KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) (17 page)

‘Are you sure about this, Dave?’

‘Yeah, why would I want anyone else but you? Who else would I trust?’’

‘I’ve done wills and probate work before you know.’

‘I’m sure you have.’

‘I’ll need extra staff; I mean if the estate is as big you say you I’ll need to check that every little item Sir Lew owned is passed down to you. That means staff to check inventories and things. It could take months until we have everything in our hands.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘OK, I’m on my way,’ he said.

He let himself out and departed at speed.

I felt that I’d committed myself.

19

Tuesday: 2.15 p.m.

I had little time to think about my life’s unfolding prospects before Tony and Clint returned. Tony was clutching several Marks and Spencer’s bags. I indicated the door of my office and he went in to change. Clint gave me a beaming smile and settled on the sofa with a new stack of car mags he’d bought.

After a few minutes Tony reappeared in his new finery.

‘Tra-la!’ he crowed, striking a pose.

He did a few turns. The transformation was almost complete. His suit wasn’t Savile Row but it was well cut. Like Lew he has that slim frame that clothes hang well on.

I clapped my hands. Clint observed closely, trying to take it all in.

‘I haven’t looked this pretty since my first Holy Communion. My mum still has the picture of me in my little suit and tie with my hands joined in prayer. Ha, bloody ha!’

Then he looked serious for a moment. His eyes filled up.

‘I think that was the last bloody time I’ve ever wore a suit. My life’s all been downhill from then.’

‘Oh, come on! What about the reconditioned brain?’ I said.

‘Yes, your suit’s nice, but your nose still isn’t right, Tony,’ Clint added. ‘You’ve hardly got anything worth calling a nose.’

Tony looked more miserable than ever.

‘Yeah, thanks Clint, but maybe we can get his nose fixed,’ I interjected, ‘and perhaps we can get the docs to do something about you at the same time. Perhaps they could shrink you a bit.’

Clint began laughing but then he suddenly became as solemn as a gravedigger’s mate.

You have to be careful what you say to Clint. He can take things too literally.

‘You know, Dave,’ the big man said in what for him was almost a whisper, ‘
Honey, I Shrunk the Kids
is my favourite film. I watch it over and over. Do you really think they could do something?’

‘Yeah, they could chop your bleeding legs off but then I’d probably end up pushing you round in a wheelchair,’ Tony said acidly.

‘That’s enough of that, Tony,’ I snapped. Although he was seldom violent and never with friends, the glint that appeared in Clint’s eyes was ominous. His next move might be to pitch Tony through the window. ‘I didn’t want you in a new suit so we could start a misery session. Clint will have to put up with his size but I’m sure they can do something for you.’

‘Oh, I won’t get my hopes up. I was awarded compensation after my accident, enough money to go private to a top plastic surgeon … ’course my dad spent the lot and after that they never, like bothered getting anything done and then I was making money out of looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.’

‘Your dad was mean,’ Clint said with an untypical hint of satisfaction in his tone.

‘No, the bugger was the exact opposite of mean. He spent my compensation on giving his boozing pals the time of their lives. He was the king of Cheetham Hill for about a year.’

‘Still, there’s always the NHS. Why didn’t they take you to see a doctor about it?’

‘Reason’s bleeding obvious, innit Dave?’

‘Is it?’

‘Yeah, dad was scared witless they’d ask what had happened to the compensation so he wouldn’t let my mum take me anywhere near a hospital.’

‘So he
was
mean,’ Clint said conclusively.

Just then the morbid discussion was punctuated by the office phone ringing.

I signalled Tony to answer. ‘I’m not here if it’s someone wanting to murder me,’ I instructed. He didn’t ask how he’d know that. He just picked up the phone.

‘Pimpernel Investigations,’ he warbled in a passable Oxford accent, then ‘Oh, it’s you, Boss,’ in his normal tone and handed the phone to me.

It was Bob Lane.

‘Bob, at last,’ I said but he cut me off.

‘Dave, I’m in a hurry. Can you come to the airport with Clint? I just need a word with you both and I can’t do it over the phone. Terminal Two.’

‘Ye-es,’ I said with a note of hesitation but he wasn’t having any of it.

‘Terminal Two, a-s-a-p, Dave,’ he said and broke the contact.

Thanks to my contrary nature I object to being given orders even by a friend so I took my time and did what I’d been intending to do before he phoned.

I gave Tony instructions for minding the shop. He wouldn’t be able to offer new customers competitive quotes on jobs but I gave him the list of our standard charges. He could at least quote those and take down names and send out our brochures. I’d written out cheques for investigators who’d completed assignments, he could give those out and he could post some of the completed reports to clients.

