by Frank Lean
‘Not at all! How did I know how Angelina would react? We’ll do some overtime if you’re still keen. We can pick her up again when she comes out of work and trail her to where she’s living and try to interview her when she’s in a more receptive frame of mind.’
‘You mean spend Friday night tracking this bitch?’ Celeste asked in amazement. ‘I don’t know. I usually go out.’
‘Whatever, but I want this Levy business sorted. I don’t want it dragging on into next week.’
In the end Celeste did come back to the airport with me and from there we trailed Angelina to a house in Levenshulme. I decided not to risk a direct confrontation. I dropped Celeste off at her home in Ayers Road and then took myself off to my lonely bed.
23
WHEN I GOT to the office that Saturday morning it was a fine autumn day, clear skies and bright sunshine breaking through layers of mist. There wasn’t much traffic going into town at nine a.m. and I was looking forward to a couple of uninterrupted hours while I worked out what to do about Sam Levy.
I had a decision to make. Levy had more or less promised more information about the Carlyles and their link with Devereaux-Almond in exchange for Angelina’s address. I had the address now. It hadn’t been particularly hard to find. The question was: should I use it to try and get the inside story about Vince King and his wonky solicitor out of the old man?
I busied myself with sorting the mail while I thought it out.
Marti was in London starting a new life. Vince King would probably be freed in a few more years. My business was thriving. The only cloud on my personal horizon was the imminent showdown with Henry Talbot. No, the more I thought about it the more certain I became that I didn’t want to hear any more about the Carlyle family and their doings. I was in deep enough as it was.
I picked up the phone and dialled Levy’s number. He answered immediately.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Yes, I’ve got Angelina’s address for you. She’s living in Levenshulme.’
I dictated the address.
‘Is there a man in the picture?’
‘No, we don’t think so. She’s sharing an apartment with a number of other Filipino women who work out at the airport.’
‘This is bad. I’d have preferred it if there was someone else, but to be rejected just so she can peel potatoes in some kitchen . . . it’s a blow.’
I paused for a moment. He didn’t sound very tragic. How did he know that Angelina was working in catering? I hadn’t told him . . . She could have been doing anything.
‘Mr Cunane, I must see you. I have much to talk about and it’s not something I can discuss over the phone. You know . . . that other matter you mentioned . . . Devereaux-Almond – I could fill you in about him.’
‘Actually, Mr Levy, I’m more or less putting that in cold storage until Ms King makes her requirements known to me.’
‘Oh no, it doesn’t work like that, Mr Cunane. Once you’ve started you can’t draw back. If it had been anyone else that had started prying into these matters things could have been allowed to rest, but because it’s you . . . You don’t understand there are life and death matters involved.’
‘Come on, Mr Levy. That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? I may have a slight reputation in Manchester but I’m hardly in the Sherlock Holmes class.’
‘Stupid man! Be quiet! I’m not trying to flatter you. It is because you are your father’s son that certain people won’t sleep easy in their beds until they know just which way you are going to jump.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘No, you don’t, but you are prepared to blunder about in matters which have already cost more than one life.’
‘This whole thing with Angelina was a scam, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean but I must see you and talk to you.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll put my bill in the post and I’d welcome an early settlement.’
‘Cunane, listen . . .’
‘No, you listen. As far as I’m concerned my business with you is now finished.’
‘Are you at your office? I can come down there.’
‘I am, but why don’t you go and see your wife instead? If you come down here you’ll only find a locked door.’
I put the phone down. It rang almost immediately but I didn’t answer.
After a few minutes of listening to it ring over and over I went into the outer office and made myself a cup of coffee. Then I got a book on divorce and started reading that with my feet on the desk. It didn’t take long to discover that Henry Talbot stood little chance of gaining anything more than limited access to his children.
I read for about an hour. I could have left the office but I was prepared to entertain Sam Levy if he did come banging on the door, so I hung on. At about eleven there was a muffled banging on the street door. I went through to the outer office expecting to see him in his three-piece suit at the door.
