Crack Down Read Free

his spritzer. “Leo aren’t crazy about it either because it skews their market share figures, particularly in high turnover months like August,” he added.
    â€œSo where do I come in?” I asked.
    â€œI’ve come up with an alternative distribution system,” he said simply. Now, all I know about the car business is what I’ve learned from my dad, an assembly line foreman with Rover in Oxford. But even that little is enough for me to realize that what Andrew Broderick had just said was on a par with the Prime Minister announcing he was going to abolish the Civil Service.
    I swallowed hard. “We don’t do bodyguard jobs,” I said.
    He laughed, which was the first time I’d doubted his sanity. “It’s so simple,” he said. “Instead of having to fill their showrooms with cars they’re then under pressure to sell asap, dealers would carry only one sample of the model. The customer would specify color, engine size, petrol or diesel, optional extras, etc. The order would then be faxed to one of several regional holding centers where the specific model would be assembled from Leo’s stock.”
    â€œDon’t tell me, let me guess. Leo are fighting it tooth and nail because it involves them in initial expenditure of more than threepence ha’penny,” I said resignedly.
    â€œAnd that’s where you come in, Ms. Brannigan. I want to prove to Leo that my system would be of ultimate financial benefit to both of us. Now, if I can prove that at least one of our bigger chains of dealerships is committing this particular fraud, then I can maybe start to get it through Leo’s corporate skulls that a helluva lot of cash that should be in our business is being siphoned off. And then maybe, just maybe, they’ll accept that a revamped distribution service is worth every penny.”
    Which is how Richard and I came to be playing happy newlyweds round the car showrooms of England. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Three weeks into the job, it still seemed like a good idea. Which only goes to show how wrong even I can be.

2
    The following afternoon, I was in my office, putting the finishing touches to a routine report on a fraudulent personal accident claim I’d been investigating on behalf of a local insurance company. As I reached the end, I glanced at my watch. Twenty-five to three. Surprise, surprise, Richard was late. I saved the file to disc, then switched off my computer. I took the disc through to the outer office, where Shelley Carmichael was filling in a stationery supplies order form. If good office management got you on to the Honors List, Shelley would be up there with a life peerage. It’s a toss-up who I treat with more respect—Shelley or the local pub’s Rottweiler.
    She glanced up as I came through. “Late again, is he?” she asked. I nodded. “Want me to give him an alarm call?”
    â€œI don’t think he’s in,” I said. “He mumbled something this morning about going to a bistro in Oldham where they do live rockabilly at lunch time. It sounded so improbable it has to be true. Did you check if today’s draft has come through?”
    Shelley nodded. Silly question, really. “It’s at the King Street branch,” she said.
    â€œI’ll pop out and get it now,” I said. “If Boy Wonder shows up, tell him to wait for me. None of that ‘I’ll just pop out to the Corner House for ten minutes to have a look at their new exhibition’ routine.”
    I gave the lift a miss and ran downstairs. It helps me maintain the illusion of fitness. As I walked briskly up Oxford Street, I felt at peace with the world. It was a bright, sunny day, though the temperature was as low as you’d expect the week before the spring bank holiday. It’s a myth about it always raining in Manchester—
we only make it up to irritate all those patronizing bastards in the