Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  The suited official pursed his lips and looked at me sourly as if I was a particularly unwelcome cuckoo in his nest. That made my mind up for me.

  ‘Never stay where you’re not wanted, my old granny used to say,’ I said, swinging my legs out of bed. Even that small action drained my strength but I kept a brave smile on my face.

  ‘Just where are you proposing to go?’ Janine demanded. Having shaken off the two guards she was now standing at the foot of my bed with her arms akimbo. Also with arms akimbo and matching frowns were the official, two nurses, the surgeon and even the security guards. From my perspective, the whole group of akimbos looked like a mob working themselves up for a lynching.

  ‘There’s no point in staying here,’ I said. ‘They obviously want me out.’

  ‘No, Dave, that’s not fair,’ Janine said. ‘It wasn’t you that was fighting . . .’

  ‘Mr Cunane, you’re my patient,’ the surgeon said proprietorally. ‘You need complete rest and calm. There’s always a danger of blood clotting after an operation like yours. You might not be so lucky next time as you were last night.’

  ‘Oh, let him take his chances,’ Hefflin said contemptuously. ‘He’s too stupid to know when he’s well off.’

  ‘I must insist you stay in bed,’ the surgeon said.

  ‘And I must insist on getting out of here,’ I said, struggling to my feet. ‘There’s too much at stake.’

  ‘Listen to that,’ Hefflin snorted. ‘Don’t try sounding so noble, Cunane. We all know you’re only in this for the money.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I agreed. ‘Time is money and I can’t afford to hang around here. Get out, Hefflin, I’ll meet you in the car park.’

  Hefflin left. The security men went with him. Janine came over to me.

  ‘Dave, you can’t do this,’ she said quietly. She laid her arm on my shoulder.

  ‘If we’re going to have any chance of catching up with Talbot I’ve got to go,’ I whispered. Her face was a study in conflicting emotions and after a moment she withdrew the arm with which she’d been pushing me back to bed.

  I started fidgeting with the drip that ran into my wrist. The medical staff intervened and twenty minutes later, after signing in triplicate forms absolving the hospital of all blame in the event of my sudden death, I was free.

  ‘Mr Cunane, you must avoid all exertion and keep on taking the anti-coagulants,’ the surgeon said. ‘Come back if you feel unwell. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’

  He was right. I did feel bloodless. It was as if my body had somehow been stretched. My feet and legs felt so detached from the rest of me that they might have been twenty feet away from my brain.

  When we got to the car park Janine went to her own car and I went over to Hefflin’s Jaguar.

  ‘I hope you do snuff it,’ he said spitefully as he leaned across the seat to open the passenger door for me. ‘You deserve it for the trouble you’ve caused. How much are you asking to keep Vince King where he is? I can go up to six figures but I can’t guarantee that the old man will let you stick around to enjoy it.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of cashing in my chips just now,’ I said. ‘All I want from Brandon Carlyle is a guarantee that Clyde Harrow will get his job back.’

  Hefflin looked confused. He tried to work this out. ‘Is Harrow blackmailing you in some way?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘And I won’t be letting Vince King remain as a guest of Her Majesty for much longer either.’

  ‘What! I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought I was a little sleaze bag just like yourself. No, you can tell Brandon that if he plays ball with Harrow I can give him a day or two to get himself sorted and then my evidence is going to James McMahon.’

  ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘Maybe,’ I admitted, ‘but tell your boss that if he has any idea of getting rid of me it won’t do him a scrap of good. The truth about the Vince King case is going to come out whatever he does.’

  ‘The truth! You wouldn’t know that if it hit you in the face,’ Hefflin snarled as I got out and walked over to Janine’s car.

  53

  HOPES OF A quick departure from Wythenshawe Hospital soon faded as negotiations bogged down. Two hours later I was still in Janine’s car while Clyde Harrow and his agent shuttled between ourselves and Hefflin with offer and counter-offer. A couple of executives from Alhambra TV had arrived to support Hefflin. Marvin and Celeste had joined us. Security guards from the hospital hovered nearby but perhaps remembering various incidents, they kept their distance. I felt as if I was about a hundred years old. All the aches and pains from my previous ‘accident’ seemed to have been reactivated. I tried to keep a brave face on things.

