Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  Janine eventually departed to give Lloyd his bath. Jenny went into her bedroom to start her homework and Clyde and I were left to peer at each other over the remains of our feast.

  ‘You don’t seem to be at the top of your form,’ Clyde commented. ‘Don’t you like Chinese food?’

  ‘Well enough, especially when I’m paying for it.’

  ‘I told you, that was an oversight which I shall presently correct, but surely your downcast looks aren’t due to the attention that I’ve paid to she who walks in beauty like the night . . .’

  ‘Can the quotes, Harrow!’ I snapped. ‘I’m up to here with poetry. Tell me what you’ve really come creeping round for.’

  Moving his hand down from his brow to his chin, Clyde wiped the supercilious grin off his wide features and replaced it with a serious frown. ‘Alas, I was beginning to hope that I’d finally penetrated the wall of hostility you surround yourself with.’

  ‘Cut the crap and get on with it,’ I urged.

  ‘My situation is getting a little desperate on all fronts.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ I asked.

  ‘No problem apart from a shortage of inside information.’

  ‘And why should you think that I’m in a position to supply that?’

  ‘But you are, old lad. Don’t deny it. My contacts tell me that you’ve spent the day discussing the gruesome demise of Brandon Carlyle’s best friend. There must be some trifling nub of fact, some irritant, that I can use to the great man’s detriment.’

  ‘Clyde, you’re crazy,’ I said with a sigh. It may have been the alcohol that made me lose my caution but I found myself relaying Brandon’s comments about Clyde’s employment prospects and his later strenuous denial of any part in the death of Sam Levy. The truth was, I was past caring.

  ‘I can tell you that the police are almost certain that the killing was part of a bungled attempt at robbery,’ he said when I’d finished.

  ‘Or was made to look like it,’ I corrected.

  ‘Hmmm, as you say. A sword thrust through the arras, eh? “O what a rash and bloody deed is this!” Hamlet, act three, scene four, old lad . . . But where does it leave me? If I was to drop a casual hint that Carlyle’s connected the only consequences would be a call from his libel lawyer speedily followed by security men to escort me off the premises of Alhambra TV. You must find out more.’

  ‘I’ve found out plenty.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘You know the Pendlebury Piledrivers fans have held demonstrations because they’ve lost so many games?’

  ‘Of course, rugby league isn’t my game, but I saw to it that there was full coverage of that.’

  ‘Did you know that one reason why the squad are so feeble is that they all work part-time as body guards for Chairman Brandon?’

  ‘There you are,’ Clyde said excitedly. ‘You must find out more of these illuminating details. Research! Research!’

  ‘How, though?’

  ‘Pursue the leads you have. This all started when the luscious Marti threw herself into your lap.’

  ‘In case it’s escaped your notice, I have a business to run. I can’t just hare off after any clue that appears on the horizon.’

  ‘So, don’t. Take your time. Softly, softly catchee monkee, but in the meantime I need yet more assistance from you.’

  ‘That’s all I exist to do, Clyde, provide you with help.’

  ‘Sarcasm mars your natural frankness, David. I should avoid it. What I need from you is help with this story about the pigeon war.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘No, I need to come up with unusual and humorous local material. I see you as the source of a potentially endless supply.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Let me make my farewells to the fragrant Janine and I’ll fill you in on the details,’ he said, getting up with surprising agility for a fat man who’d just consumed the best part of two bottles of wine and five normal-sized Chinese meals. ‘Come down to the car while I explain, unless you’d like to come on with me for some further sustenance. This Chinese muck isn’t very filling.’

  29

  I’LL NEVER KNOW how Clyde did it, but when I arrived at the little park with Mrs Griffiths in tow the crowds were already gathering. It was all set out like a well-rehearsed play. Two hostile bands faced each other, leaving a narrow gap on the pavement. It was into this gap that I led Mrs Griffiths. I’d ensured my own anonymity by wearing a ski mask. Sadly I could see from the way that Mrs Griffiths flung her bag of food on the ground that her heart wasn’t in the work any longer. She was no fighter.

