IRANG THE DOORBELL Of 35 ALDER WAY. I WAS ABOUT TO GIVE up when the door opened. I realized why it had taken so long. The harassed-looking young woman who stood in the doorway had identical toddlers clinging onto each leg of her jeans. As a handicapping system, it beat anything the Jockey Club has ever come up with. The twins stared up at me and conducted a conversation with each other in what sounded like some East European language, all sibilants and diphthongs. "Yes?" the woman said. At least she spoke Mancunian.

"Sorry to bother you," I said. "I'm looking for a guy called Richard Barclay. The address I've got for him is next door at number thirty-seven. But there doesn't seem to be anybody in."

She shook her head. "There's nobody by that name next door," she said with an air of finality, her hand rising to close the door.

"Are you sure?" I said, looking puzzled and referring to the piece of paper in my hand where I'd just written my lover's name and Sandra Bates's address. I waved it at her. "I was supposed to meet him here. About a job."

She took the paper and frowned. "There must be some mistake. The bloke next door's called Simon. Simon Morley."

I sighed. "I don't suppose he's the one taking people on, then? I mean, I've not got the right address and the wrong name?"

One of the twins detached itself from the woman's jeans and lurched toward me. "Without looking down, she stuck her leg out and stopped its progress. "I shouldn't think so, love," she said. "Simon got made redundant about six months ago. He's only started working himself a couple of months back, and judging from the overalls he goes in and out in, he's not hiring and firing."

I did the disappointed look, but it was wasted on the hassled woman. The pitch of the twins' dialogue had risen to a level she couldn't ignore. "Sorry," she said, closing the door firmly in my face.

"Don't be sorry," I said softly as I walked back to the Rover. "Lady, you just made my day." Simon Morley's name had rung so many bells my head felt like the cathedral belfry.

By three o'clock, everything was in place. Shelley and I had driven across the Pennines on the M62, to the Bradford exit, the first past Hartshead Services. We'd turned off on the Halifax road, where I remembered there was a lay-by just after the mo­torway roundabout. I left Shelley there in her Rover while I zoomed back down the motorway, doubling back so I ended up on the correct side of the sprawling service area. I parked away from the main body of cars and teetered up the car park on the white stilettos I keep in the bottom of the wardrobe for days like these.

I went to the ladies' room to check that I still looked like a tarty blonde. I don't often go in for disguises that involve wigs, but a couple of years before, I'd needed a radical appearance change, so I'd spent a substantial chunk of Mortensen and Brannigan's petty cash on a really good wig. It was a reddish blond, which meant it didn't look too odd against my skin, which is the typically yellow-based freckle-face that goes with auburn hair. Coupled with a much heavier makeup than I'd normally be seen dead in, the image that peered out of the mir­ror at me was credible, if a bit on the doggy side. I'd dressed to emphasize that impression, in a black Lycra miniskirt and a cream scoop-necked vest under my well-worn brown leather blouson. My own mother would have thrown me out of the house.

I touched up the scarlet lipstick and gave myself a toothy grin. "Show time, Brannigan," I muttered as I walked back across the car park and leaned against the door of my coupe.

He was right on time. At precisely three thirty, a metallic green Mercedes appeared at the entrance to the car park. He cruised round slowly before purring to a halt next to my car. The driver was indeed fortyish, though calling him bald on top seemed to be a euphemistic description for someone well on the way to the billiard-ball look. I opened the passenger door and sank into the leather seat. "Pleased to meet you," I said.

"Dennis tells me you have something I might be interested in," he said without preamble. His voice was nasal, the kind that gets on my nerves after about five minutes. "I don't nor­mally deal with people on a freelance basis," he added, glanc­ing at me for the first time.

"I know. Dennis explained how you like to work. But I thought that if I showed you what I can do, you might put some work my way," I said, trying to sound hard-bitten.

"Let's see what you've got, then." He turned in his seat to­ward me. His eyes were gray and cold, slightly narrowed. When he spoke, his mouth moved asymmetrically, as if he were gripping an imaginary cigarette in one corner.

"What about the color of your money?" I demanded.