  Finally everything was settled. That is, I knew things weren’t really settled between myself and Brandon Carlyle, but they were settled to the satisfaction of Clyde Harrow and the odious Hefflin. Clyde was given a new contract and the promise of a new series and I promised to delay action on King’s release for four days, time that would allow Brandon to make his plans to minimise any side effects.

  ‘Are you set then?’ Clyde Harrow asked. ‘I shall personally lead you to Henry Talbot’s lair.’

  ‘You could have saved us all a lot of trouble by giving us the address hours ago,’ I said.

  ‘But then where would I have been?’ he asked plaintively. I almost detected an edge of apology in the egomaniac’s voice.

  ‘Clyde, you don’t believe that Brandon Carlyle’s going to tolerate your presence in his organisation for a moment longer than necessary, do you?’ I asked wearily.

  ‘It’s all down in black and white. I have cast-iron guarantees,’ he muttered defensively.

  ‘I expect Lou Olley thought he had guarantees,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t really think I’m in danger, do you?’

  ‘All I know is Brandon Carlyle has ways of getting what he wants – ways that aren’t always legal. Anyway, we’ll see you get a nice funeral.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Clyde ordered.

  ‘Where’s Talbot? Take us to him,’ I snapped back.

  ‘Ah, the “frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command”, I think I like you better in this mode, Pimpo-lad. That’s from . . .’

  ‘Shelley,’ interjected Janine, ‘“Ozymandias”. Can you two stop picking at your personalities for a moment and lead me to my children?’

  ‘Sorry, I was only attempting the extramural education of your partner,’ Clyde replied coldly.

  Janine didn’t dispute Clyde’s description of my status, which heartened me slightly.

  ‘The children are with him in a caravan on Anglesey which belongs to the parents of my dear little companion, Lauren.’

  We both looked at Clyde in dismay. I’d been expecting him to name some hotel in Manchester.

  ‘God!’ Janine groaned.

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘We can be there in two hours,’ I said.

  ‘He’s intending to slip across to Ireland,’ Clyde informed us. ‘He has the children’s passports and he needed somewhere to lie low until it was safe for him to catch the Holyhead ferry.’

  ‘Why, Clyde?’ Janine asked bitterly. ‘What have I ever done to you that justified this?’

  He coloured slightly but then rallied. ‘My dear woman, I know that we live in an age of women’s rights, but why shouldn’t a mere man such as myself seek some psychic recompense for insults offered? You chose to humiliate me in public, I chose to help a loving father to recover his children. I think that makes us even.’

  ‘You bastard!’ she hissed.

  ‘I’ve already discussed the question of my ingeneration at tedious length with lucky Dave,’ he said, glancing at my bandages with a sly smile, ‘but as you choose to spend time trading insults when you could be pursuing your unfortunate offspring, may I say that your own behaviour needs careful examination. A truly loving mother would have had her children with her when Henry came in search of his paternal rights. You made it ea
sy for him.’

  Janine began to get out of the car. She was breathing fire. I held her back.

  ‘We haven’t time for this,’ I said. ‘Clyde, you go in front in the Toyota, and believe me, if you’re playing games I’ll phone Carlyle to tell him the deal’s off.’

  Clyde turned with a scowl and headed for his top-of-the-range Toyota Land-Cruiser without another word. Lauren was doing the driving. We followed her out of the car park and onto the M56.

  My estimate of two hours for the journey to Anglesey was wildly optimistic. It seemed as if half the population of northern England was en route for Wales, but eventually we crossed the Menai Straits onto the low-lying island. Janine concentrated on her driving but I could tell that Clyde’s comment had found its mark. She was too quiet.

  Lauren’s parents’ caravan was in a vast park behind sand dunes overlooking the western side of the strait. We peered through the windows: the caravan appeared to be empty.

  ‘They were here,’ Clyde said defensively. ‘You can see the place has been disturbed.’ For once he looked nervous as he watched me fingering Janine’s mobile phone.

