything worth listening to.'

Which translated as, 'This trip looks like a wash-out. If one of us can get something out of it, it won't have been a complete waste of time.' One of the ways rock journos like Richard get their stories is to maintain good relations with the record company A & R men. They're the ones who sign up new acts and build them into the next U2. So Richard's always on the look-out for U3 so he can tip the wink to one of his mates.

'No problem,' I sighed. 'Let's go and eat.' It was easier to give in, especially since I didn't think waiting till later would improve my appetite. The reaction to the accident seemed to have set in, and I was secretly grateful at the thought of an early night without having to worry about entertaining Richard.

The Chinese restaurant was in the main street, above a travel agency. Considering it was half past six on a Saturday night, the place was surprisingly busy. At least a dozen tables were occupied. We both took that as an indication that the food must be reasonable. I should have known better. All the other signs said the opposite. The fish tank was filled with goldfish rather than koi carp, the tables were already set with spoon and fork, there wasn't a Chinese character in sight on the menu, which was heavy on the sweet and sour and the chop suey. I've never fancied chop suey, not since someone told me with malice aforethought that it's Chinese for 'mixed bits'. Besides, it's not even a proper Chinese dish, just something they invented to keep the Yanks happy.

Richard grunted in outrage as he read the menu. As the waiter returned with our two halves of lager, Richard opened his wallet and pulled out a heavily creased piece of paper which he unfolded and waved under the waiter's nose. The waiter studied the Chinese characters gravely. At least he seemed to recognize Richard's favourite half-dozen Dim Sum dishes. A while ago, he persuaded the manager of his regular restaurant in town to write them down for him in case of emergency. This was clearly an emergency. The waiter cleared his throat, carefully folded up the paper and handed it back to Richard.

'No Dim Sum,' he said.

'Why not? I've shown you what I want,' Richard protested.

'No Dim Sum. Bamboo not hygienic,' the waiter retorted. He walked off before Richard could find his voice.

'Bamboo not hygienic?' Richard finally echoed, incredulity personified. 'I have now heard everything. Dear God, Brannigan, what have you got me into this time?'

I managed to pacify him long enough to order, which was my next mistake. They didn't do salt and pepper ribs, but barbecue ribs were on the menu. They were orange. I don't mean glossy reddish brown. I mean orange, as in Jaffa. The taste defied description. Even Richard was stunned into silence. He took a swig of tea to get rid of it, and nearly gagged. After a cautious sip, I understood why. Clearly unaccustomed to people wanting Chinese tea, they'd served us a pot of very weak yet stewed tea-bag.

I thought it couldn't get worse, but it did. When the main courses arrived, I thought Richard was going to burst a blood vessel. The sweet and sour pork consisted of a mound of perfectly spherical balls topped with a lurid red sauce that I'd bet contained enough E numbers to render half the population of Buxton hyperactive. The chicken in black bean sauce looked as if it had been knitted, and the fillet steak Cantonese appeared to have escaped from the Mister Minit heel bar. The waiter refused to understand that we wanted chopsticks and bowls.

The final indignity came when I took the lid off the fried rice. It was pink. I swear to God, it was pink. Richard just sat staring at it all, as if it was a bad joke and the real food would arrive in a minute.

I took a deep breath, and said, 'Just try to think of it as one of those things we do for love.'

'Does that mean if I threw it at the waiter, you'd think I didn't love you any more?' Richard growled.

'Not exactly. But I don't think it's going to get any better and I don't feel strong enough to cope with you shredding the waiter just as an act of revenge. Let's just eat what we can and go.' Normally, I'd have been the first to complain, but I didn't have the energy. Besides, I couldn't face the thought of trailing round Buxton trying to find somewhere half-decent to eat.

I think Richard saw the exhaustion in my face, since he caved in without a performance for once. We both picked at the food for a few minutes, then demanded the bill frostily. The waiter appeared oblivious to our dissatisfaction until Richard subtracted the ten per cent service charge from the bill. This was clearly a novel experience, and one that the waiter wasn't standing on for.

I couldn't handle the aggravation, so I walked downstairs to the street while Richard was explaining in words of several syllables to the waiter why he had no intention of paying a shilling for service. I was leaning against the door jamb, wondering how long I'd have to wait to see another human being, when the patron saint of gumshoes looked down on me and decided it was time I got something approaching an even break.

A white Transit van came down a side street facing me and turned on to the main street. Following my current obsession, I made a mental note of the name on the panels bolted on to the side of the van. 'B. Lomax, Builder', I read. His was one of the yards I'd visited that afternoon. The van drew up, and I heard the driver's door open and close, though I couldn't see anything since the van was between us. I guessed that the driver was heading for the pizzeria I'd noticed on the opposite side of the street.

Just then, Richard emerged, a grim smile on his face. 'Crack it?' I asked.

'I got him to knock a couple of quid off as well, on account of the ribs had triggered off an allergy and given you an asthma attack.'

I don't have asthma. As far as I am aware, I'm allergic to nothing except bullshit. I pointed this out to Richard as we walked back to the car. 'So?' replied. They don't know that, do they? And besides ...'

'Shut up!' I interrupted, guessing what was coming next. 'I do not need to be told that I look shitty enough to be suffering from an asthma attack.'

'Please yourself,' he said.

I eased myself into the car, then screeched in excitement. 'It's him, Richard, it's him!' I shouted, digging Richard in the ribs more savagely than I intended.

'Who?' he yelped.

The guy I'm looking for,' I yelled, unable to take my eyes off the man who had come out carrying three pizzas which he was carefully placing on the passenger seat of the white Transit. It was the man I'd seen with Cheetham, the same man I'd seen in the Renew-Vations van, the man I strongly suspected was also T.R. Harris.

