Boiling Point
Page 31
I met Ernie Cunliffe. Yes indeed, we had several intimate lunches at Nico Central rubbing shoulders with all the other movers and shakers on the Manchester scene. People I didn’t know started giving me friendly nods or asking my opinion on matters I knew even less about. Ernie was timid, almost deferential. He kept recommending properties in the Wilmslow, Hale Barns area. ‘Yes, Dave, there’s some really nice developments at the moment in the three-hundred, four-hundred k range. I mean if you bought one as an investment you’d see a return on your capital in a very short time,’ he said sagely.
‘Right, I’ll think about it,’ I said, carefully pocketing the papers he gave me.
‘You can’t beat bricks and mortar as an investment, but have you thought about an annuity? The firm could let you have preferential terms, not that you’re our employee or anything.’
I promised to consider it. I found the turn-around in my relationship with Ernie difficult to absorb. I still thought he was a rat but now, somehow, we were on the same side, both rats together. Ernie was nervous when other big insurance companies put work my way, as if his position now depended on keeping me sweet and available. I tried not to lose any sleep over it and as the weeks passed found myself more and more slipping into character as a man of business. It was so difficult not to. I met people in plush offices who were almost embarrassingly eager to share confidences. I occasionally listened to myself laughing and joking, swapping the latest buzz-words, grumbling about the quality of secretarial help. It was as if I’d suddenly become fluent in a new language. I knew things were getting serious when several of my new acquaintances offered to propose me for the Masons.
I suppose at the back of my mind I was relying on one person to bring me back to earth with a bump . . .
‘Eeeh, David, you seem to have really landed on your feet here,’ Paddy said when I showed him round the office.
I’d been waiting hopefully for the inevitable sarcastic comment to come but it didn’t.
‘You know, maybe I’ve been mistaken all these years,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Trying to push you into the police force, I mean. This is where the money is, no doubt about that. You’ll never want for work while folk keep trying so hard to get something for nowt.’
I looked at him in sheer disbelief. Paddy misread the impression of shock on my face.
‘Aye, lad,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind admitting that you’ve got some smart folk working for you, some of them better qualified than they’ve got in the detective office over at Bootle Street, but then you pay your lot a damn sight more.’
Open-mouthed and at a loss for words I nodded agreement.
‘That’s it, you see, that’s what’s wrong with the Force these days . . . pay peanuts and you get monkeys, right?’
I looked at him, saddened to hear this heresy.
43
I THINK IT was the non-censorious visit by my parent that set my old rebel juices flowing again. When he’d left the office I got Celeste to phone Bernadette Devereaux. Devereaux-Almond was not at home and had not been at home and he’d never been away for two months at a stretch before.
I sat at the small desk in the reception area, Celeste’s old desk, that I used as my base. The office was very busy these days and it was difficult to think. Was Almond dead? The more I thought about it the more I realised that screaming murder at this stage would do more harm than good. The best way I could approach things was by taking up the cause of Vince King again. This time I would start at the top.
I took out a sheet of paper and began wrestling with my letter to the Right Honourable James McMahon, MP, Home Secretary. By the time I’d scrapped my first four efforts passers-by in the office began to take notice. It took me most of the day to hammer out this:
Dear Sir,
You will be aware of the case of Vincent King, presently serving life at Armley Jail for the murders of Dennis Musgrave and Frederick Fullalove in 1978.
I have been engaged by Mr King’s family to investigate aspects of the case which give grounds for believing that his conviction was unsafe. No doubt as you were personally involved as Mr King’s defence counsel you are well aware that his appeal on the grounds of material irregularity in the conduct of his trial was disallowed.
However I should inform you that I am in the process of collecting evidence that his solicitor Mr Morton V. E. Devereaux-Almond was not acting independently as the agent of Mr King but of a group called North West Mercian Investments representing business interests in Manchester which were inimical to Mr King.
On enquiries being directed to Mr Devereaux-Almond as to the reasons why he, a solicitor never previously engaged in criminal work, took on the defence of Mr King, he not only took umbrage but appears to have left the country that same day without leaving a forwarding address.
I am certain that you will feel as I do that the double role played by Mr Devereaux-Almond constitutes sufficient grounds for you to refer the case to the Criminal Cases Review Commission.
Yours sincerely,
D. Cunane.
I typed the letter on the firm’s headed notepaper myself.
The reply which came in an amazingly short time of three weeks was brief and to the point.
Dear Mr Cunane,
The Secretary of State wishes me to inform you that he does not feel there are sufficient grounds for a referral of the case of Vincent King to the Criminal Cases Review Commission. He has considered the matter closely and feels that the question of Mr Devereaux-Almond’s financial involvement with North West Mercian Investments for whatever reason has no relevance to the issues raised at Mr King’s trial or subsequent appeal.
Yours sincerely,
J. K. Prendergast
Principal Private Secretary
This letter had scarcely hit my desk before Brendan Cullen arrived.
‘Nice try, but no banana,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Don’t act stupid. You know what. You’re not going to get your girlfriend’s daddy out of prison so easily.’
