Clean Break
Manchester-based, kick-boxing PI Kate Brannigan takes on the hard men of European organised crime as she battles to recover a Monet in a case that stretches love and loyalty to the limits.Manchester-based private eye Kate Brannigan is not amused when thieves have the audacity to steal a Monet from a stately home where she’s arranged security. She’s even less thrilled when the hunt for the thieves drags her on a treacherous foray across Europe as she goes head to head with organized crime. And as if that isn’t enough, a routine industrial case starts leaving a trail of bodies across the Northwest, giving Kate more problems than she can deal with.Cleaning up the mess in Clean Break forces Kate to confront harsh truths in her own life as she battles with a testing array of villains in a case that stretches love and loyalty to the limits.
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VAL McDERMID
Clean Break
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1995
Copyright © Val McDermid 1995
Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007327553
Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007327553 Version: 2017-06-02
To Chelsea fans everywhere,
in deepest sympathy; God knows, you need something to cheer you up.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
I donât know much about art, but I know what I donât like. I donât like paintings that go walkabout after Iâve set up the security system. I especially donât like them when Iâve packed my business partner off to the Antipodes for two months with the calm assurance that I can handle things while heâs gone.
The painting in question was a small Monet. When I say small, I mean in size, not in value. It would barely cover the hole my lover Richard punched in the wall of his living room in a moment of drunken ecstasy when Eric Cantona clinched the double for Manchester United, but it was worth a good dozen times as much as both our adjoining bungalows put together. Which, incidentally, they never will be. The painting depicted an apple tree in blossom and not a lot else. You could tell it was an apple tree; according to our office manager Shelley, thatâs because it was painted quite early on in Monetâs career, before his eyesight began to go and his whole world started to look like an Impressionist painting. Imagine, a whole artistic movement emanating from one blokeâs duff eyesight. Amazing what you can learn from the Open University. Shelley started a degree course last year, and what she doesnât know about the history of art Iâm certainly not qualified to uncover. Itâs not one of the course options in Teach Yourself Private Dicking.
The Monet in question, called, imaginatively enough, Apple Tree in Blossom, belonged to Henry Naismith, Lord of the Manor of Birchfield with Polver. Henry to his friends, and, thanks to John Majorâs classless society, to mere tradespeople like me. There were no airs and graces with Henry, but that didnât mean he didnât hide his thoughts and feelings behind his charming façade. Thatâs how I knew it was serious when I picked up the phone to his perfect vowels that September morning. âKate? Henry Naismith,â he started. I leaned back in my chair, expecting the usual cheery chat about his recent exploits before we got down to the nuts and bolts. Not today. âCan you come over to the house?â he asked.
I straightened up. This sounded like the kind of start to a Monday morning that makes me wish Iâd stayed in bed. âWhen did you have in mind, Henry?â
âAs soon as you can. We ahâ¦we had a burglary in the night and a chap from the police is popping round for more details. Heâll want to know things about the security system that I probably wonât be able to answer, and Iâd be awfully grateful if you could take a run over.â All this barely pausing for breath, never mind giving me the opportunity to ask questions.
I didnât have to check the diary to know that I had nothing more pressing than routine inquiries into the whereabouts of a company chairman whose directors were rather eager to ask him some questions about the balance sheet. âNo problem,â I said. âWhatâs missing?â I prayed it was going to be the TV and the video.
No such luck. There was silence on the end of the phone. I thought I could hear Henry drawing in a deep breath. âThe Monet,â he said tersely.
