here was a long silence after I dropped my bombshell. Henry stared blankly at the papers in front of him, as if they'd inspire him to an answer. Eventually, I said quietly, "The rules of client confidentiality still apply. You'd be better off telling me what's going on. Then, if what they stole from you does turn up, we're ready with a story to cover your back."

He glanced up at me quickly, then looked away again. He was pink to the tips of his ears. "When my parents died, there wasn't a lot of money. I did my sums and realized that with a cash injection, I could make this place work. I was talking over my problem with an old friend who had had a similar dilemma himself. He told me what he'd done, and it seemed like a good idea, so I did the same thing." More silence.

"Which was... ?" I prompted him.

"After I'd had the Monet authenticated for insurance pur­poses, I took it to this chap my friend knew. He's an awfully good copier of paintings. No talent of his own, just this ability to reproduce other people's work. Anyway, once I had the copy, I sold the original privately to a Japanese collector, on the strict understanding it would never be publicly exhibited." Henry looked up again, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I didn't want to admit what I'd done, because the Monet is one of the main visitor attractions at the house. People come here to see the Monet because they're interested in his work, people who otherwise wouldn't cross the threshold. And no one ever no­ticed, you know. All those so-called experts never spotted the swap." He perked up as he pointed out his one-upmanship.

"And then when the thieves took the copy, you couldn't own up because that would mean admitting to the insurers that you'd been lying all along," I said, feeling depressed at the thought of the risks I'd taken over a fake.

"I've been feeling terrible about taking their money under false pretences," he admitted. "But what else can I do? If I tell the truth now, they'll never reinsure me, and I'll never get cover anywhere else. I've painted myself into a corner."

"You're not kidding," I said bitterly. "Not to mention putting my life at risk."

Henry sighed. "I know. I'm sorry about that. I simply didn't know how to tell you the truth. You've no idea what a weight off my mind it is to have told someone at last."

"Yeah, well, the Catholics wouldn't have stuck with confes­sion all these years if it didn't have some therapeutic effect. The thing is, Henry, now I know for sure what I already sus­pected, I can't sit back and watch you defraud Fortissimus to the tune of seven figures. I've done some hooky things for clients over the years, but this is a few noughts too far," I said, the iron in my voice matching the anger inside me.

He met my stare at last, panic sparking in his blue eyes. "You said this came under client confidentiality," he accused. "You can't betray that confidence now!"

My first inclination was to say, "Watch me," and walk. But I'd got to like Henry. And I believed him when he said he was sorry about the shit I'd been through. Besides, it doesn't do in my business to get a name for selling your clients down the river. "Henry, this isn't about betrayal. You're making me party to a million-pound fraud," I said instead.

"But even if it does come out, there will be no suggestion that you knew about it. After all, if you'd known the painting was only a copy, you wouldn't have made such strenuous ef­forts to recover it," he argued persuasively.

"But I'd know that I knew," I said. "That's the bottom line for me."

Henry ran a hand through his gleaming hair. "So what did you come here for this morning, Kate? To get the truth and then throw me to the wolves?"

His words stung. "No, Henry," I told him sternly. "I hoped you'd tell me the truth, that's true. But I don't want to shaft you. What I think we can do is stitch up a deal."

He frowned. "You want a cut, is that it?" Luckily for Henry, he sounded incredulous. If he'd seriously offered me a bribe, all bets would have been off.

"No, Henry," I said, exasperated. "What I mean is that I think I can do a deal with the insurance company."

"You're going to tell them I was trying to defraud them?"

"I'm going to tell them what an honest man you are, Henry. Trust me."

An hour later, I was waiting to see Michael Haroun. I'd taken the time to get suited up in my best business outfit, a drop-dead-gorgeous lightweight woolen tailored jacket and trousers in moss green and grey. This was going to be such a difficult stunt to pull off that I was going to need all the help I could get. Call me manipulative, but this was one occasion where I was willing to exploit testosterone to the full.

I only had to hang on for ten minutes, even though the claims receptionist had warned me he was in a meeting that could take another half hour. That's the power of hormones for you. Michael grinned delightedly at me, plonking himself down next to me on the sofa. "What a great surprise," he said. "I hope you've not come to call off our dinner date tonight?"

