Boiling Point Read online

  ‘Funny! And what am I supposed to do next?’

  ‘Do you think you could find your way to the railway station in Stockport? Meet me there in an hour or so?’

  ‘I don’t see why I can’t catch the train at Piccadilly like anyone else,’ Marti grumbled as the taxi that was trundling us along Didsbury Road towards Stockport halted at traffic lights.

  ‘Because if the police or your husband’s friends are looking for you or me they’re much more likely to be at Piccadilly than at Stockport.’

  ‘If you’re so careful why don’t you drive me down to London yourself?’

  ‘Marti, I do have a life here apart from sorting out your affairs.’

  She was quiet for a while after that, deliberately turning her face away from me. I tried to work out what had been going on but I couldn’t come up with answers that made sense.

  Was it all coincidence? Hope said yes. Common sense said no. If the killer had been stalking Olley, my street would have done as well as anywhere. It was relatively quiet. Still, shootings aren’t everyday events, are they? A contract killer would have wanted to go over the ground before doing the job. Escape’s always priority number one for such people.

  So the killer must have known where to come looking for Olley, and that could only mean – what? There were a thousand possibilities, but the one that wouldn’t leave my mind was that Marti knew Olley was following her and that she told someone and arranged the whole thing, or – what? – Or my phone could be bugged . . . Or Olley told someone where he was going, someone who wanted him out of the way. Or someone was using Marti as a Judas goat, staked out to trap a tiger – Except she wasn’t in the trap at the crucial moment. She was draped over a table in the bar of the Renaissance, which would be hard to beat as an alibi.

  The thoughts went round and round, and eventually I cleared my throat to ask her again.

  ‘You think I was responsible for Lou Olley’s death, don’t you?’ she said before I could open my mouth.

  ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Suspect, then?’

  ‘If it was a coincidence it was very convenient that you were in the Renaissance instead of my office.’

  ‘That looks bad, doesn’t it?’

  I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘Dave, when you told me Olley was dead I know I was supposed to go into hysterics, howling and pretending that I was totally shocked, but I’m not like that. I’ve had all the shocks knocked out of me. When other kids were opening their Christmas presents I was being chased round Hamburg by the German border police. When normal girls were trying on their first party frocks I was breaking out of children’s homes. By the time I was fifteen I’d been arrested, beaten and bullied more often than I can remember. I don’t react like Ms Average Brit. I learned early on that bad things happen if you let anyone know what you’re feeling.’

  ‘Marti, I’m not your judge. I’m going to help you to get to London . . .’

  ‘But you’d like to think that I’m innocent, wouldn’t you? That would help you to sleep easy in your bed with that hard-faced bitch who’s got her claws into you?’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘Come with me, Dave.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘You’re getting middle aged, aren’t you?’

  ‘So, I’m supposed to come over like some silly teenager when a beautiful woman makes herself available, am I?’

  She laughed, not the full banana. It was just a little chuckle by her standards, but I could see the taxi driver watching us in his mirror.

  ‘At least you think I’m beautiful.’

  ‘You knew that already, didn’t you?’

  She laughed again. ‘I really do fancy you, you know, Dave. We could make a good team. OK, I knew that Lou Olley was on my trail, that’s why I wanted your help, but I didn’t know that he was going to be killed. That was nothing to do with me, I swear. I don’t know who arranged it, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Lou lived very close to the edge.’

  ‘Are you involved in something?’

  ‘The only things I’m involved in are getting away from Charlie Carlyle and trying to help my fool of a father.’

  I sat quietly for a while. I decided that it didn’t matter whether I believed her or not. I was still going to help her. It was up to the police to sort out the Olley killing. The taxi trundled down the hill towards the viaducts and steep valleys of Stockport.

  ‘Did you find anything to help my dad?’ she asked eventually. ‘You said you were on the case.’

  ‘Yeah, I was. Has he considered applying to the Criminal Cases Review Commission?’

