Staying Power (18 page)

What had Graham said when she'd first joined? She'd use that on Dai. ‘They don't all wear woad, here. And – strictly between ourselves – I quite like the place. Someone's found some money from somewhere and the city centre's as nice as you'd wish to find.' She wouldn't say she still couldn't believe how tiny the shopping centre was or how she hated the accent. Pride? Loyalty? Who could tell? She told him about her present cases, picked up a bit of the London gossip and rang off.

There was just time to phone Isobel Sanderson. She even had her hand poised to dial. Then she thought better of it. They wouldn't rate anyone who had an urgent need of freezer boxes. She'd have to find a reason for wanting it – batch cooking mince pies for the Boys' Brigade or something. So she'd wait just a couple of days.

She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. Plenty of food in her freezer, and a microwave ready for action. But on the whole, she thought she'd stop off at her favourite chippie. Not for fish and chips: for a wonderful concoction, chicken tikka in a naan bread, with salad and spicy mint sauce. A feast. Not because she had to: because she wanted to. And just to round it off, a cup of that milky drink full of sweet noodles they'd started to sell. Faluda, that was it. Yes, there were a lot of good things about Brum.

‘It's a lovely morning,' Lizzie had observed almost as soon as Kate had got into the office. ‘Just the sort of morning it'd be nice to go and look at the firms which said Alan Grafton could give credit to Symphony Leather. They're not all that far apart. Let's go straightaway. Then we can talk to the accountants looking at the books later this afternoon and make sure we can ask them the right questions. You can sort out your desk later.'

When she had one, that is.

‘What I also want to sort out is all Howard Sanderson's business links: can you drop me off at Companies House on the way back?' Kate gulped her coffee, and stowed the KitKat she'd meant to eat with it in her bag.

‘If you want the walk! But we've got on-line here practically all the information they've got there. We use the Dunn and Bradstreet system: modem-linked to Companies House in Cardiff. Why stretch your legs when you can stretch your arm?'

‘Great.' Better to learn to fish than wait to be fed. But it occurred to her that so far she'd only heard about the tackle.

After the recent damp greyness, it was good to be out, even if the bright sun made it awkward for Lizzie to drive. They were heading almost due east and the sun was still too low for her visor to be effective. Kate burrowed in the depths of her bag, producing the sunglasses that always lurked there, whatever the time of year.

‘Proper little Girl Guide, aren't we?' Lizzie observed, putting them on, nonetheless.

‘Boys' Brigade, actually,' Kate said, wondering if she was imagining the edge in Lizzie's voice. ‘I coach their football team. Under some duress.'

‘How on earth did you get involved with that?'

‘It's not getting involved that's the problem. It's getting dis-involved. Turn right – just where that lorry's coming out.'

This was the opening to a tatty industrial estate. It had been awkward to get to, partly because of the rush-hour traffic and partly because the roads weren't well signed. Now it promised very little in the way of reward.

‘Welcome, Kate, to Stechford,' Lizzie said, parking on a badly broken factory forecourt. ‘Or probably Garretts Green.'

‘Familiar territory,' Kate said, grinning. ‘I worked undercover in Yardley a couple of years ago. It hasn't got any more attractive, though.'

‘Was it ever? Fancy siting buildings almost directly under a well-used railway line. Not to mention,' Lizzie added, putting her hands to her ears, ‘one of Birmingham Airport's main flight paths. Not, I suppose, that they'd want to put anything else under the railway line. And there are lots of things under this flight path. Oh, and it seems to be right by a bus stop, too.'

‘You wonder what sort of organisation would want to base itself here,' Kate said. ‘It wouldn't inspire me with confidence, I can tell you. I mean, the buildings are practically derelict.'

‘Sixties disposable,' Lizzie nodded. ‘Time they disposed of them, too. But not until we've run – what do they call themselves? – to earth.'

‘Minim Products. They're not exactly trumpeting their whereabouts, are they?'

After five minutes they admitted defeat.

Lizzie looked around her. ‘We need a friendly native.'

‘There's a postie – he should know.'

It was hardly surprising they hadn't run it to earth. The postie, warning them they were wasting their time, directed them round the back of a warehouse specialising in the distribution of pet food, where they found a small name-plate, one of a collection. Entrance was via an intercom, of course. And no one from Minim responded.

‘What a surprise,' Lizzie said. ‘Still,
nil desperandum
. Try another button.'

