Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘Yes, Celeste, like you; black, beautiful and silent.’

  She pursed her lips and bustled over to the coffee machine.

  Putting Clyde Harrow in his place wasn’t quite so easy. I spent the best part of an hour trying to persuade him that the Chorlton pigeon war, as he insisted on calling it, was a non-event. Mrs Griffiths belonged to an animal defence group which had put him on to the story.

  All the time that Harrow was speaking I was racking my weary wits with the question of why a murder in the centre of Manchester was no longer news. I was no wiser when he left. He’d suggested various little stratagems to me – that I recruit a band of helpers to confront the anti-pigeon forces; that I retaliate in kind with a hosepipe – all intended to give him a ‘fun’ story of three minutes’ duration.

  When he’d gone Celeste came in.

  ‘I take it you’re not pleased with me, Dave,’ she said boldly.

  ‘I’m not unhappy, Celeste. You’ll learn.’

  She favoured me with a broad smile.

  ‘I found Angelina . . . she’s working for a catering firm out at the airport. Shall we go and pick her up?’

  ‘Dilemmas, dilemmas,’ I said quietly. I told her about the shrine to Saint Leah that Mr Levy had created in Bowdon and my doubts about where Angelina fitted into it all.

  ‘You mean we might not tell him where she is?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But he’s a client. It’s up to him what he does with the information,’ my nineteen-year-old assistant argued sensibly.

  ‘You’re right,’ I agreed. ‘But it’s just that you need to learn from day one that there is sensitive information in the private detective business and . . .’

  ‘We’ve got to make sure that there’s no comeback before we start handing the stuff out?’ she said, completing my thought.

  ‘Something like that. I think we need to just sit on the news for a day or two until we’ve sussed out exactly what’s going on. He’s waited for two months. A day or two longer won’t hurt him.’

  Sam Levy had told me to bill him for a whole day. That was only fair because the rest of that day wasn’t much use to me. I took a taxi home and then had a long, very hot bath in an attempt to sweat the excess alcohol out of my blood.

  I needed time to think.

  My new mountain bike has more springs on it than a tart’s mattress but I usually manage to work up a sweat on it. When I reached the Meadows it was one of those clear, calm evenings we occasionally get when dusk seems to creep on so imperceptibly that twilight might last forever. Dark clouds were moving slowly against a very deep blue evening sky. The lengthening shadows suited my mood.

  I pedalled along the Mersey bank taking the upstream route towards Northenden. The river rushed past, the dark waters in a hurry for their union with the Irish Sea at Liverpool Bay. What was I in a hurry for? My life had no direction. Here I was tearing along a narrow path, pounding the light alloy pedals, flicking through the Shimano gears, and for what? I tried to shake the mood of depression that a morning of whisky drinking had brought on. Why was I down? I had a job, a good life by most standards. But it didn’t seem to be quite enough. I tried to take my mind off my problems by concentrating on the puzzle Mr Samuel Levy represented.

  I rode on to the point where Palatine Road crosses the river.

  I was approaching the bridge when they emerged. Like magic, five youths suddenly appeared in front of me; two were black, one mixed race and two white. I knew I was in for bother when I saw that three of them had the hoods of their anoraks up. The biggest and tallest of them grabbed my handlebars. I’d already slowed, so he didn’t jerk me off the bike as he’d intended.

  ‘Hey, let us have a ride on your bike, mate,’ the hooded youth bawled, holding on to the bars firmly. His gang laughed. The equation was so simple: five against one; my property was about to become their property.

  It wasn’t the ringleader’s lucky day. My bleak mood and the adrenaline surge made me nasty. I swung both my feet up and over the bike and into Hoody’s chest, a spectacular move by any standard. I was surprised at my own agility. The hooded youth was taken completely off his guard. He shot away backwards, off the path and down the steep bank into the dark swirling waters below. It wasn’t deep enough to drown him unfortunately, as the immediate volley of curses proved, but he’d have trouble climbing back up the steep embankment.

