Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘Janine, you know you’re the only woman I’m interested in . . .’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up! You sound like some pathetic pimply teenager. Have you been watching Neighbours? No. I think the dialogue’s better in that.’

  More heavy breathing followed as I struggled to swallow the insult.

  ‘Your eyes were all over the woman when she came to our table,’ Janine said after a while.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help the way I look at people.’

  ‘Not people, just big-bosomed women in expensive clothes.’

  ‘I didn’t even notice her bosom . . .’

  ‘You should have done, she practically stuck it in your face. Your eyes were out on stalks.’

  ‘. . . or her clothes, I was going to say.’

  After that we drove in silence to Thornleigh Court. I hung around by the entrance to my flat while Janine dealt with the baby-sitter – a local teenager who came complete with baggy-trousered boyfriend.

  When they’d gone I put my head round the door to ask Janine if she wanted a coffee.

  ‘How can I leave the children? You’d better come in, you big slob, unless you prefer to sulk.’

  ‘I don’t lust after every female I meet,’ I said later when we were in bed.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Janine agreed. ‘It just seems that way.’

  ‘It doesn’t! There’s nothing wrong with your bosom. I’m perfectly satisfied with it.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch!’ she said. ‘Pig!’ Then she tried and failed to push me out of bed. The funny thing was, the more I protested a lack of interest in Marti King and her anatomy the stronger my feelings became.

  7

  THE FRONT DOOR communicator buzzed at about one-thirty p.m. that Sunday. I was alone in my own flat. Janine had taken Jenny and Lloyd off to a do-it-yourself session at the Whitworth Art Gallery and I was occupying myself with a casual browse through the Sunday papers. I took my time answering the buzzer on which my impatient caller was now attempting to play a tune.

  ‘Are you ready to be gripped in the arms of Morpheus, Cunane?’ the unmistakable voice of Clyde Harrow squeaked through the small speaker.

  ‘No, I don’t take morphine, Clyde,’ I replied, ‘but maybe I’ll start if you’re visiting.’

  ‘Morpheus, son of Hypnos, the god of dreams! Rouse yourself, man! I’ve come to bear you away to his fabled shrine in Old Trafford.’

  I pressed the button to open the door and a few moments later the fat form of Clyde, looking more absurd than ever in tight-fitting Manchester United supporter’s kit, was sprawled over the sofa in my living room. I was surprised to see the obese comedian. This was his first ever unsolicited visit.

  ‘No camera team, I swear it!’ he said jovially. ‘A purely social call.’

  ‘Oh,’ I muttered.

  ‘I came to apologise for my recent verbal excesses.’

  ‘How unlike you,’ I murmured.

  ‘Laconic as ever, Dave,’ he said benevolently. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Has Brandon Carlyle fired you then?’

  ‘No, far from it. I’m told that I’m a highly valued asset of his organisation. Such a valued gem indeed that I’m to be freed from the daily news grind and given my own weekly feature slot.’

  ‘Kicked upstairs?’

  ‘Tantamount to that. Accountant’s mentality, of course . . . They inform me that the expense of keeping a crew on standby for me isn’t justified when there’s ample material in archives to supply background coverage. But my dear lad, I didn’t call to impose my problems on you.’

  ‘No, I’m sure that would be the last thing you’d do.’

  ‘Ouch!’ he groaned, playfully smacking his own face. ‘Come now, David, a sneer ill becomes your open countenance.’

  ‘What did you come for then?’

  ‘I am the possessor of two tickets for my company’s box at Old Trafford. The lads are up for the cup and kick-off is at four. What do you say?’

  What do you say? Anything but yes would require acres of explanation. I soon found myself seated alongside Clyde and forty other men in a box suspended above the emerald turf simulating an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. I noted that Clyde was one of the few among the TV executives to sport the full supporter’s rig. I wondered if they regarded Clyde as a sort of court fool, complete with cap and bells.

  ‘This is how I started out, you know,’ he informed me.