A young woman responded and they were buzzed into two yards of passageway leading straight up steep stairs.

‘These must violate health and safety regulations,' Kate said. ‘Look, these tiles are loose and those things that wrap round the treads are dangerous.' She picked up the end of one. As she let it go, it subsided gently.

‘They're called noses, I believe,' Lizzie said. ‘No, wrench the thing up. Better no nose than one that trips someone. Give it to the kid who let us in.'

They'd got themselves admitted to the tiny office of a firm rejoicing under the name of Meedja Contax. The young black woman at the desk stood up quickly when she saw their bounty, her beaded braids clicking with agitation.

‘If I've told them once I've told them a thousand times,' she said. ‘Did either of you hurt yourself? Because—' she leaned towards them confidentially – ‘if I were you I'd take legal action. Look.' She fished a notebook from a desk drawer. ‘Those are the dates I've complained. Me, personally, right?'

Lizzie nodded. ‘Well done. You want to watch your step, though.'

The woman groaned. Kate did likewise.

Lizzie didn't respond. ‘OK. Now, we're trying to speak to someone at Minim Products. No one answered. That's why we bothered you.'

The young woman's shrug wouldn't have been out of place in a silent movie. ‘Law unto themselves, they are. Mind you, I reckon they've done a moonlight – it's been like the grave up there the last couple of weeks. I used to hear their phone ringing – on and on it went, for ages. Now it doesn't. Either Telecom have done their stuff or someone got tired of hearing it and pulled it themselves.'

Lizzie jerked her head at Kate, who took it as a hint that she was to go up a further flight of hazardous stairs and see what she could see. Which was a locked door. Applying an eye to the letter box, she could make out nothing except a dusty desk. She reported back to Lizzie.

‘Hell, this means going back to the landlord to try and trace them.'

The black woman dug in another drawer. ‘Here's his address. You could take that thing if you go to see him.' She pointed a green-tipped finger at the detached nose. ‘What do you want them for, anyway? Up to no good, are they?'

‘What makes you think that?' Kate asked.

The girl spread her hands. ‘Come off it. I wasn't born yesterday. Someone rents so-called business premises in a tatty dump like this. They never have deliveries, never have callers. I popped up one day to see if their receptionist would like to come to lunch with me – you know, just to be friendly, like. No receptionist, just this bloke in a suit so sharp I'm surprised he didn't cut himself.'

‘Your organisation's based here,' Kate said.

‘So it is. And it's legit, too. Just poor. Oh, it's quiet enough now, but these music kids are never up before twelve. Hots up after the early afternoon
Neighbours
. Really busy half-five. Just when I want to push off to feed my cat.' She looked at the other women. ‘Tell me, what's it like being in the fuzz? Often fancied it. I reckon I'd look good in a uniform.'

‘You'd look great,' Lizzie agreed. ‘And we need sparky women like you.'

‘Black ones and all?'

‘Especially black women,' Lizzie assured her.

Kate thought of Fatima, and merely smiled.

The next address, near a canal in Selly Oak, was equally elusive. They were looking for Breve Fancy Goods.

‘Breve sounds a bit exotic for Selly Oak,' Lizzie observed, pronouncing it with two syllables. ‘They favour homelier names round here. Look at them. Lottie Road, Winnie Road. Even a Katie Road!'

Kate nodded, abstracted. A narrow boat was puttering its way along the canal, coal powered, by the smell coming from the chimney stack, and laden with coal. The man leaning on the huge tiller might be living in the Thirties. She'd never realised that – what had Graham called them? Cuts? – that cuts were still used by working vessels. As if to make a point, another narrow boat nosed into view, in its full panoply of painted kettles and buckets and lovingly picked-out woodwork. In the bows, an elderly woman, wrapped up, true, against the cold, was basking in the winter sun. A cat sat on the cabin roof, and an elderly man steered. She could have done with a camera.

‘Sorry?'

Lizzie coughed, ironically. ‘I was saying we'd better find another postie. And they seem to be like hen's teeth.'

They came on the place themselves, however, down an unadopted road near a car-breaker's yard.

‘Highly salubrious,' Kate said. ‘I wouldn't want to work out here, either.'

‘You wouldn't work anyway. You'd spend all your life looking at boats.'

Kate blinked. The tone wasn't jokey: it was critical. Like the Girl Guide comment. Wrong side of bed morning? Or something more serious?

