Boiling Point Read online

  A joke, you think?

  How often have I wished it was and how often have I regretted telling Janine?

  These gloomy speculations were suddenly ended by a crash in the outer office. It sounded as if ram raiders were going for the petty cash. I dashed out of my room. I was hardly through the door when someone grabbed me by the throat. Before I could do anything my assailant had my arms up my back and was jerking me towards the floor. I just had time to get a glimpse of a terrified Celeste crouching in the corner with her desk tipped up in front of her. Then my descending body met my attacker’s ascending knee and the only sensation I had for the next few minutes was pain and sickness. Then everything went dark . . .

  When I came round Celeste was putting papers back on her desk, restored to its usual place, and three oversized individuals were standing over me. I goggled at them stupidly for a moment before light dawned. One of them was Charles Carlyle.

  ‘Celeste, get the police,’ I managed to wheeze.

  ‘I am the police,’ was the classic reply from a man who was by far the oldest of the trio. His head was crowned by a mass of carefully tended grey curls, the coiffeured locks adding a good two inches to his height. He shoved his face right into mine. His breath smelled of whisky, expensive whisky too. Why I should have been able to grasp such a detail at a moment of crisis I don’t know, but I did.

  ‘Prove it, Whisky-breath,’ I snarled.

  He held a warrant card three inches from the end of my nose. Detective Sergeant Tony Hefflin was the name. It rang a bell.

  ‘I see you’ve heard of me,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing good.’

  At this the man who’d dished out the physical stuff, a squat individual with the word minder written all over his tightly stretched suit, leaned forward, grabbed my hair and almost jerked my head from my shoulders.

  ‘That’ll be enough,’ Hefflin said, laying a hand on his sleeve. ‘I’m sure Mr Cunane’s already got the message.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ I gasped.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky or you’ll get another smack,’ the minder growled. He released me with a painful shove. Primitive rage stirred but I kept a grip. This guy would keep for another time.

  ‘We’re looking for this gentleman’s wife,’ Hefflin said in a silky voice, nodding at Carlyle.

  ‘What makes you think he’s a gentleman?’ I asked. It didn’t come out quite as defiantly as it was intended to. I was still gasping for breath.

  The minder leaned forward again.

  ‘Careful, Cunane,’ Hefflin cautioned. ‘I’ve heard all about your little ways. You were seen loading her into your car. The stewards at Tarn Golf Club got your registration number.’

  ‘Since when has giving an assault victim a lift been police business?’

  ‘Abduction’s police business.’

  ‘So’s violent assault! Carlyle’s a dab hand at that. I could hardly leave the woman lying face down in the mud or hand her over when he started flashing his shotgun.’

  Hefflin turned to Carlyle and raised his eyebrows slightly. Perhaps he hadn’t been told the reason for my Sir Galahad routine. The minder grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me to my feet without strain. Presumably he was going to give me another dose of correction but Hefflin stopped him.

  ‘That’s enough of that, Olley,’ he snapped. ‘I told you that I don’t need any rough stuff to throw a scare into a no-hoper like Cunane.’

  The shaven-headed monolith turned to Hefflin and narrowed his eyes as if weighing up whether it was worth his while to give Hefflin a smack. He looked like a pit bull terrier that had partially assumed human form. The colouring was identical: dark stubble on head and chin, dead white skin with contrasting pink at the mouth, eyes and ears.

  ‘That’s all right, Lou,’ Carlyle intervened. ‘Wait outside, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Mr Carlyle,’ the minder muttered doubtfully.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Carlyle said.

  Lou Olley was so broad across the shoulders that he had to go sideways through the office door into the street. He stood in front of the entrance with his back to us.

  ‘Sorry about that, Cunane,’ Carlyle said with a snide grin at Hefflin. ‘Lou sometimes takes an exaggerated view of the threats I face.’

  ‘That’s OK. Smash up my office, terrify my secretary and knock me unconscious any time you like. Happy to oblige the gentry.’

  ‘Cut that out, Cunane,’ Hefflin said. ‘You’ve got some questions to answer. Why were you in that car park if you weren’t there to snatch Mrs Carlyle?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It’s my business if some rival of Mr Carlyle has paid you to pressure him.’