  ‘We can come back when there aren’t people about,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘No, it’s not the same as when it was just me and the pigeons. I’m taking a holiday with the money that Mr Harrow’s given me.’

  ‘But what about the birds?’ I asked. The whole flock had settled in front of us. The yells and screams from the street weren’t putting them off breakfast.

  ‘Oh, there are others,’ Mrs Griffiths said vaguely, waving in the direction of the bird lovers.

  I shook my head in disappointment and led her out of the park. I could see Clyde in the distance with two camera crews. A young man with a minicam jostled his way into the foreground.

  ‘That’s him!’ the anti leader shrieked as I pushed forward trying to shelter my client. ‘Get the bastard.’ This was the signal for the two sides to clash. Opposing forces surged forward but I nimbly withdrew Mrs Griffiths and bustled her off down a side street.

  When we were safe I looked back. The entrance to the park was blocked by a struggling mass of humanity. There were perhaps a hundred people there, and to my satisfaction the anti leader was being rolled on the ground with her skirt over her head. Through the din I could hear the voice of Clyde Harrow bellowing directions to his crews. As the police dramatically swept into view the birds took off en masse, flying low over the seething crowd. It was a terrific shot and I hoped Clyde got it.

  Celeste was already installed when I reached the office.

  ‘Still feeling tolerant towards the Dibbles then, Mr Cunane?’ she asked, referring to my visit to the nick yesterday. ‘Do you want me to get in touch with my cousin the solicitor about false arrest?’

  ‘Celeste, friction with the fuzz is the last thing we need in this job,’ I explained patiently. ‘They didn’t actually arrest and charge me. I was helping with enquiries.’

  ‘You’re too easy going, boss. You should demand damages.’

  ‘As you’re so desperate to get in touch with a solicitor I’d like you to ring Mr Devereaux-Almond in Rochdale. Don’t let on that you’re connected with me. Say you’re phoning from a tax office in . . . Preston, yes, that’s it, Preston. You can’t trace any details of tax being paid for fees that Almond received for a case sixteen years ago. Be as difficult as you can and make it clear that you’re considering prosecution if he doesn’t come up with some answers.’

  ‘But what exactly do you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to know who paid him to represent Vince King.’

  It wouldn’t do any harm to pull the solicitor’s chain. He was my only lead now.

  ‘And send Mrs Griffiths a bill. Be creative. Send a copy of it to Clyde Harrow.’

  ‘Oh, and this came,’ she said, handing me a cheque. It was from Ernie Cunliffe.

  ‘Goody,’ I replied, retreating to my inner office to consider my next step before Celeste started asking further questions. The truth was I didn’t know the answers. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. I looked at the cheque. The numbers were comforting. Cunliffe had actually added a bonus. I decided a phone call was in order. Surprisingly my call went straight through without the usual opportunity to listen to the complete works of Vivaldi.

  ‘Thanks for the payment . . .’ was as far as I got before dear old school pal Ernie was all over me.

  ‘Dave! I’m really, really sorry about the delay bu
t one of our major shareholders raised concerns about employing you, mate. Major snafu. Red faces all round down here, I can tell you, with yours truly the reddest of the bunch . . .’

  ‘What are you talking about? Who is this major share holder?’

  ‘It’s an institution, not a person, and it wouldn’t mean anything to you if I told you, but there’s no trouble now. In fact, they’re all smiling like pigs in muck when Pimpernel Investigations is mentioned. Head Office is very pleased with your work. We want you to be our lead investigator for the North West region. It means a hell of a lot of work coming your way. I’ll fax you the details unless you’d like to come round. I could see you right now if you like.’

  ‘Fax them, Ernie, mate,’ I said quickly. Ernie’s sea-green features were too much for me at that time of day.

