Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘This is all your fault, Cunane,’ Brandon said with a curse. ‘We should have sorted you the first chance we had.’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes,’ I said.

  ‘Sam had protection,’ Marti said. ‘He needed it. You don’t retire from the Carlyle Corporation any more than you get divorced from it. He told me all about the tapes one afternoon. I always knew there was something. Sam had one Round Up tape, Brandon the other. That was the sort of business relationship they had – trusting. The silly old fool should have given it me when I asked, but he wouldn’t. He was so stupid. He could have cleared off to the Philippines and spent his declining years in a brothel, the dirty old pig, but he wouldn’t give me what I wanted.’

  ‘Did you find it?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said with a smile. ‘I thought he might have given it to you. He babbled about you enough.’

  ‘We’re all dead now,’ Brandon groaned, ‘now you’ve mentioned that tape. If Cunane opens his big mouth they’ll never let us live. They’ll kill us like they killed my uncle. That includes you as well, Cunane.’

  ‘Who’ll kill us?’

  ‘The same people who killed my uncle,’ he said with his eyes rolling in fear.

  ‘The German Navy?’ I asked sarcastically.

  ‘You know who I mean. The secret service. They’ve only held back all these years because they knew I’d never go public.’

  ‘You’re dreaming,’ I said, more contemptuously than I felt. ‘There’s not a single person in the secret service who was there when you stole those tapes. You’re the killer. You killed Devereaux-Almond and Mick Jones, didn’t you?’

  ‘I had to,’ Brandon moaned. ‘I had the family to think of. Morton was on his own apart from that crazy sister-in-law of his, and Jones always knew what the risks were.’

  ‘That’s enough of your troubles,’ King snapped. ‘Tell him how you fitted me up.’

  ‘Vince, I’m pleading with you. End this now and we can all get out if you let me speak to the right people first. They’ll make that mess with the Piledrivers look like an accident. We can still make a deal, the tape for our silence.’

  ‘What you can do is sing like a fucking canary, or I’ll blow your son’s head right into your fucking ceiling,’ King replied with a chuckle. I knew he meant every word. So did Brandon.

  ‘It was Jones who knew about the tapes,’ Brandon admitted in a half-whisper. I hoped the radio mike was picking it up. I moved nearer to him. ‘He told me and I had to know whose names were on it. I was stupid really. I should have realised that it wasn’t Italians they were after this time, but I kept thinking about my uncle. Vince had no idea about how valuable the tapes were, but Mick Jones said we ought to get rid of him because there was always the chance that he’d grass if he got caught . . .’

  ‘You wanker!’ King snarled.

  ‘. . . I tried to get Vince to come into the business but he liked robbing too much . . .’

  King gave a hollow laugh at this.

  ‘You slimy bastard! The first I knew about what was on those tapes was when Cunane’s crazy father told me. You said they were plans of bank vaults.’

  Although restrained by his bonds, Brandon managed one of his expressive shrugs. I was impressed.

  ‘In the end I couldn’t allow the risk to my family,’ he continued. ‘The trouble was we didn’t have Fullalove straightened. He knew there was something not quite right. He barged in before Jones and knocked King out, then Jones came to tidy up. He shot Fullalove and Musgrave, moved some of the plunder and was about to arrange King in an artful pose before shooting him with another gun, when he heard police sirens. Jones must have set off a hidden alarm or something. Later, I did what I could for Vince. I took Marti into the family.’

  ‘When he threatened you, you mean!’ Marti retorted.

  ‘Right, that’s your lot, you old bastard,’ Vince King said in triumph. ‘Get out, Cunane. I’ll give you two minutes.’

  ‘Kill yourself if you want, but I’m not going without these three and those men in the gym. The law can sort the Carlyles out,’ I said piously.

  ‘Hark at you,’ he mocked. ‘Thanks for the invitation to kill myself but I’ve no intention. You can stay and be blown up with these bastards if you like.’

  ‘The death penalty’s been abolished. You’ve no right to do this,’ I said. ‘At least let Marti and the Piledrivers go.’

  ‘I have to give you marks for trying,’ King said. ‘Marti’s her mother’s daughter. Do you know how many times she visited me in prison? I’ve spent more time with you than I have with her. Anyway, I’m off,’ he said. With that he tapped a sequence into the keyboard and loped towards the doorway. There was a distant sound of explosions.

  ‘He’s set the sequence running!’ Marti yelled.

  ‘Where’s the off-switch?’ I asked nervously. The console consisted of a laptop computer fixed into a specialised docking panel with a mass of circuitry underneath for connections to be made. There was a complicated diagram on the display screen. Given a month or so I might have worked it out.

  ‘Ask Charlie!’ she said in panic.

  I ripped the tape off Charlie’s mouth. A strip of his skin came with it but he made no complaint.

  ‘You can’t turn it off. He’s disabled the programme.’

  ‘What about these?’ I said, pointing to the loose wires trailing everywhere.

  ‘If you rip the wires out everything will go up at once. It’s programmed to set off fireworks in sequence with a carefully timed music programme. There are remote units as back-ups and accidental disconnection may send the whole lot up at once.’

  As he spoke my fingers were tearing at the duct-tapes which fastened the fireworks to him. In a moment he was free.

  ‘How long have we got?’ I gasped.