  ‘What? Getting yourself measured up for a straitjacket?’

  ‘No, you fool! I was a match commentator. They liked my vivid turn of phrase so much that they gave me my own programme.’

  ‘I’m glad somebody likes it.’

  Just watching Clyde was exhausting, and by half-time I was more than ready for the refreshments. When full-time arrived with the home team in front I found that, despite myself, I shared the general euphoria.

  There was no rush to leave and soon I was propping up the bar next to Clyde. We both needed support.

  ‘Well now,’ he said happily.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘Have you made any progress in finding out what was going on between Charlie and Marti Carlyle?’

  ‘No, and I haven’t tried,’ I said, lurching back to earth with a bump.

  ‘Far be it from me to chide you for neglect of duty, old lad, but if a beautiful woman had thrust herself into my lap like that and then her husband and his bravos came to threaten me I’d make it my business to seek that woman out.’

  ‘I saw Marti last night.’

  ‘Did you?’ he gasped, seizing the lapels of my jacket in his enthusiasm.

  ‘What’s this about, Clyde?’ I growled, brushing him off. ‘I only met her by chance in a restaurant.’

  ‘She is interested in you, then?’

  ‘No, no. Get that idea out of your head.’

  Clyde looked so downcast that I almost felt a spasm of sympathy for him – almost, but not quite.

  ‘I need ammunition to fight back with,’ he moaned. ‘I was hoping that you might provide it.’

  ‘I’m sure you were, Clyde,’ I said harshly.

  ‘You don’t understand, do you? One little chink in that man’s armour and I’ll reveal him to the world as the criminal he is. Publicity is the one thing these corrupt bosses fear.’

  There was a space round us. Clyde wasn’t exactly keeping his voice down.

  ‘I did do some research into Brandon Carlyle’s so-called empire,’ I said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest that he’s different from any other rich businessman trying to get richer.’

  ‘But then there wouldn’t be, would there?’ he said sadly. ‘Financial journalists know which side their bread’s buttered on and, at best, they only have crumbs of information.’

  ‘What’s so terrible about this guy, apart from the fact that you don’t like him?’

  ‘What indeed? He seems to be able to blackmail the most unlikely people.’

  ‘He isn’t blackmailing me. You’re overwrought, Clyde,’ I said smugly.

  I decided it was time to leave. I walked home, determined to leave Clyde Harrow and his troubles behind me.

  8

  DESPITE CLYDE’S GLOOMY prognostications I heard nothing more about the Carlyle family over the next few weeks, which suited me perfectly – though I couldn’t resist a little background reading on the Vince King case. Just to satisfy my curiosity. Otherwise my life on the emotional white-knuckle ride with Janine skidded along its appointed track until the end of summer when we took a break from each other.

  That is, she took a break from me.

  Ever the noble character, I stayed in Manchester, happy as an early Christian martyr given a preview of the instruments being laid out for his torture. I was still beavering away at the business, trying to keep the balance sheet of Pimpernel Investigations looking healthy. Janine and the kids departed for points south . . . London, not the Costas. Her mum, she of the cockney whine – Dive K’
nine, that’s what she calls me – wanted her daughter in Twickenham with her for two weeks, and her daughter wanted to be there. No place for Dive, especially as Janine carefully informed me that she would be investigating career opportunities on the London papers.

  So it was a slightly resentful individual who met Marti King when she entered the offices of Pimpernel Investigations for the second time.

  Now it was one of those mornings at the fag end of summer when nothing seems to be happening. You make believe the fine weather is going to go on for ever but you know it’s all an illusion. Nasty damp winter is just lying in wait. Work was more a matter of ticking days off the calendar than strenuous effort. Commercial activity had slowed to a crawl. Most of my contacts were sunning themselves on Spanish beaches. So there I was, the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, seated in the office wearing my second best blue suit and trying to think of something to fill my day. A rumbling stomach was telling me that lunchtime was near but that was the only sound to be heard at Pimpernel Investigations. I was in the front office trying to summon enough energy to walk to a sandwich bar while idly watching the public pass along the street.

