Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘You are. You’ve got two police forces behind you but I’m expected to solve your problems.’

  ‘You should be flattered.’

  ‘Not me, guv!’ I said, standing up and ushering him towards the door.

  ‘You’ve changed, mate. I think I liked you better when you were a no-hoper.’

  ‘Fine, Bren! It’s OK for you to get promoted and fart about in your C&A suits but I should still be going round with holes in my shoes. It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Spare me the angst, Dave. Just remember what happened to Lou Olley.’

  I didn’t feel too pleased with myself when Brendan walked off into the street without another word or a backward glance.

  ‘Penny for them, Mr Cunane?’ Celeste said.

  I looked at her, grateful for the interruption to an unpleasant train of thought.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing of life or death importance, I hope,’ I said.

  ‘Listen, you don’t need to have these dirty police booger-men walking in here whenever they please. My cousin Marvin’s a solicitor and he says they’ve no right . . .’

  ‘Celeste, DCI Cullen is one of my oldest friends, or at least I thought he was.’

  This produced a look of total incomprehension from Celeste. ‘Hmmm, it’s your funeral,’ she commented. ‘Anyway, I’ve been making some progress with that Deverell-Rimbury . . . I mean Almond, whatever. He’s buggered off from Rochdale. Bernadette says he’s got a boat at Fleetwood where he sometimes stays, a fifty-foot cruising yacht called Spirit of the Hills.’

  ‘Did she say when he went?’

  ‘Yes, she’s quite upset about it. Last week, two men called at the house. Normally they don’t see a soul for months. Dev what’s-his-name was very angry with the first man and then right after the second came, he packed up and cleared off. I tried to get more out of her but that was all she knew. He comes and goes without telling her.’

  My mouth must have dropped open because Celeste gave me a very odd look. ‘Are you all right, Mr Cunane? Have I done the wrong thing?’

  ‘No, you haven’t, but maybe I have. Listen, Celeste, phone Harry Sirpells . . .’ She grabbed her pad and pencil like a model of secretarial efficiency. ‘He’s a PI out in Rochdale. Ask him to discreetly check out Morton V. E. Devereaux-Almond’s background. I particularly want details about how he got rich, but stress to Harry that I don’t want any waves, and make sure you get the name right this time.’

  ‘Do you think Almond had Vince King’s loot?’

  ‘Not that, at least I don’t think so.’

  ‘How shall I ask Harry Sirpells to prioritise this?’

  ‘What?’ I asked, looking at her blankly. She’d swallowed a business manual since I promised promotion. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s urgent enough, or at least I think it is,’ I muttered.

  I turned to retreat to my room, almost overcome by the flood of information that my instruction to Celeste to show initiative had unleashed.

  ‘Wait! There’s more,’ she protested. ‘This came,’ she said, handing me a heavily taped up envelope marked Confidential in deeply scored characters. ‘A messenger dropped it in. Then Clyde Harrow phoned. He wants you to meet him at after six in that pub near Quay Street where all the soap stars go. I’ve to phone his PA if you can’t make it.’

  ‘Sound!’ I said ironically. Celeste beamed in pleasure.

  ‘And Mr Cunliffe wants you to phone him about the new cases. There are more in the pipeline. And Ms White called to see if you could pick the kids up.’

  ‘Right, well I’ll be working on the business plan if you haven’t got anything else for me.’

  I opened my desk drawer and fished about for a paper knife. The confidential letter contained the credit rating and recent statements of Marti King. She had enough left on her plastic to buy Pimpernel Investigations several times over. I’d been had for a mug.

  I tried to work out why. There were no transactions from the day Marti had left for London. She must have feared that Charlie or Brandon would track her movements from the card.

  I phoned Janine on her mobile.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ she asked triumphantly when I broke the news.

  ‘She’s not going to get away with it,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘Forget her, Dave, but don’t forget Jenny and Lloyd . . . there’s fish fingers in the freezer. I must go, I’m in a conference.’ She hung up.

  For once, domestic obligations had lost their charm. What I felt like was going to London and getting Marti by the scruff of her pretty neck. I phoned Paul Longstreet.

