ONE OF THE MYSTERIES OF THE UNIVERSE IS HOW I GOT OUT OF Castle Dumdivie without confessing that I knew exactly who had had it away on his toes with Lord Andrew Cumberbatch's nice little Ruisdael. I was only grateful that James Ballantrae was sitting next to me and couldn't see my face.

After the first seconds of shock, I tried to tell myself I was imagining things. But the longer I watched, the more con­vinced I was that I was right. I knew those shoulders, those light, bouncing steps. God knows I'd watched that footwork often enough, trying to gauge where the next kick was coming from. I forced myself to sit motionless to the bitter end. Then I said, "I see what you mean. Even their own mothers wouldn't recognize them from that."

"Their lovers might," Ellen said shrewdly. "Don't they say a person's walk is the one thing they can never disguise?"

She was bang on the button, of course. "The video makes it look too jerky for that, I'd have thought," I said.

"I don't know." Ballantrae lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Body language and gesture are pretty individual. Look at the number of criminals who get caught by the videos they show on Crimewatch."

"Told you," Ellen said fondly. "He's dying to go on and talk about his art robberies. The only thing that's holding him back is that all his cronies are terrified about what the publicity might do to their admissions."

"Yes, but now the cat's out of the bag with that newspaper story in Manchester, there's no point in holding back," Ballantrae said. "Maybe I should give them a ring..."

"Any chance you could let me have a copy of the tape?" I asked. "I'd like to show it to Henry Naismith's staff while everything's still fresh in their memories. Perhaps, as Ellen suggests, there might be something in the way these men move that triggers something off. The police reckon they will have gone round the house a couple of times as regular punters, sussing it out, so we might just get lucky if one of Henry's staff has a photographic memory."

Ballantrae got up and took the video out of the machine. "Take this one," he said. "I can easily get Andrew to run me off another copy."

I took the tape and stood up. "I really appreciated your help on this," I said. "If anything else should come to mind that might be useful, please give me a ring." I fished a business card out of my bag.

"What will you do now?" Ballantrae asked.

"Like I said, show the vid to Henry's staff. I'm also hopeful that the story in the Chronicle might stir the pot a bit. The chances are that it's not just the robbers themselves who know who they are. Maybe you should think about getting together with your insurance companies and offering a reward. It would make a good follow-up story for the paper and it might just be what we need to lever the lid off things." I was starting to gabble, I noticed. Time for a sharp exit. I ostentatiously looked at my watch. "I'd better be heading back to the wicked city," I said.

"You're sure you've got to go?" Ballantrae asked with the pathetic eagerness of a small boy who sees his legitimate diversion from homework disappearing over a distant horizon. "I could show you round the house. You could see for yourself where they broke in."

Amused, Ellen said, "I'm sure Ms. Brannigan's seen one or two windows in her time." Turning to me, she added, "You're very welcome to stay for lunch, but if you have to get back, don't feel the need to apologize for turning down the guided tour of Dumdivie's loot."

"Thanks for the offer, but I need to hit the road," I said. "This isn't the only case we've got on right now, and my part­ner's out of the country." I really was withering now. I took a step toward the door. "I'll keep you posted."

I drove back to Manchester on automatic pilot, my thoughts whirling. Shelley phoned at one point, but I'm damned if I know what we talked about. When I hit the city, I didn't go to the office. I didn't want any witnesses to the conversation I was planning. I drove straight home, glad for once to find Richard was out.

My stomach was churning, so I brewed some coffee and made myself a sandwich of ciabatta, tuna, olives and plum tomatoes. It was only when I tried to eat it and found I had no appetite that I realized it was anxiety rather than hunger that was responsible for the awesome rumblings. Sighing, I wrapped the sandwich in clingfilm and tossed it in the fridge. I picked up the phone. Some money-grabbing computer took ten pence off me for the privilege of telling me Dennis's mobile was switched off.

