'The first thing we do is we buy a local paper and then we find a nice place to have lunch, and while you're stuffing your greedy little face, I will study the paper and see who the local builders are. Then, after lunch, we will behave like tourists and do a tour of Buxton. Only, instead of taking in the sights, we'll be taking in the builders' yards.'

'But there won't be anyone there on a Saturday afternoon,' Richard objected.

“Iknow that,' I said through tight lips. 'But there will be neighbours. You know. The sort of net-twitchers who can tell you what people drive, what they look like and whether vans marked "T.R. Harris, Builders" ever find their way into the yard-'

Richard groaned. 'And I'm missing Man United and Arsenal for this-

'I'll buy lunch,' I promised. He pulled a doubtful face. 'And dinner.' He brightened up.

We ended up in a pub near the opera house that looked like it had been single-handedly responsible for Laura Ashley's profits last year. The chairs were upholstered in a fabric that matched the wallpaper, and the mahogany-stained wood of the furniture was a perfect match for the big free-standing oval bar in the centre of the big room. In spite of the decor, however, they were still clearly not catering for anything other than a local clientele. Richard complained bitterly because their idea of designer beer was a bottle of brown ale. He ended up nursing a pint of lager, then insisted on sitting in a side bar with a view of the door so if anyone he knew came in he could swap his drink for my vodka and grapefruit juice. Humouring him, I settled for a view of the rest of the room. Luckily, the food was good. Wonderful sandwiches, stunning chips. Proper chips, big fat brown ones like my Granny Brannigan used to make in a chip pan so old and well-used that it was black. And the campaign to keep Richard happy got a boost when he discovered Sticky Toffee Pudding on the sweet menu.

After his second helping, we were ready to make a move. I staggered upstairs to the ladies while Richard attempted to scrape the pattern off the plate. Coming back down the wide staircase, I got the kind of surprise that makes people miss their footing and end up looking like human pretzels in hallways. It also has the unfortunate side effect of attracting an enormous amount of attention. Luckily, because of my brush with permanent disability the night before, I was clutching the banister tightly.

I moved gingerly down the last few stairs and slipped round the back of the oval bar where I could study my prey rather less obviously. Halfway down the stairs may well be a nice place to sit, but it sure as hell is an appalling place to do a stakeout. I edged round the bar, getting a couple of strange looks from the barman, till I could see them in the mirror without them being able to get a clear view of me.

Over at a small table in the bay window, Martin Cheetham was deep in earnest conversation with someone I'd seen before. The hunk with the van who'd looked straight through me outside the Corn Exchange after I'd interviewed Cheetham. Today, they were both out of their working clothes. Cheetham wore a pair of cords and an Aran sweater, while his companion looked even hunkier than before in a blue rugby shirt tucked into a pair of Levis. There was a black leather blouson slung over the arm of his chair. Whatever they were talking about, Cheetham wasn't happy. He kept leaning forward, clutching his glass of beer tightly. His body was like a textbook illustration of tension.

By contrast, his companion looked as relaxed as a man on his holidays. He leaned back in his seat, casually smoking a slim cigar. He kept flashing smiles at Cheetham which didn't reassure him one little bit. They'd have reassured me if I'd been on the receiving end, no messing. He was seriously sexy.

Unfortunately, it was beginning to look as if he might just be seriously villainous too. Here was Martin Cheetham, the man who had offered the land deal to Alexis and Chris, sitting drinking and talking with a guy in Buxton that I had pegged as a builder. And Alexis and Chris had been cheated out of their money on a deal arranged by the same Martin Cheetham with T.R. Harris, a builder with Buxton connections. I tried to remember the name on the van the hunk had parked outside the Corn Exchange, but the brain cell that had been taking care of the information appeared to be one of the ones that perished on Barton Bridge.

I realized that watching the pair of them wasn't really getting me anywhere. I needed to be able to hear their conversation. I gave the layout of the room some attention. Obviously, I didn't want Cheetham to see me. Of course, if he was innocent of any shady dealing, he'd have no problem with my presence. But I was beginning to have serious suspicions about his role in the business, so I wasn't about to take the chance.

I figured that if I cut across the room behind Cheetham, I could slide along an empty banquette till I was just behind him. From there, I should be able to hear something of their conversation. It wouldn't require much in the way of stealth, which was just as well, given the condition of my body. I made it across the room, but as I was edging towards the end of the banquette the hunk caught sight of me. He was instantly alert, sitting up and leaning forward to say something to Cheetham. The solicitor immediately swivelled round in his chair. I was well and truly blown.

Bowing to the inevitable (not a position that comes naturally to me), I got up and walked towards them. Cheetham's face registered momentary panic, and he cast a look over his shoulder to his companion, who flicked an alert look at me and said something inaudible to Cheetham. Cheetham ran a nervous hand through his dark hair then took a step towards me. 'Miss Brannigan, what a surprise, let me buy you a drink,' he said without drawing breath. He stepped to his left, blocking the way past him.

In total frustration, I watched his companion turn on his heel and practically run out of the bar. I gave Cheetham the hard stare. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the colour had vanished from under his tan, leaving him looking like he'd suddenly developed cirrhosis. 'I was hoping you'd introduce me to your friend,' I said, making the best of a bad job.

His smile barely made it to his lips, never mind his dark eyes. 'Er, no, sorry, he had to rush.' He picked up his glass and took a swift sip. 'Do let me buy you a drink, Miss Brannigan,' he pleaded.

'No thanks. I was just leaving myself. Do you have a lot of friends in the building trade, Mr. Cheetham?'

He looked as if he wanted to burst into tears. The building trade? I'm sorry, I'm not at all sure that I understand you.'

Tour friend. The one who just left? He's a builder, isn't he?'

He gave a nervous laugh. It sounded like a spaniel choking on a duck feather. From the look on his face, he realized it hadn't really worked either. He shifted gear and tried for the throwaway approach. 'You must be mistaken. John's a lorry driver. He works for one of the quarry companies.'

'You're sure about that, are you?' I asked.

'Well,' he said, recovering his poise, 'I've known him and his family for years, and if he's not a lorry driver, he's done a good job of fooling the lot of us. I was at university with his sister.' It was a great performance.

I had no evidence. All I had were a lot of suspicions and one or two coincidences. It wasn't nearly enough to harass a member of the Law Society. 'I'll be seeing you around,' I said, trying to make it sound like a threat rather than a promise. I stalked off, the effect rather spoiled by the limp.

I found Richard waiting crossly on the pavement outside the pub. 'At last!' he sighed. 'Do you need to go to a chemist for some laxatives, or were you just enjoying the Buxton Advertiser so much you didn't notice the time? I've been standing here like patience on a flaming monument.'