DUMPED ANOTHER ONER ON JANICE'S DESK. "YOU'VE GOT AN office through the back?" I asked.

She nodded, never taking her eyes off the money. "I'd like to use the phone there for a couple of minutes. I know you're not suppose to allow customers access to your phone, never mind your office, but if anyone kicks off, tell them I said it was an emergency." I winked again. Strange how I develop that tic whenever I'm sharing my wealth with the less fortunate.

Janice lifted the access flap at the side of the reception desk and I went through to the tiny office, closing the door behind me. I rang the familiar number of Greater Manchester police and asked for the Stockport incident room. The detective who answered didn't seem very keen to put me through to Inspec­tor Jackson. He told me firmly that anything I had to say to the boss could equally be said to him. Clearly a man desperate for Brownie points. "I know he wants to talk to me," I insisted. "He wants to talk to me so badly that he's had two of his lads sitting outside my house for the last two days."

"Hold on," he said grudgingly. "I'll see if he's free."

Jackson came on the line immediately. "At last," he said grimly. "Why have you been avoiding me, Miss Brannigan? I thought you were very hot on civic duty the last time we spoke."

"I'm sorry, Inspector, I've been a bit busy. And I knew you wouldn't be very keen to take me seriously since the last crim­inals I handed over to you weren't exactly what you were look­ing for."

He sighed. "Cut the smartass remarks and get to the beef," he said. "When are you coming in to talk to me?"

"I rather thought you might want to come to me," I said sweetly. "I have something I'd like you to hear. I'll happily play it over the phone, though I don't know how well you'll be able to hear it."

"If you've been interfering with my case again..." he said heavily, letting some unspoken threat hang in the air. I wasn't scared; I've been threatened by experts.

"Just listen, please." I pressed play and held the speaker of the cassette player up to the mouthpiece of the phone. I'd re­wound to the crucial exchange where Gail had conveniently outlined the murder plan. I let the tape run for a few minutes, then clicked it off. "The voices you just heard are Grail Morton and Desmond Halloran. I've only just made this recording. The pair of them are still in Room 103 at the Warrington Mo­torway Motel. If you hurry, you might just catch them at it."

As I replaced the receiver, I heard a splutter of rage from Jackson. Like the man said, I'm into performing my civic duty. I didn't want him to waste time cursing me out when he should be jumping in a motor and shooting over here, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

I thanked Janice politely for the use of her phone and handed back my room key. I went out to the car park and sat in my car. I don't know what I was planning to do if they'd left before the police got there, but I didn't have to make any deci­sions. A bare twenty minutes after I'd called, a pair of un­marked police cars screamed into the car park. I was impressed. They must have really hammered it.

Jackson jumped out and ran across to my car. He looked as if he wanted to hit me. "They still in there?" he demanded. "Present and correct." "Wait here," he commanded. "My pleasure," I said.

Jackson went back to his officers and the six of them went into a huddle. After a moment, the only woman there peeled off from the main group and walked across to my car. She opened the passenger door and plonked herself in the seat next to me. "It's nice to be trusted," I commented dryly.

She grinned. "After the way you've been giving him the runaround, just be grateful you're not cuffed to the back bumper of his motor," she said. "I'm Linda Shaw, by the way. DC Shaw."

"Kate Brannigan," I said.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are, Ms. Brannigan. My guv'nor says you've got something for us?"

I watched Jackson lead his troops into the motel. I had a momentary pang of sympathy for Janiee. I hoped the six hun­dred would be enough to make her feel reasonably cheerful about having been had over. Once they'd gone inside, I took the tape out of the recorder and handed it over to Linda Shaw. "I take it this will come under the heading of anonymous tip-off when the case comes to court?"

"I'd imagine so. I don't think giving your agency good pub­licity is high on my guv'nor's Christmas list. Now, where else would you expect us to go looking for evidence that might strengthen our case?"

I liked Linda Shaw. She spoke my language. None of the bluster or intimidation of her boss had rubbed off on her. Like me, she'd developed her own style, complete with techniques that got quicker results than the heavy-handed approach with­out alienating everyone along the way. I made a mental note to mention her name to Delia. Any woman trying to make it through the male-dominated hierarchy of the police needs all the help she can get. I stared straight ahead and said, "For it to get as far as murder, this affair must have been going on for a while. I'd have thought the hotel records would indicate how long. So they must have had some means of communication. If I had access to that sort of information, I'd take a long hard look at the phone bills at the Cob and Pen and at DJH Por­traits."

Linda smiled and took out her notebook. As she scribbled a reminder to herself, she said, "You do realize you're going to have to come back with us and give a full statement this time? Not just about this, but about the Kerrchem sabotage?"

I sighed, resigned to my fate. "I spent yesterday evening in the nick helping the Art Squad and the Drugs Squad with their inquiries. Much more of this, and I'm going to be asking for overtime."

Linda chuckled. "You've got more chance of getting it out of your clients than out of our budget. Listen, would you prefer it if I took your statement?"

Another careerist. But this time, it suited me to go along. "Do you really think Jackson's going to give up the opportu­nity to make my life seriously uncomfortable1?"

Linda nodded toward the door of the motel. A man I took to be Desmond Halloran was stumbling toward the car park, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a policeman on each arm. "I think Inspector Jackson's going to have his hands full with those two. Just thank your lucky stars that from here on in, you're a bit player."

Next came Gail Morton, more respectable in leggings, scoop-necked T-shirt and the kind of fashion leather jacket that makes you angry on behalf of the cow. Jackson held her firmly by one arm, with the other two officers bringing up the rear. The lovers were each thrust into a separate car, and Jack­son came over to us.