I hastily checked the ones we had. About twenty had come in since since Monday. I selected some and rejected others. Some came in legible and nicely typed on our standard forms but others needed to be edited and polished up before we sent them out. I put the ones needing further work back in my in-tray.

Tony listened carefully as I spoke, ‘Yes, Dave; yes Dave,’ he repeated over and over so when I finally could think of nothing else to tell him I gave him a verbal test. He had me down word-perfect. The reconditioned brain was still working well.

‘Have still you got your own mobile?’ I asked.

He replied with a look that suggested I was losing my mind.

‘Phone for two taxis from two different companies, if they ask for the destination to tell them they’re for clients and you don’t know but they’ll tip well. Clint and I are going to see Bob at the airport, Terminal Two.’

I then retrieved the photo of the real April Fothergill, the attractive black girl, and put it in my wallet. I reached the outside door before another thought struck. I had an illusion of safety here in my office. So far there hadn’t been a repeat of the determined attacks at Topfield Farm. It could be because the police or MI5 had the office under close surveillance but when I left the CCTV zone of central Manchester I’d be out in the jungle again. I might need to run for my life.

I collected my North Face wet weather jacket. It was black and rather battered because I’d worn it during building operations at Topfield. I
guessed that was all to the good but I didn’t want it as a disguise. I put it on. It has capacious pockets which I now stuffed with the remaining cash from the safe.

The first taxi came.

‘Keep him waiting a minute,’ I ordered Tony, turning to Clint. ‘It’s better if you go on your own. Where are we going?’

‘Terminal Two,’ he grunted, looking up from his magazine.

‘Tell your driver to take you through Wythenshawe, not the M56.’

‘Wythenshawe, not the M56,’ he repeated with eyes fixed on the magazine.

A moment later the second taxi beeped its horn. I dashed out to it, pushing Clint in front of me. Both taxis were parked on the pavement. I crouched down. Clint looked at me with a puzzled frown and took my place in the second cab. I got in the first.

It was a childish manoeuvre but if Crown Prince Franz Ferdinand had changed cars after the first attempt on his life in Sarajevo maybe the First World War wouldn’t have happened.

I told my driver to take the M56.

Crazy and full of historical parallels, that’s me but we both arrived safely at Terminal Two.

We entered the concourse and mingled with the crowds.  There were police all over the place. If there were any lurking assassins surely they’d keep their heads down here. Bob Lane was standing under the meeting point next to a pile of luggage. Tammy was with him. She set her pretty lips in a scowl when she saw Clint.

Clint rushed forward and gave Bob a bear hug.

20

Tuesday: 3.05 p.m.

Clint lifted his heavily built brother at least two feet off the ground.

‘Clint!’ Tammy squawked disapprovingly. ‘There are people watching.’

I thought that was a bit rich as half the men in the concourse had their eyes glued on her. She was wearing a skimpy silver lamé top that did little to hide her mammary abundance, tight black shorts, and silver knee boots with stiletto heels. Her platinum blonde hair, which was piled up on top of her head, could have done service as a landing beacon in a fog.

‘Yeah, bro, Let me go!’ Bob said.

‘Why are you speaking in rhyme?’ I asked.

Before he could reply Clint lifted Bob higher, held him at arm’s length above his head and then suddenly let him go but caught him and steadied him the instant before he hit the ground. Bob is at least fourteen stone, all muscle and bone, but he landed lightly.

‘Rhyme, that’s no crime,’ he gasped.

‘Stop it, Bob!’

‘Or you’ll shut my gob? … I’m sorry Dave. I think I must have been Shakespeare in another life.’

I had to laugh.

Tammy had watched Clint’s performance with a sour look on her face, now she turned to Bob with a ‘told you so expression’. I knew what she was thinking. Bob was attached to a freak and he needed to break the bond.

‘What it is, Dave,’ Bob drawled, ‘me and my good lady here are thinking of taking a few days off.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, we’re going to Barbados. Check-in opens in five minutes. Bob deserves a break,’ Tammy said.

I looked at her hands. There were plenty of rings but not an engagement ring. She noticed my glance.

‘We’re entitled,’ Tammy said, ‘and we don’t need anyone’s approval.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ I agreed.

‘The thing is Dave, sorry to spring this on you, but I was hoping … ’

‘That I’d keep an eye on Clint.’

‘Spot on. What do you say?’

‘What can I say, but OK? Hell, this rhyming stuff is catching.’

‘Sorry for this, Dave, but do it and I’ll be your slave. You can hang onto the Beamer if you like.’

‘Till we come back,’ Tammy interjected.

‘How long are you going for?’

‘Just two shakes of a donkey’s hind leg,’ Bob said. ‘We’ll be back before you know we’ve gone.’

