ONCE UPON A TIME I HAD A FLING WITH A TELECOM ENGINEER. It didn't end happily ever after, but he taught me more than I'll ever need to know about crossed lines. Along the way, be­fore I accepted that great sex wasn't a long-term compensa­tion for the conversational skills of Bonzo the chimpanzee, I met some very useful people. I met some bloody boring ones too, and unfortunately the crossover between the two groups was disturbingly large. Even more unfortunately, I was going to have to talk to one of them.

After I'd finally convinced Dennis that I wasn't going to back off and that the price of his liberty was putting me to­gether with his fence, it hadn't taken me long to squeeze the phone number of the contact out of him. He'd left, grumbling that I was getting in over my head and I needn't come running to him when the roof fell in. Naturally, we both knew that in the event of such an architectural disaster, the combined emer­gency services of six counties wouldn't keep him away.

I watched his car drive away, not entirely certain I was do­ing the right thing. But I knew I couldn't turn Dennis over to the cops. It wasn't just about friendship, though that had been the key factor in my decision, no doubt about that. But I hadn't been lying when I said I wanted the people behind the whole shooting match. Without them, the robberies wouldn't end. They'd just find another Dennis to do the dirty work and carry the can. Besides, I wanted Henry's Monet back, and Dennis didn't have it anymore.

After Dennis had gone, I rediscovered my appetite and wolfed the sandwich from the fridge before settling down to the thankless task of calling Gizmo. Gizmo works for Telecom as a systems engineer, which suits him down to the ground since he's the ultimate computer nerd. The first time I met him, he was even wearing an anorak. In a nightclub. I later discovered it was rare as hen's teeth to catch Gizmo out on the town. Normally, the only thing that will prise him away from his computer screen is the promise of a secret password that will allow him to penetrate to the heart of some company's as yet virgin network. He's only ever happy when his modem's skittering round the world's bulletin boards. Gizmo would much rather be wandering round the Internet than the streets of Manchester. I thought Bill and I were pretty nifty movers round the intangible world of computer communications till I met Gizmo. Then I realized our joint hacking skills were the equivalent of comparing a ten-year-old's "What I did on my holidays" essay with Jan Morris on just about anywhere.

I looked Gizmo up in my Filofax. There were several points of contact listed there. I tried his phone, but it was engaged. What a surprise. I booted up my computer, loaded up my comms software and logged on to the electronic mail network that Mortensen and Brannigan subscribe to. I typed a message asking Gizmo to call me urgently and sent it to his mailbox.

The phone rang five minutes later. I'd specifically asked him to call me person-to-person. The last thing I wanted was to re­lay my request to him over the Net. You never know who's look­ing in, no matter how secure you think you are. That's one of the first things Gizmo taught me. "Kate?" he said suspiciously. Gizmo doesn't like talking; he prefers people to know only the

constructed personality he releases over the computer network.

"Hi, Gizmo. How's life?" Silly question, really. Gizmo and life are barely on speaking terms.

"Just got myself a state-of-the-art rig," he said. "She's so fast, it's beautiful. So, what's going down with you?"

"Busy, busy. You know how it is. Gizmo, I need some help. Usual terms." Fifty quid in used notes in a brown envelope through his letter box. He comes so cheap because he loves poking around other people's computers in the same way that some men like blondes with long legs.

"Speak, it's your dime," he said. I took that for agreement.

"I've got a mobile number here that I need a name and ad­dress for."

"Is that all?" He sounded disappointed. I gave him the number. "Fine," he said. "I should be back to you later today."

"You're a star, Giz. If I'm not here, leave a message on the machine. The answering machine. Okay?"

"Okay."

The next call was to Lord Ballantrae. "I think I've got a lead," I told him. "To the fence, not the principal behind the robberies. But I need some help."

"That's quick work," he said. "Fire away. If I can do, I will do."

