Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘All right,’ I said gently. ‘McMahon could have done more. He could have challenged the police evidence. They were tipped off about the robbery but Fullalove arrived on his own, and then Jones turned up later. That seems odd. McMahon should have been harder on the forensic evidence, but the trouble is that McMahon went onto higher things. Not many lawyers are going to accept that a man in his position made a total mess of your father’s defence.’

  ‘They didn’t. Dad was refused leave to appeal. There were insufficient grounds.’

  I sighed. I didn’t know what else there was for me to do.

  ‘Won’t you at least admit that there are grounds for doubts?’ she pleaded. ‘I hate the thought of Dad dying in that place. He was so active. He used to take me out in the country all the time when I was a child. He’d walk miles with me on his shoulders.’

  ‘There may be some little hook we can hang an appeal on,’ I conceded. I wanted to let her down as lightly as possible. ‘The courts are more lenient than they were. Do you mind if I make a copy of the letter back at the office? I need to think about it. I can’t tell you at a first glance. Maybe I’ll show it to a lawyer friend. There might be something, there might be nothing.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a chance?’

  ‘It is funny the way the police weren’t challenged about finding your father like that. There can’t be many criminals who just fall into their laps so easily.’

  ‘Hah! Criminals!’ she said with a curl of her lip.

  ‘Marti, Vince admits that he was a professional criminal. Whatever happens he’s not going to come up smelling entirely of roses. They’ll probably still want to blackball him at Tarn Golf Club.’

  ‘He’ll be in good company then, won’t he?’ she said with a smile. ‘I knew you were the right man that day you plucked me out of the mud at that dump.’

  ‘The right man for what, Marti?’

  ‘Well, who knows? What I said before about not having romantic ideas . . . I don’t think I’m going to feel like that for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Yet you think I’m a hit man.’

  ‘No, that was just a joke. Believe me.’

  ‘Do you want to come back to the office with me while I photostat this? We can get a taxi and be there in minutes.’

  She took her glasses off. There was a faint blush of colour on her face that hadn’t been put there by her husband’s fist. Perhaps she was remembering her nap on the couch in my office and my partner’s interpretation of it.

  ‘No, Dave, I’d better not,’ she said quietly. ‘I can be on the Metro in five minutes. You look after the letter and I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Where are you staying? I could give you a lift.’

  ‘No, it’s better this way,’ she said, getting up to go.

  ‘I could follow you, you know.’

  ‘Better not, Dave, you’ll only be disappointed. Let’s just see how things work out, shall we?’

  She leaned forward and blew me a kiss.

  I watched her leave as she’d watched me arrive. She moved along the pavement like royalty at a command performance. It was a pity she’d married a wealthy wife beater; she could have made her living on a fashion catwalk. Then I got a grip on myself. What was I doing in the middle of a weekday afternoon ogling a woman I hardly knew with my tongue hanging out like a rottweiler in a butcher’s backyard? I swigged the wine in my glass and got up to go.

  As I slithered across the highly polished pine floor towards the exit the Spanish-looking waiter raised his eyebrow and shot me a curious look that could have meant anything. It could be that the lad was constructing his own little fantasy about his customers. Whatever his daydream was, I knew that mine was a waste of time.

  ‘Hasta la vista, Manuel,’ I said.

  ‘Yo,’ he replied, as cool as the ice he was dumping into a champagne bucket.

  11

  ‘YOU’RE A STUPID fool, Dave,’ Janine said dismissively. Two weeks in London had sharpened her up even more. I loved the mixture of acid and syrup she ladled out by the bucketful. So did her readers. It was masochism, I suppose. She wouldn’t tell me the exact details but I gathered that her editor had upped her salary to help her decide to stay in Manchester.

  ‘Thanks,’ I drawled. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘For God’s sake, the Vince King case was a cause célèbre, at least here in Manchester, even if there hasn’t been much interest in it in recent years.

  ‘Everyone thought he was guilty, so that makes it so,’ I said. We were reading through press cuttings on Vince King and his trial that she’d brought home from the office.