  ‘Who is this?’ he whined. ‘This is supposed to be my private line.’ In the background I could hear female laughter. It didn’t take much imagination to work out how the Lord of the Lapdance liked to spend his afternoons.

  ‘Cunane.’

  ‘Who? Oh, Marti’s Mank lover boy.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Got a monk on, have you, Manky man? Listen, chum, I’m not your bloody telephone exchange. I’m sick of this. I’ve had nothing but phone calls and visits from heavies demanding to know where she is.’

  ‘Heavies?’

  ‘Yes, refined ones. I had a couple round here last week looking for her and I told them what I’m telling you now. I don’t know where Marti’s taken her pretty little ass, and I wouldn’t tell if I did, but I don’t. OK?’

  ‘No, I mean, wait.’

  ‘Pining, are you? She left a message for you. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. She said if you were to enquire after her I was to tell you that there’ll be a letter waiting for you at a certain wine bar. I don’t know what’s up with first-class mail.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered.

  It didn’t take me many minutes to find that no letter had yet arrived at the wine bar on Deansgate.

  31

  WHEN I REACHED Clyde’s plasticated drinking parlour at seven he was already enthroned in his corner with his usual gang of sycophants. A chubby, rosy-cheeked young woman with an incipient double chin was perched next to him on the bench seat. She was practically in his lap and enjoying the sensation to judge by the expression on her round face.

  Beyond, there was a circle of members of the public studiously pretending they didn’t know who Clyde was, but nonetheless sitting with ears expectantly cocked for one of his witticisms.

  ‘Up the whites!’ he bellowed when he spotted me.

  ‘Stow it, Clyde!’ I said half-heartedly.

  ‘Here, old lad, I saved you a drink,’ he said, thrusting a lukewarm pint at me. ‘Your spot was great. We’ve already had a big reaction. E-mails galore. People are demanding to know who the masked pigeon defender is. I shouldn’t be surprised if the animal rights people don’t come through with some big commission for you.’

  To my horror this introduction produced a ripple of applause from the public.

  ‘Clyde!’ I spluttered. ‘You promised to keep my name secret.’

  ‘Ha ha!’ he cackled. He stroked the denim-swathed behind of the moon-faced young woman. She gave him a tolerant smile. ‘Come out of your cloister, brother, and admit the truth. You want publicity as much as the next man.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ I said indignantly. ‘I only came down here to make sure that you keep my name out of any publicity about that nonsense this morning.’

  ‘Dave, you can’t hide anything from me or from the Argus-eyed gaze of my reportorial associates.’

  ‘Clyde, you’re going to need somewhere to hide if I hear that you’ve broken a promise you made only yesterday.’

  ‘Oooh! Hark at you!’ he mocked. ‘Threats are what I thrive on. My silence will remain golden if you can rake up some juicy scandal about someone we both know and loathe.’

  I looked at him stupidly.

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ he said briskly. ‘Now to matters mundane. Brother David, I’ve left my wallet in the car. Would you oblige me by settling at the bar for myself and Laure
n?’

  He inclined his head towards the door and disentangled himself from the young woman. Puppy-like, she made as if to follow her master.

  ‘Lauren, my love,’ he said, favouring her with a rancid grin, ‘I must confer alone with Brother David someplace hence.’ Then, when I’d paid his bill, he linked my arm and frogmarched me towards the car park. Behind the pub there were some deserted trestle tables on a patio looking out towards the canal basin. Despite the chill wind, we settled on either side of one of these. As I looked around I noted that there were pigeons everywhere.

  Clyde followed my glance. ‘Ah, the winged rodents, Dave, or should I say your feathered friends?’

  ‘Shut up, Clyde!’ I snapped. He rolled his eyes derisively.

  ‘Honestly, Dave, I can fix you up with Lauren if you’re tiring of Janine,’ he said. ‘Athletic lass, she is; firm-fleshed and clear-eyed.’

  ‘Clyde, I didn’t come here to get fixed up with one of your cast-offs.’

