Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘Listen,’ I said, lifting the tape and nodding towards the retreating WPC, ‘she told me I could nip through. My office is only over there.’

  The young copper looked at me, looked at the office and then at his superiors who were in conversation on the other side of the van, and let me through. I dashed to the door of Pimpernel Investigations. It was locked. There was a note, ‘Back in five minutes’, taped on the inside of the glass door. I looked down the street past the van where crowds were observing from the Deansgate direction. Celeste was among them. She waved excitedly. I abandoned the office and made my way past the blood-stained gutter on the opposite side of the street.

  ‘Did you see it?’ Celeste asked excitedly. ‘They’re saying it was a shooting.’

  ‘He must have been run over or something,’ I murmured hopefully.

  ‘No, there’s a man over there who saw the whole thing,’ she said, pointing to an elderly white-haired man in a Barbour jacket who was giving his name and address to a uniformed sergeant.

  ‘And where were you, miss?’ I asked gently. I was grateful that she’d seen nothing, particularly that she hadn’t identified Olley.

  ‘You expect the mail to be posted, don’t you?’ she countered smoothly. It was true there was a letter box just round the corner. There was also a travel agency where Celeste’s sister worked. In the circumstances I decided to let things rest. She’d probably been round the corner most of the time I was away.

  ‘Right. What are they saying?’ If there was gossip Celeste would have learned every detail by now, but before she could speak another contingent of police arrived and began pushing us all back towards Deansgate. We shuffled along obediently, and Celeste filled me in.

  ‘I heard that man telling the copper that someone came up behind the guy that was shot. They were on a mountain bike and had a mask on. Shot the dude four times. God! I wish I’d been here,’ she said fervently. ‘I could have been a witness. It must have been cool.’

  The mad pounding sensation returned to my chest. Where the hell was Marti King? I looked at my watch. It was two minutes after four.

  ‘Celeste, stick to being a legal executive, will you? It’s a lot safer.’ By this time we’d been pushed all the way back along Deansgate. The crowd spilled over into the roadway. Cars started sounding their horns.

  ‘Are you all right, boss?’ Celeste asked.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just that I was expecting a client at four. I’d hate to think she got mixed up in this.’

  ‘No, that’s OK. It was Ms King, wasn’t it? She phoned to say that she wouldn’t be able to make the appointment. She’ll be at the Renaissance till five if you still want to meet her.’

  It took me exactly two minutes to traverse Deansgate as far as the Renaissance Hotel. I didn’t know what I expected to find – Marti King putting a notch on her shooter, perhaps. I certainly wasn’t analysing the social implications of local dress standards as I ran down the traffic-clogged street.

  I found her in the bar – where else?

  15

  ‘ARE YOU THE lady’s husband?’ the owl-faced barman called over as I approached Marti.

  Speaking to her seemed more important than correcting him.

  Marti was sitting, or rather slumping, over a low table. I tried to rouse her. She was completely zonked out. There wasn’t a flicker from her eyes when I tried to wake her.

  ‘She said she was expecting you, and honestly, sir, if I’d known she was going to get like this I wouldn’t have let her stay.’ He sounded anxious, even scared.

  ‘How long has she been here?’

  ‘Since two.’

  ‘And she’s not been out at all?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said indignantly. ‘You don’t think I’d let her go out in this state? She was well plastered when she came in. She tried to buy drink with her gold card, Mr Carlyle. I let her have a couple of small brandies because I didn’t want her making a scene.’

  ‘Two small brandies?’

  ‘Well, maybe more . . . I tell you, she was well away when she came in.’

  His name tag said he was Clifford, and he screwed up his eyes and studied my face intently as if to memorise it. There was a pair of glasses tucked in the top pocket of his jacket.

  They say your whole life flashes before you when you drown, and I started to drown the instant I heard that Lou Olley had been shot. I visualised all the times I’d been interrogated and worse over matters that had nothing to do with me – but I did have something to do with Lou Olley. I did have something to do with Marti, his boss’s wife. It couldn’t be long before the plods decided that I must know why Lovely Lou was ventilated. I could hardly blame them. It was done on my doorstep. Why? Why? Why?