‘Maybe sell my house and live on one: end of parking problems,' she said lightly. ‘Here we are, anyway. Not that it looks as if anyone's at home.' She rattled the doorknob.

The door flew open. A youth dashed out. Lizzie grabbed and grounded him. Kate checked inside.

‘Nothing in here,' she said. ‘Unless you count a flea-ridden sleeping-bag. And a
Big Issue
bag.'

‘I'm just dossing. Honest. Honest, Miss. Look in the bag. Me ID's in there.'

Lizzie let him up, slowly. ‘Is it, Sergeant?'

‘Yes, Ma'am. Even looks like him, a bit,' Kate grinned. She passed the card. ‘How long have you been here?'

‘Couple of weeks. That's all. Honest. I didn't even break and enter. Door was wide open. Well, a little bit open.'

‘Was there anything in here when you arrived?'

‘Some paper in the bin. That's all.' He turned to Lizzie. ‘As God is my witness, that's all.' His voice rose.

Lizzie continued to watch him implacably.

‘What sort of paper in the bin?' Kate asked.

‘Just screwed up rubbish.'

‘Like you, eh, Simon,' Lizzie said. ‘Screwed up rubbish.' She shoved him hard away from her so he staggered against the wall.

It must be a wrong-side-of-bed morning, Kate decided. Lizzie was definitely out of order there.

‘Hang on. You don't have to say that. I started my A levels once. And I'm clean, now. Look.' He pushed up his sleeves. There were no new tracks. He glared resentfully, and turned to Kate again. ‘Like, letters, you know. Some torn across, some – some paper balls,' he said, clearly to the point of insolence. ‘And no, I didn't read them. Not because I can't read. Because I'm honest. They weren't mine to read. Right? Anyway, I used them as bog paper. There's a bog up them steps.' He pointed to a door at the back of the office. ‘Through there. But watch yourself. The whole place is falling to bits.'

Kate grinned. ‘Come on, Simon, you're sitting having a quiet crap. Surely you'd have a quiet read, too?'

‘Blank paper. Just the heading on it.'

‘Heading?'

‘Hmm. Something foreign. Breve. Doesn't it mean short, or something? La vida breve.'

Did the average
Big Issue
seller speak Spanish? Kate was about to take him up on it when Lizzie spoke.

‘I suppose you haven't any left in your loo?'

‘Sainsbury's recycled, that's what I'm on now. Mind you, the bog isn't flushing all that well.'

‘And you've been here exactly how long?' Kate asked. She dug in her bag and gave him the KitKat.

‘Two weeks and three days. Cheers. I watched them go, actually. In this big motor.'

‘Any idea what sort?'

‘Flash.' He obviously knew exactly what car had been used, probably down to the last digit of the number-plate.

‘When did you last eat, Simon?'

He looked affronted. ‘Last night. I try and eat regular.'

‘So you're not hungry now. You couldn't use a burger at that café back on the main road.'

‘I'm supposed to be a veggie – Oh, go on. Twist my arm.'

‘So we know it was a grey Merc with this year's plates, driven by a middle-aged bloke with a funny accent, not quite Brum but not not Brum. That bit'll help, I don't think. Looked well-off. Not fat, not thin. And that there was a secretary some days of the week and an answerphone. It's not a lot, is it?' Kate said. Though it was more than Lizzie would have got with her tactics. What was wrong with the woman? She didn't have to prove anything to Kate.

She and Lizzie were stuck in a traffic jam heading back towards the city. The early brightness had given way to gusting cloud and rain was spattering the windscreen.

‘It's enough to make me think we've got a long firm fraud on here,' Lizzie said.

‘Long-term fraud?' Kate repeated. She'd thought her ears were clearing at last, but that defeated them.

‘Long
firm
fraud. It's a well-known scam. You set up a company by buying a named limited company. In this case it was probably trading in fancy goods, clothes, whatever. You open a bank account. Then you acquire a warehouse to receive the goods you acquire. At this stage you play by the book – cash up front, or prompt payment of invoices. All very boring, so far. Then you set up a couple of false companies. Let's call them Minim and Breve, for the sake of argument. So when you start expanding you can supply credit references. You're buying from lots of small firms. Then you start asking for credit – you know, cash flow crisis, that sort of thing. And you pay prompt to the minute. You tell them you're tripling your orders. You need to extend your credit. You've no intention of paying, of course, but they don't know that because you've been such a prompt payer before. And then you – and your credit referees – do a flit.'