Clean Break

“Not one member of the public has noticed the substitutions,” Michael said.

“Maybe not so far,” I conceded. “But according to my understanding, the trouble with fakes is that they don’t stand the test of time.” Thanking Shelley silently for my art tutorial that afternoon, I launched myself into my spiel. “Look at Van Meegeren’s fake Vermeers. At the time, all the experts were convinced they were the real thing. But you look at them now, and they wouldn’t even fool a philistine like me. The difference between schneid and kosher is that fakes date, but the really great paintings don’t. They’re timeless.”

He frowned. “Even if you’re right, which I don’t concede for a moment, that’s not a bridge that our clients will have to cross for a long time yet.”

I wasn’t about to give up that easy. “Even so, don’t you think it’s a bit of a con to pull on the public? A bit of a swizz to spend your Bank Holiday Monday in a traffic jam just so you can ogle a Constable that’s more phony than a plastic Rolex? Aren’t you in danger of breaching the Trades Descriptions Act?” I asked.

“Our clients maybe,” Michael said carelessly. “We’re not.”

The brazen effrontery of it astonished me. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I said. “You work in a business that must spend hundreds of thousands a year trying to catch its customers out in fraud, and yet you’re happily suggesting to another bunch of clients that they go off and commit a fraud?”

“That’s not how we see it,” he said stiffly. “Besides, it works,” he said. “In at least two cases that I know about personally, customers who have been burgled have only lost copies. Surely that proves it’s worthwhile.”

In spite of the blazing fire, I felt a chill on the back of my neck. Only a man with no personal knowledge of the strung out world of crime could have made that pronouncement with such self-satisfaction. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the scene when an overwrought burglar turns up at his fence’s gaff with something he thinks is an Old Master, only to be told it’s Rembrandt-by-numbers. Scenario number one is that the burglar thinks the fence is trying to have him over, so he takes the appropriate steps. Scenario number two is that the fence thinks the burglar is trying to have him over, and takes the appropriate steps. Either way, somebody ends up in casualty. And that’s looking on the bright side. Doubtless, law-abiding citizens like Michael think they’ve got what they deserve, but even villains have wives and kids who don’t want to spend their spare time visiting hospital beds or graves.

My silence clearly spelled out defeat to Michael, since he leaned over and squeezed my hand. “Trust me, Kate. Our way, everybody’s happy,” he said.

I pretended to push my chair back and look frantically for the door. “I’m out of here,” I said. “Soon as an insurance man says ‘trust me,’ you know you should be in the next county.” He gri

“Speaking of which, how did you get into the private-eye business?” Michael said.

I couldn’t decide whether it was an attempt to change the subject or a deliberate shift away from the professional toward the personal. Either way, I was happy to go along with him. I didn’t think I was going to get any more useful information out of him, and I only had to look across the table to remember that when I’d agreed to this di

“So tell me about your most interesting case,” he coaxed me.

“Maybe later,” I said. “It’s your turn now. How did you get into insurance?”

“It’s the family business,” he said, looking faintly embarrassed.

“So you followed in daddy’s footsteps,” I said. I felt disappointed. I couldn’t put my finger on why, exactly. Maybe I expected him to live up to that profile with a suitably buccaneering past.

“Eventually,” he said. “I read Arabic at university, then I worked for the BBC World Service for a while. But the money was dire and there were no prospects. My father had the sense to see that sales had never interested me, but he persuaded me to take a shot at working in claims.” Michael raised his shoulders and held out his hands in an expressive shrug. “What can I say? I really enjoy it.”

All of a sudden, I remembered one of the key reasons I like being with Richard. He lives an interesting life: music journalist, football fan and Sunday-morning player, part-time father. I was sure if I hung around with Michael Haroun, I’d learn a lot of invaluable stuff. But not even the most brilliant raconteur can make insurance interesting forever. With Richard, no two days are the same. With Michael, I suspected variety might not be the spice of life.

Now I’d established that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with the man, I felt a sense of release. I could take what I needed from the encounter, and that would be that. My life wasn’t about to be turned on its head because I’d fallen in love with a profile when I was fourteen.

With that comforting thought in the front of my mind, I had no hesitation about inviting him in for coffee. The fact that I’d forgotten to mention Richard to him somehow didn’t seem too important at the time.

7

richard’s cab wasn’t home when we got there. I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not. On the one hand, I wanted him to see me with Michael Haroun. If it took a bit of the green-eyed monster to make Richard start thinking about where our relationship was headed, so be it. On the other hand, the last thing I wanted was for him to throw a jealous wobbler in front of someone who was potentially a useful source, if not a prospective client.

“You live alone, then?” Michael asked casually as we walked up the path.

“Yes and no,” I said. “I have a relationship with the man next door, but we don’t actually live together.” I unlocked the door, switched off the burglar alarm and led him through the living room into the conservatory that links both houses. “This is the common ground,” I said. “We each reserve the right to lock the door into the conservatory.” I wasn’t quite sure why I was telling Michael all this. Maybe there was still a smidgen of lust ru

Michael followed me back into the living room, closing the patio doors behind him. “Coffee?” I asked. “Or would you prefer a drink?”

He smiled mischievously. “That depends.”

“Oh, you’ll be driving,” I told him. Even if I’d been young, free and single, he’d have been driving, I told myself firmly.

He pulled a rueful face and said, “It had better be coffee, then.”

I’d just finished grinding the beans when I heard the clattering of Richard’s engine. I glanced out of the window and watched the hot-pink customized Volkswagen Beetle convertible nose into the space between Michael’s car and my Leo Gemini turbo super coupe, a trophy from the case which had put our relationship on the line in the first place. I kept meaning to trade it in for something more suited to surveillance work, the coupe being about as unobtrusive as Chatsworth on a council estate. But it was such a pleasure to drive, I hadn’t got round to it yet.

Back in the living room, Michael clearly wasn’t brooding on his rebuff. He was absorbed in the computer games reviews again. “Coffee won’t be long,” I said.

He closed the magazine and replaced it in the rack. Either he had very good ma