I snuggled up to him and he paused in his stream of invective long enough to say, 'Have they got a Chinese in Buxton?'

'Try looking in the paper. Or the phone book. Or ring reception.'

The last suggestion obviously required the least effort. While he made the receptionist's day, I staggered back to the bathroom and struggled into my clothes, wishing I'd thought to bring an overnight bag. Luckily, my handbag always contains a tiny bottle of foundation and a functional compact with eyeshadows, blusher, mascara and lipstick, so I managed to hide the black shadows under my eyes and the bruise on my jaw.

By the time I'd finished, Richard was raring to go. I couldn't help feeling it was a little early for dinner and said so. 'I'm hungry,' Richard said. I raised my eyebrows. He smiled sheepishly. 'The receptionist said there's a pub that does live music on a Saturday night. Local bands, that sort of thing. I thought you'd probably want an early night, and I thought I might drop by later and see if there was anything worth listening to.'

Which translated as, 'This trip looks like a wash-out. If one of us can get something out of it, it won't have been a complete waste of time.' One of the ways rock journos like Richard get their stories is to maintain good relations with the record company A amp; R men. They're the ones who sign up new acts and build them into the next U2. So Richard's always on the look-out for U3 so he can tip the wink to one of his mates.

'No problem,' I sighed. 'Let's go and eat.' It was easier to give in, especially since I didn't think waiting till later would improve my appetite. The reaction to the accident seemed to have set in, and I was secretly grateful at the thought of an early night without having to worry about entertaining Richard.

The Chinese restaurant was in the main street, above a travel agency. Considering it was half past six on a Saturday night, the place was surprisingly busy. At least a dozen tables were occupied. We both took that as an indication that the food must be reasonable. I should have known better. All the other signs said the opposite. The fish tank was filled with goldfish rather than koi carp, the tables were already set with spoon and fork, there wasn't a Chinese character in sight on the menu, which was heavy on the sweet and sour and the chop suey. I've never fancied chop suey, not since someone told me with malice aforethought that it's Chinese for 'mixed bits'. Besides, it's not even a proper Chinese dish, just something they invented to keep the Yanks happy.

Richard grunted in outrage as he read the menu. As the waiter returned with our two halves of lager, Richard opened his wallet and pulled out a heavily creased piece of paper which he unfolded and waved under the waiter's nose. The waiter studied the Chinese characters gravely. At least he seemed to recognize Richard's favourite half-dozen Dim Sum dishes. A while ago, he persuaded the manager of his regular restaurant in town to write them down for him in case of emergency. This was clearly an emergency. The waiter cleared his throat, carefully folded up the paper and handed it back to Richard.

'No Dim Sum,' he said.

'Why not? I've shown you what I want,' Richard protested.

'No Dim Sum. Bamboo not hygienic,' the waiter retorted. He walked off before Richard could find his voice.

'Bamboo not hygienic?' Richard finally echoed, incredulity personified. 'I have now heard everything. Dear God, Brannigan, what have you got me into this time?'

I managed to pacify him long enough to order, which was my next mistake. They didn't do salt and pepper ribs, but barbecue ribs were on the menu. They were orange. I don't mean glossy reddish brown. I mean orange, as in Jaffa. The taste defied description. Even Richard was stunned into silence. He took a swig of tea to get rid of it, and nearly gagged. After a cautious sip, I understood why. Clearly unaccustomed to people wanting Chinese tea, they'd served us a pot of very weak yet stewed tea-bag.

I thought it couldn't get worse, but it did. When the main courses arrived, I thought Richard was going to burst a blood vessel. The sweet and sour pork consisted of a mound of perfectly spherical balls topped with a lurid red sauce that I'd bet contained enough E numbers to render half the population of Buxton hyperactive. The chicken in black bean sauce looked as if it had been knitted, and the fillet steak Cantonese appeared to have escaped from the Mister Minit heel bar. The waiter refused to understand that we wanted chopsticks and bowls.

The final indignity came when I took the lid off the fried rice. It was pink. I swear to God, it was pink. Richard just sat staring at it all, as if it was a bad joke and the real food would arrive in a minute.

I took a deep breath, and said, 'Just try to think of it as one of those things we do for love.'

'Does that mean if I threw it at the waiter, you'd think I didn't love you any more?' Richard growled.

'Not exactly. But I don't think it's going to get any better and I don't feel strong enough to cope with you shredding the waiter just as an act of revenge. Let's just eat what we can and go.' Normally, I'd have been the first to complain, but I didn't have the energy. Besides, I couldn't face the thought of trailing round Buxton trying to find somewhere half-decent to eat.

I think Richard saw the exhaustion in my face, since he caved in without a performance for once. We both picked at the food for a few minutes, then demanded the bill frostily. The waiter appeared oblivious to our dissatisfaction until Richard subtracted the ten per cent service charge from the bill. This was clearly a novel experience, and one that the waiter wasn't standing on for.

I couldn't handle the aggravation, so I walked downstairs to the street while Richard was explaining in words of several syllables to the waiter why he had no intention of paying a shilling for service. I was leaning against the door jamb, wondering how long I'd have to wait to see another human being, when the patron saint of gumshoes looked down on me and decided it was time I got something approaching an even break.

A white Transit van came down a side street facing me and turned on to the main street. Following my current obsession, I made a mental note of the name on the panels bolted on to the side of the van. 'B. Lomax, Builder', I read. His was one of the yards I'd visited that afternoon. The van drew up, and I heard the driver's door open and close, though I couldn't see anything since the van was between us. I guessed that the driver was heading for the pizzeria I'd noticed on the opposite side of the street.

Just then, Richard emerged, a grim smile on his face. 'Crack it?' I asked.

'I got him to knock a couple of quid off as well, on account of the ribs had triggered off an allergy and given you an asthma attack.'

I don't have asthma. As far as I am aware, I'm allergic to nothing except bullshit. I pointed this out to Richard as we walked back to the car. 'So?' replied. They don't know that, do they? And besides…'

'Shut up!' I interrupted, guessing what was coming next. 'I do not need to be told that I look shitty enough to be suffering from an asthma attack.'

'Please yourself,' he said.

I eased myself into the car, then screeched in excitement. 'It's him, Richard, it's him!' I shouted, digging Richard in the ribs more savagely than I intended.

'Who?' he yelped.

The guy I'm looking for,' I yelled, unable to take my eyes off the man who had come out carrying three pizzas which he was carefully placing on the passenger seat of the white Transit. It was the man I'd seen with Cheetham, the same man I'd seen in the Renew-Vations van, the man I strongly suspected was also T.R. Harris.

That's the guy that came horsing out of the pub at lunch-time,' Richard said, on the ball as ever.