‘Two weeks and we may take an extra week or so if we like the hotel,’ Tammy explained. ‘We saw the offer on the internet and it was too good to miss.’

‘I see.’

All sorts of objections were churning in my brain but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Bob studied my face intently.

Tammy pulled his arm.

‘Come on, Bob,’ she said, ‘they’re starting to check in now.’ With a swivel of her shapely hips, she moved towards the check-in desks.

‘Thanks Dave,’ Bob said, following her with his eyes.

He waited until she was a few yards away and shielded his mouth with his hand.

‘You never know who’s listening,’ he said in a whisper.

He shook my hand as if in fond farewell and I palmed the key he squeezed into my hand.

‘That’s the key for 12 Ridley Close, Altrincham. You’ll be safe there. There’s nothing to connect it to me but for Christ’s sake don’t wreck the place, Tammy likes it. There are one or two useful things there if you know where to look. You know; safety things, ironmongery, gear like that.’

He gave me a sly wink and touched his finger to his nose.

‘Stay there until you’re sorted. Anyway, I must go. Clint be good and do exactly what Dave tells you to.’

‘I will Bob,’ the big man echoed.

With that Bob wheeled his luggage trolley round and headed for the queue. Judging by the size of the cases, he and Tammy were definitely aiming at a lengthy stay.

They were at the head of the queue and it wasn’t long before their cases were checked in and they went airside.

‘Bye Bob!’ Clint roared. The shout clattered round the open spaces. I registered the fact that Clint had no fond farewells for Tammy.

We turned to go.

I felt a twinge of resentment towards Bob but suppressed it. He’d provided me with a bodyguard, two assistants, a car and a safe house. There was also the nudge and wink about ironmongery and safety gear. Short of staying and holding my hand twenty four hours a day there was little more he could do. What happened next was up to me: the secret of the parental cabbage patch or the ‘Fothergills’, fake and genuine?

The Fothergills, I decided.

We didn’t make it to the doors before we were intercepted by a uniformed police inspector. He was backed up by another copper in full paramilitary kit holding an MP5 submachine gun across his chest.

‘Excuse me, sir, are you Mr David Cunane?’ the inspector asked. His tone was civil not the peremptory bark I’d become used to hearing from our uniformed public guardians so I nodded my head.

‘Mr Cunane, I’m sorry to bother you but I have to ask you to come with me to meet someone.’

‘What?’ I croaked, suspicion flaring in my mind like a volcanic eruption.

‘I’m not arresting you, sir. This is purely a courtesy call. Someone wishes to meet you.’

‘Who?’

‘I honestly don’t know but it’s important that you meet this person.’

‘Can’t they phone?’

‘They could but your mobile’s disconnected.’

‘Oh,’ I murmured.

‘If you’ll just come along with us.’

‘And see myself on the TV news. Half of these people have their phones set for video already.’

It was true. Tammy’s tits and Clint’s display had drawn attention to us.

I stood my ground. I was acutely conscious of Clint tensing up alongside me. It only needed one of the coppers to lay a hand on my arm and there’d be bodies flying through the air, policemen’s bodies.

Fortunately the inspector was intelligent, either that or he was under strict orders to take a ‘softly, softly’ approach.

‘How about this then, Mr Cunane, the constable and I will go ahead without you? See that code-locked door over there?’

He pointed to a door in the far corner marked ‘STAFF ONLY’. It was near the toilets.

‘I’ll go in and hold it open a fraction. Then you can follow discreetly.’

My inclination was to hop in a taxi and clear off as soon as he was out of sight but I was curious about who wanted to see me. It could hardly be the person who called herself Ms Molly Claverhouse, could it?

‘OK, I’ll do that but you’ve got to give me a clue about who wants to see me. Her name’s not Molly, is it?’

The inspector looked confused.

‘I’m sorry, the person didn’t give me a name and discretion was stressed. All I can tell you is that he’s a VIP and that the civil police aren’t involved in any way except as messengers.’

He must have felt that he’d humbled himself enough because he set off without further explanations. I looked at Clint. There was no answer there. The same bland smile he always gave me played across his gaunt features.

The two police disappeared into the airport infrastructure.

I waited until attention had died down and then followed and Clint fell in behind me.

Once through the door I discovered that the armed constable had gone about his business and only the inspector remained to usher us on through further doors, flights of stairs and corridors. Like the White Rabbit leading Alice into Wonderland he strode ahead quickly and we followed. Eventually we entered the main airport security zone: think cells and interrogation rooms, a fairly grim spot. However we went past it and approached a separate unit with an unmarked door.

