Free Kick Back by Val McDermid Page B

missing conservatories.

7
    Since the Land Registry keeps office hours rather than supermarket ones, I couldn’t have done anything more that afternoon, even supposing they didn’t insist that you make a prior appointment to look at the registers. The real blow was that Ted had inconsiderately sold his conservatories to properties that were covered by two separate offices; the Warrington ones came under Birkenhead, the Stockport ones under Lytham St. Annes, an arrangement about as logical as having London covered by Southampton. Just to confuse things even more, the Lytham registry is in Birkenhead House … Ever get the impression they really don’t want you to exercise your rights to examine their dusty tomes? However, I did manage to get an appointment in Birkenhead for the Monday morning. When I read over the list of addresses, the woman I spoke to sounded positively gleeful. It’s a joy to deal with people who love their work. After sorting that out, I felt I could pursue Alexis’s dodgy builder with a clear conscience.
    I went home to change into something a little less threatening than a business suit. While I was there, I tried to ring T. R. Harris’s solicitor, Mr. Graves. The number rang out without response. The idleness of some of the legal profession never ceases to amaze me. Twenty past four and everyone had knocked off for the day. Maybe Thursday was early closing day in Ramsbottom. I couldn’t find T. R. Harris in the phone book, which was annoying but not too surprising, given the habits of builders.
    My hair was still damp from my shower at the gym, so I gave it a quick blast with the hair dryer. I decided a couple of months ago to let it grow. Now it’s reached my shoulders, but instead of growing longer, it just seems to get wilder. And I’ve noticed a
couple of gray hairs in among the auburn. Some hair colors go gray gracefully, but auburn ain’t one of them. So far, there are few enough to pull out, but I suspect it won’t be long before I have to hit the henna, like my mother before me. Muttering under my breath, I chose a pair of russet trousers, a cream poloneck angora and lambswool jumper and a tweedy jacket. Now the nights were drawing in, it was time for my favorite winter footwear, my dark tan cowboy boots that might have seen better days but fit like a pair of gloves. Just the thing for a trip to the horrid, nasty, windy, wet, dark countryside. If you have to abandon the city, you might at least be dressed for it. Remembering the lack of street lights out there, I slipped a small torch in my bag.
    As I drove across town towards the motorway, I decided that I needed to track down the farmer who had sold the land to T. R. Harris in the first place. But on the way, I decided to check out Harris’s premises. I wanted to know where I could lay hands on him once I had my ammunition.
    134 Bolton High Road wasn’t the builder’s yard I’d been expecting. It was a corner shop, still open for the sale of bread, chocolate, cigarettes and anything else the forgetful had omitted to lay in for the evening’s viewing. An old-fashioned bell on a coiled spring jangled as I opened the door. The teenage lad behind the counter looked up from his motor-bike magazine and gave me the once-over reserved for anyone who hadn’t been crossing the threshold on a regular basis for the last fifteen years.
    â€œI’m looking for a builder,” I said.
    â€œSorry, love, we don’t sell them. There’s no demand, you see.” He struggled to keep a straight face, but failed.
    â€œI’m demanding,” I said. I waited for him to think of the reply.
    He only took a few seconds. “I bet you are, love. Can I help?”
    â€œA builder called Harris. T. R. Harris. This is the address I’ve got for him. Do you act as an accommodation address for people?”
    He shook his head. “Me mam won’t stand on for it. She says