It wasn’t him. The three-piece suit was there but the filling was different. My caller was ex-Detective Sergeant Tony Hefflin. As soon as I appeared a sick smile passed over his face. He stopped banging and fished something out of his jacket pocket. It was a thick wad of notes. He held it up and riffled through it, smiling and gesturing that the money could be mine.
I watched his performance for a moment. This was a man I could take a serious dislike to. His clowning was attracting attention from passers-by. I opened the door unsure of whether I was going to thump him or invite him in.
‘You’ve got a nerve coming here,’ I snarled.
By way of reply he held the wad of twenties under my nose.
‘Sniff that . . . lovely, eh? It could be yours, sunshine,’ he sneered.
‘Oh, and what have I got to do? Gun someone down in the street?’
‘Don’t give yourself airs, Cunane. I’ve heard you’re not above a spot of evidence bending when it suits.’ He pushed past me into the office.
I could feel my cheeks burning and I lifted my fist to give him a smack but he anticipated me by grabbing my wrist.
‘Guilty conscience, eh? You soft wassock! Cut out the tough guy act before I break your arm.’
I shoved him clear and tried to regain self-control. I had a very strong urge to muss up his perfectly set bouffant locks.
‘Get out of here,’ I yelled, ‘and keep your money in your pocket. You don’t have a warrant card now and I don’t have to listen to you.’
He laughed and flashed me an irritating smile.
‘If I was still in the job I’d have sorted you long before now, Mr Fancy Pants Private Detective.’
‘You’re not, though, are you? So buzz off.’
‘Mr Carlyle wants to see you. I brought these along as persuaders,’ he said, waving the notes again.
‘Tell Charlie to get stuffed.’
‘It’s Mr Brandon Carlyle, not Charlie.’
‘Same difference. Has Sam Levy been on to him?’
For the first time since he’d arrived the sneer left Hefflin’s face. He looked puzzled.
‘You’re way off beam if you think Brandon Carlyle is the same as Charlie . . . Chalk and cheese, those two, and as for Sam Levy I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only came to politely invite you for a word with Mr Carlyle Senior. I wanted to bring along a couple of assistants to make sure you came but he insisted that I offer financial compensation instead.’
‘Keep the money, Goldilocks. You’re a joke and so is your boss. Tell him all he has to do to talk to me is pick up a phone.’
I pushed him towards the door.
‘Ignoring Mr Carlyle is a big mistake, Cunane. You’ll regret this.’
I shoved him out of the office and locked the door. He stared in at me for a moment, eyes as cold as a fish, and then took a mobile out of his pocket and turned away.
The phone started ringing as soon as I reached my inner office.
‘Bugger off, Carlyle,’ I said as soon as I picked it up.
/> ‘You’re a very hasty young man, Mr Cunane,’ a smooth voice replied, ‘just like my own boy, Charlie. It was about him that I wanted to talk to you.’
‘What about him?’
‘About the interesting fact that my son appears to be able to bi-locate.’
‘Bi-locate? What are you on about?’
‘Come, come, Mr Cunane. I understand that you received a Catholic education. Surely you remember that bi-location is one of . . .’
‘Yeah, I know – the ability to be in two places at the same time.’
‘Yes, apparently my son has that remarkable ability so I suppose that makes me God Almighty,’ he said with a chuckle. His attempt at humour sounded nasty. The silky quality of the voice was unpleasant too, like the hissing of a burst water pipe.
‘I’ve already said all I have to say about that to Charlie himself. There’s no point in this conversation.’
‘Come to see me, Mr Cunane, I insist. Hefflin is waiting outside your office. He has the limo with him.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Very well, my next call is to a policeman named Cullen. He will be very interested to learn that you gave Charlie an alibi for the Olley shooting.’
‘You’d drop your own son in it?’
‘Like a shot, Mr Cunane. Like a shot. I’m an honest citizen with a position to uphold.’
