Clean Break. Val McDermid
and silently written me a cheque for five hundred pounds to go and buy ‘something a little more chic, hon’. I’m not proud; I took the money and shopped. Alexis and I hadn’t had so much fun in years.
I stepped into the dress and reached round to zip it up. Richard got there before me. He leaned forward and kissed me behind the ear. I turned to gooseflesh and shivered. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bad day. Let’s go and see how the other half lives.’
The address Trevor Kerr had given me was in Whitefield, a suburb of mostly semis just beyond the perennial roadworks on the M62. It’s an area that’s largely a colony of the upwardly mobile but not strictly Orthodox Jews who make up a significant proportion of Manchester’s population. Beyond the streets of identical between-the-wars semis lay our destination, one of a handful of architect-designed developments where the serious money has gravitated. My plumber got the contract for one of them, and he told me about a conversation with one of his customers. My plumber thought the architect had made a mistake, because the plans showed plumbing for four dishwashers – two in the kitchen and two in the utility room. When he queried it, the customer looked at him as if he was thick as a yard of four-by-two and said, ‘We keep kosher and we entertain a lot.’ There’s nothing you can say to that.
The house I’d been directed to looked more Frankenstein than Frank Lloyd Wright. It had more turrets and crenellations than Windsor Castle, all in bright red Accrington brick. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to be potless,’ Richard remarked as we parked. It had a triple garage and hard-standing for half a dozen cars, but tonight was clearly party night. Richard’s hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertible looked as out of place as Cinderella at a minute past midnight. When the hostess opened the door, I smiled. ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘We’re with Trevor Kerr,’ I added.
The frosting on her immaculate coiffure spilled over on to the hostess’s smile. ‘Do come in,’ she said.
The man who’d been hovering in the hall behind her stepped forward and said, ‘I’m Trevor Kerr.’ He signalled with his eyebrows towards the stairs and we followed him up into a den that looked like it had been bought clock, stock and panel from a country house. The only incongruity was the computer and fax machine smack in the middle of the desk. ‘We won’t be disturbed here,’ he said. ‘It’ll be at least half an hour before the host distributes the clues and we move off. Perhaps your friend would like to go downstairs and help himself to the buffet?’
I could hear Richard’s hackles rising. ‘Mr Barclay is a valued associate of Mortensen and Brannigan. Anything you say is safe with him,’ I said stiffly. I dreaded to think how many people Richard could upset at a Round Table potluck buffet.
‘That’s right,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not just scenery.’
Kerr looked uncomfortable but he wasn’t really in a position to argue. As he settled himself in an armchair, we studied each other. Not even a hand-stitched suit could hide a body gone ruinously to seed. I was tempted to offer some fashion advice, but I didn’t think he’d welcome the news that this year bellies are being worn inside the trousers. He couldn’t have been much more than forty, but his eyes would have been the envy of any self-respecting bloodhound and his jowls would have set a bulldog a-quiver. The only attractive feature the man possessed was a head of thick, wavy brown hair with a faint silvering at the temples.
‘Well, Mr Kerr?’ I said.
He cleared his throat and said, ‘I run Kerrchem. You probably haven’t heard of us, but we’re quite a large concern. We’ve got a big plant out at Farnworth. We manufacture industrial cleaning materials, and we do one or two domestic products for supermarket own-brands. We pride ourselves on being a family business. Anyway, about a month ago, I got a letter in the post at home. As far as I can remember, it said I could avoid Kerrchem ending up with the same reputation as Tylenol for a very modest sum of money.’
‘Product tampering,’ Richard said sagely.
Kerr nodded. ‘That’s what I took it to mean.’
‘You said: “as far as I can remember”,’ I remarked. ‘Does that mean you haven’t got the note?’
Kerr scowled. ‘That’s right. I thought it was some crank. It looked ridiculous, all those letters cut out of a newspaper and Sellotaped down. I binned it. You can’t blame me for that,’ he whined.
‘No one’s blaming you, Mr Kerr. It’s just a pity you didn’t keep the note. Has something happened since then to make you think they were serious?’
Kerr looked away and pulled a fat cigar from his inside pocket. As he went through the performance of lighting it, Richard leaned forward in his seat. ‘A man has died since then, hasn’t he, Mr Kerr?’ I was impressed. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but I was impressed.
A plume of acrid blue smoke obscured Kerr’s eyes as he said, ‘Technically, yes. But there’s no evidence that there’s any connection.’
‘A man dies after opening a sealed container of your products, you’ve had a blackmail note and you don’t believe there’s a connection?’ Richard asked, with only mild incredulity.
I could see mischief dancing behind his glasses, so I thought I’d better head this off at the pass. Any minute now, Richard would decide to start enjoying himself, completely oblivious to the fact that not everyone has the blithe disregard for human life that characterizes journalists. ‘Suppose you give me your version of events, Mr Kerr?’
He puffed on the cigar and I tried not to cough. ‘Like I said, I thought this note was some crank. Then, last week, we had a phone call from the police. They said a publican had dropped down dead at work. It seemed he’d just opened a fresh container of KerrSter. That’s a universal cleanser that we produce. One of our biggest sellers to the trade. Anyway, according to the postmortem, this man had died from breathing in cyanide, which is ridiculous, because cyanide doesn’t go anywhere near the KerrSter process. Nobody at our place could work out how him dying could have had anything to do with the KerrSter,’ he said defensively. ‘We weren’t looking forward to the inquest, I’ll be honest, but we didn’t see how we could be held to blame.’
‘And?’ I prompted him.
Kerr shifted in his seat, moving his weight from one buttock to the other in a movement I hadn’t seen since Dumbo. ‘I swear I never connected it with the note I’d had. It’d completely slipped my mind. And then this morning, this came.’ His pudgy hand slid into his inside pocket again and emerged with a folded sheet of paper. He held it out towards me.
‘Has anyone apart from you touched this?’ I asked, not reaching for it.
He shook his head. ‘No. It came to the house, just like the other one.’
‘Put it down on the desk,’ I said, raking in my bag for a pen and my Swiss Army knife. I took the eyebrow tweezers out of their compartment on the knife and gingerly unfolded the note. It was a sheet from a glue-top A4 pad, hole-punched, narrow feint and margin. Across it, in straggling newsprint letters Sellotaped down, I read, ‘Bet you wish you’d done what you were told. We’ll be in touch. No cops. We’re watching you.’ The letters were a mixture of upper and lower case, and I recognized the familiar fonts of the Manchester Evening Chronicle. Well, that narrowed it down to a few million bodies.
I looked up and sighed. ‘On the face of it, it looks like your correspondent carried out his threat. Why haven’t you taken this to the police, Mr Kerr? Murder and blackmail, that’s what they’re there for.’
Kerr looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t think they’d believe me,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Look at it from their point of view. My company’s products have been implicated in a major tampering scandal. A man’s dead. Can you imagine how much it’s going to cost me to get out from under the lawsuits that are going to be flying around? There’s nothing to show I didn’t cobble this together myself to try and get off the hook. I bet mine are the only fingerprints on that note, and you can bet your bottom dollar that the police aren’t going to waste their time hunting for industrial