  As the other four, all big lads more like eighteen- or nineteen-year-olds than school kids, surged forward I whipped the stubby little bike pump up from its fixture.

  ‘Come on,’ I snarled. ‘I can’t take you all but I’ll mark one of you.’ The ferocity sounded convincing even to me and it certainly was to them. These things are ninety per cent bluff. They counted on numbers. I was relying on a rush of blood to the head. It was as if the ground under their feet had turned to treacle. The forward charge slowed to a stop. No one wanted to be the first to come into contact with the pump. In the gloom against the dark bridge it must have looked like a club.

  ‘Cream the fucking bastard,’ the bedraggled leader screamed from below. They looked down at him and then at me. ‘Christ, I’m drowning,’ he shrieked as the river stones suddenly slipped under him.

  ‘Come on, brave lads,’ I taunted.

  They backed off. One of them started pretending that helping his friend in the water was more important than kicking my face in. The others suddenly became observers.

  I was on the bike and racing towards Chorlton before they had time to change their minds. Oaths and stones were hurled but none of the would-be muggers chanced his arm directly. As for me, I made the return trip to Chorlton Meadows in record time.

  I got back to my flat and had a shower, and I was towelling myself down when I heard a familiar but unexpected knock on the door. I slipped on a dressing gown and let Janine in.

  ‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ she said grumpily.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I?’ I demanded.

  ‘Are you on something, Dave?’ she muttered sarcastically. ‘You’ve got a wild look in your eyes. Come round for a drink. I’m going stir crazy next door.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand,’ she said in a disgruntled voice. ‘You think all women should be good little mothers sitting with their infants twenty-four hours a day, darning their man’s socks when they’re not passing out the Band-Aids.’

  She came close and I gave her a hug. She responded. I slipped my hand down towards her derrière.

  ‘No, not tonight, Dave. You know the rule,’ she scolded. ‘Weekends only.’

  I removed the offending appendage but not before giving a gentle nip.

  ‘What’s brought all this on?’ I asked sympathetically.

  ‘Dave,’ she said firmly, ‘you know I’m not going to unburden myself on the subject of the hardships of motherhood so don’t even ask. Come round for a coffee and a chat. I’ll go mad if I watch another TV programme about single glamorous females having it off all over New York.’

  I laughed and followed her as she turned to the door.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ she warned. ‘I know you, get some clothes on. I’ll leave the door off the latch.’

  A moment later I was sitting fully clothed in her lounge. There was coffee on the table in front of us.

  ‘This is jolly and domestic,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Janine replied bleakly.

  I laughed.

  ‘What’s got into you tonight?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know whether I prefer you like this or all stormy and angst ridden.’

  ‘Take me as you find me,’ I invited.

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Janine, you know that murder in the street outside my office?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you think it’s un-newsworthy? I mean, if you had any info on it do you think your editor would run it on the front page or would he say this is boring and pop it at the bottom of a column on page t
wenty-nine?’

  ‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ she asked eagerly, all her ennui suddenly cast aside. ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just that a TV journalist was at the office today and he said the Olley killing was hardly even a story. No interest to him.’

  ‘Come on, Dave, stop being devious. You know something.’

  ‘I know that Clyde Harrow works for the Carlyle Corporation.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she spluttered.

  ‘If I was talking to Janine the lover I might be tempted to say something but I’m talking to Janine the journalist now and I can’t say anything.’

  ‘Can’t you just pretend that they’re both the same woman?’ she said in a husky voice.

  ‘It’s not the weekend, dear,’ I pointed out.

  She raised her right eyebrow by less than one millimetre.

  A few minutes later we were in her bed. She had her arms round me.

  ‘You’re so uncomplicated, Dave. Are you sure you want me?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  Afterwards Janine propped herself on one elbow and looked down at me seriously.