  ‘I have the key,’ Lauren informed us. Janine snatched it off her and ran to the door of caravan, a massive semi-static affair. Once inside it was obvious that the children had been there.

  ‘This stove’s still hot,’ I said. ‘You tipped him off, didn’t you? You told him we were coming.’

  ‘No, he must have spotted the car,’ Clyde said quickly.

  ‘The passports are still here,’ Janine said, opening a drawer, ‘and their luggage.’

  ‘Perhaps they just went to the beach,’ Lauren suggested.

  ‘In the car?’ I asked. The car port at the side of the caravan was empty.

  ‘No, you’re right. It’s only a short walk,’ Lauren said. I looked out of the window. It was an overcast mid-winter day. A penetrating wind was sweeping in from the sea. The trees and bushes were bending against the strong breeze. It wasn’t the sort of day for the beach. While the caravan park was by no means deserted, what people there were were indoors. You could see them through the large bay windows relaxing in front of televisions. I went to the door. I could hear seagulls and the wind beating against the dunes.

  ‘Clyde, you’re an evil rat,’ Janine said in a low voice. ‘You dared to tip him off.’

  ‘No,’ Clyde muttered.

  ‘You dared . . .’

  ‘. . . “I dare do all that may become a man” . . .’

  ‘Don’t quote Shakespeare at me, you filthy windbag!’ she screamed, and before the words were out of her mouth, she snatched up an empty pan from the stove and struck Clyde a resounding blow over the head.

  ‘Jack that in!’ Lauren yelped, springing to Clyde’s defence. ‘It’s true. He never used the mobile.’

  ‘Liar!’ Janine roared. She was beside herself with frustration and rage. It was just as well for Clyde that there were no knives handy. As it was, his partner helped him to stagger towards his car, more or less in one piece.

  ‘That wasn’t too clever,’ I commented. ‘He might have told us more.’

  ‘I’m not feeling clever. I want my kids back,’ Janine said, clenching her fists. Then we both watched the Toyota, driven by Lauren, creep around the corner and off the site.

  As we stared into the vacant space another car appeared.

  ‘Oh, God! It’s them,’ Janine gasped.

  ‘Quick, shut the door and hide,’ I said.

  A moment later the car pulled up alongside the caravan. The doors slammed and Janine sprang into action.

  The punishment she’d handed out to Clyde was mild compared to what Henry got. He was holding a carrier bag which hampered his defence when Janine launched herself from the caravan steps. In a second he was on the ground and Janine was pounding his face with her fists. She grabbed a loose stone and, feeble though I was, I managed to wrest it out of her fingers before she killed him. In the second of opportunity that provided, Henry scrambled free and dashed into the caravan, slamming the door shut behind him.

  There was a general mêlée as the children flung themselves at Janine.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ was all I heard.

  Janine gathered herself up and led the children to her car. They went without a backward glance until they were seated in the car.

  ‘Daddy bought us sweets and drinks,’ Jenny said. ‘They’re in that bag. Can I go and get them?’

  Janine accelerated out of the caravan park.

  54

  THE NEXT TWO DAYS are missing from my personal calendar. This time the staff at Wythenshawe Hospital kept me confined in a first-floor room with a ‘No Visitors’ sign fixed on the door and strictly adhered to. Not that I could have managed a conversation even if there’d been one on offer.

  The first sign I got that anyone cared about my continued existence was a visit from Brendan Cullen and his sidekick Munro on the Tuesday morning. They more or less conned their way into the unit by claiming urgent police business.

  Munro went through the motions of taking a statement from me about the attempt on my life by the female assassin but when I’d put my poorly scrawled signature at the bottom of the page Bren signalled the younger man to leave us.

  ‘Janine’s back at the flat, and the kids are OK. I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Yeah, she phoned.’

  ‘She’s not been round then?’

  ‘She can’t leave the children. They’re terrified of being left.’

  ‘Or is it her that’s terrified of leaving them? She didn’t look too good when I saw her. Henry Talbot’s still in custody but they’ll be letting him out shortly on condition that he returns to America.’