24
I KNOW THAT the Duke of Westminster has a big spread in South Cheshire but for sheer ostentation Brandon Carlyle’s place took some beating. You had to pass a pig farm to get there. Carlyle’s residence was called Moat House Farm after one of the many moated farms in that part of Cheshire but in its new form had been christened ‘South Pork’ by the local wags. Everything about it was new and shiny, and the only items lacking were the price tags. The entrance from the main road was big enough for half a dozen five-axle artics to park in with room to spare and was surrounded with red brick walls topped with spiked railings extending to the horizon in both directions. Black and gold wrought-iron gates whirred open when Hefflin touched a switch.
‘You want to watch that lip of yours when we get in here, Cunane,’ he commented sourly.
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes, someone might bust it for you.’
‘Are you offering?’
‘God! You are behind the door, son. Mr Carlyle has his own rugby league team. There’s always a few lads down here enjoying the country air.’
‘The Pendlebury Piledrivers? I hear they couldn’t blow the skin off a cold rice pudding. Facing relegation, aren’t they?’
‘Listen, dickhead, I’m only telling you this because your dad was in the job. Some of those lads are fanatically loyal to Mr Carlyle. He pays them and feeds them and, believe me, if he tells them to give you a pasting you’ll be the one facing relegation.’
‘I am impressed.’
Once inside it was like Disneyland without the giant rodents. Clumps of white plastic statuary dotted the grounds here and there, mostly of classical goddesses more voluptuous than any Greek of the pre-silicone era could have imagined. There were ‘features’: paved areas, trickling water, arbours, bays. All set in velvet green lawns against clashing yellow and red flower beds.
Now I saw the full extent of Brandon Carlyle’s power. Only a man with the influence to frighten planning officers out of their wits could have got away with such an eyesore.
As we approached the sprawling red brick structure the impression of unlimited wealth carelessly spent increased. We entered a courtyard faced by the blank doors of garages along one side, only they weren’t blank. Each door had a small concrete ‘water feature’ fixed in the middle of it. It could have been the show room of some demented supplier of grotesque garden equipment. Detail extended as far as giant plastic butterflies and insects stuck on the walls. Opposite the garages, across a small lawn complete with fountain, there was another sprawling building which reminded me of a sports hall or gym. As we got out of the car I saw that that was exactly what it was. The low, dark shapes of American fitness machines were visible through the windows and further back there was an extensive pool.
The mansion itself had enough pillars to make the likes of Ernie Cunliffe green with envy. Six lofty Corinthian columns as high as the three-storey house supported a Greek style portico complete with carved pediment of gods battling centaurs.
‘Seen enough, have you?’ a suave grey-haired man with a deep tan asked as he stepped out from behind one of the pillars. Brandon Carlyle looked younger than I’d expected. Dark, intelligent eyes studied me from a fleshy face. He had a large, bulbous nose and even now, at midday, looked as if he needed a shave. The impression was of firmness masking an underlying brutality, more like a soldier who’s risen from the ranks than a born member of the officer class.
‘A fine house, eh?’ he continued.
‘It’s certainly an eyeful,’ I said cautiously.
‘Yes, I’m proud of it,’ he replied and held out his hand to be shaken. ‘Brandon Carlyle, Mr Cunane. I must say that I’m interested to make your acquaintance.’ His accent was aggressively Mancunian.
‘I’m sorry to say that the feeling isn’t mutual, Mr Carlyle,’ I said, ignoring his hand.
‘Oh, so you’re one of them fancy folk who tries to make a virtue out of pig ignorance, are you, Cunane?’ he asked, making an effort to keep the smile on his face. ‘We know how to deal with people like you round here.’ He turned to Hefflin who had taken position one step behind him like a gun dog. ‘Present company excepted, Tony, but it’s nice to have my prejudices confirmed. Stupidity and ignorance, it’s got to be bred in the bone with some of these coppers – a self-selected bunch of thickies.’
‘Like your rugby team, then?’
‘Team’s doing fine.’
