'Gary?' I said.

He straightened up, placed the wrench lovingly on the engine block, and frowned. That's right. Who wants to know?'

Time for another fairy story. 'My name's Brannigan. Kate Brannigan. I'm an architect. A friend of mine bought some land from Tom Harris, and she needs to get in touch with him about another deal. The lads at the Farmer's Arms reckoned you might know where I can find him.'

Gary gave a knowing smile as he wiped his hands on his oily overalls. 'Owes you money, does he?'

'Not exactly,” I said. 'But I need to speak to him. Why? Does he owe you?'

Gary shook his head. 'I made sure of that. His kind, they're ten a penny. Ask you to do a job, you do it, you tell them what they owe, they ignore you. So, I made him pay up in cash. Half before, half after. Glad I did, an' all, looking at the way he's sunk without trace since he sold them plots on.'

'What made you think he was dodgy?'

Gary shrugged. 'I didn't know him, that's all. He wasn't from round here. And he obviously wasn't stopping, neither.'

This was like drawing teeth. Sometimes I think I might have been better suited to a career in psychotherapy. The punters might not want to talk to you either, but at least you get to sit in a warm; comfy office while you're doing it. 'What makes you say that?' I asked.

'When you're in business and you're planning to stop somewhere, you get a local bank account, don't you? Stands to reason,' he said triumphantly.

'And Tom Harris didn't?'

'I saw his chequebook. He was going to give me a cheque for the advance on the work, but I said no way, I wanted cash. But I got a good enough look at it to see that it wasn't a local bank that he had his account with.'

I tried to hide the deep breath. 'Which bank was it?' I inquired, resisting the temptation to kick-box him to within an inch of his life.

'Northshires Bank, in Buxton. That isn't even in Lancashire. And the account wasn't in his name, either. It was some business or other.' I opened my mouth and a smile twitched at the corner of Gary's mouth as he anticipated me. 'I didn't pay attention to the name. I just noticed that it wasn't Tom Harris.'

Thanks, Gary,” I said. 'You’ve been a big help. I don't suppose you'd know anybody else who might know where I can get hold of Tom Harris?'

'It's really important, is it?' he asked. I nodded. 'Harry Cartwright's the farmer who sold him the land. He might know.'

'Where's his farm?' I asked.

Gary shook his head with the half-smile of a man who's dealing with a crazy lady. 'How good are you with Dobermans? And if you get past them, he'll have his shotgun ready and waiting. He's not an easy man, Harry.' I must have looked like I was going to burst into tears. I imagine he thought they were tears of despair; they were really tears of frustration. Tell you what,' he said. 'I'll come with you. Give me a minute to get out of my overalls, and phone the old bugger to let him know we're coming. He's known me long enough to talk before he shoots.'

I walked back to the car and turned the heater up full. I hate the country.

Within ten minutes of leaving Gary's, we were driving up an unmetalled track. I stopped at a five-barred gate festooned with barbed wire, and Gary jumped out to open it. When he closed it behind me, he sprinted for the car. He'd barely slammed the door behind him when a pair of huge Dobermans hurled themselves at the passenger side of the car, barking and slavering hysterically. Gary grinned, which convinced me he wasn't the full shilling. 'Bet you're glad you brought me along,' he said.

I slammed the car into gear and continued up the track. Half a mile on, my headlights picked out a low stone building in the gathering rural gloom. The roof appeared to sag in the middle, and the window frames looked so rotten that I couldn't help thinking the first winter gales would have the glass halfway across the farmyard. I could tell it was a farmyard by the smell of manure. I drove as close as I could to the door, but before I could cut the engine, an elderly man appeared in the doorway. As confidently predicted by Gary, he was brandishing an over-and-under double-barrelled shotgun. Just then, the dogs arrived and started a cacophony of barking that made my fillings hurt. I really love the country.

'What now?' I demanded of Gary.

The old man approached. He wore a greasy cardigan over a collarless shirt that might have started its life the colour of an oily rag, but I doubted it. He walked right up to the car and stared through the window, the gun barrels pointing ominously through the glass. My opinion of T.R. Harris's bottle had just gone up a hundred per cent. Having satisfied himself that my passenger really was Gary, Cartwright stepped back a few feet and whistled to the dogs. They dropped at his feet like logs.

Gary said, 'If s OK, you can get out.' He opened his door and climbed out. Warily, I followed.

I moved close enough to get a whiff of the old man. It was enough to make me pray we could conduct our business out in the farmyard. Cartwright said, 'Gary says you're after Tom Harris. What I did with him was all legal, all above-board.'

'I know that, Mr… Cartwright. I just need to speak to Tom, and no one seems to know where I can find him. I hoped maybe you would know.'

He tucked his gun under one arm and fumbled in the deep pocket of his grimy corduroy trousers and produced a document which he waved under my nose. That's all I know,' he said.

I reached for it, but he snatched it back. You can look but you mustn't touch,' he said, just like a five-year-old. I held my breath and moved close enough to read it. It was an agreement between Henry George Cartwright of Stubbleystall Farm and Thomas Richard Harris of 134 Bolton High Road, Ramsbottom. I didn't have to read any further. I had more bells ringing in my head than Oxford on May morning. I smiled politely, thanked Harry Cartwright and got back in my car. Looking bewildered, Gary folded himself in beside me and we shot back down the track again.

Thomas Richard Harris. Tom, Dick and Harry. If Thomas Richard Harris was a straight name, I was Marie of Romania.

By eleven on Friday morning, I was stir crazy. Shelley was thrilled that I was stymied on our two paying jobs, the conservatories and the pharmaceuticals, and she wasn't about to let me bunk off and follow the clues to Alexis's con man. I was trapped in an office with a woman who wanted me to do paperwork, and I had no excuse to get away. By ten, all my files were up to date. By eleven, my case notes were not only written but polished to the point where I could have joined a writers' group and read them out. At five past eleven, I rebelled. Clutching the Ted Barlow file, I sailed through the outer office, telling Shelley I was following a new lead. It led me all the way to the Cornerhouse coffee shop, where I browsed through the file as I sipped a cappuccino. As I ploughed through my interview notes yet again, it hit me. There was something I could do while I was waiting for my Monday morning appointment at the Land Registry.

DKL Estates, the estate agents Diane Shipley had mentioned, was a shopfront opposite Chorlton Baths. DKL looked reasonably prosperous, but I realized almost immediately that there was a good reason for that. They specialized in renting, and in selling the kind of first-time-buyer properties that shift even at the bottom of a recession. There are always people desperate to climb on to the property ladder, not to mention the poor sods trading down. It looked to me as if they'd also got a significant number of ex-council houses on their books, which took a bit of courage. Their gamble seemed to have paid off in terms of customers, though. One woman walked in just ahead of me, but there were already a couple of other serious browsers. I joined them in their study of properties for sale.