"I'll see you back in Stockport," he said darkly to me, his eyes menacing behind the tinted lenses.

"I thought the police were supposed to be grateful for coop­eration from members of the public," I said airily.

"We are," he snarled. "What we don't like is smartarses who think they know how to do our jobs."

He walked away before I could come up with a snappy re­joinder. Probably just as well. I didn't want to miss tomorrow night's date with Michael Haroun. I started the car and pulled in behind the two police motors. "If they smash the speed limit on the way back, I want immunity from speeders," I told Linda.

"You don't have to keep up with them," she pointed out. "I do know where we're going, even if you don't."

"Listen," I said. "Your boss is so paranoid about me that if I disappear from his rearview mirror he's going to put out an all-points bulletin to stop and shoot me on sight for abducting a police officer."

"You're probably right. He's just brassed off because he was looking at the angle of possible collusion between the two be­reaved spouses. Unfortunately, we're handicapped by having to operate inside the law, so we hadn't managed to make as much progress as you," Linda said ironically.

"Touche. I'll remember that when I'm making my state­ment."

"I would, if I were you. Certain of my colleagues would love to have something to charge you with."

I reached over and pulled my mobile phone out of my bag. "I'd better cover my back, then." Ruth was going to be thrilled. Much as she loved me, holding my hand twice in two days was stretching our friendship more than somewhat.

For the second night running, I was in a police station past midnight. Most of the time had been spent hanging round while Linda Shaw acted as liaison with Jackson, returning every now and again to ask me fresh questions, most of which I didn't have the answers to. No, I didn't know how they met. No, I didn't know exactly what chemicals Halloran had used. No, I didn't know where he bought his chemicals. Eventually, in exasperation, Ruth said, "Detective Constable, do you be­lieve in God?"

Linda frowned. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Do you believe that my client is God?"

Linda tipped her head back, stared at the ceiling and sighed. "No, Ms. Hunter, I do not believe that your client is God." Waiting for the punch line.

"Then why do you expect her to be omniscient? We've been here for seven hours and my client has cooperated fully with you. Now we've reached the point where either you arrest her, or we're going home to bed. Which is it going to be, Ms. Shaw?"

"Give me a minute," she said. She was back in just over five. "You can go now. But we may have some more questions for Ms. Brannigan."

"And she may or may not answer them," Ruth said sweetly as we headed out the door.

When I got home, there was still no sign of Richard. I was too wound up to sleep, so I switched on the computer and played myself at snooker until my eyes were so tired I couldn't tell the reds from the black. I staggered off to bed then, only to dream of Gail Morton running naked across green fields pursued by a gigantic white cue ball.

The next morning, I had to deal with the depressing job I'd been avoiding ever since I'd got back from Italy. I drove out to Birch-field Place, noticing that the leaves were starting to fall. I hate the autumn. Not because it heralds winter or symbolizes the death of the year or anything like that. I just hate the way fallen leaves turn to slime on country roads and bring on four-wheel drift as soon as you corner at anything more than walking pace.

It was one of the days the house was open to the public, and I found Henry hiding from the masses in his little office in the private apartments. He didn't look particularly pleased to see me, which I put down to the pile of paperwork threatening to topple over and cover his desk. But the upper classes never let mere irritation interfere with their manners. "Hello, Kate," he said, pushing back his chair to stand up as I walked in. "Good to see you."

"And you, Henry." I sat down opposite him.

"Mr. Haroun from the insurance company tells me you've been having a rather exotic time lately," he said. I thought I detected a slight note of reproach in his voice.

"Exotic. Now, there's a word," I said. "I'm sorry you heard it from him rather than directly from me, but I've been a bit hectic the last few days, and I thought the main priority was to make sure you could get reinsured at a decent premium as fast as possible."

"Oh, absolutely, you did quite the right thing. And you must let me have your bill for your trip to Europe. It sounds utterly dreadful, but the one positive thing to come out of it is that Mr. Haroun has agreed to pay some of your bill as a quid pro quo for your putting a stop to these burglaries." All of a sudden, he'd gone motormouth on me.

I looked at him. "Don't you want to know about your Monet?" I asked.

He flushed. "Mr. Haroun said you hadn't managed to re­cover it. I... I didn't want to remind you of your lack of suc­cess in that respect when you'd been so successful otherwise."

The smell of bullshit filled my nostrils. "What I didn't tell Mr. Haroun is that the painting showed up in the paper­work," I said. "What it looked like to me was that the paint­ing had been received by the drug runners, but hadn't yet been swapped for a consignment of drugs." I sat back and let Henry work that one out for himself. Right from the start, I'd been convinced he was holding out on me, and an idea of why was starting to form at the back of my mind.

"You mean it might still turn up?" he asked. Too nervously for my liking.

"It's possible," I said. "But there could be another explana­tion."

By now, he wasn't even trying to meet my eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm not following you." He looked up, caught my glance and looked away, his boyish smile self-deprecating. "I'm obviously not as well up in the ways of criminals as you, Kate."

"You want me to spell it out, Henry? You've been nervous about this investigation right from the start. I worked with you on the security for this place, and I think I got to know you well enough to realize you're not the sort of bloke who gets wound up about something like a burglary where no one's been hurt. So there had to be another reason. I only realized it some time during the fourth hour of close questioning by the Art Squad. Henry, if what you had nicked off your wall is a Monet, I am Marie of Romania."