  When the barman misidentified me it was like being thrown a lifeline. The last thing I needed was someone saying, ‘Oh, yes, that detective where there was the shooting? He was with Mrs Carlyle at the hotel.’ Ordinary citizens don’t think like this, but they don’t get pulled in as often as I do. The barman must have read the expressions of fear and relief chasing across my face as gratitude at his concern. I decided to go along with it.

  ‘What do I owe you, Clifford?’ I asked, taking out a twenty.

  ‘I kept a tab,’ he said, turning to his till.

  I added another twenty after a glance at the tab.

  ‘Keep the change,’ I muttered.

  Clifford beamed his appreciation and looked at me expectantly. I looked back at him. What was I going to do next? Getting out fast seemed like a good idea. I half turned towards the revolving door. As I did I saw that the manager and the hotel porter were poised at the exit of the bar. Turning on my heel and making a dash for it wasn’t an option.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on her if you want to bring your car up,’ Clifford suggested.

  My mind was racing. I was trying to visualise Janine’s reaction if I arrived at Thornleigh Court with Marti slung over my shoulder. She’d be at home now after collecting Jenny and Lloyd. Leaving Marti to her own devices never crossed my mind.

  ‘I don’t like moving her,’ I said hesitantly. ‘I know it’s a nuisance, but do you think I could get a room here, either for the night or until she feels better?’

  Clifford lifted the bar flap and dashed up the steps for a whispered consultation with his boss and the porter. After a moment all three approached me.

  ‘There’s no problem at all, Mr Carlyle,’ the manager said smoothly. ‘If you’ll just come up and sign the register, Clifford and the porter here will get Mrs Carlyle upstairs. We’re always happy to oblige a member of the Carlyle family.’

  I followed him to the desk and the receptionist passed a registration slip. Signing my name, I got as far as the letter C and then hesitated. ‘Tell me, has Mrs Carlyle been here before?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Yes once, about a month ago. She got in a bit of a state and your father sent his chauffeur to collect her in the Rolls-Royce.’

  ‘Oh, that was it,’ I said completing the Carlyle signature with a confident scrawl. ‘If I need a doctor . . . Mrs Carlyle’s unwell . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, we know how to be discreet.’

  I got proof of that when I turned round. Clifford and the porter were already hustling Marti off towards a service lift. There were hotel guests dotted about the entrance area but I don’t think they got a glimpse of Marti’s disposal. The sunken bar and dining area was in semi-darkness.

  I followed them and when we arrived at room 111 on the first floor the two men carefully deposited Marti on the bed. They both hovered by the door for a moment. One of the problems of impersonating Charlie Carlyle was that the man was noted for his well-stuffed wallet. I fished out my own emaciated pouch and put a tenner in each man’s hand.

  ‘Look, I’m really grateful,’ I said diffidently, ‘and the fewer people who know about this the happier I shall be.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Clifford said. ‘You can count on us. Would you like me to get them to send
up some black coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, as Marti gave a stifled groan from the bed. ‘That sounds like a very good idea, but leave it for an hour or so. I’d like to let her sleep this off before I try to wake her.’ Then I remembered why I was here. The image of Lou Olley lying in a pool of his own blood was seared into my brain. I felt a shiver go up my spine.

  I went over to Marti. She was lying awkwardly with her head propped against a pillow. I tried to make her more comfortable. I began to unbutton the expensive soft chamois leather jacket she was wearing. Her breath carried the sweet rich smell of brandy. I dropped the jacket on the floor and made her comfortable on the bed. She slept soundly.

  I sat in the chair beside her. The room was filled with the faint hum of distant machinery and there was little air circulating in that hermetically sealed space. My own eyes began to feel heavy. I loosened my tie and slipped my feet out of my shoes, and before I knew it I had drowsed off.