  I saw and recognised Marti as soon as she turned the corner. She was walking briskly, with enough attractive curves on display to drive a geometry teacher mad. I had ample time to lock the outer door and retreat into the back office before she saw me, but I didn’t, so all that followed was my own fault. Perhaps I am a sex maniac. I tell myself that I’m interested in people and that Marti’s story was what interested me. At any rate when she opened the door of Pimpernel Investigations and came in I welcomed her with a smile which she repaid with compound interest.

  ‘Is this another of your days for rescuing damsels in distress?’ she asked.

  ‘Depends. You’re not pissed again, are you?’ I liked her bold front.

  ‘A master of the delicate touch!’ she said with a grimace. ‘I hadn’t had that much to drink that day you saw me at Tarn. I hadn’t eaten for two days and then a couple of brandies on an empty stomach and that row with Charlie, it was enough to make anyone pass out.’

  ‘You call that a row, do you? It looked more like a stand-up and drag-down fight from where I was.’

  ‘Charlie loves the starring role but I didn’t come to talk about him. We’re having a trial separation. I just called round to see if you’d like to do me a little favour.’

  ‘As I say, it depends. Favours I do at weekends. I’m plying for hire now.’

  ‘I won’t be able to pay you anything,’ she said quickly. ‘Not now.’

  She flicked me a cute little smile; cute and little enough to steal the show at any beautiful baby contest. I couldn’t hold the strict expression on my face. She must have read me like a book. I could have kicked myself. Rule seventeen in the Private Detectives Handbook is to give nothing away when discussing fees. Now the pretty lady told me she couldn’t pay. Still, she was dressed in a designer outfit which couldn’t have left her with much change from two grand, a little number consisting of a three-quarter-length coat in a colour she later informed me was ink, over a white dress with navy flowers.

  ‘Very cute,’ I commented.

  ‘Things aren’t what they seem,’ she continued hurriedly and her confidence seemed to sag a little. ‘Charlie is supposed to have undertaken all kinds of financial arrangements but I haven’t seen a bean since we separated and now the credit cards have gone kaput.’ She focused those cool green eyes on me, two pools of pale emerald quite deep enough for a private detective to drown in.

  I’ve always been soft in the head when it comes to hard luck stories. This one was getting right to the spot.

  ‘What is it you wanted?’ I asked, expecting her to touch me for cash.

  ‘You’re my last hope really. I know it’s cheeky but you did give me that lift from Tarn and that’s what put the idea in my head.’

  She gave me that appealing look again.

  ‘Go on then . . .’

  ‘My father, he’s in prison.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Been checking up, have you? Or was it that old gargoyle of a copper you were with? I can spot a bluebottle a mile off.’

  ‘That bluebottle happens to be my father.’

  ‘Oh!’ she murmured. Her face fell.

  ‘None of us gets to choose our parents,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just with you being private I thought you wouldn’t be connected to the police.’

  ‘I’m not. My dad was a policeman. He could just as well have been a bus driver.’

  ‘Do you think so? Well, I’m prepared to overlook it if you are.’

  ‘Cheek!’

  ‘No, there are some good families that have a copper related. What I came to ask is, would you give me a lift to theprison? He’s in Armley Jail, Leeds, at the moment.’

  Again my features let me down. Astonishment must have flickered briefly.

  ‘You weren’t doing anything when I came except fanning the breeze. I saw you. It would be another chance for you to get out of Manchester again.’

  ‘That’s considerate of you. I wasn’t in Tarn that day on the off-chance you needed a lift, you know. I was working.’

  ‘Are you working now?’

  ‘Actually, no . . .’

  ‘So what’s stopping you? We can be there in an hour, and you’ll be back behind your desk by four.’

  ‘I don’t want to seem harsh, but what’s wrong with public transport?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve no dosh. Charlie’s cut me off without a bean.’

  ‘Surely . . .’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I bet you’ve never had anyone from your family in prison. If I don’t turn up . . .’