Next, I rang the gym. Don, the manager, told me Dennis had been in earlier, but had gone off a couple of hours ago suited up. "If he comes back, tell him I've been visiting the gentry and he needs to see me, double urgent. I'll be at home," I said grimly.

That left his home. His wife, Debbie, answered on the third ring. She's got a heart of gold, but she could have provided the model for the dumb blonde stereotype. I'd always reckoned that if a brain tumor were to find its way inside her skull, it would bounce around for days looking for a place to settle. However, I wasn't planning on challenging her intellect. I just asked if Dennis was there, and she said she hadn't seen him since breakfast. "Do you know where he is?" I asked.

She snorted incredulously. "I gave up asking him stuff like that fifteen years ago," she said. Maybe she wasn't as thick as I'd always thought. "To be honest, I'd rather not know what he's up to most of the time. Long as he gives me money for the kids and the house and he stays out of jail, I ask no questions. That way, when the Old Bill comes knocking, there's nothing I can tell them. He knows I'm a crap liar," she giggled.

"When are you expecting him back?"

"When I see him, love. Have you tried his mobile?"

"Switched off."

"He won't have it turned off for long," Debbie reassured me. "If he comes home before you catch him, do you want me to get him to give you a bell?"

"No. I want him to come round to the house. Tell him it's urgent, would you?"

"You're not in any trouble, are you, Kate?" Debbie asked anxiously. "Only, if you need somebody in a hurry, I could get one of the lads to come round."

Like I said, heart of gold. "Don't worry, Debbie, I'm fine. I've got something I need to show Dennis, that's all. Just ask him to come round soon as."

We chatted for a bit about the kids, then I rang off. I knew I should go into the office and pick up Trevor Kerr's list of for­mer employees, but I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate on it. I switched on the computer and loaded up Epic Pinball. I thrashed the ball round the bumpers and ramps a few times, but I couldn't get into it. My scores would have shamed an arthritic octogenarian. I decided I needed something more violent, so I started playing Doom, the ultimate shoot-'em-up, at maximum danger level. After I got killed for the tenth time, I

gave up and switched the machine off. I know it's as bad as it can get when I can't lose myself in a computer game.

I ended up cleaning the house. The trouble with modern bungalows is that it doesn't take nearly long enough to bottom them when you want a really good angst-letting. By the time the doorbell rang, I'd moved on to purging my wardrobe of all those garments I hadn't worn for two years but had cost too much for me to dump in my normal frame of mind. A disas­trous pair of leggings that looked like stretch chintz curtains were saved by the bell.

Dennis stood on the doorstep, grinning cheerily. I wanted to smack him, but good sense prevailed over desire. It seemed to have been doing that a lot lately. "Hiya. Debbie says you've got something for me," he greeted me, leaning forward to kiss my cheek.

I backed off, letting him teeter. "Something to show you," I corrected him, marching through into my living room. Without waiting for him to sit down, I smacked the tape into the video, turned on the TV and pressed play. I kept my back to him while the robbery replayed itself before our eyes. As the two burglars disappeared from sight, I switched off the TV and turned to face him.

Dennis's expression revealed nothing. I might as well have shown him a blank screen for all the reaction I was getting. "Nice one, Dennis," I said bitterly. "Thanks for marking my card."

He thrust his hands into the trouser pockets of his immac­ulate pearl gray double-breasted suit. "What did you expect me to do? Put my hand up when you told me what you was looking into?" he said quietly.

"Never mind what I expected," I said. "What you did do has dropped me right in it."

Dennis frowned. "What is this?" he demanded angrily. "You know the kind of thing I do for a living. I'm not some snow-white straight man. I'm a thief, Kate, a fucking criminal. I steal things, I have people over, I pull seams. How else do you think I put food in my kids' mouths and clothes on their backs? It's not like I've been keeping it a big fucking se­cret, is it?" "No, but..."