  ‘Just seconds,’ Charlie said. ‘I don’t know which displays he’s programmed to go off first.’ Then as Charlie tottered to his feet he took a swing at me. His face was an encyclopaedia of aggression. Startled though I was, I pushed him away and he lurched towards the pile of fireworks.

  ‘The tape, Charlie. Get the tape!’ Brandon shrieked. Charlie looked undecided for a second but then he stumbled off to do his father’s bidding. He started wrenching furniture away from the blocked interior door. He was still strong. The noise he made slinging furniture about matched the din from outside.

  ‘Thanks for untying me,’ Marti commented sarcastically as Charlie headed for the computer room. I started frantically trying to unravel Marti from her bonds. It was impossible to free her without also freeing Brandon, but I didn’t do it willingly. Over my shoulder I glimpsed the surviving Piledrivers leaping over the bodies of their colleagues as they headed for freedom. I doubt if any rugby league spectator had ever seen them move so fast. They certainly didn’t spare us a second glance. The whole area round the building was being lit up by exploding fireworks, all skilfully tampered with so they caused maximum damage. I didn’t fancy my chances in the open, but the house was piled with the stuff.

  ‘Come on!’ I said to Marti. ‘We can make it.’

  ‘Not without that tape!’ she screamed. Brandon had plunged into the interior of the building. I tried to grab her and pull her after me but she slipped free. The explosions were much nearer now. The windows in the house began to cave in. Glass was flying everywhere. I looked around again and Marti was gone.

  I legged it.

  As I ran, the ‘features’, Brandon’s prides and joys, went up all around me. Vince had really done a job. Green and golden flames flickered. Explosions thumped. The former SAS man had taped powerful skyrockets onto plastic statues. They went up in sparks and then showered the area with molten plastic. I tried to cover my face. I ran and ran. There was no sign of firemen or safety ahead.

  It wasn’t until I was almost at the main road that I spotted Brendan Cullen.

  ‘They’re still in there,’ I gasped, ‘King’s trying to escape.’

  ‘I know,’ he
said helplessly, ‘but we’ll never catch him while this is going on.’

  We both looked back at the mansion. The shape seemed to waver. Flames shot out of windows and then with a dull roar the whole place blew up. I started to go back but Brendan held me.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he shouted above the roar. ‘She must be dead.’

  Epilogue

  NEITHER BRANDON NOR Charlie survived Vince’s hellish firework display. Their bodies were found later in the wreckage of Brandon’s computer room. No trace of Marti or Vince was found at South Pork – not that their part in events played any part in the story the police put out.

  Still keeping to the line that Brandon Carlyle was a respected businessman – after all he was the seventh richest man in the country and we live in an enterprise culture – they attributed the destruction of South Pork – Moat Hall Farm – to a burglary that had gone tragically wrong when Charlie’s illegal containerload of banned Chinese fireworks went up. There were no allusions to Brandon’s criminal past or mentions of Vince King. It was all down to unknown burglars who were still being sought.

  Even in death, Brandon Carlyle was able to manipulate the media. There are many unanswered questions, and one day, perhaps, there’ll be a no-holds-barred biography of Brandon Carlyle, but not yet.

  The Cheshire Police handled all the publicity, or at least they appeared to. There may have been more experienced hands than theirs at work.

  There’s been no mention whatever of any secret tapes, nor reference made to other killings. A body that could have been that of Morton Devereaux-Almond was washed up at Bray in the Irish Republic but identification was uncertain. Anyway, his death was down as an accident.

  Needless to say, my name wasn’t mentioned at all, and there wasn’t even a secret commendation from the sour-faced Chief Constable of Cheshire. No doubt he was peeved that there would be no more quail’s eggs at New Year.

  I found that I could live without the gratitude of the police. I managed to live quite well.

  Brandon’s prediction that our own security services would kill me to silence any potentially dangerous voices hasn’t come true – and I don’t think it will. About two weeks after Brandon’s death a parcel was delivered to me at the office. It came from a solicitor acting for the estate of Sam Levy and contained a spool of tape of the type described by Vince King. After some thought I turned it in to Brendan Cullen. He said nothing about it and no one else has made any comment. I suppose if one is looking for a conspiracy of silence by the security services, the limp-wristed efforts to catch Vince and Marti provide some evidence.

  I was grateful, though.

  Janine and I see each other at weekends. We’re like an old couple. We both need each other but I’ve never dared to suggest a closer relationship. I still see Clyde Harrow occasionally. He’s a shit, but he can be a laugh at times. His career in television survived the fall of the House of Carlyle, as did Pimpernel Investigations.

  I was with him at Old Trafford one Saturday when something very curious happened. We were fighting our way towards the car park after the match. The crowds were almost shoulder to shoulder when someone put a hand on my arm. I say that, but of course there were dozens of people touching me in that press of bodies. There was something special about that hand on my arm, though; electricity or something. I whirled round and I caught a glimpse of an attractive blond before the crowd swept us apart. She looked vaguely familiar, as if in disguise. That sound, though, that wasn’t disguised. I could hear the inimitable laugh of Marti King growing ever fainter behind me.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781448135103

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2000 by

  William Heinemann

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Frank Lean 2000

  The right of Frank Lean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  William Heinemann

  Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

  Random House Australia (Pty) Limited

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia

  Random House New Zealand Limited

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Random House South Africa (Pty) Limited

  Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown, 2193, South Africa

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780434007431