  ‘I don’t do things like that.’

  ‘Pull the other one, Cunane. What’s a notorious Manchester private detective doing at the Tarn Pro-Am Tournament? You were there to cause trouble.’

  ‘So private detectives aren’t allowed to like golf?’

  ‘Why were you there? Did Marti arrange it with you?’

  ‘Marti who?’

  Hefflin stepped back and looked at me speculatively. His withered features and bouffant hair had a sinister aspect, no doubt intentionally. Then he walked into my private office and riffled through the papers on my desk. He picked up the telephone notepad and examined it closely, holding it obliquely to the light. I felt a sharp stab of panic until I remembered that I hadn’t written down a word about the Insull Perriss job, not even his name. Hefflin’s inspection was brief but thorough.

  ‘I don’t think he knows anything,’ he said to Carlyle when he came out. Just who was this Carlyle who had policemen to run his errands and what were they worried about me knowing? I felt as if I was in danger of getting my delicate bits caught in the moving parts of a very large machine.

  Carlyle shoved his face up to mine. It added emphasis if not intimacy. I could see the individual black hairs in his nose. There was a scorched red look to his nostrils that meant only one thing.

  I shoved him back.

  He didn’t like it. The furrows on his brow became more furrowed. He straightened his suit and appeared to be thinking. Then he grinned at me. I call it a grin but I imagine a hyena that’s just spotted dinner goes through similar facial contortions. He’d finally remembered how to act like a tough guy.

  ‘Listen, bum fluff,’ he said. With his public school elocution it sounded like a grotesque joke.

  ‘Bam flaff, what’s that?’ I mimicked.

  He didn’t like that either. All the loose flesh on his face seemed to gather into one big crease.

  ‘You’re nothing to me – got that?’ he said in strained tones. ‘You shoved your face in where it wasn’t wanted.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You were making an arsehole of yourself. Somebody had to do something.’

  He tried to grab my shirt front but I pushed him away again. He was a big man but he didn’t seem well co-ordinated. Perhaps there’d been too much of the white powder. His dark eyes were glistening.

  ‘If you don’t tell me where my wife is right now, I’ll . . .’

  ‘Get your steroidal maniac in to sort me, will you? I’m trembling. You listen to me, bam flaff! I’ve no idea where your wife is, but she’s well rid of you.’

  ‘I’ll pay you well,’ he said, switching tack and pulling out a well stuffed wallet. ‘She might be in danger.’

  ‘The only danger that woman was in, was from you,’ I said pushing his hand away. ‘Listen, Sergeant, why don’t you ask round at the old club house? Your playmate here was about to knock nine bells out of his lady when . . .’

  ‘You put your oar in,’ Hefflin said with a cynical smile on his face. ‘You listen, Cunane. I have asked around in Tarn, and if you think anyone there is going to corroborate the word of a tuppenny ha’penny private detective against a respected citizen like Mr Carlyle you couldn’t be more wrong.’

  ‘I should have known better than to think it, but you might like to enq
uire with your traffic colleagues about an accident at the M56 Tarn exit caused by a lunatic in a Porsche.’

  For a second I thought I saw a faint trace of a blush on Carlyle’s waxy features. It may have been a trick of the light. Anyway, he pulled a wad of fifty pound notes out of his wallet and tried to give me some. I pushed him away again.

  ‘Come away, Mr Carlyle, your charity’s wasted on him,’ Hefflin advised. ‘He’s pig-headed.’

  ‘Yeah, Sergeant Porker, you’d know about that,’ I growled.

  Hefflin shrugged, my words water off a duck’s back. Laying a hand on his client’s shoulder, he started to lead him out, but before he reached the door Carlyle had second thoughts. He turned and laid a couple of notes on Celeste’s desk.

  ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, miss,’ he muttered.

  I strode over, picked up the notes and flung them into the street after him. As a gesture it wasn’t very effective. You can’t throw paper money with much force. The notes fluttered to the pavement. Carlyle and Hefflin didn’t even look round. Lou Olley favoured me with a look of contempt and then fell into step behind his master. I intended my next move to be a scornful turn of the heel and a quick stalk to the inner room to lick my wounds, but I was pushed to one side by Celeste who knelt down to pick up the cash.

