KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) (14 page)

‘Of course.’

‘Shut the door, turn the wheel and then open it again.’

I stared at him. Mutilated though his face was I was becoming familiar with his limited range of facial expressions. This time his features were a complete blank.

‘Go on, you said you trust me,’ he coaxed. ‘Shut the door and carefully shield the combination from me when you open it just like you did when the receptionist was behind you.’

He positioned himself in Fothergill’s chair with his back to me.

I closed the door, spun the numbers wheel and re-entered the combination.

I turned the dial: click, click, click, click, click, click. Eventually I heard the sound of the tumblers falling into place. The safe was open.

‘The combination is seven three eight oh one nine,’ he chanted from the desk. ‘It seems like Miss Fothergill …’

‘Bloody hell!’ I yelped.

‘Whatever. Your receptionist knew the combination. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Sitting here holding her mirror like this she could see which numbers you were selecting.’

He held the mirror low down in his right hand.

‘But I reset the numbers every Friday.’

‘Why do you think she keeps this mirror handy?’

‘Oh, God … she must have seen me entering the new numbers last thing on Friday.’

I felt sick. My incompetence was revealed again. I had to defend myself.

‘She couldn’t have opened the safe. She needed the keys as well for that and I keep them in my office during the day or at home when I’m not working.’

‘Let me look at them.’

I passed them over. They’re long and heavy, not the sort of thing you’d put in your pocket or on a key
-chain.

Tony examined them minutely.

‘Have you got a magnifying glass?’ he asked quietly.

My self esteem hit rock bottom. I went into my office. There was a handlens in my desk. I returned and handed it to him. He’d switched on the light over the reception counter.

He examined the keys with painstaking thoroughness.

‘Putty,’ he said, ‘there’s traces of putty on these.’

‘No,’ I croaked.

He misunderstood.

‘There is. See this yellowish discolouration, that’s putty.’

‘Explain.’

‘You get a mint tin. They do them at Marks and Spencer. You know: a small flat tin like a spectacle case? They use them for strong mints.’

I nodded, dimly aware of where he was leading me.

‘You fill each side of the tin with plumber’s putty …’

‘… and then you make an impression of a key which some idiot leaves lying around on top of his desk as he makes a cup of coffee in the kitchen while his receptionist is delivering files to his private office.’

‘That’s about it, Boss … er Dave.’

‘There must be more to it.’

‘Yeah, you need someone to cut the key for you.’

‘Some crook?’

He nodded and scratched his head.

‘Names, Tony, I need names.’

‘There’s a few in Manchester who would cut a safe key you. There was a guy called Tommy Portlock who was doing time for it in Strangeways while we were.’

‘While
you
were, I was on remand.’

‘Yeah, right, well he could do it and he’d probably know most of the guys round here who’d do it, though apart from the key blanks, probably all anyone needs is a good eye, a nice lathe and a few files.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘Sorry, Boss,’ he muttered.

I needed a stiff drink but I tried to force my mind back onto the reason why I’d opened the safe.

I counted out the cash for Beasley and put it in an envelope.

I didn’t attempt to seal the envelope. As my delivery man was watching me there didn’t seem much point. I’d said I trusted Tony and I did to the extent that I could trust anyone apart from Janine, Paddy and Bren. I had to know him and his new brain a little better before I was ready for total trust.

I paid him a week’s wages in advance plus a hefty bonus. The little guy was valuable.

I made him repeat Beasley’s address back to me. I knew it was pointless because Tony claimed total recall of everything but it comforted me and then I sent him on his way.

‘Hey, Dave,’ he said before he went out, ‘have you got a
picture of this Fothergill. Portlock might know her or I might, come to that.’

I opened the filing cabinet with the staff records such as they were.

Fothergill’s folder was there. I opened it. The passport photo which had been clipped inside was still there. I quickly plucked it out and handed it to Tony.

He studied the picture then handed it back, shaking his head. ‘Whoever she is, she’s a clever devil.’

‘You recognise her?’

‘Yeah, I recognise who this is. This is a photo of Adele.’

Hope surging, I stared at him blankly.

‘You know, Adele, six Grammies and an Oscar, that Adele.’

16

Tuesday: 12 a.m.