That's the guy that came horsing out of the pub at lunch-time,' Richard said, on the ball as ever.

'I know. I think he's the guy who ripped off Alexis and Chris,' I told him.

'So let's see where he goes,' Richard said. He waited till our man climbed back into the driver's seat before starting the distinctive Beetle engine. A hot pink VW convertible wasn't the car I'd have chosen to tail someone in, but then I didn't have a choice.

'Keep as far back as you can,' I cautioned him.

We stayed where we were as the van pulled out and drove slowly towards a mini-roundabout, where the driver paused momentarily. As he turned right, Richard released the clutch and shot off in pursuit. When we turned, we could just see the tail-lights of the van rounding the bend ahead. Moments later, we came round the bend to see the van turning at the traffic lights. 'Go for it,' I shouted at Richard as the lights changed to amber.

He stamped on the accelerator and hauled on the steering wheel, cornering with a shriek of rubber. Thank God for low profile tyres and customized Beetles. The van was still in sight, and we followed it sedately through another set of lights and up a hill. Then it pulled into a drive. I let my breath out in a sigh of relief. It's harder than most people think to tail another vehicle. A good thirty per cent of the time you lose them completely.

'Well done. But don't slow down,' I told Richard. 'Just pull up round the next corner.'

He drew up a few seconds later and I was out of the car before he'd switched off the engine. The aches and pains I'd forgotten in the excitement of the chase suddenly reasserted themselves. I winced as I straightened up and tottered back down the street, which gave Richard the chance to catch up with me.

'What d'you think you're doing?' he demanded. 'You should be in bed, not tearing round the back streets of Buxton.'

'I just want to check the house out.'

'You've done enough for one night,' Richard replied. 'Come on, Kate, don't be silly. You're supposed to be taking it easy. Alexis wouldn't expect any more.'

I shook off his restraining hand. 'I've got to make sure I know which house it is,' I said. 'I'm not about to do anything more adventurous than that.' Which was nothing less than the truth. At least for the time being.

Forty minutes later, I was striding openly up the drive of 'Hazledene'. That's a tip I learned very early on in this game. Never skulk, creep or sidle when you can boldly go. There's nothing less suspicious than someone who looks as if they know where they're going and have a perfect right to be there. Luckily, the drive was tarmacked, so there was no chance of anyone in the house hearing me crunch gravel underfoot. Richard had delivered me back to the hotel after we'd strolled past the residence of B. Lomax, Builder. I'd told him I was going to settle down with the TV then have an early night. I hadn't specified when, or that that was all on my agenda. However, he'd trotted off happily to check out the local bands, kindly leaving his car keys behind in anticipation of finding something he might enjoy drinking. I gave him fifteen minutes to get clear, then I drove back to the side street near Lomax's.

The house was solid, four-square and looked as if it would still be standing after the nuclear holocaust. I suppose it needed to be like that to survive Buxton winters. I'll say this for the Victorians; they really knew how to build things to last. I bet designers get down on their hands and knees every morning and give thanks for the death of that particular tradition. The drive was lined on one side with a solid privet hedge and tall trees that looked as if they'd been there as long as the grey stones of the house. As I neared the house, I moved closer to the hedge, letting myself be absorbed into its shadow.

A black BMW 3-series sat on the curve of drive that swept round the front of the house. The van was parked round the side, blocking the doors of a large detached wooden garage. There were no lights showing at the front of the house, except for a stained-glass lantern above the sturdy front door. I moved as cautiously as my stiffness would allow, keeping the van between me and the house. When I reached the end of the van's cabin, I could see a couple of patches of light spilling out on to the lawn at the back of the house.

It was almost spookily silent. The hum of traffic was so distant I had to make a conscious effort to hear it. I slipped back to the side of the van and carefully took my mini flashlight out of my bag and shone it on the side of the van. It was impossible to tell what was behind the bolt-on plywood panel. However, I was a Girl Guide. I'd also taken the precaution of raiding the tool box in Richard's boot. The small wrench I'd selected was perfect for the job.

Unfortunately, I wasn't. The top set of bolts were just too high for me. And there was nothing immediately obvious to stand on. So I made the best of a bad job and undid the four bolts along the bottom edge of the panel. They came off smoothly. The fact that they weren't rusted on seemed suspicious to me.

I pushed a screwdriver under the edge of the panel and levered it away an inch or so. By twisting my head round and angling the torch under the panel, I could just make out the 'Renew-Vations' logo along the side of the van. Bingo! I made a note of the phone number, then screwed the bolts back in place. Even that small effort was enough to have me breaking out in a sweat. I really felt like going back to the hotel and crawling into bed, but I didn't want to waste the opportunity of having a good nose around while my man was otherwise engaged with a pizza and a couple of guests.

I slipped back down to the front of the van and studied the garage. The van was parked about two feet away from the double doors. They were held shut by a heavy bolt with a padlock. I've never been very good at picking locks, in spite of the expert tuition of my friend Dennis the burglar, and I didn't really feel up to it. Then I realized that if I stood on the bumper of the van, I might just be able to see through the grimy windows at the top of the doors. That would at least tell me whether or not it was worth going into my master cracksman routine.

I eased myself up and leaned forward against the doors, which gave a creak that nearly gave me a coronary. I held my breath, but nothing stirred. I gritted my teeth and raised the torch above my head, so it was shining through the glass and into the garage.

My hunch about the garage had been right. But I didn't have to indulge in any breaking and entering to see all the proof I needed.