  ‘If you can afford to throw money in the street, I can’t,’ she said, folding the notes into her purse.

  At the exact moment that my attackers rounded the corner the unmistakable shape of a breathless and red-faced Clyde Harrow appeared on the other side of the street. The sun gleamed on his bald head as he turned to clock my departing visitors and the same bright light illuminated a crafty and eager expression on his round face. He stepped towards the kerb as if to follow the trio but then thought better of it. Spotting me, he raised his arm and sprinted towards me, achieving a surprising speed for a man of his bulk. I stumbled inside and tried to put the latch on.

  5

  ‘CUNANE! CUNANE, LET me in,’ Harrow bleated, pounding the glass door of Pimpernel Investigations with his pudgy fists.

  ‘Why? Will you huff and puff and blow my house down?’ I mocked.

  ‘You called me,’ he shouted and then slammed his shoulder against the door. Physical strength isn’t really Clyde’s scene but the sheer bulk of the man set the whole front of the building shuddering.

  As he poised himself for another charge I considered the situation. ‘Things can only get worse,’ I thought as I studied the determined expression on the fat man’s face. As usual he was clad in garish TV celeb clothes; this time a bright yellow jacket with a clashing red tie. He looked more like a beefburger vendor than a serious newsmonger, but there was nothing comical about the way he was shaping to ram my door.

  ‘Cunane, you summoned me. Let me in,’ he blustered.

  ‘If you’ve smashed the lock you can pay for it,’ I said, slowly opening the door.

  ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, pushing past me and opening the door of the inner office.

  ‘It wasn’t Mrs Carlyle. It was someone with the initials MK,’ I happily informed him.

  ‘MK, MK? That is Mrs Carlyle, Marti King that was. Where is she? Wasn’t Carlyle himself here a moment ago? Have you tamely handed the woman over before I’ve had a chance to interview her?’

  ‘I haven’t handed anyone over. She’s gone.’

  ‘Dunderhead! I told you to hang onto her.’

  ‘She’s gone. End of story! Off you go, Clyde.’

  ‘Not so fast, my young friend. I get the glimmerings of a news item there.’

  ‘You’re mad. Please go.’

  ‘Not until you tell me why you handed Marti over. Did the usual thirty pieces of silver change hands?’

  ‘I didn’t betray anyone. She’d gone before her husband arrived.’

  ‘And her departure had nothing to do with her spouse’s arrival? Do you expect me to believe that? How did Charles Carlyle know where to come if you didn’t tell him?’

  ‘It may have something to do with the fact that one of the men you saw with him was a policeman who traced my registration number. The other was Carlyle’s minder.’

  ‘A policeman? Who?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Tony Hefflin.’

  ‘Him! Why, the man’s already under investigation for corruption. I knew there was a story here but you’ve blown it by letting the woman go.’

  ‘Can you get this into that fat head of yours? She went of her own accord. Look, you must know I wouldn’t sell someone out.’

  He studied me closely with those intelligent eyes of his.

  ‘There is a story here. I can smell it. I can almost touch it,’ he said. ‘Damn you, Cunane. Or should I say Pimpernel?’

  ‘Why don’t you come through into my room and then we can talk this through?’ I suggested.

  Harrow looked round the office with a disdainful expression on his chubby features. I began to feel guilty that he’d been cheated out of a story.

  Celeste caught his eye. ‘Shall I bring coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Coffee!’ Clyde boomed as if she’d suggested rat poison. ‘The young master will have to come up with a better story and a better drink if he’s going to mollify me.’

  With that he swaggered into my inner room and parked his considerable frame in the most comfortable chair, my chair.

  ‘What’s been going on here?’ he demanded, pointing to the papers scattered all over the desk and floor.

  ‘Just like you, Mr Hefflin and Mr Olley were anxious to find out more about my non-existent involvement with Mrs Carlyle. They didn’t try blackmail. Their methods were more direct.’