  ‘Oh them! Of course he has. They said there was no new evidence and that the trial was properly conducted.’

  I handed her Devereaux-Almond’s letter.

  ‘This guy is a genuine copper-plated bastard. He was no more use to your father than he would have been defending himself – less, probably.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘This morning, and I think you can take it that he’s now retracted all his reservations about your father’s trial.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot. Devereaux-Almond is the only person who expressed even the slightest interest in proving that Dad was wrongly convicted, and now his nose is out of joint.’

  ‘You don’t get it. He never should have been defending your father in the first place. I asked him how many murder cases he’d handled and he went off like a rocket. I can’t understand how your father ended up with him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I was going to check out just why the double-barrelled berk was chosen as Vince’s solicitor when Olley turned up dead on my doorstep . . .’

  ‘. . . and I turned up drunk, is that it? Just drop it, Dave. I don’t want you sticking your nose in with Devereaux-Almond.’

  She fished in her bag for a moment and came up with a scrap of paper on which she scribbled a number.

  ‘You’ll be able to reach me at this number for the next couple of days, that is if you change your mind about stopping with Ms Frigid of Fleet Street.’

  I took the paper and tucked it in my wallet.

  I didn’t say anything. There didn’t seem to be too much to say. The taxi jerked and jolted its way through Stockport and deposited us at the railway station. Janine waved to us from the steps. She was shepherding Lloyd and Jenny and looked in no mood for long-winded explanations of which I’d prepared several during the journey. Her face was set into a pleasant, concerned smile resembling an accidental, oddly shaped spill of concrete.

  ‘Here,’ Janine said curtly, thrusting the plastic wallet containing my secret cash reserve into my hands. ‘I’ll be in the car over there.’ She dashed off without a second glance, but the children were looking over their shoulders as she towed them to her battered Fiesta.

  ‘Looks like Madam will be requiring a detailed statement,’ Marti said. I could see she was shaping for a laugh.

  ‘Don’t,’ I snapped. She reined herself in. I gave her £2000 in twenty pound notes. She watched me count it from the bundle. When I finished counting I was left with a hundred pounds in my hand.

  ‘I hope this isn’t going to leave you short,’ Marti said.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I muttered.

  ‘In that case you might as well let me have the lot. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,’ she said, giving me that cheeky smile of hers. She held her hand out and I gave her the remainder of my frozen reserve.

  ‘Listen, if you don’t get in touch I’ll phone as soon as I get somewhere and give you my address.’

  ‘No, Marti, that might not be a good idea. What I don’t know I can’t tell.’

  ‘Mr Supercautious!’ she said, giving a mild version of the clattering laugh. ‘Do you think we’re spies or something?’

  ‘Hadn’t you better get your ticket?’

  ‘You want to rush away and rebuild your bridges with Ms White, don’t you? Come here first.�
��

  Obedient as ever I leaned towards her and she gave me a very energetic kiss. When I eventually managed to unclinch myself she uncorked the clarion laugh at top volume. All over the station people stopped doing what they had been doing and looked. I slunk away as rapidly as I could.

  ‘Am I allowed to know what’s going on?’ Janine asked frostily when we’d got back to Chorlton and she’d managed to get Jenny and Lloyd squared away for the night.

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ I said disingenuously. ‘Nothing you need to know.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t need to know, but I’m going to know. That man Olley was somehow mixed up with Marti King, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I neither know nor care if he was.’

  ‘Yet you part with your life savings to help her get away.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about that. There was well over five grand in that freezer . . .’

  ‘You’re lucky someone looks after you. I pocketed it. I might let you have it back if you answer my questions.’

  ‘This isn’t what they mean by chequebook journalism, is it? You’re supposed to bribe me with the paper’s money, not my own.’

  ‘Dave, you need to get your story straight. Those coppers who came round seemed very certain that you were involved in the Olley killing right up to the tidemark round your mucky little neck.’