He leaned across. For a wild moment, I thought his hand was heading for my legs, but he carried on to the glove box. It fell open to reveal bundles of notes. I could see they were fifties, banded into packs of a thousand. There were ten of them. He picked one up and riffled it in my face, so I could see it was fifties all the way through. Then he slammed the glove box shut again. "Satisfied?"

"You will be," I said, reaching into my bag. I took out the buckle, wrapped in an ordinary yellow duster. I opened it up and displayed the buckle. "Anglo-Saxon," I said. "From High Hammerton Hall."

"I know where it's from," he said brusquely, taking a loupe out of his pocket and picking up the buckle. I hoped he couldn't hear the pounding of the blood in my ears as he examined it. I could feel a prickle of sweat under the foundation on my upper lip. "Is this the real thing or is it a fake?" he asked.

I pointed to the twenty-grand car sitting next to us. "Is that a real Leo Gemini turbo super coupe or is it a fake? Behave. It's the business," I said aggressively.

"There's been nothing in the papers," he said.

"I can't help that, can I? What do you want me to do, issue a press release?"

A half-smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "You done much of this sort of thing?" he asked.

"What d'you want, a fucking CV? Listen, all you need to know is that I can deliver the goods, and I haven't got a record, which makes me a damn sight better bet than Dennis and Frankie. D'you want this or not?" I held my hand out for the buckle.

"Oh, I think my clients will be happy with this," he said, pocketing the buckle and the loupe. "Help yourself." He ges­tured toward the glove box, at the same time taking a card out of his inside pocket. I grabbed the money and stuffed it in my bag.

"Cheers," I said.

He handed me the card. It was one of those ones you get made up on those instant print machines at railway stations and motorway services. I'd passed one minutes before. All it had on it was his mobile number. "Next time, phone me before you do the job and I'll tell you whether we want the piece or not."

"No sweat," I said, opening the door. "I like a man who knows what he wants." I closed the door with a soft click and got behind the wheel of the coupe. The fence showed no sign of moving, so I started the engine and drove off. As I joined the motorway, I clocked him a few cars behind me. I stayed in the inside lane, and he made no move to catch me up, never mind overtake me. I left the motorway at the next junction, going round the roundabout twice to make certain he wasn't follow­ing me, then I turned down the Halifax road. Shelley got out of the Rover as I pulled in behind her. I jumped out of the coupe and raced for the Rover, pulling off my jacket as I ran. Shelley had left the engine running, as I'd asked her to.

"Speak to you later," I shouted as I put the car in gear, did an illegal U-turn at the first opportunity and tore back to the motorway. The receiver for the bug beeped reassuringly at me. He was already five kilometers away from me, and climbing. I floored the accelerator as I rejoined the M62. The car seemed sluggish after the coupe, but it didn't take long to push it up to ninety. I pulled off the wig and ran a hand through my hair. I'd left a packet of moist tissues on the passenger seat of the Rover, and I used a handful of them to scrub the makeup off my face.

According to the tracer screen, the fence's direction had changed slightly. As I'd expected, he'd turned off on the M621 for Leeds. I followed, noting that I'd narrowed the distance be­tween us. He was only 2.7 kilometers ahead of me now. I really needed to be a lot closer before he turned off and lost me in a maze of city streets. Luckily, the M621 runs downhill, and he was sticking to a speed that wouldn't get him picked up by the speed cameras. By the time we came to the Wetherby and Harrogate slip road, I was close enough to glimpse his pale green roof leave the motorway. Fortunately, there was a fair bit of traffic, so I was able to keep a couple of cars between us. In the queue at the Armley roundabout, I pulled on my denim shirt over the vest, completing the transformation from the waist up. I had a momentary panic when he entered the tunnels of the inner-city ring road and the signal disappeared from the re­ceiver. But as soon as we emerged into daylight, the beep came back. I kept him in sight as we approached the complex con­fluence of roads at Sheepscar, one car behind as he swung right into Roundhay Road. I reckoned he had no idea that he was being followed, since he wasn't doing any of the things you do when you think you've got a tail; no jumping red lights, no sudden turns off the main road, no lane switching.