The room we entered was bright and pleasantly furnished with pictures on the walls, armchairs and comfortable seats, coffee tables with copies of Cheshire Life, Vogue and the Tatler. The windows gave a view of the runway and there was a coffee machine in a corner. It was like the waiting room in a private hospital or medical practice. There were several doors, again unmarked; probably leading off in my vivid imagination to even more unpleasant cells and interrogation rooms … soundproofed ones.

‘Make yourselves at home, grab a coffee if you like,’ the copper said cutting into my fantasy, gesturing to the seats while he entered a door at the far side. His role must have been marginal because he when he emerged a few minutes later he left without giving us another glance.

Somehow I got the impression that it was ‘out of sight, out of mind’ with him. Were we dangerous to know? I soon found out.

Molly Claverhouse appeared at the inner door. She signalled me with her index finger in a calculatedly offensive way. Was I supposed to be a naughty schoolboy?

‘He stays here,’ she said coldly, indicating Clint.

‘Now wait a minute …’

‘He stays,’ she repeated.

‘He’s not a dog.’

‘Really? Whatever he is, he’s staying here.’

I cleared my throat, ready to argue but Clint spoke first.

‘I’m all right, Dave. I’ll read my car mags.’

He still had the four magazines he’d bought earlier, rolled up into a cylinder and gripped in his enormous hand. He settled across three of the low chairs in that typically Clint way of mingling with the furniture I knew well and began studying them
intently. Obviously the magazines copiously supplied by whoever ran this facility weren’t to his taste.

I followed Claverhouse into the inner office but there were formalities before I got there.  The door opened onto a short corridor with windows looking onto the runway on one side and a blank wall on the other. There was a steel door at the end and standing in front of it were two heavies, large muscular ex-service types in blazers and slacks. One had a semi-automatic pistol holstered at his waist, the other held a taser.

The taser man pointed to the wall and grunted ‘assume the position’ which I did while he frisked me very thoroughly. He then put the taser on a shelf and ran a hand held metal detector from the top of my head to my feet. It produced a bleep at my waist. There was a metal buckle on my belt. I removed it and the keys in my pocket before he cleared me.

‘Mobile?’ he said.

I shook my head and he looked at me oddly. He gave me back the belt and keys but only after he checked that there was nothing concealed in either.

I was on the point of making a snide comment about not intending to board a plane when I realised they weren’t finished. One of the men picked up two heavy steel bars and slotted them into hasps set into reinforced brickwork on either side of the wooden door we’d entered by. He then fixed them in place with padlocks which he locked with a key attached to his belt.

Now even if Clint wanted to come to my rescue he couldn’t do it without a JCB or maybe high explosives. Whatever happened, I wasn’t walking out of this place in a hurry.

I followed Claverhouse through the steel door into a long, deep room dominated by a heavy mahogany conference table. I stumbled slightly because the floor was raised several inches above the entrance corridor. There was a bank of security monitors mounted above a desk in the far corner on my left.  The twelve large screens showed images of the interior and all exterior sides of the terminal. A middle aged, grey haired woman sat at the desk.

My eye was drawn to one screen.

It showed the concourse of Terminal Two.

Unmanned computer work stations took up two sides of the room. On my right there were windows. Heavy curtains blocked the outside view except in the centre. I saw a plane taking off. There was no sound whatever in the room which wasn’t surprising because the glass was so thick that the scene outside had a bluish tint. The feeling of oppressive stillness was heightened by the thick carpet on the floor. Our footsteps made no sound. We wafted in to this gathering of spooks like a pair of ghosts. The only noise in the room was the faint hum of air-conditioning.

One of the heavies followed us in and took a seat beside the door which he closed and locked behind him. One of those unusual brief cases with a pistol grip sticking out of the side was propped up against his chair. I was tempted to ask what he was expecting to happen but was sufficiently cowed to remain silent. The upholstered chairs round the table were well spaced out. I guessed the table could accommodate at least twelve.  Eight of the places were occupied. I recognised two of the faces. One belonged to Brendan Cullen. He gave no hint of recognition. His lips were closed so tightly that I wondered if he was trying to send me a message. I guessed that he was.

‘Keep shtum, Dave.
’

The other face I knew was that of the ‘entomologist’ who called himself Harry Hudson-Piggott. He, at least, gave me a nod. He was seated at the head of the table alongside another man, a solidly built and imposing figure. I looked at the others. They were all men. One was an Asian, probably of Pakistani origin but I suppose he could have been an Afghan. Another man was very definitely black, a black African rather than an Afro-Caribbean. The others were nondescript.

All the men in the room were wearing suits and tending towards their forties or older, not new intake like the two young guys outside the Pimpernel office this morning.