  When I told her everything I knew she was disappointed. There was no story in it for her, at least nothing that could be printed without the Carlyle family getting in touch with their lawyers.

  ‘What were you doing with all that money anyway, Dave?’ she asked when I’d finished my inconsequential tale.

  ‘Am I going to get it back?’ I enquired. The money was part of what I’d received for various delicate transactions I’d been involved in – not money laundering or anything like that. Insull Perriss had paid me cash for collecting the material his blackmailers had on him. I was providing a public service really.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not a hit man, Dave?’ Janine asked as she delved into her bag.

  ‘The only person I’ve ever felt tempted to hit is you,’ I told her. ‘If you hadn’t blurted out all that stuff in the office that day about me killing people Marti King would have forgotten all about me by now.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dave. You’re not a very forgettable person.’

  ‘Why don’t you keep the money and use it towards the deposit on your new luxury pad in the Cheshire stockbroker belt?’

  Janine passed me the wad as if it was burning her hand.

  Paddy’s phone call came just as I was on the point of sleep.

  ‘Were you involved in that shooting today?’ he asked in a barely audible voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stay clear of the Carlyles. Brandon’s a crook and a clever one. I don’t know how he did it, but he had the “one good tickle” all these career criminals pray for and he’s been careful ever since. There’s no knowing what he might do if someone starts poking around in his murky past.’

  ‘Right, Dad, I’m not involved any more,’ I said, comforted by his concern.

  Before sleep claimed me again I wondered what he wasn’t telling me. It was King’s past I’d been prying into. What was the connection with Brandon Carlyle?

  16

  IT WAS TEN a.m. the next day before I got a visit from the constabulary.

  Celeste showed DCI Cullen and a detective sergeant into my office. I held out my wrists for the cuffs as they trooped in.

  Brendan Cullen was dressed in his usual high fashion ‘Man at C&A’ grey suit. He was the image of a smartly turned out policeman to anyone but a raving clothes snob like me. I looked again: there was a certain fullness, a sleekness about him that I put down to increased prosperity since his last promotion. I’ve always regarded Bren as a friend but with the understanding that he puts duty above personal matters. What I like about him is his unworldliness. His attitude to dress is an example of this. He could afford made-to-measure suits but I know he has a puritanical contempt for such indulgences. As long as his clothes are clean and new that should be enough. The fact that no off-the-peg suit will ever match his long body, short legs and expanding waistline is neither here nor there, a frippery undeserving of consideration. I’ve told him to wear sports jackets and slacks but no, a suit goes with the rank, so suit it must be.

  The detective sergeant, who was called Munro, more than made up for Cullen’s advance in the avoirdupois department. Lean to the point of emaciation, Munro was also a paragon of contemporary fashion. He was clad in a hideous brown suit with a four button jacket. His hair was close shaven and dyed yellow, not blond. Only a floppy blue cap with a bell on the end was needed to complete the picture of Big Ears and Noddy.

  ‘What’s this? My day for tailoring advice?’ I quipped.

  ‘Always joking, aren’t you, Dave? One of these days I will come in here and slap the cuffs on you.’

  ‘What’s stopping you? A murder five yards from my door, so it must be down to me. Isn’t that the principle you lads operate on?’

  ‘As it happens, it isn’t. We know you knew Lou Olley and we know he knew his way to this office.’

  ‘Let me guess . . . ex-detective sergeant Sticky Fingers Hefflin?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I expect he told you that I was nursing a grudge because Olley beat me up?’

  ‘He did have some suggestions on those lines,’ Cullen agreed.

  ‘The woman, sir . . .’ Munro interjected.

  ‘All right, sergeant, I’m coming to her,’ Cullen muttered, waving his hand as if brushing away a troublesome insect.

  ‘Yes, Dave,’ he continued, ‘it looks as if you’ve made another friend for life in Mr Hefflin.’