He stayed on Roundhay Road, then, just by the park, he turned left and drove up Prince's Avenue, through the mani­cured green of playing fields and enough grass to walk all the dogs of Leeds simultaneously. Where the avenue shaded into Street Lane, he turned right into a drive. I cruised past with a sidelong glance that revealed the Merc pulling into a double garage, then found a place to park round the corner. I kicked off the stilettos and pulled on the leggings I'd left in the car. I wriggled out of the Lycra mini and got out of the car, stuffing my feet into my Reeboks. Then I strolled back along Prince's Avenue. Clearly, being a fence was a lot more lucrative than be­ing a private eye. Baldy's house was set back from the road, a big detached job in stone blackened with a century and a half of industrial pollution. Not much change out of a quarter of a million for that one, by my reckoning. Probably the most pop­ular man in the street too; they say good fences make good neighbors! I carried on down the road and bought an ice cream from one of the vans by the park gates. I sat on a wall and ate my cone, keeping an eye on Baldy's house the while.

Five minutes later, an Audi convertible pulled in to the drive. A blond woman got out, followed by two girls in the kind of posh school uniform that has straw boaters in the summer term. From where I was sitting, the girls looked to be in their early teens. The woman left the car on the drive and followed the girls into the house. I finished my ice cream and walked back to the car. I drove round for a few minutes, trying to find a suitable place for a stakeout. Eventually, I parked just round the bend on the forecourt of a row of shops. I couldn't see the whole house from there, but I could see the door and the drive, but I hoped that by not parking outside anyone else's house, I'd escape the worst excesses of the neighborhood watch. If I was going to have to come back tomorrow, I'd ring the local po­lice and tell them I was in the area on a surveillance to do with a noncriminal matter. What's a few white lies between friends? I took out the phone and rang the local library and asked them to check the address on the electoral roll. They told me the residents listed at that address were Nicholas and Michelle Turner. At last, I had a name that hadn't come from the pages of lan Fleming.

Just after six, the woman came out again with the girls, each carrying a holdall. They drove off, passing me without a glance. They came back after eight, all with damp hair. I de­duced they'd been indulging in some sporting activity. That's why I'm a detective. At half past eight, I phoned the Flying Pizza, a few hundred yards up the road, and ordered myself a takeaway pizza. Ten minutes later, I walked up and collected it, using their loo at the same time. I ate the pizza in the car, taking care not to drop my olives on Shelley's immaculate car­pet and upholstery. At nine, my phone rang. "Kate? It's Michael Haroun," the voice on the other end announced.

I jerked upright, ran a hand through my hair and smiled. As if he could see me. Pathetic, really. "Hello, Michael," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if you were free for a drink this evening? You could give me a progress report."

"No, and no. I'm working, and you're not my client. Not that that means we can't have a friendly drink together," I added hastily, in case he thought I was being unfriendly.

"You can't blame me for trying," he said. "I do have an in­terest."

"In the ease or in me?" I asked tartly.

"Both, of course. When are you going to finish work?"

"Not for a while yet, and I'm over in Leeds." I hoped the re­gret I felt was being transmitted through the ether.

"In Leeds? What are you doing there?"

"Just checking out an anonymous tip-off."

"So you're making progress? Great!"

"I never said I was working on Henry's case," I said. "We do have more than one client, you know."

"Okay, okay, I get the message, keep your nose out, Haroun. I'm sorry you can't make it tonight. Maybe we could get to­gether soon?"

"Why don't you give me a ring tomorrow? I might have a clearer idea what my commitments are then."

"I'll do that. Nice to talk to you, Kate."

"Ditto." After that little interlude, my surveillance seemed even more unbearably tedious. When the radio told me it was time for a book at bedtime, I decided to call it a day. It didn't look like Nicholas Turner or my buckle were going anywhere tonight.

When I got home, I picked up the Kerrchem file I'd left there when I'd got changed earlier. I skimmed the list of for­mer employees, and one name jumped straight out at me. I hadn't been mistaken about Simon Morley. He'd been a lab technician at Kerrchem, made redundant with golden hand­cuffs six months before. He'd been the one I hadn't been able to contact because he'd moved. At least I knew where he was now. And I had a funny feeling that I knew just what he was doing in his overalls.