  ‘Lauren’s definitely available, if slightly shop-soiled,’ he murmured with a sigh.

  ‘Great! So I collect your returned empties now.’

  ‘Now, share and share alike. You know me. I haven’t forgotten that my outing with the fragrant Janine is coming up soon.’

  ‘Make sure you don’t forget your manners.’

  ‘Why, is Janine likely to allow me to? Do tell.’

  ‘I came to tell you that there’s to be no encore of this morning’s fun.’

  ‘But that was excellent material. I can’t just abandon such a dramatic tale in mid-story.’

  ‘You can and you will.’

  ‘What have you to offer in return?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I conceded.

  ‘Fine then, brother, you can expect to see your name . . .’

  ‘No,’ I said desperately. ‘There is something. Marti King . . . she’s up to some villainy.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You know she wants me to get her father out of clink?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It isn’t just down to family feeling. After all, he’s been in since she was eight.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  ‘Vince King’s got something on Brandon, some dirty little secret.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘There’s no but about it. The solicitor at King’s trial was specially chosen for incompetence and Sam Levy said as much, then he gets killed. Big coincidence, eh?’

  For the first time in my acquaintance Clyde seemed to be lost for words.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘When you’ve been divorced as often as I have you know that incompetent solicitors are two a penny. The prosecution had a strong case against King, and Levy was killed by a thief.’

  ‘There’s also the fact that straight after I questioned Almond, King’s solicitor, he did a bunk.’

  ‘Maybe you just have that effect on people, Dave. No, if you could show that Brandon Carlyle abused Marti as a child that would suit my purposes very well.’

  ‘Abused? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Not at all. I think it fits the facts better than some nebulous plot that you’ll never prove in a million years. All you need is a statement from Ms King that Brandon abused her after he took her from the children’s home and my troubles will be over.’

  I suddenly felt very hot and uncomfortable. Clyde’s ‘solution’ of my little puzzle certainly would suit him very well. The only problem was I knew it wasn’t true. Victims of child abuse go through life with terrible mental scars. From what I knew of Marti King she didn’t come into that category.

  ‘Where might Ms King be now?’ Clyde asked with an innocent smile on his face.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Dave, you’re not a very convincing liar. Did I tell you that my producer thinks there might be mileage in a search for the Masked Pigeon Protector?’

  ‘You bastard, Clyde!’

  Clyde found this very funny. He bent double laughing. ‘“Why bastard? Wherefore base?”’ he snorted theatrically. ‘“When my dimensions are as well compact, my mind as generous, and my shape as true as honest madam’s issue?” King Lear, act one, scene two, old lad.’

  ‘There’s nothing compact about you, you fat old fraud,’ I snarled. ‘And as for generous . . .’

  ‘Listen, my legitimate friend. I want the location of the delectable Ms King and I want it pronto.’

  ‘There’s no way Marti was abused. If you knew her . . .’

  ‘Dave, if you’d been in the news manufacturing industry as long as I have you’d know that facts are as pliable as the elastic in a whore’s knickers. Let me once meet Marti and I’ll spin such a story from what she says that Brandon Carlyle will be out of the TV business before his breakfast porridge has time to cool.’

  ‘Get stuffed, Clyde!’

  ‘Such discourtesy!’

  ‘I haven’t a clue where Marti is.’

  ‘I’ll give you a week and then we’ll roll over that stone you’ve been lurking under and see what the light reveals.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘Oh ho! Naïve lad, when I’ve finished with you you’ll be lucky to get a billet as a school crossing patrolman.’

  ‘You really are a bastard, you know,’ I said with feeling.

  ‘Now gods stand up for bastards!’ he said with a crazy laugh. ‘Don’t think too badly of me. I’m hanging on by my fingernails at Alhambra. They fear that if they cast me off I might slide over to a rival channel. Colour and laughs and vulgarity, that’s what I bring to the drab lives of you little people.’

  ‘Bugger off!’ I said, getting up and walking away.