"I need something to sell him. Not a painting, something fairly small but very valuable. Not small as in brooch, but maybe a small statuette, a gold goblet, that kind of thing. Now, I know that some of your associates have taken to displaying copies rather than the real thing. One of those dummies would be ideal, provided that it would pass muster on reasonably close scrutiny. You think you can come up with something like that?" I asked.

"Hmm," he mused. "Leave it with me. I'll get back to you."

Two down, one to go. I dialed a number from memory and said, "Mr. Abercrombie, please. It's Kate Brannigan." The electronic chirrup of the Cuckoo Waltz assaulted my eardrums as I waited for whatever length of time Clive Abercrombie deemed necessary to put me firmly in my place. Olive is a part­ner in one of the city's prestige jewelers. He would say the prestige jewelers. That's the kind of pretentious wally he is. We pulled dive's nuts out of the fire on a major counterfeiting scam a couple of years back, and I know that deep down he's eternally grateful, though he'd die before he'd reveal it to a mere tradesperson like me. His gratitude had turned into a mixed blessing, however. It was thanks to Olive's recommen­dation that we'd got the case that had put Richard behind bars and me at risk of parting company with my life. By my reck­oning, that meant he still owed me.

We were on the third chorus when he deigned to come on the line. "Kate," he said cautiously. Obviously I wasn't important enough to merit solicitous inquiries about my health. Not a stupid man, Olive. He's clearly sussed out that Richard and I are not in the market for a diamond solitaire.

"Good afternoon, Olive," I said sweetly. "I find myself in need of a good jeweler, and I can't think of anyone who fits the bill better than you."

"You flatter me," he said, flattered.

"I'm like you, Olive. When I need a job doing, I come to the experts."

"A job?" he echoed.

"A little bit of tinkering," I said soothingly. "Tomorrow, probably. Will one of your master craftspeople have a little time to spare for me then?"

"That depends on what we're talking about," he said war­ily. "I hope you're not suggesting something illegal, Kate."

"Would I?" I said, trying to sound outraged.

"Quite possibly," he said dryly. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"I don't have all the details yet, but it would involve... a slight addition to an existing piece."

He sighed. "Come round tomorrow morning after eleven. I'll discuss it with you then."

"Thank you, Olive," I said to dead air.

I checked my watch. Half past four. Just time to nip round to the office and collect Trevor Kerr's list of former staff. I swapped the smart clothes for a pair of leggings and a sweat­shirt and took my bike. It would be quicker than the car this time of day, and besides, I wanted the exercise. I found Shel­ley in the throes of preparing the quarterly VAT return. "Kate," she said grimly. "Just the person I wanted to see." She waved a small bundle of crumpled receipts at me. "I know it's really unreasonable of me, but do you suppose you could en­lighten me as to what precisely these bills are for? Only, by my calculations we're due a VAT inspection some time within the next six months, and I don't think they're going to be thrilled by your idea of keeping records. 'Miscellaneous petty cash' isn't good enough, you know."

I groaned. "Can't you just make it up?" I wheedled, picking up the top receipt. "This is from the electrical wholesalers; just call it batteries or lightbulbs or cassette tapes. Use your imag­ination. We don't often let you do that," I added with a smile.

Shelley curled her lip. "I don't have an imagination. I've never found it necessary. You're not leaving here till you've told me what's what. And if you make it up, I can blame you when the VAT inspector doesn't believe me."

It didn't take me as long as I feared. Imagination is not something I've ever lacked. What I couldn't remember, I in­vented. There wasn't a VAT person in the land who'd dare question what I needed thirty-five meters of speaker wire for. Having mollified the real boss at Mortensen and Brannigan, I grabbed my fax and headed out the door before she could think of something else that would keep me from my work.

In the short interval that I'd been out, both Gizmo and Ballantrae had been back to me. The name and address attached to the phone didn't fill me with confidence. Cradaco Interna­tional, 679A Otley Road, Leeds. On an impulse, I grabbed the phone and rang Josh's office. The man himself was in a meeting, but Julia, his personal assistant, was free. I pitched her into hitting the database right away and finding out whatever details Cradaco International had filed at Companies House. I hung on while she looked. Now that everything's on line, in­formation it used to take days to dig out of dusty files is avail­able at the touch of a fingertip.