  ‘So attempted murder’s not a crime any more?’

  ‘It seems not,’ Cullen agreed. ‘It’s all wrapped up in psychological jargon, but what the statement from the North Wales CPS amounts to is that no action will be taken if Talbot promises to leave the country and not come back.’

  I shrugged. I wanted to sleep but he seemed in no hurry to leave.

  ‘Words to the wise, Dave?’ he said, tapping his nose with his forefinger.

  ‘I’ve had so much good advice lately that I’m thinking of starting my own agony aunt column,’ I replied.

  ‘Don’t get peevish, sunshine,’ Bren said with a smile. ‘Speaking of sunshine, did you know he’s gay? Your legal representative, that is?’

  ‘So what,’ I said fiercely.

  ‘It’s nothing to me. It’s just that he’s not got a snowball’s chance in hell of ever getting on the Community Forum as the lovely Celeste keeps hinting.’

  ‘Tough! I’m sure we’ll all survive that disappointment.’

  ‘OK, Dave, don’t get on your high horse. Everyone’s getting so politically correct these days that you daren’t say boo to a goose down at the nick.’

  ‘My heart bleeds.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I was coming to. The lady who wanted to stop your clock? She’s a nut.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’

  ‘No, I mean she’s not a professional assassin. She’s strictly an amateur. That’s not to say what she might have turned into if she’d got away with doing you in. She’s a South African student studying here in Manchester. She was majoring in town planning at the Metro Uni and she’s turned to killing as a lucrative sideline.’

  ‘Now you’re joking.’

  ‘No, her name’s Ulrike Reichert and she’s a South African of German ancestry. It seems that back home in the Republic she and her whole family are gun nuts, armed to the teeth day and night. We’ve had the greatest difficulty getting her to talk about anything except guns. That’s what led her into her new sideline.’

  ‘I can see you’re itching to tell me.’

  ‘Right, we’ve made enquiries among her friends and at her hall of residence, and it seems that all she talks about is guns and how soppy we Brits are in not allowing every citizen to have an armoury. She even tried to join t
he university officer’s training corps but they saw the strange light gleaming in her eyes and turned her down. Anyway, to cut a long story short, she’s been talking like this in various pubs in both Hulme and Salford, boasting about how she could hit the Ace of Spades at fifty paces, and someone approached her to do the job on Lou Olley.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That she won’t or can’t say. It wasn’t Hefflin or Marti, if that’s what you’re thinking. The vague description she gives could fit dozens of ageing villains.’

  ‘So she was just recruited in a pub?’

  ‘I know it sounds unlikely, but if you wanted a hit man or a hit woman, you’d hardly go down to the Job Centre and leave an ad, would you? I believe it. She talked too much and eventually the wrong person, or the right person from his point of view, heard her spiel. She wasn’t being paid in money. They offered to let her keep the gun and they threw in a mobile home as well.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘I said she was a nut.’

  ‘What was she offered for the job on me?’

  ‘You should be flattered. A top of the range BMW sports car.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘She says she knows nothing about what happened to Sam Levy, and as all the instructions were given over untraceable mobile phones it doesn’t look as if we’re going to get any more juice out of her.’

  ‘There’s no way you can link her to the Carlyles?’

  ‘I’ve told you. We haven’t a scrap of hard evidence against any of them. It could have been old Levy himself who organised the Olley hit. He had good contacts with the local underworld.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘Yes, think about it. Suppose Olley was coming to sort out Marti. Sort her out fairly permanently, I mean, for besmirching the Carlyle honour with you. Who would she turn to for protection but dear old Sam? It’s a possibility. Levy gets Olley killed and then some of Olley’s mates do Levy.’

  ‘They’re thieves. They’d never leave a box of pearls lying about.’

  ‘I only said it’s a possibility. We might never know what happened, but what puzzles me is what’s suddenly become so urgent about slotting you? And why is that arsehole Clyde Harrow looking so pleased with himself, and why was Tony Hefflin sniffing round here?’