Boiling Point Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Frank Lean

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Frank Lean is the pen name of Frank Leneghan who was born in 1942 and educated at Thornleigh College, Bolton and Keele University where he read history and politics. He has worked in education in Manchester, where he now lives.

  Also by Frank Lean

  Red for Rachel

  Nine Lives

  The Reluctant Investigator

  Kingdom Gone

  Boiling Point

  Frank Lean

  For Agnes Mary McClean

  The author wishes to acknowledge gratefully the help of James Byrne, Tim Holden, Peter King, Wayne Watkins, staff at Associated British Ports, Fleetwood and Thomas Wilson at Random House.

  1

  WHATEVER ELSE YOU said about him Insull Perriss wasn’t long-winded.

  ‘The entrance . . . Tarn Golf Club . . . be there,’ the captain of industry snarled before slamming the phone down. You’d have thought I was the one blackmailing him.

  For me, a journey to Tarn has a special meaning. I have two children in Tarn . . . twin sons I’ve sworn never to see. I never have, either.

  Still, you can’t have everything. The sun was shining after months of gloom. Long, slanting, low rays which meant driving with the visor down.

  When I reached the exclusive club I discovered that Insull Perriss meant exactly what he said . . . the club entrance and not a foot further. I spotted his distinctive pear-shaped frame as I searched for a parking space. This was even harder to find than a place on the club membership list. I couldn’t have slipped my mud-coated Mondeo among the ranked Rollers, BMWs, Mercedes and Jags even if the stewards had let me. I parked on the approach road.

  The industrialist was hovering at the top of the imposing entrance steps. He looked nervous, as he should. You can do serious time for circulating child pornography, not to mention the disgrace. For now, though, he was a man with a position to protect and there he stood like a robber baron at the gate of his fortress. Only it wasn’t his fortress and they’d evict him before he had time to blink if they caught one whiff of what I had in my parcel.

  Perriss knew what he was doing. The annual Pro-Am Golf Tournament was on and the place was buzzing. I wasn’t the only errand boy around but was probably the best paid.

  The deal wasn’t much . . . hand over the material I’d collected from the ex-employees who were screwing all they could out of their former boss. I didn’t like what he’d done but the stuff was freely available on the Internet. Anyway, I wasn’t his judge any more than the tabloids he was threatened with were. Bold before, Perriss was scared speechless now and I guessed it would be a long time before he surfed the net again.

  I passed him the parcel, but as in the children’s game it was no sooner in his hand than it was out of it, carelessly knocked from his fingers by a passing couple.

  The pair were quarrelling bitterly: he, red-faced and blustering, in his late thirties; she, much younger, redheaded and voluble. They swept past us, almost shoving Perriss into the shrubbery. Floppy disks fell out of the bundle as it bounced down the steps. I rushed to round them up and handed them to Perriss. He looked as if he was about to wet himself but my attention was reclaimed by the brawling couple.

  The florid-faced citizen was trying to detach himself from the shrill female. It wasn’t just a battle of the sexes but of opposites: she was trim and light and had a good figure; he was heavy, with dark features, a fleshy forehead, a big nose and wrinkles of flesh on his face like a day-old puppy. He turned on his heel to come back up the steps towards us. Poor Perriss flinched and positioned himself behind me.

  ‘You stupid bitch!’ the rowdy yelled over his shoulder. ‘You had to get yourself plastered.’

  It was a mistake; the woman had no intention of being dumped. She sprang onto his back and grabbing a handful of his black hair jerked his head to and fro like a big floppy pumpkin.

  All around the car park normal motion ceased: jaws descended, eyes popped out on stalks. Such upsets might be routine in some quarters but here at leafy Tarn they held an audience enthralled. A golf tournament was one thing, an opportunity to showcase success, but this was real life.

  Red-face was a big bloke, at least six foot three. He peeled the redhead off with an easy shrug of his shoulders, and then, turning, shook a clenched fist the size of a cauliflower in her face. He swung but thought better before the blow landed. Perhaps the massed gasps of disapproval put him off. Perhaps not. He didn’t look the sort who gave a damn what the gallery thought.

  Instead of belting the woman he gave her a push on the shoulder and sent her sprawling. Then, as if ashamed, he changed his mind about going back in the club and headed for the car park.

  The redhead struggled to her feet. ‘Brave man, aren’t you!’ she shrieked, and then, putting her hands on her hips, gave what I think was intended to be a derisive laugh. At least I don’t think the sound she made was a symptom of some medical condition. The peal of laughter was normal, though loud, but it was followed by an ear-shattering gargle as breath was drawn back into her lungs. It was a show-stopper. In the car park at Tarn Golf Club it was as unwanted as nettle-rash at a nudists’ picnic. Red-face paused for a moment.

  ‘Bugger off, you boring, bloody lush!’ he roared, whipping out car keys and zapping a mud-stained Porsche.

  I focused on the victim again. She was having trouble standing up. From what I could see she had better exterior curves than Red-face’s silver-grey Porsche. She had the sort of glow that spells money; money and trouble.