‘What girlfriend? What are you on about?’
Cullen looked round the crowded office. Celeste gave him a hostile stare from her corner. Two of my investigators swept in from the street and through to the back rooms. They looked at Cullen blankly. He could have been a Betterware salesman for all they knew or cared.
‘God, you know I didn’t believe it when they said you were expanding,’ Cullen said with a shake of his head. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Station in here. How do you get any work done?’
‘I manage when I’m not interrupted.’
‘Well, tough! We need to talk. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch or are you too prosperous now to be seen with a mere DCI?’
‘Mr Cunane, do you want me to phone my cousin?’ Celeste bawled from across the room. She’d recognised Cullen well enough.
‘That’s all right, love, I’m not arresting him,’ Cullen said, turning to face her with his hands up in surrender. ‘Not yet, anyway,’ he said quietly when he turned back to look at me. The expression on his face was grim. He nodded towards the door.
I got my coat and we ended up at Pierre Victoire on Peter Street.
Brendan Cullen was well brought up. He waited until we were on the cheese course before he made any reference to the events surrounding my night with Marti.
‘Are you still banging her? Marti, I mean,’ he asked bluntly.
‘I haven’t seen her since that night.’
‘Then do you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing sending bloody letters to the Home Secretary on behalf of her father?’ he demanded fiercely. ‘Didn’t you hear me last time or were you too concussed? Marti’s a definite suspect in both the Lou Olley and the Levy killings.’
‘Bren, has anyone ever told you that you’re boring?’ I asked.
‘Frequently,’ he admitted with a trace of a grin.
‘If Marti’s such a major suspect why haven’t you pulled her or anyone else in for questioning?’
‘Thanks,’ I murmured. ‘So you’re not trying to trace the people who tried to kill me?’
‘We found the van in Birmingham, another dead end. Anyway, why should we worry about people trying to do you in when you try so hard to kill yourself? Walking out of that hospital was a crazy stunt. I was sure somebody had lifted you until I saw that my coat was gone. You’re an idiot.’
I made no reply to this. I didn’t feel like apologising. Why should I? It’s supposed to be a free country. They can’t require you to stay in hospital if you don’t want to . . . as long as you’re not sectioned under the Mental Health Act, that is.
Brendan looked at me with an expression that said he thought I ought to be sectioned. Then he got to work on his Roquefort.
‘Where is it anyway?’ he said at last, jabbing his cheese knife at me for emphasis.
‘What?’ I said stupidly.
‘My bloody raincoat.’
‘I posted it to you, care of Bootle Street.’
‘Great, it’s probably in a bloody evidence box now,’ he said gloomily. Then he started laughing. ‘Christ, Dave, it’s never dull when you’re around. You really put the cat among the pigeons with that letter to the Home Office. I had the chief constable phoning me in the middle of the night demanding to know if this double-barrelled berk in Rochdale was the third victim in the Olley/Levy case.’
‘And isn’t he?’
‘Of course not. He’s just as entitled to go on his holidays as you are to walk out of hospitals.’
‘He’s dead, Bren. He’s at the bottom of Morecambe Bay with an anchor round his legs.’
‘That imagination of yours’ll be the death of you, Dave,’ he said with a grunt. He reached in his pocket and drew out a thick envelope which he threw down on the table. ‘Go on, look,’ he invited.
The envelope contained six postcards to Bernadette Devereaux all signed by ‘Morton’ and posted over the last two months. They were from holiday resorts in Florida; Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Palm Beach.
‘There’s nothing easier than to get someone to write out a load of postcards before you bump him off,’ I said.
‘Sticking to your story, are you?’ Cullen said contemptuously.
‘Yes. Look at the shaky, spidery writing. All done with the same pen too and nothing more specific than: “Having a nice time, wish you were here.’”
‘Yeah, well, even us blundering professionals thought of that. The writing matches other examples by Devereaux-Almond. His penmanship wasn’t terrific.’
‘No more than his legal work? How do you explain that he made so much money if someone wasn’t paying him to keep quiet about King?’
‘That is a mystery to me but then how do you explain that you’re making so much money yourself? If everyone was rewarded on merit I’d be a millionaire and you’d be selling the Big Issue.’
‘Ouch,’ I muttered. ‘But there was another thing. Someone brought his boat “Spirit of the Hills” back into Fleetwood Marina. You should be able to trace that man easily enough if he was a local.’
‘Tell me something, Dave,’ Cullen asked, ‘why do you give a damn about Vince King or Morton V. E. Devereaux-Almond? I mean what’s in it for you if you’re not bonking pretty Miss Marti anymore?’
‘I never was bonking Marti,’ I said. It came out more vehemently than I intended. I believe I may even have blushed. Cullen raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Well, only that one time,’ I admitted ruefully, ‘and believe me I’ve paid a price for that.’
‘But why, Dave? I mean letters to the Home Office, that’s going it a bit, isn’t it?’
‘I think King is innocent and you still haven’t convinced me that Almond’s alive. Am I supposed to just ignore it when people I speak to disappear?’