  ‘Dave, as the man said, “It’s the evidence, stoopid!” Look at it, there’s masses of the stuff. King’s prints were on the gun.’

  ‘That was the economy,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“. . . the economy, stupid,” that’s what he said. Clinton.’

  ‘Oh,’ she sighed in exasperation, ignoring my correction. ‘The younger of the two victims, Dennis Musgrave, was only eighteen. He was King’s inside man at the GPO facility. He always pulled his jobs with the help of an inside man.’

  ‘Not the actual safe-cracking.’

  ‘Whatever . . . He needed Musgrave to get him into the secure area in the first place. There were so many alarms and safety devices it would have taken him a week to get near the high value safe without Musgrave. Musgrave was married with two children – did I say he was eighteen? Must have been a fast worker. Anyway, Musgrave, the poor prat, had told his wife that they’d soon be moving to a detached house in Worsley worth forty thousand. Three witnesses claimed they saw Musgrave with King at the Sawyers Arms in Tyldesley where Musgrave lived . . .’

  ‘I have my doubts about that. King was a complete professional. He’d never have been seen with an accomplice before a job. Police all over the country were on the lookout for him. If they’d clocked Musgrave they’d have known exactly where King was going to strike next.’

  ‘Are you saying three witnesses were liars?’

  ‘They might have seen Musgrave with someone in the pub. I just think it couldn’t have been King.’

  ‘Why not? Because his daughter’s got a bust you could ski down and come-hither eyes?’

  ‘We’re back to that, are we? Janine, if you knew how spiteful all that sounds . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not stereotyping me into some category of spiteful feminists,’ Janine snapped with a cynical laugh. Things had been going well between us since her return. I’d practically been living in her apartment for the three days since I collected her at the station on Saturday. Everything had been sweetness and light until now, Monday evening.

  ‘Dave, you’re such an easy mark for a sob story. You need somebody to go out with you and fend off these predatory birds. Marti probably got that bruise when Carlyle threw his wallet at her.’

  ‘They’re divorced, or getting divorced.’

  ‘Strange, I’ll believe that when I see it in print. There’s been nothing so far. That type of woman doesn’t cut herself off from her meal ticket on a passing whim.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I admitted. ‘But I wish you’d drop all this stuff about Marti. OK, I mean, she is attractive but not as much as you.’ I came round the table behind Janine and slipped my hands under her breasts.

  ‘Not now, Dave,’ she murmured, twining her fingers in mine as they moved to unfasten her blouse. ‘Later. Jenny’s reading in the next room.’ She turned and gave me a consolation kiss.

  I drew a deep breath and went back to my side of the table.

  ‘By the way, has there been any mention of payment for this investigation?’ Janine insisted relentlessly, which I suppose is why she’s such a good journalist.

  ‘No, she’s got no money.’

  ‘Yet she walks round with the most expensive designer clothes from Selfridges.’

  ‘How do you know it was Selfridges?’

  ‘Because the last time I was at the Traffo
rd Centre I went into Selfridges and priced that suit she had on when she was so elegantly draped over your sofa. Eight hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘All right, I’m a fool, I admit it. But I promised to have a look at her father’s case and I will, with or without your co-operation.’

  ‘Don’t get huffy with me, dear. You need me to see you straight,’ Janine said briskly. ‘Now, back to the case. What about DC Fred Fullalove? How do you explain him away?’

  ‘King swore that he was never even in the room where Fullalove was killed. It was an annexe away from the safe room.’

  ‘Yet the forensic scientist, Dr Sterling Sameem, testified that fibres on the soles of King’s trainers and clothes could only have come from the carpet in that room. Here it is . . . “The chances of there being similar fibres picked up elsewhere are remote because that room was carpeted with a defective batch that was only sold to the Post Office.” Face it, Dave. You don’t need this. Your firm’s doing well, you’re on the right side of the police for once. Send the letter back to her and tell her that you’ve looked into it and you feel there’s no chance.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. I was thinking about it. I was thinking about Vince King walking round and round in his cell like a caged tiger. I was thinking about Janine too.