  ‘Don’t call me a lush, you second-hand sex machine!’ she screamed. She was game. Once back on her feet she was ready for another round. I turned to Insull Perriss but he’d already disappeared. I also decided to go, mission accomplished. There was nothing to keep me in Tarn. A paternal visit to my offspring was out of the question.

  Meanwhile, Red-face seemed anxious to conclude his encounter on a high note. Whirling round towards his drunken companion, he gave her another mouthful.

  ‘Listen, you pathetic part-time prostitute
’s get . . .’

  ‘Better than a pimp’s leavings!’

  That was it. The would-be woman-beater started forward, fist again raised for action. Sensing that he was for real this time, the redhead scrambled away, but her high heels hampered escape. Big-boy cornered her right up against my car.

  A social scientist might tell you how quickly it takes the average English crowd to respond to provocation – hours, days, and weeks, for all I know. But the golfers of Tarn were up for it. A posse of angry ladies began heading towards the couple, golfing umbrellas poised like lances at a pig-sticking contest. Somehow I found myself in the vanguard of the advance. Mucky though my car was, if it needed cleaning I’d rather do it myself than let this bozo wipe it with his lady friend.

  Your man had the redhead by the shoulders ready to loosen her teeth when I barged into him.

  I thought he was going to take a swing at me. I was firing adrenaline on all cylinders. Things might have got interesting but he surveyed the advancing throng with a beady brown eye, then turned back to me.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he gasped.

  ‘You’re not Lennox Lewis.’

  ‘Carlyle, Charles Carlyle.’

  ‘Am I meant to be impressed? Keep your hands off the lady.’

  ‘Lady! Hah!’ he sneered, then he wheeled round and strode towards his car. Seconds later he was burning rubber out of the car park.

  In the interim his intended prey slowly collapsed. My half-hearted attempt to hold her upright ended before it began. A kilted lady golfer elbowed me to one side and caught the redhead before she fell. The rescuer’s raised umbrella clattered onto the bonnet of my Mondeo.

  ‘Whew! Had a bit too much to drink, have you, love?’ she said, turning away and fanning the air with a pudgy hand. Her knowing look and shaking head stopped the approaching reinforcements in their tracks. Gathering up her brolly, this not-so-good Samaritan propped her burden against my car and bolted. I had no time to gape because Carlyle’s victim resumed her collapse into the Cheshire clay.

  I grabbed her arm first, but that was as limp as a string of sausages. The woman was a dead weight. I put my arms round her and held her up. It must have looked as if we were practising waltz steps – not that anyone was watching. I looked for help but all I saw was the middle class in retreat, tasteful tweeds and kilts blending into the scenery like ptarmigan into heather.

  ‘Oh, great!’ I mumbled under my breath. ‘Just what I need.’

  ‘Hang onto me for a minute, please,’ the redhead said. She wasn’t as blotto as I’d thought. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment. It’s just one of these funny turns I get.’

  Her previously closed eyes opened. They were a startling, almost vivid, green. I looked at her warily, alert for I don’t know what. She was as calm and cool as a hillside lake on a still, clear day. There was no rage, no shock, nothing.

  Awkwardly I tried to hold her at arm’s length. She just slumped forward against my chest.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ she repeated. I wasn’t about to dump her in the mud but I heard approaching footsteps with a sense of relief.

  A blazer-clad individual sporting a badge certifying that he was an official steward moved into my line of sight. I didn’t waste time on social niceties.

  ‘Give me a hand to get her into the clubhouse.’

  ‘You must be joking, pal!’ he snapped. ‘She’s barred.’

  ‘She’s ill!’

  ‘It’s just a funny turn,’ my dance partner commented faintly.

  ‘Funny turn! The only funny turn is you turning up here on tournament day in this state! How dare you? You know you’re barred!’ Before leaving, the man gave me a hard stare as if to warn me that I had no more right to be in his hallowed precincts than the target of his scorn.

  ‘A warm-hearted gang, aren’t they? This event’s supposed to be for charity,’ she murmured.

  ‘Frankly I’m not remotely interested in the club or its activities,’ I snapped.

  ‘Sorry to be a nuisance to you. I’ll get some strength back in my legs in a minute.’ There was a faint trace of a Dutch or German accent in her voice. Her eyes had shut again as if she was concentrating all her energy for the next move.

  The nearest bus stop was at least a mile away, taxis even further.

  ‘You’d better sit in my car for minute,’ I said resignedly.

  Her only reply was that peculiar laugh – a crescendo of mirth followed by the disconcerting choking sound.

  Luckily, our mad tango had taken place on the passenger side of the Mondeo and by sweating and struggling and becoming closely acquainted with her anatomy I managed to wedge her in the front seat. I looked back at the club. There was now a posse of blazer-clad stewards gathered on the steps, all favouring me with angry looks.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, in hopes of getting on to her address but that was another plan that didn’t work. Her head lolled back against the car seat. She really was senseless this time.