"No way. This is strictly a business meeting," I told him. I didn't let that stop me brushing my knee against his.

"Right. Well, what can I do for you, Ms. Brannigan?" he said teasingly.

"This is all a bit embarrassing, really," I said.

He raised one eyebrow. Sexy, or what? "Better get it over with, then."

I pulled a wry face and tried to look innocent. "I've just come from our mutual client, Henry Naismith. He's finally got round to clearing out some boxes of papers that were lurking in a dark corner of the cellar at Birchfield Place. And he found something rather disturbing." I paused for effect.

"Not the Monet, I hope," Michael joked.

"Not the Monet. What he did find was a bill of sale, and a note accompanying it in his father's writing." I took a deep breath. "Michael, the Monet was a fake. Henry's father had it copied a couple of years before he died. He secretly sold the original to a private collector on the understanding it would never be displayed publicly, and the fake's been hanging on the wall ever since."

I'd never believed the cliche about people's jaws dropping till then. But there was no other way to describe what had hap­pened to Michael's face. "A fake?" he finally echoed.

"That's about the size of it."

"It can't be," he protested. "We had an expert go over all those paintings when we first insured Birchfield for Naismith. He authenticated all of them."

I shrugged. "Experts can be wrong. Maybe he was misled by the paperwork. I'm told the Monet had an immaculate provenance."

"I don't believe this," he exploded. "We used the leading ex­pert. Shit!" He turned away for a moment. Then, slowly, he swung round to face me. "Unless we're really talking about your client, not his father."

He was smart. I like that in a man, except when I'm up against him. I opened my eyes wide, aiming for the injured in­nocent look. "What is this, Michael? I come here telling you your company's just saved a million quid payout and you're giving me a bad time? For Christ's sake, look at the bottom line here!"

His eyes narrowed. "You're telling me he's dropping the claim?"

"As far as the painting is concerned, of course he is. He now knows the painting was a fake; he sent me to tell you the paint­ing was a fake; If he was as dishonest as you're trying to make out, he could just have kept his mouth shut and pocketed the readies. Come to that, would he be paying to send me schlepp­ing halfway across Europe in a head-to-head with the Mafia over something he knew was a copy? All Henry wants to do is set the record straight and sort out the reinsurance on what's left of his art collection."

By now, Michael was scowling. "And how do we know the rest of the collection aren't fakes too?"

"They're not. Henry is willing to let you do any tests you want to on the other paintings. Experts, X rays, whatever. He'll stand by the results. Michael, you owe us a bit of leeway here," I continued, building up a head of righteous anger. "If it hadn't been for the investigation Henry instigated, this bunch of robbers would still be emptying your clients' stately homes more regularly than the phases of the moon. Thanks to Henry, that problem has gone away. And now his honesty is saving you a sizable hole in your balance sheet. Can't you just be grateful for that?"

I watched his eyes as he calculated his way through what I 'd just told him. After a few moments, the clouds cleared and he smiled. "I have to hand it to you, Kate," he said. "You are one smart operator. We have a deal. We don't pursue your client for fraud, and we reinsure, subject to more than the usual checks. In exchange for which, your client withdraws his claim in re­spect of his stolen Monet. Get him to put that in writing, will you?"

I held out my hand. "Deal."

Michael shook my hand, holding on to it rather longer than was necessary. "I do realize I've been listening to Jackanory, but this is an outcome I can live with," he said, needing to end the negotiation in the driving seat.

I let him. I'd got what I wanted. I stood up. "See you tonight."

"Half past seven, the Market Restaurant. I'll be there."

By the time I'd walked back to the office, my brain felt like a bomb site. Fbr once, Shelley took pity on me, leaving me in peace to work my way through the pile of paperwork that had accumulated while I'd been roaming the mean streets. After my recent adventures, I was longing to get back to the relative peace of a tasty bit of computer fraud or even some routine process serving.

Alexis rang just before lunch, demanding to know what part I'd played in the dramatic arrest of Gail Morton and Desmond Halloran. Her own researches had come up with how the cou­ple had met. Apparently, Halloran had been doing a portrait of one of Gail's friends and she'd gone along for the session to keep her mate company. It had seemingly been lust at first sight. There was a warning, if I'd needed one, about the con­sequences of letting physical attraction cloud one's judgment.