  ‘I’ll have to see her,’ I said at last. ‘And before you ask, it’s not because I’m panting after her. I couldn’t just snub her in a letter, I’ll have to speak to her.’

  ‘You’re just old-fashioned, aren’t you?’ Janine said sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Which is why I want to settle down with you.’

  ‘Dave, you’ll have to give me more time. I can’t just plunge into a permanent relationship. The last man I trusted wasn’t happy until he’d put an ocean and a continent between us. Now you want to rush off because I disagree with you.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I understand how you feel.’

  I turned to make the long trek to my own flat next door. We didn’t usually sleep together on weekday nights, though I was often summoned to her flat of a morning by desperate pleas for help to get Jenny and Lloyd ready for school or nursery.

  ‘Look, don’t go yet,’ Janine said, pulling me back. ‘Listen, you can’t solve every mystery,’ she said seriously. ‘It’s no good taking the whole world on your back. There are all kinds of things King could do for himself. If he’d make an admission they’d consider him for parole and he could take up his own case, but from what you said he doesn’t sound all that anxious to get out.’

  I looked at her earnest, grave face. Her eyes were full of intelligence and feeling, but intelligence doesn’t always hack it. Like a lot of very clever people, Janine was capable of making elementary mistakes. Or was I the one making the mistake?

  I must have continued my movement in the direction of the door because Janine laid a firm hand on my arm.

  ‘This way, stoopid!’ she said, leading me to her bedroom. ‘Wait while I see if the kids are asleep.’

  It didn’t require strong-arm tactics to lure me into her bed.

  ‘Where do you think we’re heading, Dave?’ she asked, as she lay in my arms after we’d made love.

  ‘I don’t know. I think the idea that life is leading us somewhere is an illusion.’

  ‘Don’t go all deep and philosophical on me. It doesn’t suit you,’ she said, pinching my shoulder painfully. ‘You know what I mean – us.’

  ‘Where do you want us to head? I’ve told you often enough what I want.’

  ‘I’m never going to be totally dependent on any man again.’

  ‘I rather hoped that you were going to keep me . . . and we’re not all like Henry Talbot.’

  ‘That bastard!’

  There was a period of silence while we both considered Henry’s perfidy.

  ‘Listen, I’ll probably be staying in the Manchester area for quite a while.’

  ‘Great!’ I said, sincerely.

  ‘I thought I might look for a bigger house, somewhere out near Prestbury, Alderley Edge, somewhere where there’d be decent schools for Jenny and Lloyd.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I said cautiously. My thoughts had tended more in the Cheadle or Handforth direction. A shanty right here in Chorlton-cum-Hardy would have been fine by me. Janine’s editor must have come up with lots of financial arguments to keep her in Manchester. By the time you reach Alderley Edge the leafy suburbs are so verdant that you’re almost in virgin rainforest.

  ‘I thought I might hire a live-in nanny as well. It’s unfair to keep expecting you or your parents to step in whenever there’s an emergency.’

  ‘Love, you know that’s absolutely no problem. We all love the children.’

  ‘Dave, it’s no problem for you but it is for me.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, pondering why it was better to pay some dozy teenager to look after the children.

  ‘I mean, we’d still keep in touch. Like at weekends and everything as we do now. There’s no one else.’

  ‘I see,’ I murmured. My voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘Look, I’ve tried marriage and that stuff. It doesn’t work.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘We could go on holiday. I thought the Seychelles sounds great, those long deserted beaches, or we could try Greece or Barbados, wherever you’d prefer.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Dave, you’re going to have to face the fact that I’m not the sort of homebody, apple-pie baking, slipper-warming little wifey that you’re looking for.’

  ‘Now you’re talking nonsense. When have I ever said that I was looking for someone like that?’

  ‘Oh, you imply it often enough.’

  ‘Rubbish! You’re imagining things. I think you’ve every right to make a career for yourself.’