"What's wrong? You're quick enough to come to me for help because I can go places and get people to talk that you can't. You think I could do that if I wasn't as bent as the bastards you chase? What is it, Kate? You can't handle the fact that one of your mates is a crook now you're faced with the evidence?" I found myself subsiding onto a sofa. He was right, of course. I've always known in the abstract that Dennis was a villain, but I'd never had to confront it directly. "I thought you weren't doing this kind of thing anymore," I said weakly. "You always said you wouldn't do stuff that would get you a long stretch again."

Dennis threw himself on to the sofa opposite me. A grim smile flashed across his face. "That was the plan. Then every­thing came on top, like I told you. Kate, I could get five for that. My kids shouldn't have to suffer because I'm a villain, should they? I don't want my kids not being able to go to uni­versity because their old man's inside and there's no money. I don't want my family living in some bed-and-breakfast doss-house because the mortgage hasn't been paid and the house has been repoed. Now, the only way I know to make sure that doesn't happen is to salt away some insurance money. And the only way I know to get money is robbing."

"So you've been doing these art robberies," I said. "That's right. Listen, if I'd have known that you'd done the security on Birchfield Place, I wouldn't have gone near the gaff. You're my mate, I don't want to embarrass you."

I shook my head, "If I recognized you, Dennis, chances are someone else might, especially if they put the tape on the box." He sighed. "So do what you have to do, Kate." He met my eyes, not in a challenge, but in a kind of agreement.

"You don't think I'm going to shop you, do you?" I blurted out indignantly.

"It's your job," he said simply.

I shook my head. "No it's not. My job is to get my client's property back. It's the police that arrest villains, not me."

"You've turned people over to the dibble before," Dennis pointed out. "You got principles, you should stick to them. It's okay, Kate, I won't hold it against you. It's an occupational hazard. You work with asbestos, sometimes you get lung can­cer. You go robbing for a living, sometimes you get a nicking. There's nothing personal in it."

"Will you get it into your thick head that I am not going to grass you up?" I said belligerently. "The only thing I'm inter­ested in is getting Henry Naismith's Monet back. Anyway, you're only a small fish. If I want anybody, I want the whale."

Dennis's lips tightened to a thin line. "Okay, I hear you," he said grimly. I didn't expect him to fall to his knees in gratitude. Nobody likes being placed under the kind of obligation I'd just laid on him.

"So cough," I said.

He cleared his throat. "It's not that simple," he said, taking his time over pulling out his cigarettes and lighting up. "I haven't got it anymore."

"That was quick," I said, disappointed. From what Dennis had told me about his previous exploits in the field of executive burglary, it often takes some time to shift the proceeds, fences being notoriously twitchy about taking responsibility for stolen goods that are still so hot they risk meltdown.

Dennis leaned back in his seat, unbuttoning his jacket. "A ready market. That's one of the reasons I got into this in the first place. See, what happened was when I realized this court case wasn't going to go away, I put the word out that I was looking for a nice little earner. A couple of weeks later, I get a call from this bloke I know in Leeds. I fenced a couple of choice antique items with him in the old days when I was pursuing my former career. Anyway, he says he's heard about my bit of bother, and he's got a contact for me. He gives me this mobile phone number, and tells me to ring this bloke.

"So I ring the number and mention my contact's name and this bloke says to me he's in the market for serious art. He says he has a client for topflight gear, flat fee of ten grand a pop for pieces agreed in advance. I go, how do I know I can trust you, and he goes, 'you don't part with the gear till you see the color of my money.' I go, how does it work, and he goes, 'you decide on something you think you can get away with, and you ring me and ask me if I want it. I ring you back the next day with a yes or a no.' "

"So you embark on your new career as art robber," I said. "Simple, really."

"You wouldn't be so sarcastic if you knew what a nause it is shifting stuff like that on the open market," Dennis said with feeling.

"How did you know what to go for? And where to go for it?" I demanded. I'd never had Dennis pegged as a paid-up mem­ber of the National Trust.