  ‘I’m glad he doesn’t like me. I can’t stand corrupt coppers.’

  Munro glared at me angrily. Cullen swung round and gave him one of the lazy grins that are his trademark.

  ‘Now come on, sergeant, simmer down. Dave belongs to the irregular branch of our profession. He loves to wind us real detectives up, don’t you, Dave?’

  I shrugged my shoulders at the backhanded testimonial.

  ‘Our ex-colleague was most anxious to implicate you, almost as keen as he was to prove that he had no involvement himself. Fortunately for you, the late Mr Olley had his snout in so many different troughs that people with a better motive for offing him than you are coming out of the woodwork like rats at a barn shoot. A very nasty gentleman was Mr Olley. The current word is that he didn’t like paying his gambling debts. He was into an equally unsavoury customer for over a hundred thou.’

  ‘So you’ve not brought the rubber truncheons? I’m told that someone was all for smashing in the door of my flat last night.’

  Munro looked uncomfortable.

  ‘This is informal, Dave, but you know and I know what effect the name Cunane has in certain quarters at Bootle Street. As far as they’re concerned you’re Dishonest Dave with a capital D.’

  ‘But you know different, Bren . . . er, Mr Cullen.’

  ‘I called round to let you know that you needn’t flee the country just yet.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  Cullen exchanged a glance with Munro. I twigged what was going on. This was intended as a lesson for the junior copper, a variation on the good cop, bad cop routine. Cullen was showing Munro that a spoonful of sugar could produce better results than a sackful of arsenic.

  ‘You can help me, though.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said warily.

  ‘You aren’t involved with Charlie Carlyle’s wife, are you? Professionally or otherwise.’

  ‘What do you mean by involved?’

  ‘Come on, Dave. We both know your lustful nature.’

  ‘Bloody cheek!’

  ‘Are you giving her one on the side?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If not,’ he said slowly, looking me in the eyes, ‘stay clear. Light the blue touch paper and retire ten paces is very good advice w
ith that one.

  ‘You’re twisted, you know that?’

  ‘It’s the job, Dave. It’s a long time since either of us was an altar boy. Where is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The only person who can tell us if her husband had any involvement in the hit on Olley. Don’t pretend you don’t know her.’

  I could feel the waters closing over my head.

  ‘Mrs Carlyle wanted me to prove that her father, Vince King, wasn’t guilty of the murders for which he’s serving life imprisonment.’

  ‘Hah! Any progress so far?’

  ‘Some, but as my enquiries don’t come cheap and Mrs Carlyle is short of the necessary I’ve had to put that operation on a care and maintenance basis.’

  ‘Dave, you’re a barrel of laughs. We both know you run a one man and his dog operation, yet here you are going on like Richard Branson.’

  ‘I hire people in when I need them, including a good number of ex-coppers.’

  ‘OK, you’re the Businessman of the Year, but what about Mrs Carlyle?’

  ‘I’ve told you what I’m doing for her and that’s the limit of my involvement with her.’

  ‘So she didn’t try to score off a big soft lump like you for a bit of sympathy? Dave, don’t forget I know you. According to Hefflin, you saved Marti that day at Tarn Golf Club. What would be more natural than for her to turn to you if she needed a bit of protection?’

  ‘I’m running a legitimate business here and you’re taking up my time . . .’

  ‘You know where Marti is. Tell me and you’ll not hear another word about all this.’

  ‘What sort of business do you think I’d have if I went round giving information about my clients? I have no idea where Marti King is now but if she’s got away from Charlie then good luck to her.’

  ‘Perhaps a day in the cells at Bootle Street might persuade you to change your mind.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  I got the full benefit of the Cullen grin after this. I didn’t know which way he was going to jump. He had nothing on me and he knew it, but when has that ever stopped the police harassing me? Cullen wasn’t stupid. He knew I was hiding something. He turned from me to his sergeant.