I was out of luck. The barman who shimmied up to serve us looked more like a cruiserweight. While Richard ordered the drinks, I took a good look around. The pub was busy for a lunchtime. 'Plenty of Traceys,' Richard commented as he glanced round.
He wasn't wrong. The women looked as if collectively they might just scrape together enough neurons for a synapse. The men looked as if they desperately wanted to be taken for readers of GQ magazine. One day, I'm going to find a pub where I feel equally comfortable with the staff, the decor, the clientele and the menu. I rate the chances of that as high as coming home to find Richard doing the spring-cleaning.
Richard handed me my orange juice and soda and I steered him over to a crowded corner of the lounge where I'd spotted my man. I'd briefed Richard on the way so he was happy to oblige. We sat down a few yards away at a table that gave me a good view of what my target was up to. He was sitting at a table with a bunch of eager young men and women around him. There was nothing particularly discreet about his operation. For a start, he was wearing a bright green Sergio Tacchini shell suit. In front of him on the table were half a dozen watches. I could identify the fake Rolexes and Guccis from that distance. Within minutes, all of them had been bought. He appeared to be charging fifty pounds a time, and getting it without a quibble. But he didn't seem to be passing them off as the real thing. Realistically, though, anyone trying that routine would have to be a lot more discreet, dealing one on one to make it look like an exclusive.
Another half dozen watches appeared from Billy's contact's pockets, and most of them vanished as quickly as the others. He shuffled the remaining two back into his jacket then burrowed under the table. He surfaced with three cellophane packets containing shell suits. Surprise surprise. The suit he was wearing was a schneid.
'Sometimes this job is a pain in the arse,' I muttered to Richard.
He looked surprised. 'Did I hear right?' he asked in tones of wonderment. 'Did I hear you say you were less than one hundred per cent thrilled with your life in crime?'
'Piss off,' I quipped wittily. 'Just look at those shell suits! They're the business. If this wasn't a surveillance operation, I'd be over there right now buying those suits. Take a look at the colours!' I couldn't take my eyes off two of the suits, one gold, one teal blue. I just knew I'd look wonderful in those colours.
Richard got to his feet. 'Poor old Brannigan,' he teased. 'But I'm not working.' He moved towards the neighbouring table.
'Richard!' I wailed. A couple of heads turned and I lowered my voice to a piercing whisper. 'Don't you dare!'
He shrugged. 'Who's to know? Anybody asks you, I bought them for you as a present. You didn't have to know they were copies, did you?'
'That's not the point,' I hissed. 'I do know. Sit down right now before you blow me out of the water.'
Richard reluctantly did as I asked him. His face had sulk written all over it. “I thought you wanted one,' he muttered.
'Of course I do. I also want a Carrier tank watch, but I can't afford the real thing. I dare say if Dennis had offered me a copy before I got involved in this assignment, I'd have bought it. But this job changes things. I'm sorry, Richard, I know you were trying to please me. And if you want one for yourself, I won't mind.'
Richard shook his head. 'You and your bloody morals,' he commented darkly.
'Oh, come on! Who was it who read me a lecture a couple of months ago about how immoral it is to make tapes of my albums for my friends when it means taking the bread out uf the mouths of poor, starving rock stars like Jett?' I reminded him.
He grinned. 'OK, Brannigan, you win. Now, have you seen enough, or do I have to spend the whole day in this dump?'
I glanced over at the next table. The man had got to his feet, empty-handed, and was heading over towards the door, followed by most of his audience. I guessed the rest of his stock was in his car outside. 'I'm nearly done,' I told him. 'Let's just tag along with the kids and see what he's got hiding in his boot.'
We trailed behind at a discreet distance, and I managed to get a good look as we passed. The boot was full of shell suits in a wide choice of colours, but there were no rolls of watches that I could see. Nevertheless, it had been worth the trip, I pointed out as I drove Richard home. And there was a bonus too. If we pulled off the watches job, we might well be able to interest Sergio Tacchini in doing something similar for them. I'd been surprised to see the suits. I knew that schneid designer clothing was big business, but it was the first time I'd come across it connected, however tangentially, to the Smarts' business. I said as much to Richard.
'There's a lot of it about,' he said, to my surprise. 'I've seen all sorts of stuff on sale at gigs in the clubs. Anyway, I'm glad it worked out. Always happy to oblige the Sam Spade of Chorlton-on-Medlock.'
Poor sod, I thought. In reality, we live in Ardwick, one of those addresses that makes insurance companies blench. But Richard still believes the propaganda that the property developers came up with to convince us that we were moving somewhere select. 'Ardwick,' I corrected him absently. He ignored me and asked what my plans were for the afternoon. 'Work, I'm afraid. And this evening too, probably. Why?'
'Just wondered,' he said, too innocently for my liking.
'Tell, Barclay. Or else I'll tidy your study,' I threatened.
'Oh no, not that!' he pleaded. 'It's just that I've got the chance of a ticket for this afternoon's match at Old Trafford. But if you were free, I was going to suggest we went to the movies.'
The scale of the sacrifice made me realise he really does love me. I pulled up at the lights and impulsively leaned across to kiss him. 'Greater love has no man,' I remarked as I drove off.
'So will you drop me at that pub opposite the ground? I said I'd meet the lads there if I could make it,' he asked.
How could I refuse?
Moira's file made fascinating reading. The first interesting nugget came under the heading of 'Referral'. The entry read, 'Brought in by unidentified black male, who made donation of £500 and described her as a former employee in need of urgent help.' It sounded as if Stick had a bigger heart than he wanted anyone to know about. It also explained why he wanted five hundred pounds for his information.
Moira had apparently reached the point in her addiction where she realised that she wasn't going to have too many more last chances to kick the smack and change her life. As a result, she'd been a model patient. She had opted to go down the hardest road, kicking the drug with minimal maintenance doses of methadone. After her cold turkey, she had been extremely co-operative, joining in willingly with group therapy and responding well in personal counselling. After a four-week stay at the project, she had signed herself out, but had continued to turn up for her therapy appointments.
The sting in the tail for me came at the very end. Instead of going to the halfway house after her initial intensive treatment, she had moved in with a woman called Maggie Rossiter. The notes on the file said that Maggie Rossiter was a social worker with Leeds City Council and a volunteer worker at the Seagull Project.