  ‘Hmmph! Olley, you say – he’s a jumped up night-club bouncer with ideas above his station. Believe me, Pimpo-boy, if Hefflin and Olley were here together then you are involved.’

  I groaned and poured a couple of glasses of Bell’s whisky.

  ‘A pedestrian choice, but that’s to be expected,’ Clyde said sniffily when he saw the label. ‘I suppose it’s the best you’ve got.’ He took a long pull at his glass and then fished out his mobile and stood down the camera crew that was on its way. Listening to this, I took a drink from my own glass and began to feel better at once.

  ‘I don’t know how often I’ve told those lazy sods to be ready at a moment’s notice,’ Clyde confided. ‘Confrontation, that’s what I wanted. The stuff of television. Ah, if only I could have had a crew here while you and Olley and Hefflin were battling it out over the recumbent form of the lovely Marti.’

  ‘Clyde, it wasn’t like that,’ I muttered, but I might as well have saved my breath.

  ‘It wasn’t? With a little judicious editing it could have been,’ he sighed. ‘Anyway, it’s no good you saying you aren’t involved. You must have had speech if not full congress with Mrs Carlyle, or how else could you have known that her initials were MK?’

  ‘She left me a note, stupid.’

  ‘Stupid am I, Pimpo-boy? A look-see, if you please.’

  ‘No, why should I?’ I snapped angrily.

  ‘Because, dear boy, if you don’t I shall persuade my producer to run a little piece about cowboy private detectives running wild. Remember the footage we have of you brawling outside the Crown Court? You could enjoy a brief moment of national fame, or will it be infamy?’

  ‘They were insurance fraudsters angry that I’d uncovered their scam. You promised to scrap that material. The lawyers . . .’

  ‘Ah, the lawyers, Dave. The very devil, aren’t they? What was it Jack Cade said? “First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.” That was during the Peasant’s Revolt, as I expect someone of your ilk would know. Yes, we promised your lawyers that we wouldn’t show that stuff, but our lawyers insisted that we hang onto it.’

  ‘You don’t care about anything or anybody, do you?’ I said, handing over the scrap of paper Marti had left.

  ‘Care? Why, you puppy with your calf-licked hair, I care. I care for Clyde Harrow. I care for my six ex-wives. I care for
the fruits of my loins, too numerous to enumerate. I care for my ever adoring public always eager for my latest story . . .’

  ‘You care all right! You care about getting some dirt about the Carlyles that you can use to fix your fat arse even more firmly in the saddle down at that TV company you infest.’

  ‘Why, Dave!’ he roared in mock surprise. ‘Now you’re talking like a real man and not like a day-old kitten mewling for its mother.’

  He snatched up the note and read it and then reread it.

  ‘David, my dear, dear lad, most rare pimpernel,’ he said in reverential tones, ‘I think we have the makings of a major news item here.’ His eyes were gleaming like fog lamps. ‘Suppose we were to offer you a considerable fee, or more realistically, an inducement such as destruction of all recorded material we have on you, would you be willing to pose as a killer as Marti suggests?’

  I reached for the whisky again. As was normal in a Clyde Harrow interview, things were not going according to plan, at least not to my plan.

  ‘Clyde,’ I said, trying to frame my words with utmost care. ‘You know and I know that the remark about me being a killer was intended as a joke. Mrs Carlyle may have misheard something, some little hyperbolic remark that Janine hurled at me in the course of an argument.’

  ‘Hyperbolic remark! I like that, Dave. It’s good coming from you, definitely A-minus! I can see that you’re improving under my tuition, but it’s so interesting that you should mention that fragrant scribe, Ms White. I was wondering what part she played in all these events.’

  ‘Janine played no part at all, Clyde, and don’t look at me like that.’

  His fat features were folded into a libidinous grin. I hated the thought of him mentally licking his lips over Janine.

  ‘I shall look how I please, young master. Janine White’s a wonderful, wonderful woman who deserves only the very best out of life.’ A seraphic smile played on his face and his eyes went up into his head.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I spluttered angrily.

  ‘All this and telepathic too!’ Clyde taunted. My toes itched for contact with his rear end but I struggled for restraint.