  When I woke I looked round at Marti, and her eyes popped open in a disconcerting return to consciousness, reminding me of her behaviour the first time I’d met her. I looked into those green orbs and as before it struck me that there was no expression there. The way she snapped back into wakefulness was chilling. She was like an automaton returning to full awareness at the flick of a switch.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she muttered without any trace of slurred speech. Her faint German accent was slightly more pronounced, but that was the only sign that she’d been on a drinking spree. She looked round the room and took in her surroundings. ‘You know this is all your fault?’ she said with a wave at the standardised furnishings. ‘If you’d come to the wine bar at two like I originally asked I’d have been on a train by now.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve finally left Charlie.’

  ‘You and Charlie must have had the longest ongoing breakup in history,’ I joked.

  ‘You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get away from the Carlyle family with a whole skin. What they have, they hold on to.’

  ‘Do you know what happened outside my office?’

  ‘Why should I? Thanks to you I’ve been in this dump all afternoon.’

  ‘Lou Olley was shot dead by someone on a bike.’

  Those two cool splinters of jade that had been intently focused on me now shifted to the ceiling as she took in the news. There was no shock, no intake of breath, no wailing and no hair-pulling; just a long pause while she considered the news.

  ‘You think I had something to do with it?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘How could you even ask?’

  ‘I have to ask. You were supposed to meet me at four; Charlie Carlyle’s minder gets bumped off outside my office at five to. There’s got to be a connection.’

  ‘What connection?’ she challenged. ‘I was supposed to meet you at two, not four, and was planning to be on a train by three. There must have been a long queue of people who had it in for that pig Olley. He was the family collector, the one who kept an eye on the businesses that weren’t quite so legal.’

  ‘So it was coincidence that he was near my office shortly before you were due to arrive?’

  ‘I wasn’t due to arrive. I phoned your secretary and told her to tell you that I’d be here.’

  ‘I didn’t get the message until after the shooting.’

  ‘So what? Do you think I arranged it all?’ Getting unsteadily to her feet, Marti headed towards the door – probably making for the little bar in the entrance passage, but at that moment a maid arrived with a steaming coffee pot and Marti slumped into a chair. The maid put the coffee down without a word and paused to ask a question.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, wearily searching for my wallet.

  ‘The lady’s luggage, it’s downstairs, sir. Will you be wanting it?’

  I nodded.

  When she’d gone I poured us both a cup of coffee. We drank in silence. A couple of minutes later two brand new Louis Vuitton suitcases were deposited in the room.

  ‘Sobering me up, eh?’ Marti eventually muttered with a grin.

  ‘Sobering you up?’ I gasped. ‘I wish I knew your trick. You spend the afternoon pouring brandy down your neck but it seems to have less effect on you than lemonade.’

  ‘That’s just me,’ she said proudly. ‘Good metabolism. I’ll live to be ninety.’

  She swallowed the last of her coffee and I poured her another cup. ‘I must get to London,’ she said. ‘I can’t get away from Charlie in Manchester. He has too many contacts.’

  ‘Listen, Marti, I don’t care if you live to be a hundred and twenty and I don’t care where you want to go, but I do want some answers,’ I said fretfully. ‘Why were you so keen to meet me this afternoon? Were you trying to fit me up or were you arranging for me to get the same treatment Olley got?’

  ‘Dave!’ she said with a laugh. ‘You’ll have me in stitches. As if I would want to harm you or anyone.’

  ‘Why did you want to see me?’

  I had news of my own for her but it seemed better to suss out why hubby’s minder had got his jolts just before our rendezvous.

  ‘Could you lend me the money to make a fresh start?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I need cash. I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘And how much are you after?’

  ‘A couple of thousand would do, just until I establish myself in London. You’ll get it all back.’

  ‘You’ve got a great sense of humour.’

  ‘No, I’m just being practical. I’ll need to get my own place and you know they ask for a deposit. There’ll be no trouble in repaying you. Charlie’s got to come through with what he owes me.’