In exchange for that nugget, I gave Alexis the lowdown as deep background, and promised her the full story on the drugs-for-art scam just as soon as the various police forces had coor­dinated their efforts and done their sweep-up of the villains.

When I came off the phone, Shelley wandered into my office with a memo. "New client," she said. "He's got a chain of record shops in the North West and his stock seems to be shrinking rather more than it should be. I've set up a meeting for you in the main lounge of the Charterhouse at half past three. Okay?"

"Fine," I sighed. "Make that the last business of the day, would you? I need some quality time with my bathroom."

"No problem," Shelley said. Nothing ever is to her. Some­times, I hate her.

I walked through the impressive doors of the Charterhouse Hotel at twenty-five past three. The huge red bullshit Gothic building, complete with looming tower, is one of Manchester's landmarks. It used to be the headquarters of Refuge Insur­ance and occupies a huge block on the corner of Oxford Road and Whitworth Street, bordered on a third side by the brown and sluggish River Medlock. Inside, the decorative glories of Victorian tiling and wood paneling have been left miraculously intact, a monument to a time when labor and materials were cheap enough to make every public building a cathedral to commerce.

I checked at the reception desk, but no one had been asking for me, so I settled down in a chair where I could comfortably see both entrances and where anyone coming in would be bound to see me.

At three thirty-two, Richard walked in. I breathed in sharply, while my stomach contracted in a cramp. At first, he didn't see me, since he was heading single-mindedly for the reception desk. I had a moment or two to study him. He looked satisfy-ingly hollow-cheeked, the shadows under his eyes visible even at ten yards. I reminded myself sternly that he probably hadn't been pining, merely enjoying too many late nights on the razz with the rockers. He was wearing Levis and a baggy Joe Bloggs T-shirt under the leather jacket I'd bought him in Florence. As I watched him talk to the receptionist, I felt a pain in my chest.

I saw the receptionist shake her head. He looked round then, and saw me for the first time. I tried to keep my face frozen as our eyes locked. He took an uncertain step in my di­rection, then stopped.

I stood up and moved a couple of steps away from my chair. It was a Mexican standoff. Shackled by pride and stubborn­ness, we remained firm, neither willing to be the one.to back down. Before the deadlock could set in stone, a familiar voice from behind my shoulder boomed out, "This isn't High Noon, you know. You're supposed to use your gobs."

I swung round to see Alexis emerge from behind a pillar. "You bastard," I said.

"I didn't set this up just to watch the pair of you imitating Easter Island statues," she complained, walking over to stand midway between us. "Now, one step at a time, approach."

By this time, both Richard and I were clearly fighting not to smile. In sync, we moved toward each other. God knows what the receptionists were making of the scene. When only Alexis stood between us, she stepped back and said, "I'm out of here. Get it sorted, will you? The pair of you are doing every­body's heads in."

I suppose she left then. I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy staring at Richard and remembering all the reasons I feel bound me to this man. Thinking too how right he'd been to re­sent people's perception of him as a wimp, when actually he's the strongest man I know. He's strong enough to step back and let me get on with my own life, strong enough never to make demands he knows I can't meet, strong enough to un­derstand that our relationship gives both of us what we need without all the crap neither of us wants.

Somebody had to speak first, and I reckoned it might as well be me. "I missed you," I said.

"Me too. I'm sorry," he added, his voice cracking.

"Me too." I reached out a hand across the space between us. He linked his fingers with mine. "We need to talk," I said.

Then he smiled, that cute smile that cut me off at the knees the first time I encountered him in a sweaty nightclub, min­utes before he reversed straight into my car. "Later," he said. "Let's book a room."

Richard was pouring the last of the vodka from the minibar into a glass for me when I noticed the time. I hoped Michael Haroun wouldn't still be waiting in the restaurant two hours after we'd arranged to meet. Deep down, I knew I didn't really care if he was. Sure, picking up some business from Fortissimus would have been nice. But being grown-up means rec­ognizing that some prices are way too high to pay.