  I came back to reality with a bump when the intercom buzzed and Celeste announced that she couldn’t get through to Mr Deverell-Rimbury.

  ‘Devereaux-Almond, or even plain Almond as in nuts from trees.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr C, but he’s not there. Someone who says she’s his sister says he’s gone away . . .’

  ‘Sister-in-law, name of Bernadette.’

  ‘Whatever . . . but he’s not there and she says she doesn’t care about his unpaid taxes – gave me a right earful . . .’

  ‘Celeste!’ I yelled.

  She appeared at the door a moment later.

  ‘Initiative, girl, initiative! If he really isn’t there we want to know where Devereaux-Almond is now. Put the fear of God into this woman.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I’m sure she suspects me already.’

  ‘Phone her again and tell her that you’re reporting Devereaux-Almond to the Law Society for suspected corruption. I want that double-barrelled git on the phone in five minutes or else I want to know his present whereabouts.’

  ‘Pardon me for breathing, I’m sure, but why is all this so urgent? What’s it in connection with?’

  ‘Vince King!’

  Celeste gave me a strange look, but she made no further objections.

  ‘Boss, shall I send the posse round to her if the Law Society doesn’t work? They’ll get the news out of her in jig time.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s not necessary.’

  Later I phoned George Gammage. It had turned out that he hadn’t been harrassing Georgia at all. He was just a nervous little man after a date. I’d set him straight on the ways of difficult women. I was hoping that Marti might have an account at the credit card company where he worked. She did – and it didn’t take much pressure to encourage him to send me copies of her recent statements.

  30

  I INTENDED SPENDING the afternoon studying Ernie Cunliffe’s fax and musing about wealth creation. I would need extra employees, cash, vans and surveillance equipment. The prospect of wealth made me uneasy.

  There was only one cure that I knew . . . spending money.

  I sauntered into King Street, went into the first men’s clothes shop I came to and bought myself an expensive cashmere jacket.

  ‘I’ve got some messages for you,’ Celeste announced when I blew back into the office, ‘but there’s someone to see you.’ She grimaced and nodded her head at my inner sanctum.

  DCI Brendan Cullen was sitting in my chair with his feet up on the desk.

  ‘Hey, Brennie baby, I’ve only to whistle and that girl out there will come in and hurl you into the street by the scruff of your neck,’ I told him, only half in jest.

  ‘Yes, she looks a tough cookie and I gathered that the constabulary aren’t flavour of the month with her,’ he said dryly. His features were set like a soldier’s on a bronze war memorial.

  ‘I’m working to convert her,’ I assured him.

  ‘I wish to God that was all you were doing, Dave. I’m shocked by your attitude . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that since you started digging and delving into the affairs of Marti King and her father two citizens have been sent on one-way rides to the cemetery.’

  ‘That’s totally unfair and you know it.’

  ‘Do I? Listen, Davie boy. We’re roping the Olley and the Levy killings together. There’s a combined GMP/Cheshire squad investigating and I’m in joint command. We’re calling it Operation Calverley. So far the common factors in both cases are that the victim was financially involved with the Carlyle family and both were acquainted with a certain Manchester private investigator.’

  ‘Hold on, Sam Levy . . .’

  ‘Was brutally murdered and guess who was the last person he met?’

  I slumped onto the sofa. ‘So?’ I muttered.

  ‘You know a lot more than you’re prepared to admit, but do you know how Levy met his death?’

  ‘I was told that he was tied up and beaten, and the shock led to heart failure . . .’

  ‘That’s what was put out for public consumption but actually the poor old guy was virtually dismembered before he died. There was blood over the walls in every room in the house. He was dragged from room to room probably to get him to tell something. And it wasn’t his sister’s pearls the attacker was after, either. They were still in an open shoebox under the stairs.’

  ‘Angelina . . .’

  ‘Has gone missing too, but her movements on Sunday afternoon are well accounted for.’

  ‘As are mine.’

  ‘Yes, as are yours,’ he said reflectively.