‘Is it? Two good runs in the cup in the last five years and bottom of the table for the rest of the time?’ I sneered. This touched a raw nerve. Carlyle’s face seemed to lose some of its tan.
He put his hand on my face and slapped my cheek slightly.
‘Hey, young Cunane, you’re forgetting something.’
‘What?’
‘Your fucking father was always mob-handed when he came to see me but you aren’t.’
‘So what?’ I replied, patting the thick wallet in my inside jacket pocket. ‘How do you know I’m not carrying a gun?’
Carlyle’s face lost its remaining trace of tan as he stepped back smartly and tried to put the pillar between himself and me. ‘Hefflin, you bloody idiot,’ he snarled in fright. ‘I should have known better than to trust a copper, ex or otherwise.’
‘He’s pulling your leg, Mr Carlyle,’ Hefflin assured him and jerked my jacket open to reveal the pacific state of my chest.
‘Very funny, Cunane,’ Carlyle said, keeping his distance. ‘Your father was just the same. Full of stupid tricks. It’s nice to see he’s passed something on to you besides stupidity.’
‘OK then, if that’s all you wanted to say I’ll be off,’ I said, turning. Hefflin laid a hand on my chest. I shoved him away.
‘Right! I warned you, Cunane,’ he said, waving his hand frantically. Five hard-looking no-necks stepped out of the gym. The Piledrivers’ back row. They might not have stopped many opposing teams this season but there were enough of them to intimidate me.
‘Which ones have piles and which ones can drive?’ I asked.
‘Shut your stupid face,’ Hefflin said. I could see he was on edge. His bouffant hair was positively quivering. ‘Another word and they’ll take you apart.’
‘That lot? A team from the Blind School would run rings round them.’
‘All right, Mr Cunane,’ Brandon Carlyle said pleasantly. ‘You’ve made your point. You’re a big tough boy and you don’t scare easily. We’re all duly impressed. All I want is a few words in your shell-like.’
‘Good, well keep it brief and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Not so fast, young man. There’s no need for any unpleasantness . . . yet. Let m
e show you some of my toys. They cost enough. Have you ever seen a fountain like this?’ He took an electronic device out of the pocket of his grey jacket and pointed it at the fountain. A jet of water shot sixty feet into the air and coloured lights came on.
‘As a matter of fact I have,’ I said. ‘It’s like a theme park. Is that where you got your ideas?’
‘Eeeh, aren’t you sharp? Proper comic turn. Mind you don’t cut yourself, won’t you?’
‘Glad you like the routine.’
‘You’d better come in. All I wanted was to show you that my house is full of the latest electronic gadgets. There’s nothing to touch it in this country. The fittings were done by the same people who did Bill Gates’ house in Seattle.’
‘I’m impressed.’
Eyeing me narrowly, he turned and walked into the house. The doors opened automatically just like a shop. I didn’t need a signal to follow. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the heavy squad closing up on me. The entrance atrium lived up to expectations. I almost stepped into a sunken pool full of fat carp swimming sluggishly in the glow of coloured lights. Flat screen monitors lined the walls displaying a sickening and constantly changing array of Old Master pictures. I could feel my stomach heaving. The only item in the whole huge room that couldn’t have been manufactured yesterday was an antique ice-cream cart, the sort with two handles that they used to push through the streets. Lettering on the side, in faded paint, spelled the word ‘Colonna’.
Carlyle mistook my thoughtful expression.
‘I see from the way my interior décor turns your nose up that you’re a snob, young Cunane,’ Brandon hissed, ‘exactly like your dad. It didn’t take much to put that long snout of his out of joint. Tell me, are you interested in architecture, stately homes and other such rubbish?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘A connoisseur, eh?’
I shrugged.
‘I’ll bet you’re in the National Trust, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘How did I guess?’ he sneered. ‘Back in the eighteenth century, what do you think raggedy-arsed bastards like yourself and your dad made of places like Chatsworth or Ickworth House? I bet they turned their snotty noses up. Now it’s all fodder for your bloody heritage industry.’