  32

  AFTER THE SESSION with Clyde, getting Janine to agree to take the promised half-term break at Blackpool was child’s play. The closeness of the resort to Fleetwood was an added attraction: combining a seaside holiday with winkling out the elusive Devereaux-Almond should be easy.

  ‘How’s Miss Seagrave?’ I asked Jenny when I collected her from her ballet class the next evening.

  ‘She’s hurt her foot climbing.’

  ‘Oh poor woman!’ I sympathised. ‘Does that mean you haven’t got a teacher?’

  ‘No, Miss has her leg in plaster, and she’s got this stick. Michelle O’Dell said she’d get done for assault if she hit us with it but Miss Seagrave just laughed.’

  ‘Sensible woman, sounds like she’s got the patience of Job.’

  ‘Who’s Job?’

  ‘This man who had a lot of troubles.’

  ‘What sort of troubles?’

  ‘Oh, horrible ones. He came out in boils for one thing.’

  Jenny thought about that for a moment and looked at me meaningfully, but she had too much of her mother in her to pursue any obvious comparisons.

  ‘Weather’s not too good,’ I said. ‘Do you like walking in the rain?’

  This produced a look of horror.

  ‘That’s what you do in Wales. You know, where we’re going this weekend,’ I explained.

  Again there was a significant pause for thought.

  ‘Do we have to walk?’ she asked.

  ‘We could go on the bikes, I suppose, if I got you rain capes and a bike for your mum, but that’s what you do in Wales. Walk about a lot, look at the views.’

  Later that evening I joined Janine for a drink.

  ‘Dave,’ she said, in her ‘special request’ voice. ‘There’s a little snag about the weekend trip. You know I was going to borrow that cottage in Llanberis?’

  ‘Yes, terrific,’ I said heartily. ‘It’ll be great. I’ll be able to go jogging for miles.’

  ‘There’s just a teensy-weensy problem. Jenny’s got it into her head that she’ll be bored. You know there’s nothing worse than trying to entertain her when she’s bored.’

  ‘Gotcha!’ I said agreeably.

  ‘Look, would you mind awfully if we went to Blackpool instead? It has th
e seal of approval from the sainted Miss Seagrave and Jenny’s set on it.’

  ‘I don’t know. Blackpool isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Too proletarian.’

  ‘Dave! You’re coming, no argument.’

  ‘I hear what you say. I suppose there’s always the sea breezes.’

  She looked at me uncertainly and then changed the subject.

  ‘You know Jenny’s really extraordinary at times. Some of the things she says. She’s had her head stuck in an encyclopaedia and then she started demanding that I get her a bible, of all things. I think I’ll have a word with Miss Seagrave. I don’t want her turning my child into some sort of religious fundamentalist.’

  ‘I suppose we could fix the kid up with the collected works of Germaine Greer as an antidote,’ I said laconically.

  ‘Go on, laugh, as usual. But I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I, love,’ I said.

  The mention of love diverted us to other things and it was after one a.m. before I got back to my own flat.

  The flat looked as if it had been bombed. Every single item had been taken from where it lived and dumped in the middle of the room. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The steel door was intact. I went through to the kitchen. The window had been forced and there was a footprint in the kitchen sink, but we were on the fourth floor. I looked out of the window expecting to see a body spread-eagled on the concrete below, but there was nothing. The waste pipe from the kitchen and bathroom ran close to the kitchen window and must have supplied the intruder with his access, but whoever he was, he was good.

  ‘God! You don’t think it’s bloody Miss Seagrave, do you?’ Janine asked when summoned. ‘She goes mountaineering.’

  ‘No, she’s got a bad leg,’ I replied automatically. I was stunned. Breaking and entering was the last thing I’d expected. With a front door like the entrance to Fort Knox I often neglected to set the alarm.

  Janine looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘How do you know about Miss Seagrave?’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t been trying to get off with her. Jenny told me.’

  ‘Are you going to get the police?’ she asked. ‘I can’t believe all this was going on while we were next door.’ Every room had been rummaged through and whoever did it wasn’t some junky looking for easy cash. The drawers had been systematically emptied from the bottom up, furniture pulled away from the walls, even the mattresses turned over.