‘How very noble of you.’
‘Don’t sneer. You know you wouldn’t be able to sleep comfortably if you thought King was innocent.’
‘Dave, the man blew more safes than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘He’s a little bastard and I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him, but the idea of him thinking that coppers like my dad were corrupt sticks in my throat. I believe that DI Mick Jones framed him.’
‘Jones,’ Cullen said with a weary shake of the head, ‘he was a first-class shit, from what I’ve heard.’ He began rapping the table with his finger. ‘All right, there are one or two things . . . First, we haven’t been able to trace whoever it was brought Almond’s boat back and that’s unusual. There’s a small group of local men who do most of the crewing for the marina and the geezer on Almond’s boat wasn’t one of them. Secondly, I’m going to have a look at Jones on the q.t. The chief constable’s desperate to avoid bad smells from any of Jones’s cases, but that doesn’t mean that I think your man King’s got a cat in hell’s chance of getting out unless he admits his crimes. Last of all, Dave, there’s this. There was almost a third victim in the Olley/Levy killings and that was you! There’s someone who’s very determined that nothing should be raked up from what happened in 1978. Just watch your back.’
When Bren had gone a very strange thought went through my weary little head.
The chief constable was worried and Bren was doing a bit of sly checking. Did that mean that they suspected that it was coppers who killed Musgrave and Fullalove and that those bent coppers were still out there making sure that the case wasn’t reopened? Then a still stranger thought crept into my mind. Bren Cullen had been on the spot when that white van hit me . . . Bren? Was it possible? I tried to shake off the idea but I couldn’t.
44
THE LETTER FROM Marti King arrived at my Chorlton flat.
Dear Dave,
I’m writing this to let you know that everything is going well for me now. I’m back with Charlie who’s been taking aggression control therapy.
I enclose a cheque for the money you so kindly lent me in my hour of need and I can’t thank you enough for everything that you did for me at that time.
I’ve seen my father at Armley Jail again. He asked after you and to tell you the truth I think he prefers you to Charlie. Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge now. I’ve given up trying to persuade him to repent or recant or whatever it is he needs to do to get parole. He won’t do it and it’s no good trying. I know you did the best for him that anyone could have done but when a person doesn’t want to help himself what can anyone do? Daddy’s a hopeless case.
Relations with Brandon are very, very good and he’s talked to me about you at length and hopes you are doing well and bear him no grudges. To show that there are no hard feelings he’s asked me to invite you to the annual New Year party that the family put on at his home. (Please find the ticket enclosed.)
I hope you and your partner will be able to come. I’ll be thrilled to see you both.
Best wishes,
Marti Carlyle.
I studied the elaborately produced ticket: ‘Mr Brandon Carlyle and his Family request the company of Mr David Cunane and partner at their New Year celebration . . . RSVP.’
In the spirit of the wary truce into which my relations with Janine had settled I showed her the letter and the invitation expecting a scornful laugh. Janine and I had settled down to a period of mutual tolerance after the stresses our relationship had endured in the autumn. The offer of marriage which she’d made then hadn’t been renewed but neither had it been retracted.
We were both incredibly busy, too busy to have much time for feuding. I was spending most of my days refereeing boundary disputes among my staff and it left me with little inclination for the old verbal sparring with Janine. Janine had found a child-minder to see Lloyd and Jenny back and forth from their private school in Didsbury, which relieved us both of a certain anxiety. Janine�
�s threats of a move from Chorlton also appeared to have been shelved. Both Jenny and Lloyd were enjoying school and it seemed a shame to uproot them. So things were going on more or less as they had been. There had been the occasional letter from Henry Talbot about his offspring, but he hadn’t taken it further.
‘So little Miss Marti’s landed back in the bosom of her family,’ Janine said triumphantly when she read the letter. ‘What did I tell you? A woman like that will never give up a wealthy husband like Charlie Carlyle until she finds someone equally wealthy, and let’s face it, flower, even with your current affluence you’re never going to fill that bill.’
‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
‘No really, Dave, all she ever wanted was to use you to work Charlie up into a fit of jealousy, and look how keen she is to get dear old Daddy out of the calaboose? It looks like he’s had his chips now that she’s all right again.’
‘I take it that I should rip this ticket up?’ I asked.
‘No fear, we’re going. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.’
‘I’m not going if you’re going to make a scene.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Dave. Why would I make a scene? Women fighting over a man, that belongs to the Middle Ages. I’m a journalist, and half the people worth knowing in Cheshire and Manchester will be at this bash. This chance is too good to miss.’
‘What chance?’
‘Dave, just because your business has taken off it doesn’t mean that I’m going to be content to stay a journalist on a local paper for the rest of my life. I have to meet the people who count, and so do you.’
I looked at her in surprise. I knew she was ambitious, but she’d only ever discussed the so-called ‘Cheshire Set’ in terms of the utmost contempt, and in her articles for the paper she maintained a radical, populist tone when she wasn’t preaching strident feminism.