She didn't keep me waiting long. "Kate? As you thought, it's an off-the-shelf company. Share capital of one pound. Managing director James Connery. Company secretary Sean Bond. Uh-oh. Does something smell a bit fishy to you, Kate?"

I groaned. "Any other directors?"

"Have a guess?"

"Miss Moneypenny? M?" I said resignedly.

"Nearly. Miss Penny Cash."

I sighed. "You'd better give me the addresses, just in case." I copied down three addresses in Leeds. At least they were all in the same city. One trip would check out the directors and the company. "You're a pal, Julia," I said.

"Don't mention it. You could do me a small favor in return," she said.

"Try me."

"Could you ask Richard if there's any chance he could get me a bootleg tape of the Streisand Wembley concerts?" she asked.

I'd never have put cut-glass upper-middle-class Julia down as a Streisand fan, but there's no accounting for taste. "It's a bit off his beat, but I'll see what I can do," I promised.

Time to get back to Ballantrae. He answered on the first ring. "I think I've got the very thing for you," he said. "How does an Anglo-Saxon belt buckle sound?"

"Useful if you've got an Anglo-Saxon belt," I said.

He chuckled. "It's a ceremonial buckle, worn by chieftains and buried with them. It's about five inches by two inches. The original is made of solid gold, chased with Celtic designs and studded with semiprecious stones. There are only two known to be in existence. One's in the British Museum, the other's in a private collection in High Hammerton Hall, near Whitby."

"Sounds perfect," I said. "Have you spoken to the owner?"

"I have. He's been displaying a replica for the last five months, but I've managed to persuade him to lend it to you. We were at school together," he added in explanation.

"What's it made of?" I asked.

"The replica's made of lead and plastic, with a thin coating of gold leaf. He says it would fool someone who wasn't an ex­pert, even close up. He says if you sit the two of them side by side, it's almost impossible to tell them apart."

"Sounds perfect," I said. "When can I get it?"

"He's sending it to you by overnight courier. It will be at your office by ten tomorrow morning."

"Lord Ballantrae, you are a star," I said, meaning it. So much for the inbred stupidity of the aristocracy. This guy was more on the ball than ninety-five percent of the people I have to deal with.

"No problem. I want to get these people as badly as you do. Probably more so. Then we can all get back to the business of doing what we do best."

Speaking of which, I finally got down to doing something about Trevor Kerr's case. I felt guilty for ignoring the mate­rial he'd sent me, but the art theft case was far more absorb­ing. I felt it was something I could get to the bottom of single-handed, unlike the Kerrchem case. I found myself in­clined to agree with Jackson. This was a case for the cops, if only because they had the staffing resources to cover all the bases that it would take me weeks to get round. Then the lit­tle voice in my head kicked in with the real reason. "You can't stand Trevor Kerr, so you don't want to put yourself out for him. And you're desperate to impress that Michael Haroun."

"Bollocks," I muttered out loud, seizing the sheets of fax paper with fresh energy. Someone-the indomitable Sheila, I suspected-had conveniently included the job titles as well as the names and addresses of those made redundant. I reckoned I could exclude anyone who worked on the factory floor or in the warehouse. They would have neither the chemical know-how nor the access to sales and distribution information that would allow them to pull a sabotage scheme as complex as this. That left thirty-seven people in clerical, managerial and scien­tific posts who had all been given what looked like a tin hand­shake to quit their jobs at Kerrchem.

By nine, I felt like the phone was welded to my ear. I was us­ing a labor-market research pitch, which seemed to be working reasonably well. I claimed to be working for the EC Regional Rind, doing research to see what sort of skills were not being catered to by current job vacancies. I told my victims that I was calling people who had been made redundant over the pre­vious year to discover whether they had found alternative em­ployment. A depressingly low number of Kerrchem's junked staff fell into that category, and they were mostly low-grade clerical staff. Not one of the ten middle managers had found new jobs, and to a man they were bitter as hell about it. Of the chemists, two out of the three lab technicians were working in less skilled but better-paid jobs. The four research lab staff who had been laid off were bound by their contracts and the terms of their redundancies not to work for direct competitors. One had taken a job as an analyst on a North Sea oil rig, two of the other three were kicking their heels and hating it and one was no longer at the address the company had for him. It looked like I had no shortage of suspects.