  I was undecided.

  ‘Come on, Mr Detective, don’t tell me you haven’t got some salted away. If you really want to piss Charlie off, help me now. He’ll come out in lumps when I don’t come running home to him.’

  I smiled at this not unpleasant idea. I had to admire her cheek. A second ago I was all set for a heavy question and answer session and now I was worrying about my bank balance. I made a motion of the shoulders that was halfway between a non-committal shrug and a shudder. Marti must have taken my movement as a refusal because she carried on arguing her case.

  ‘I’ll find a good job in London. Paul Longstreet will see that I’m all right.’

  ‘The Paul Longstreet, the one with the clubs?’

  ‘Yes, he’s an old friend of Dad’s, but if you’ll lend me the money I won’t be completely dependent on him while he fixes me up with something.’

  ‘But doesn’t he have all these lap dancers and such like? Is that what you’re thinking of doing?’

  ‘Oh, Dave,’ her head went back as the laughter pealed out at ear-shattering volume, ‘you think I’m a stripper?’ I could see her head going back for another full-blooded chortle and I grabbed her.

  ‘Haven’t you got any volume control on that guffaw of yours?’

  ‘People have been asking that since I was two years old, but I can’t help it. You think I want to take my clothes off for greasy businessmen and that they would pay to look at me? Dave, that’s the most flattering thing I’ve heard in weeks.’

  Laughing again, she stood up and began fumbling for the zip at the back of her dress.

  ‘You want to see me strut my stuff?’

  ‘In the circumstances I’d rather postpone that pleasure indefinitely.’

  ‘Ach! The awkward girlfriend! Dave, you deserve better.’ She finally managed to locate the zip and in a second her dress, a navy and silver silk creation, was fluttering down to join her jacket on the floor. The lingerie revealed, which definitely wasn’t from Damart, left little to the imagination. ‘Ha! I can see I’ve embarrassed the great detective. Dave Cunane, you’re blushing.’

  ‘I am not!’ I protested. There was a reaction that reminded me that I was still alive but I wasn’t about to discuss it with her. ‘Get yourself covered before someone comes in. I’ve registered in the
name of Charlie Carlyle. How will I explain this if he shows up?’

  ‘Oooh, naughty Dave! I wonder why you did that? But that makes it all right. Husbands and wives are allowed to look at each other,’ she said, looping her hands behind her back to slip off her bra. I stood up.

  ‘No, don’t go.’ She laughed again. ‘I only want a shower.’ She skipped across the carpet to the bathroom, at the same time flipping her bra off and tossing it over her shoulder at me. ‘If you think your girlfriend wouldn’t mind, you can come in and scrub my back for me. I can feel that train with my libido on arriving back in the station.’

  I took this as a joke because the next thing she did was to shut the bathroom door and lock it. As soon as I heard the lock snap into place I plucked my mobile out of an inside pocket and phoned Janine.

  ‘Dave, what’s happening?’ she said immediately. ‘The police have been round here looking for you.’

  ‘I wish I knew what was happening myself. What did they say?’

  ‘They want to interview you in connection with an incident outside your office. I don’t think they wanted to arrest you but one of them was all for kicking the door of your flat in. They might have done if I hadn’t told them I was Press.’

  ‘You should have let them try. That’s a steel reinforced door.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. What’s going on? It’s that Marti woman, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because the Carlyle Corporation has put out a statement denying that the man who was shot in the street practically at your front door was an employee of theirs, that’s why.’

  ‘Oh, denial. That figures.’

  ‘It doesn’t take a genius to put two and . . .’

  ‘. . . make five,’ I interjected. ‘Listen, trust me, Marti isn’t involved in that way and neither am I, but she could be in trouble. Do me a favour, go into my flat and look in the bottom of the freezer. You’ll find a bag of frozen peas with some money in it.’

  ‘Money? How thrilling, my partner has his assets frozen,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘No, it’s just a little hot money that I was chilling out for a rainy day.’