  I let the seat back as far as it would go and strapped her in. She’d mentioned a ‘funny turn’ and the sweet smell on her breath could have been diabetes, or God knows what, but I was too familiar with the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach to be worried. She was just pissed – pissed and passed out. I wound the window down on her side and headed back for Manchester at a cautious pace. By the look of her designer jeans and fawn jacket she’d be well able to afford the taxi fare to Tarn when she landed back on the planet.

  I was driving along the A556 back towards Manchester at no particular speed when the silver-grey Porsche showed up. One moment I was on my own on an empty road and a second later it was alongside me. Carlyle nudged his car towards mine until it was almost touching. He signalled me to stop. The imperious way he waved got right up my nose.

  I smiled politely and shook my head. The section of road we were on was a dual carriageway which ended at a massive roundabout where the road joined the M56 interchange. There was about a mile to go. When Carlyle saw that I wasn’t about to obey his lordly command he went mad. He swerved the Porsche into my path and tried to force me into the side of the road. I looped around him onto the outside lane and kept my foot on the accelerator.

  His next manoeuvre was more effective.

  Coming up on my offside he hoisted a shotgun into my line of sight, quite a feat in such a small car. The twisted hatred in his face suggested that he was crazy enough to use it. Presumably I was supposed to be frightened. I wasn’t. Exactly why, I don’t know. I’ve been told I’m stubborn to the point of stupidity so I expect that’s it. ‘Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling’ as my old man tells me often enough. I should have been scared witless by this nutter but something made me want to frustrate him. I slammed my foot hard on the brakes and he did the same, but with only one hand on the wheel he went into a spin which took him into a 180-degree turn. My ears strained for the welcome sound of glass breaking and metal being crushed but heard only the characteristic whining, waspish note of one of Ferdinand’s little beauties at full stretch. I took advantage of the seconds he spent turning to race towards the junction.

  He caught up with me at the roundabout and now we didn’t have the road to ourselves. The risk of gunplay was reduced but the chances of an accident increased a hundredfold. The highway was jammed with vehicles coming off the motorway. We jumped over the white line together and raced into the path of an oncoming five-axle truck. Carlyle had his horn blaring as did the truck, which swerved violently. Carlyle used the Porsche’s greater acceleration to overtake and block me when I reached the motorway slip road so I went round again, this time dodging a stream of cars emerging from the exit lane. It was bedlam. The deep throbbing scream of the Porsche engine was joined by the fanfare from a dozen car horns. Accelerating round the curve and getting friction burns from my steering wheel, I couldn’t help noticing that my passenger was still slumbering away peacefully.

  Then I got a lucky break. A huge trailer was just in front of
me. I shot inside it and used its bulk as a screen for a turn towards Altrincham. Carlyle was blocked this time. My wild turn might have gained me as much as twenty seconds, not enough to reach the first junction on the Altrincham road. There was a garage on my right. I heaved on the wheel, and, bumping across the low barrier, reached the shelter of the garage forecourt nanoseconds before Carlyle came racing into the road. I might not have been scared of him but my heart was thumping painfully as I turned into the car wash area. Carlyle shot past, on towards Altrincham, no doubt judging my powers of acceleration by his own.

  ‘You need a special card to go through there,’ a white-coated attendant said. ‘It’s not coin operated.’

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘Pay at the office and put your card in the slot,’ he explained patiently. ‘You’re in the queue here.’

  I took in my surroundings. I was parked behind a car waiting its turn at the automated car wash. Even as I looked another car pulled up behind me. If Carlyle arrived I wouldn’t be able to get away.

  ‘Had a long drive, then?’ the attendant asked chattily. ‘Your friend’s right out of it. I’ll get the card for you if you like.’

  I handed him a tenner and he strolled slowly off towards the office. The car in front of me moved into the wash and pulled up by the control unit. The friendly attendant soon returned with a piece of plastic and a handful of change.

  ‘Here you are, mate, I got you the full works,’ he explained. ‘Your car looks a bit travel stained.’

  It did, but when it emerged from the wash it was a different shade of green – different enough from the car Carlyle was seeking for me to risk creeping out and driving back to the motorway interchange. I was able to make the left turn onto the motorway without any trouble but the exit going the other way was completely blocked by a furniture van lying on its side. A yellow-jacketed patrolman waved me on as I looked for casualties. Fortunately, there were no corpses lying around, just a bunch of drivers scratching their heads. I went on my way.

  2

  MY PASSENGER’S ‘FUNNY turn’ lasted all the way into town. I parked the car at the back of my place, almost blocking the narrow street, and considered my options. There weren’t many. I helped her into the back room of the office. She stretched out on the couch like a tired tiger and fell into an instant sleep. Fortunately, Celeste, my secretary, wasn’t there to witness this scene. She must have been taking one of her extended lunch breaks. Leaving my unwelcome guest as comfortably settled as I could, I nipped out and parked the car in a nearby multi-storey. That took me ten minutes and when I got back I checked on the sleeper. She was snoring noisily. I retreated to the reception area and began reading through the mail which Celeste had sorted into different piles.