  ‘I expect her Filipino friends would give her an alibi . . .’

  ‘No, she was in church acting as godmother at a baptism ceremony. The priest, who doesn’t know her personally, has identified her and her signature’s on the baptismal register.’

  ‘So the main suspects are in the clear?’

  ‘No, Dave, there’s a world of suspects out there. I didn’t tell you that your friend Mr Levy was seriously connected with crime.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He had a great affection for jewellery shops, did Sam. He served time in Borstal in 1945 for doing a jeweller’s in St Ann’s Square. He was arrested after another job in 1948. The guy driving his getaway car piled it into a lamp-post on Cheetham Hill Road . . . One man got away, took all the stuff with him too, but Sam and two others were nabbed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What do you think Sam did when they got him to the nick? He only head-butted the desk sergeant. Of course, they punched his liver and lights out for him, that was par for the course for resisting arrest in those days. So they put him up on the ID parade next day and he was all covered in bandages and plasters. The jeweller couldn’t have identified him if Sam had been his own son. He was a smart lad was Sam.’

  ‘If you don’t mind getting beaten up, that is.’

  ‘He didn’t. His mates were IDed. The pair of them got five years’ penal servitude and the cat. An assistant at the jeweller’s was clobbered pretty badly.’

  ‘The mates, one of them wouldn’t happen to have been Carlyle or King?’

  Bren gave me a crooked smile. ‘No. Carlyle would have been old enough, but King was still in short pants.’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘We never got Sam for anything. We think he set up as a fence with Brandon Carlyle’s old man. Used his loot to finance a chain of bookies when gaming was legalised.’

  ‘What are you saying? What’s my involvement supposed to be?’

  ‘Dave, I’m saying what I said to you before. You’re stirring up muck at the bottom of a very murky pool. There are a lot of people who don’t like that. Don’t be surprised if they try to stop you.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! If you believe the Carlyles are involved why hasn’t the old man or Charlie been pulled in?’

  ‘Good question, Dave. I was hoping you might tell me the answer to that.’

  Cullen fixed me with that oh-so-sincere look of his. I responded by telling him about my most recent dealings with Brandon Carlyle.

  ‘Nic
e to know Brandon denies everything,’ he said when I finished.

  ‘Don’t take my word for it,’ I said hotly. ‘Drag him in and give him the third degree. That’s what you do to me.’

  ‘Oh, listen who’s feeling sorry for himself. But sincerely, Dave, I would drag Brandon in if I could get authorisation but apparently he’s a no-go area where criminal investigation’s concerned. You’ve heard of the “Teflon Don”? The Yanks eventually jailed him with the RICO law, but this old sod of ours is inviolate. Your father was the last copper to tangle with him and that was back in the Dark Ages. There seem to be orders from on high that he’s not to be interfered with.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘The blocks go on when his name comes up and they come from someone above chief constable level. I know that from Archie Sinclair.’

  ‘And do you know why?’

  ‘There’s only one reason I can think of why no one’s allowed to get near him. It’s not drugs or any kind of ongoing investigation either. It’s got to be something to do with national security.’

  I laughed out loud.

  ‘Now I’ve heard everything!’ I mocked. ‘He’s the chairman of a rugby league club, not the head of MI5. I’ve heard of paranoia but this beats all.’

  ‘Go on, laugh. It’s incredible, but how do you think he gets away with it? Precisely because no one can believe it.’

  ‘You’re barking, mate!’

  ‘I tell you, I’ve gone through the records.’

  ‘Just what are you saying, Bren? Financial corruption? Political pressure? The funny handshake brigade? What?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. All I know is that Carlyle’s got some sort of protection from on high.’

  ‘OK, for the sake of argument I accept what you’re saying, but what’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Just this. For some obscure reason Brandon Carlyle seems to be interested in you. If you find anything I want to be the first to know. I can’t be doing with all this secrecy.’

  I laughed again.

  ‘Now what’s so funny?’