"My mate Frankie came out a while back," he said. I didn't think he meant that Frankie had revealed he was a raging queen. "He's been doing an eight stretch for armed robbery, and he did an Open University degree while he was inside. He did a couple of courses in history of art. He reckoned it would come in useful on the outside," he added dryly.

"I don't think that's quite what the government had in mind when they set up the OU," I said.

Dennis grinned. "Get an education, get on in life. Anyway, we spent a couple of months schlepping round these country houses, sussing out what was where, what was worth nicking and what the security was like. Pathetic, most of it."

I had a sudden thought. "Dennis, these robberies have been going on for nine months now. You only got nicked a few weeks

ago. You didn't start doing this for insurance money, you started doing this out of sheer badness," I accused him.

He shrugged, looking slightly shamefaced. "So I lied. I'm sorry, Kate, I can't change the habit of a lifetime. This was just too good to miss. And watertight. We don't touch places with security guards so nobody gets hurt or upset. We're in and out so fast there's no way we're going to get caught."

"I caught you," I pointed out.

"Yeah, but you're a special case," Dennis said. "Besides, the CCTV wasn't there when we cased the place. They must have only just put it in."

"So who is this guy who's giving you peanuts for these masterpieces?"

Dennis smiled wryly. "It's not peanuts, Kate. It's good money and no hassle."

"It's a tiny fraction of what they're worth," I said.

"Define worth. What an insurance company pays out? What you could get at auction? Worth is what somebody's pre­pared to pay. I reckon ten grand for a night's work is not bad going."

"A grand for every year if they catch you. You'd get a better rate of pay working in a sweatshop making schneid T-shirts. So who's the buyer? Some private collector, or what?"

"I don't know," Dennis said. "I don't even know who the fence is."

I snorted incredulously. "And I am Marie of Romania. Come on, Dennis, you've done more than a dozen deals with this guy, you must know who he is."

"I've never met him before this run of jobs," Dennis said. "All I've got is the number for his mobile."

"You're kidding," I said. "You've done over a hundred grand's worth of work for some punter whose name you don't even know?"

'"S right," he said easily. "My business isn't like yours, Kate. I don't take out credit references on the people I do business with. Look, what happens is, every few weeks I ring the guy up with one of Frankie's suggestions. He gives me the nod, we go out and do the job and I give him a bell. We meet on the motorway services, we show him the goods, he counts the dosh in front of us and we all go home happy boys."

"What about the fakes?"

There was a deathly silence. He ground out his cigarette vi­ciously in the ashtray. "How did you find out about them?" Dennis asked warily. "There's been nothing in the papers or anything about that."

"What happens when it turns out you've nicked a copy?" I asked, ignoring him.

Dennis shifted in his seat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You setting me up, or what?" he asked. "You saying that Monet wasn't kosher?"

"It was kosher," I said. "But they haven't all been, have they?"

Dennis lit his cigarette like an actor in a Pinter play filling one of the gaps with a complicated bit of business. "Three of them were bent as a nine-bob note," he said. "First I knew about it was about a week after we'd done the handover when the geezer bells me and tells me. I said I never knew anything about it, and he goes, 'I'm sure you were acting in good faith, but the problem is that so was my client. He reckons you owe him ten grand. And he has very efficient debt collectors. But he's a fair man. He'll cancel the debt if you provide another painting for free.' So we to-and-fro a bit, and eventually he agrees that he'll pay us a grand for expenses for the next kosher one we bring him, and we're all square. So we go and do another one, and bugger me if it isn't bent as well." He shook his head in wonderment.

"Talk about a scam," he said. "These bastards with their country houses really know how to pull a con job on the punters. Anyway, we end up having to do a third job, this time for fuck all, just to get ourselves square. I mean, he's obviously dealing with the kind of money that can buy a lot of very vi­cious muscle. You don't mess with that."

"But everything's hunky-dory now, is it?"

He nodded, eating smoke. "Sweet."

"Great," I said. "Then you won't mind putting the two of us together, will you, Dennis?"