  ‘Listen, I didn’t just knock on your door tonight because I was desperate for adult company. Henry’s been in touch.’

  ‘That bastard! What does he want? Money?’

  ‘Worse, he wants to see the children. He’s moving back to England. He’s got a job here in Manchester.’

  ‘So he didn’t make it in Hollywood?’

  ‘Dave, you’re not listening. This isn’t just about him. He wants to pick up the pieces . . . between him and me, I mean.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Oh?”’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He says he needs us.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Stop that!’

  ‘What am I supposed to say? We just make love and then you announce that your ex-husband is back on the scene. What do you want me to do? I’ve always made my feelings clear.’

  ‘I suppose you have, but you could say something like you’ll bash his head in if he shows up.’

  ‘Oh, yes, and be told that I’ve got regressive tendencies.’

  ‘I expect I’ve asked for that, but do you honestly think I could go back to him? He’s been shacked up with a succession of brainless bimbos for the last two and a half years and now he wants to exercise his paternal rights.’

  ‘Janine, you’ll have to see your solicitor and decide what to do.’

  ‘I liked it better when you were ready to threaten violence at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘You’ve trained me out of that.’

  We lay in silence for a long while.

  ‘I’ll put the frighteners on him if you want,’ I said at last.

  ‘Tell me about Olley,’ Janine replied.

  ‘OK,’ I drawled. I knew when to change the subject before things got too heavy. I told her about the curious Sam Levy.

  ‘You don’t know that he isn’t really just after this Angelina,’ she said.

  ‘So he sends me on a three-week holiday to the Philippines?’

  ‘I don’t buy this idea of Carlyle wanting you out of town just because someone might decide that you were at the Renaissance and not him. If the police were going to do that they’d have done it already. No, if the Carlyles are trying to get you out of the country it’s because you know something and they don’t want you blurting it out in that uncomfortable way you have.’

  ‘Me blurting things out! That’s rich.’

  ‘Really. You must be aware of something that they don’t want disclosed. Think, you big bozo! What is it? Did Vince King tell you something?’

  I did think, but nothing came except sleep.

  21

  DAWN PATROL AT the park was more exciting than I’d bargained for. The anti-pigeon brigade was fully mobilised. A gaggle of determined-looking women were waiting for Mrs Griffiths as she approached the park gate.

  I positioned myself in front of the nervous bird lover.

  ‘That’s him! That’s the bastard that threatened me,’ a voice screeched. It was the woman who believed in early morning baths.

  ‘Stand aside, please,’ I said. ‘This is a public park and we’re entitled to go in.’

  ‘You’re not, you hired thug! We’re not going to let those filthy flying rats be fed,’ the fanatic gabbled. Then she folded her arms and stood directly in front of me. ‘Just try what you did yesterday and see what you get,’ she trilled in a high-pitched voice. Her sheeplike cohorts baaed their support. The urban guerrilla then plucked out a small package which she hurled at me with all her strength. I skipped to one side and the paper bag burst in the road revealing its disgusting contents.

  I turned to Mrs Griffiths and led her away.

  ‘But I’ve got to feed my birds. They depend on me,’ she said pathetically. She was as desperate for the martyr’s flames as her antagonist.

  ‘We’ll try the other gate,’ I said, leading her along the pavement at the side of the park. As we went more missiles followed. One burst in an overhanging chestnut tree and I was splashed by the filthy contents. Jeers of glee rang in my ears. Nevertheless Mrs Griffiths fed the birds.

  ‘Morning, ba-aass,’ Celeste drawled. She was already at her desk when I arrived. ‘Are you sending me out on the job today?’

  ‘Good lord, Celeste, I was on a job before seven this morning. Let me in the door before you start demanding orders.’

  ‘Sor – ree,’ she pouted. ‘Pardon me for breathing.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I said hastily. ‘I’ve had a rough start to the day.’ I told her about the bird feeding incident. ‘And if that leech Clyde Harrow oozes into here I don’t want you to give him the time of day. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t put those women up to that little stunt.’