  ‘It might be better if you looked for someone else,’ she said, slipping away from my side and moving to the edge of the bed. ‘This Marti will be free soon. I should imagine she’s very loving and fertile. She probably wants half a dozen kids.’

  ‘I know nothing about Marti. She might already have a dozen kids for all I know.’

  ‘In that case,’ she said in a less determined voice, ‘perhaps you do need to look for a little homebody. Hanging around with me is doing you no good.’

  ‘And how do you think I’d find one of these homebodies, assuming that they still exist? Advertise? “PI requires simpering homebody as wife, uncritical hero-worshipper and mother of children. Must be able to darn socks and make hotpot while he’s out playing macho-man on the mean streets of Manchester.”’

  We both laughed at this. I could feel the tension dissipating.

  ‘You’re a clinging devil, aren’t you, Cunane? I’m not going to get rid of you easily,’ she said.

  I turned to grab her but she slipped out of bed, naked as she was, and going over to the dressing table began jotting notes on the pad she kept there. Unlike Marti King’s, my libido hadn’t taken a train ride out of town. Aroused, I slipped over to her and ran my hand down her back.

  ‘Hmmm, lovely,’ she purred. ‘I see you still need me to take care of you. I was jotting down some notes for an article. You’ve given me an idea . . . “The Plight of the Traditional Male”.’

  What followed was certainly traditional enough.

  12

  WAKING UP AND looking at Janine’s face on the pillow was my idea of a good start to the day. Jenny and Lloyd thought so too. They’d joined us some time during the early hours. They were both fast asleep.

  Janine woke with a groan. ‘Devil,’ she said, grinning and kissing me. ‘You’ve worn me out.’

  I laughed. ‘Stay at home if you like. Take the day off and bake an apple pie.’

  ‘Don’t start that again. Dave, you are going to be all right, aren’t you? I mean my move and everything? I couldn’t stand it if you turned all mushy and whimpery.’

  ‘What, me? I thought I was the original macho-man.’

  ‘Stay that way, plea
se,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stomach any gush of emotion.’

  ‘When have I ever had any emotions or feelings?’ I said, leaping out of bed and getting into my trousers before the children woke up. ‘I’m off to work unless you want me to take Lloyd to the nursery.’

  ‘No, as usual I’ll just struggle on until I drop,’ she said with a sigh.

  Before leaving the room I looked back at her and the children. Their two little bodies were jammed up as close as they could get to their mother. Janine smiled at me. Why did everything always have to be so complicated? I shook my head and left. Plenty of men would jump at the chance of the refrigerated relationship Janine was offering.

  When I got to my own flat I looked at the clock. It was still incredibly early, not yet seven. I showered and put on my second best tracksuit and went out for a run on the Meadows. I didn’t want to be cool, sweaty was more my inclination. It was one of those sharp, bright northern mornings that partly make up for the grim, dark dampness of the winter months. Even so early, things were stirring down by the banks of the Mersey. There were joggers and twitchers and riders all moving along the path beside the swiftly flowing river. Its colour was the usual dull peaty brown this morning, no chemical spillages up in Stockport last night. Traffic was humming along the nearby motorway but at this time in the morning the sound wasn’t intrusive. All us early risers like to pretend that we’re deep in the countryside.

  As I ran I felt a surge of energy and determination. I could take all that Janine threw at me and come back for more. She was right, I am a clinger. I didn’t run too far, just enough to work some of the tension out of my system.

  I jogged along a winding, narrow lane with a hawthorn hedge on one side and a ditch on the other. A Grand Cherokee jeep came rocketing round the bend towards me. If he was trying to kill a pedestrian he was going the right way about it. He was right in my path. I jumped to the edge of the ditch and waved. His windows were blacked out but he must have seen me. Instead of swerving away, the jeep turned towards me, ploughing right into the ditch and sending up a bow-wave of spray. I dived for my life and jammed myself against a barbedwire fence. By the time I got the dirty water out of my eyes the jeep was gone, zooming round the next bend.