I stood up and stretched. Richard still hadn't come home, so there was nothing to divert me from work. There was nothing more I could do with the Kerrchem stuff tonight, but I wasn't quite stalled on the other investigation. The sensible part of me knew I should go to bed and catch up on last night's missed sleep, but I'd had enough of being sensible for one week. I went through to the kitchen, cut open the other half of the ciabatta and loaded it with mozzarella, taramasalata and some sundried tomatoes. I wrapped it in clingfilm, and took a small bot­tle of mineral water out of the fridge. Fifteen minutes later, I was cruising down the M62, singing along cheerfully to a new compilation of Dusty Springfield's greatest hits that I'd found lying around in Richard's half of the conservatory. Never mind the mascara, check out that voice.

I was in Leeds before ten, navigating my way through the subterranean tunnels of the inner ring road, emerging into daylight somewhere near the white monolith of the university. The roads were quiet out through Headingley, but every now and again, a beam of light split the night from on high as the police helicopter quartered the skies, trying to protect the homes of the more prosperous residents from the attentions of the burglars. Burglary has reached epidemic proportions in Leeds these days; I know someone whose house was turned over seven times in six months. Every time they came home with a new stereo, so did the burglars. Now their house is more secure than Armley jail and their insurance premiums are nearly as much as the mortgage.

I slowed as I approached the Weetwood roundabout, scanning houses for their numbers. Six seventy-nine A looked like it might be one of an arcade of shops, so I parked and stretched my legs. I can't say I was surprised to find there was no 679A. There was a 679, though, a small newsagent's squeezed between a bakery and a hairdresser. I walked round the back of the shops, check­ing to see if the flats above had entrances at the rear. A couple did, but 679 wasn't one of them. I walked back to the car, with plenty to think about. Whoever Dennis's fence was, he was de­termined to cover his tracks. Using an accommodation address for his phone bills was about as careful as you could get without actually being sectioned for paranoia.

I decided to check out the directors' addresses while I was in the city, but I held out little hope of finding any of them at home. James Connery's alleged residence was nearest, back in Head­ingley proper. It was number thirty-nine in a street of ten houses. On to Chapel Allerton, where Sean Bond apparently lived in a hostel for the visually handicapped. Penny Cash was even worse off. According to Companies House, she was living on a piece of waste ground in Burmantofts. I doubled back through the city center, passing the new Health Ministry build­ing up on Quarry Hill, spotlit to look like a set from Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Apparently, the place contains a full-sized swimming pool, Jacuzzi and multigym. Nice to know our hard-earned taxes are being spent on the health of the nation, isn't it?

It was nearly midnight when I got home. Richard's car was parked outside, though I didn't need that clue to know he was home as soon as I touched the front door. It was vibrating with the pulse of the bass coming through the bricks from next door. As I shoved my key in the lock, I could feel exhaustion flow through me, settling in a painful knot at the base of my skull.

I walked through the house to the conservatory. Richard's patio doors were open, revealing half a dozen bodies in varying states of consciousness draped over the furniture. Techno dance music drilled through my head like a tribe of termites who have just discovered a log cabin. The man himself was nowhere to be seen. I picked a path to the kitchen, where I found him taking a tray of spring rolls out of the oven. "Hi," he said. His eyes were as stoned as the woman taken in adul­tery.

"Any chance of the volume coming down? I need some sleep," I said.

"That's cool," he said, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "Want some company?"

"You've already got some."

"They can be out of here in ten minutes," he said. "Then I'm all yours."

He was as good as his word. Eleven minutes later, he crawled into my blissfully silent bed. Unfortunately, I'm not into necrophilia.