  ‘You mean like . . . faking the whole thing?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘It’s possible. Just be on your guard.’

  ‘I’ll smack his silly face.’

  ‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘Just be non-committal. Say nothing that he can quote back at you.’

  Celeste looked as if I’d taken the shine off her day but I relented. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘This is what you do. First assignment. When does Angelina Corazon start work at the airport?’

  ‘She works the two till ten shift.’

  ‘OK, get yourself down there by one-thirty. Take the photos with you and check that you’ve got the right woman and then tell her that her husband wants her back.’

  ‘I don’t know, boss. Is that ethical? I mean if Mr Levy’s paying us? Shouldn’t we tell him where she is first?’

  ‘We’ll tell him tomorrow. I just want Angelina to have a chance to make a getaway.’

  ‘You mean so that we’ll be able to screw more money out of the old guy?’ she asked. ‘Like by finding her again?’ She was genuinely perplexed, but I wasn’t about to tell her that Levy was probably playing some twisted game on behalf of the Carlyle family.

  ‘No, after we give him the news tomorrow that’s it. We send in our bill.’

  Celeste shook her head. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ she said astutely.

  ‘That could be,’ I agreed, ‘and talking of bills, has anything come in from Northern Mutual?’

  She riffled through the envelopes on her desk. ‘Nothing here from them. Miserable gits, aren’t they, these insurance companies,’ she commented.

  ‘No, not them, just a certain Ernie Cunliffe who’s decided to sit on our bill to teach me a lesson.’

  I went into my inner office, more to confirm my status as the management of Pimpernel Investigations than because I had anything special to do there.

  Celeste came in with the mail and a cup of coffee twenty minutes later. She was beginning to understand that I need a few minutes in the office on my own to acclimatise myself for the day’s strife. I sipped the coffee.

  ‘Thanks, Celest
e. I’m going to be on the Greenidge/Gammage case for the rest of the morning.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to put someone else on to that? Joe Mulrany phoned to ask if we had anything for him.’ Mulrany was a retired policeman who was augmenting his pension with occasional work for my and other agencies.

  ‘No, I have to keep my hand in.’

  ‘Mulrany was moaning about his daughter’s university fees!’

  ‘Oh, hell! Give him the job then, but make sure he knows he’s on an hourly rate and that I want a blow by blow account of every interview.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ Celeste said, heading for the phone.

  I felt a twinge of regret. Investigating the likes of George Gammage was the sort of thing that brought you into contact with ordinary people, something that had been in short supply lately.

  22

  CELESTE’S SOLO MISSION to Angelina Corazon was not a success. The woman gave her the brushoff.

  ‘The horrible racist bitch! She isn’t even good-looking,’ Celeste fumed. ‘She hit me in the face as soon as I mentioned Levy’s name.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s racist?’

  ‘There were half a dozen of them – those Filipinos! All jabbering and pointing and laughing. I hadn’t a chance to explain that I hadn’t come to cart her off back to her old man. She just went mad, lashing out. Look at my lip. I’ll swear she’s bust it.’

  ‘I’ll get you some ice,’ I said, going to the fridge. ‘This calls for a bonus. Levy didn’t say that his beloved was violent.’

  ‘Bonus! I never thought I was going to get my face smashed in,’ Celeste muttered tearfully. ‘And she might be his beloved but he isn’t hers. You should have seen her face when I told her I was from him.’

  ‘I should have, but you wanted a solo mission. Don’t get too upset. This is what it’s like. Half the time total boredom, the other half nursing bruises. You have to face it. We find people who don’t want to be found and they get violent.’

  ‘There was no need for it.’

  ‘That’s the beauty of on-the-job training.’

  ‘Oh, I get it! You sent me there to put me off. Man’s work, is it?’