Star Struck. Val McDermid
out for the evening. ‘Breathe and you’re stoned. Not to mention cutting your life expectancy by half.’
‘Nice to see you too, Brannigan,’ my beloved said as I pushed the evening paper to one side and dropped on to the sofa next to him.
‘So what are you two boys plotting?’
Dennis grinned like Wile E. Coyote. My heart sank. I was well past a convincing impersonation of the Road Runner. ‘Wanted to pick your brains,’ he said.
‘And it couldn’t wait till morning?’ I groaned.
‘I was passing.’
Richard gave the sort of soft giggle that comes after the fifth bottle and the fourth joint. I know my man. ‘He was passing and he heard a bottle of Pete’s Wicked Bohemian Pilsner calling his name,’ he spluttered.
‘Looking at the number of bottles, it looks more like a crate shouting its head off,’ I muttered. The boys looked like they were set to make a night of it. There was only one way I was going to come out of this alive and that was to sort out Dennis’s problem. Then they might not notice if I answered the siren call of my duvet. ‘How can I help, Dennis?’ I asked sweetly.
He gave me the wary look of a person who’s drunk enough to notice their other half isn’t giving them the hard time they deserve. ‘I could come back tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ I said repressively. ‘Like the song says, tonight will be fine.’
Dennis gave me a quick sideways look and reached for his cigarettes. ‘You never finished your law degree, did you?’
I shook my head. It was a sore point with my mum and dad, who fancied being the parents of the first graduate in the family, but all it brought me was relief that business could never be so bad that I’d be tempted to set up shop as a lawyer. Two years of study had been enough to demonstrate there wasn’t a single area of legal practice that wouldn’t drive me barking within six months.
‘So you couldn’t charge me for legal advice,’ Dennis concluded triumphantly.
I raised my eyes to the heavens, where a few determined stars penetrated the sodium glow of the city sky. ‘No, Dennis, I couldn’t.’ Then I gave him the hard stare. ‘But why would I want to? We’ve never sent each other bills before, have we? What exactly are you up to?’
‘You know I’d never ask you to help me out with anything criminal, don’t you?’
‘’Course you wouldn’t. You’re far too tight to waste your breath,’ I said. Richard giggled again. I revised my estimate. Sixth bottle, fifth joint.
Dennis leaned across to pick up his jacket from the nearby chair, revealing splendid muscles in his forearm and a Ralph Lauren label. It didn’t quite go with the jogging pants and the Manchester United away shirt. He pulled some papers out of the inside pocket then gave me a slightly apprehensive glance. Then he shrugged and said, ‘It’s not illegal. Not as such.’
‘Not even a little bit?’ I asked. I didn’t bother trying to hide my incredulity. Dennis only takes offence when it’s intended.
‘This bit isn’t illegal,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s a lease.’
‘A lease?’
‘For a shop.’
‘You’re taking out a lease on a shop?’ It was a bit like hearing Dracula had gone veggie.
He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Only technically.’
I knew better than to ask more. Sometimes ignorance is not only bliss but also healthy. ‘And you want me to cast an eye over it to see that you’re not being ripped off,’ I said, holding a hand out for the papers.
Curiously reluctant now, Dennis clutched the papers to his chest. ‘You do know about leases? I mean, it’s not one of the bits you missed out, is it?’
It was, as it happened, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Besides, since I’d quit law school, I’d learned much more practical stuff about contracts and leases than I could ever have done if I’d stuck it out. ‘Gimme,’ I said.
‘You don’t want to argue with that tone of voice,’ Richard chipped in like the Dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Dennis screwed his face up like a man eating a piccalilli sandwich, but he handed over the papers.
It looked like a bog standard lease to me. It was for a shop in the Arndale Centre, the soulless shopping mall in the city centre that the IRA tried to remove from the map back in ’96. As usual, they got it wrong. The Arndale, probably the ugliest building in central Manchester, remained more or less intact. Unfortunately, almost every other building within a quarter-mile radius took a hell of a hammering, especially the ones that were actually worth looking at. As a result, the whole city centre ended up spending a couple of years looking like it had been wrapped by Christo in some bizarre pre-millennium celebration. Now it looked as if part of the mall that had been closed for structural repairs and renovation was opening up again and Dennis had got himself a piece of the action.
There was nothing controversial in the document, as far as I could see. If anything, it was skewed in favour of the lessee, one John Thompson, since it gave him the first three months at half rent as a supposed inducement. I wasn’t surprised that it wasn’t Dennis’s name on the lease. He’s a man who can barely bring himself to fill in his real name on the voters’ roll. Besides, no self-respecting landlord would ever grant a lease to a man who, according to the credit-rating agencies, didn’t even exist.
What I couldn’t understand was what he was up to. Somehow, I couldn’t get my head round the idea of Dennis as the natural heir of Marks and Spencer. Karl Marx, maybe, except that they’d have had radically different views of what constituted an appropriate redistribution of wealth. I folded the lease along its creases and said, ‘Looks fine to me.’
Dennis virtually snatched it out of my hand and shoved it back in his pocket, looking far too shifty for a villain as experienced as him. ‘Thanks, love. I just wanted to be sure everything’s there that should be. That it looks right.’
I recognized the key word right away. Us detectives, we never sleep. ‘Looks right?’ I demanded. ‘Why? Who else is going to be giving it the once-over?’
Dennis tried to look innocent. I’ve seen hunter-killer submarines give it a better shot. ‘Just the usual, you know? The leccy board, the water board. They need to see the lease before they’ll connect you to the utilities.’
‘What’s going on, Dennis? What’s really going on?’
Richard pushed himself more or less upright and draped an arm over my shoulders. ‘You might as well tell her, Den. You know what they say – it’s better having her inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.’
I let him get away with the anatomical impossibility and settled for a savage grin. ‘He’s not wrong,’ I said.
Dennis sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘All right. But I meant it when I said it’s not criminal.’
I cast my eyes upwards and shook my head. ‘Dennis O’Brien, you know and I know that “not criminal” doesn’t necessarily mean “legal”.’
‘Too deep for me,’ Richard complained, reaching for another bottle of beer.
‘Let’s hear it,’ I said firmly.
‘You know how I hate waste,’ Dennis began. I nodded cautiously. ‘There’s nothing more offensive to a man like me than premises standing empty because the landlords’ agents are crap at their job. So I had this idea about making use of a resource that was just standing idle.’
‘Shop-squatting,’ I said flatly.
‘What?’ Richard asked vaguely. ‘You going to live in a shop, Den? What happened to the house? Debbie thrown you out, has she?’
‘He’s