Clean Break. Val McDermid

hearing, Ms Brannigan.’

      ‘Kate,’ I smiled.

      ‘Well, Kate,’ he said, echoing the smile, ‘here comes the “but”. The first of our clients to be robbed in this way was targeted again three months later. Following that, my bosses took a policy decision that in future, after stately homes had been robbed once, we would refuse to reinsure unless and until their security was increased to an acceptable level.’

      He might have looked like an ancient Assyrian, but Michael Haroun sounded exactly like a twentieth-century insurance man. We won’t make a drama out of a crisis; we’ll make a full-scale tragic grand opera. Pay your spiralling premiums for ten years good as gold, and then when you really need us, we’ll be gone like thieves in the night. Nothing like it for killing adolescent fantasies stone dead. ‘And what exactly is your definition of “an acceptable level”?’ I asked, hoping he was receiving the cold sarcasm I was sending.

      ‘Obviously, it varies from case to case.’

      ‘In Henry’s case then?’

      Haroun shrugged. ‘I’d have to get one of our assessors out there to make an accurate judgement.’

      ‘Go on, stick your neck out. I know that comes as easy to an insurance man as it does to an ostrich, but give it a go.’ I kept my voice light with an effort. This was my security system he was damning.

      He scowled, obviously needled. ‘Based on past experience, I would suggest a security guard on a 24-hour basis in the rooms where the most valuable items are sited.’

      I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You really believe in getting shut of clients who have the temerity to get robbed, don’t you?’

      ‘On the contrary. We want to ensure that neither we nor our clients are exposed to unacceptable losses,’ he said defensively.

      ‘The cost of that kind of security could make the difference between profit and loss to an operation the size of Henry’s. You must know that.’

      Haroun spread his hands out and shrugged. ‘He can always put up the admission charges if it’s that crucial to the economics of running the place.’

      ‘So you’re saying that as of now Birchfield Place is uninsured?’

      ‘No, no, you misunderstand me. But we will retain a portion of the payout on the stolen property until the security levels are rendered acceptable. Kate, we do care about our clients, but we have a business to run too, you must see that.’ His eyes pleaded, and my fury melted. This was bad for my business, so I forced myself to my feet.

      ‘We’ll keep in touch,’ I said.

      ‘I’d like that,’ he said, getting to his feet and nailing me with the sincerity in his voice.

      As we walked back to the lift, my brain checked in again. ‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘How come I haven’t been reading about these raids in the papers?’

      Haroun smiled the thin smile of a lizard. ‘We like to keep things like this as low profile as possible,’ he said. ‘It does our clients’ business no good at all if the public gain the impression that the choicest exhibits in their collections are no longer there. The thefts have been quite widely scattered, and the policy has been only to release the information to local press, and even then to keep it very low key. You know the sort of thing: “Thieves broke in to Bloggs Manor last night, but were disturbed before they could remove the Manor’s priceless collection of bottle tops.”’

      ‘You just omit to mention that they had it away on their toes with the Constable,’ I said cynically.

      ‘Something like that,’ he agreed. The lift pinged and I stepped inside as the doors opened. ‘Nice talking to you, Kate.’

      ‘We must do it again some time,’ I said before the doors cut him off from me. The day was looking up. Not only had I met Michael Haroun, but I knew where to go next.

      I’m convinced that the security staff at the Manchester Evening Chronicle think I work there. Maybe it’s because I know the door combination. Or maybe it’s because I’m in and out of the building with a confident wave several times a week. Either way, it’s handy to be able to stroll in and out at will. Their canteen is cheap and cheerful, a convenient place to refuel when I’m at the opposite end of town from the office. That day, though, I wasn’t after a bacon butty and a mug of tea. My target was Alexis Lee, the Chronicle’s crime correspondent and my best buddy.

      I walked briskly down the newsroom, no one paying any attention. I could probably walk off with the entire computer network before anyone would notice or try to stop me. Mind you, if I’d laid a finger on the newsdesk TV, I’d have been lynched before I’d got five yards.

      I knew Alexis was at her desk. I couldn’t actually see her through the wall of luxuriant foliage that surrounds her corner of the office. But the spiral of smoke climbing towards the air-conditioning vent was a clear indicator that she was there. When they installed the computer terminals at the Chronicle, the management tried to make the newsroom a no-smoking zone. The policy lasted about five minutes. Separating journalists from nicotine is about as easy as separating a philandering government minister from his job.

      I stuck my head round the screen of variegated green stuff. Alexis was leaning back in her seat, feet propped up on the rim of her wastepaper bin, dabbing her cigarette vaguely at her mouth as she frowned at her terminal. I checked out her anarchic black hair. Its degree of chaos is a fairly accurate barometer of her stress levels. The more uptight she gets, the more she runs her hands through it. Today, it looked like I could risk interrupting her without getting a rich gobful of Scouse abuse.

      ‘I thought they paid you to work,’ I said, moving through the gap in the leaves into her jungle cubbyhole.

      She swung round and grinned. ‘All right, KB?’ she rasped in her whisky-and-cigarettes voice.

      ‘I think I’m in love, but apart from that, I’m fine.’ I pulled up the other chair.

      Alexis snorted and went into Marlene Dietrich growl. ‘Falling in love again, never wanted to,’ she groaned. ‘Though I’m ninety-two, I can’t help it. I’ve told you before, it’s about time you got shut of the wimp.’ She and Richard maintain this pretence of hostility. He’s always giving her a bad time for being a siren chaser, and she pretends to despise him for devoting his life to the trivia of rock journalism. But underneath, I know there’s a lot of affection and respect.

      ‘Who said anything about Richard?’ I asked innocently.

      ‘And there’s me thinking you two were getting things sorted out between you,’ she sighed. ‘So who’s the lucky man? I mean, I’m assuming that you haven’t seen the light, and it is a fella.’

      ‘His name’s Michael Haroun. But don’t worry, it’s only lust. It’ll pass as soon as I have a cold shower.’

      ‘So what does he do, this sex object?’

      I pulled a face. ‘You’re going to laugh,’ I said.

      ‘Probably,’ Alexis agreed. ‘So you might as well get it over with.’

      ‘He’s in insurance.’

      I’d been right. She did laugh, a deep, throaty guffaw that shook the leaves. I half expected an Amazonian parrot to fly out from among the undergrowth and join in. ‘You really know how to pick them, don’t you?’ Alexis wheezed.

      ‘You don’t pick sex objects, they just happen,’ I said frostily. ‘Anyway, nothing’s going to happen, so it’s all academic anyway. Things between me and Richard might have seen better days, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.’

      ‘So you don’t want me to call Chris and get her to build a brick wall across the conservatory?’

      Alexis’s girlfriend Chris is the architect who designed the conservatory that runs along the back of the two houses Richard and I live