  ‘But how were you hoping to get there?’

  ‘I had a car but Charlie sent that Lou Olley round to collect it. I got a lift into Manchester and then I thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘I can lend you some money.’

  ‘That’s no good. I’ll never get to Leeds in time now. When they’ve got someone down to see them they bring them into the visiting room. He’ll have to sit there waiting for me to come and I won’t be there.’

  ‘What about a taxi?’

  ‘Have you any idea how much that would cost? It would be cheaper to take me yourself.’

  ‘It might be and then again a paying customer might walk in here at any moment.’

  We both looked out of the window when I said this. The only person walking down the street at that moment was a sad-faced itinerant hauling a tattered bundle on his back like one of Napoleon’s soldiers on the retreat from Moscow. He was trailing an equally miserable-looking whippet along behind him.

  ‘OK, I’ll grant you there’s not much chance of a paying customer,’ I laughed, ‘but if I take you to Leeds, that’s it. I’ll take you there and wait outside the prison but then it’s straight back here.’

  Marti beamed like a small child who’s been told that Christmas is coming twice this year.

  I looked at Marti and she looked at me. Paddy had warned me to steer clear of the Carlyles but Marti wasn’t a Carlyle now, was she? I was out from behind the desk and in the street locking the office door behind us without another word. We set off to collect my car. Taking Marti to Leeds was just something to fill in a blank day, but there was definitely a buzz when I drove out of the multi-storey and saw her waiting on the pavement. Her looks would have made a gay carnival king abdicate.

  I was cruising towards Huddersfield at a steady eighty when Marti revealed the next part of her plan.

  ‘You wouldn’t consider coming in with me?’ she asked.

  ‘No, how could I? My name won’t be on the visitors’ list.’

  ‘Well, actually . . .’

  ‘What?’ I demanded, swerving and almost ending up on the hard shoulder.

  ‘There is a way.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘No, I told you a little porky before. I didn’t just want a
lift. I wanted you.’

  ‘A likely tale!’ I said, blowing her a kiss.

  ‘No, not like that, I mean as a detective. I want you to get my dad out.’

  ‘Escape?’

  ‘Find evidence about the fit-up. Every time he comes up for parole the Police Federation lobby the Home Secretary, but now McMahon’s the Home Secretary it’s the best chance he’ll ever have. McMahon was his brief at the trial and appeal. He’ll have to listen if we can find a single scrap of evidence.’

  ‘Do you turn to a policeman’s son to help a convicted cop-killer?’

  ‘I’ve heard about you. I think you could help my father . . . Oh, it’s all gone wrong. If Charlie hadn’t been such a pig I’d have hired you, but he’s so spiteful. He left me without money on purpose.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he thought it might stop you buying booze.’

  ‘I’m not a lush. I told you, that morning was down to drinking on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Or maybe it was all a fine piece of acting.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ she said indignantly. Her face matched her flaming hair. ‘That I was part of a plan to entrap you? Don’t flatter yourself.’

  At that moment we flashed past a sign announcing the next turn-off in two miles.

  ‘You’d better come up with some answers quickly or you’ll be walking the rest of the way,’ I threatened. The trouble with me is that I can never keep up a threat for long, especially with a beautiful woman. She turned those big, appealing green eyes on me. I swerved slightly off the lane.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ she shouted.

  ‘Switch off the sex appeal then.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, you big, ugly . . .’

  I slowed down to get into the inside lane as her voice trailed off into silence. Then she began talking quickly, almost gabbling.

  ‘What I told you about my father being desperate is true. He’s in there for something he didn’t do but because he was a career criminal no one will believe him. I got in touch with the solicitor who handled his original trial, Morton Devereaux-Almond. He wrote back saying that he’d always had doubts about Dad’s conviction. I persuaded him to come and see Dad, even though he’s retired now, but then two weeks ago he backed out. I was frightened to tell Dad. You don’t know him, he’s so determined. He’d do anything.’