Clint’s stomach gave a loud rumble.

It reminded me that I was hungry.

Clint had been sitting patiently all through my humiliating discoveries about Fothergill. I guessed what we’d been saying was all ‘symbionics’ to him anyway. Sprawled across the small designer sofa which graces my reception area he had his head stuck in a magazine. It was a motoring magazine. I take ‘Classic Car’ and ‘Top Gear’ to raise the tone of the place. Clint was labouring with Top Gear. Jeremy Clarkson’s mug leered out at me from the cover. Looking at him reminded me about Clint’s tactlessness.

I looked at the big man speculatively.

‘I’m sorry I shouted at you earlier,’ I said.

‘That’s all right Dave,’ he said, with a smile you could toast bread on. ‘I could see you were stressed out. Bob says that’s why Tammy shouts at me a lot. She gets stressed out all the time so it’s all right you shouting. I’m used to it.’

‘No, Clint it’s not all right. People shouldn’t shout at you and I’m really sorry I did.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well, I mind and I’ll try not to do it again.’

He fell silent for a moment, his face pensive. Then he said, ‘I don’t think Bob likes Tammy shouting at me. He shouted back at her one time and he goes out when she does it.’

‘Bob doesn’t like anyone to hurt your feelings.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did you know that Tony hurt his face in an accident when he was small?’

‘No
-Nose,’ he frowned.

‘No, Clint, Tony Nolan; we’ve got to call him Tony, not No
-Nose.’

‘I’ll do that Dave,’ he said with great seriousness.

‘Do you think you could find your way to Brazennose Street,’ I asked.

‘Yes, it’s near the Hidden Gem. I went there with Bob on Mum’s anniversary.’

‘Yes, that’s right. There’s a sandwich shop there called Shirley’s where they do a terrific monster sandwich. It’s a full English breakfast on a big barm cake. Do you think you could bring me one?’

‘And what about me?’

‘Get whatever you want.’

I offered him money but he pulled a thick wad out of his pocket and then he was out of the door like a shot.

÷

The office got busy for a while. I do my investigations on a sub-contracting basis. The jobs come in from insurance firms and from the DWP. I arrange a price and then farm them out to my self-employed investigators. They’re mostly retired coppers or wannabe Sherlocks like me when I was starting up.

They come in. I discuss the job with them. We agree on a price and they go about their business. It’s all very hands off and impersonal compared with the old days when I spent weeks on stake-outs or could reckon to have a suit ripped off my back every few months. To tell the truth I’m not completely at home as a bureaucrat but I have a wife and family to support. The highly resented libel damages I won have now mostly evaporated.  I spent them on bricks and mortar up at Topfield so I need positive cash flow.

I tell myself that I’m fulfilling a useful function. Snooping is a growth industry in this country and I’m playing my part.

So this morning I forgot my preoccupation with Sir Lew’s death and the threat to my family for a few minutes. There were three investigations in my pending tray and I sent three of my snoopers on their way after brief explanations. They know what they’re doing.

Meanwhile Clint was in a back office munching his way through a truly enormous concoction accurately titled a ‘Bin-Lid’. My mere ‘monster’ sandwich full of bacon, sausage, black pudding and egg was on a ten inch barm about three inches thick. I was hungry enough but only managed to get through about half before dumping the rest. Although the headquarters of Pimpernel Investigations isn’t palatial there are several offices beyond the reception area as well as a secretarial space where office equipment used for preparing client reports is kept. I’d ushered Clint with his magazines and his ‘Bin-Lid’ into a back room.

Apart from the absence of a receptionist my office appeared normal to a casual observer. Certainly none of the three snoopers made any comment. They were used to my secretive ways and I think they preferred it that way. ‘No names, no pack drill,’ was what one of them said.

Tony returned with Lee.

Lee’s face was bright red as if he’d had his head under a hot shower for ten minutes. The acne scars had faded. He was dressed as I saw him last but had changed his t-shirt.

‘Don’t start, Boss,’ Tony cautioned as he ushered Lee into my office.

A faint but pungent aroma followed them in. I took a deep sniff.

‘That’s right out of order,’ I said. ‘I can’t have anybody using weed near me. The Fuzz are looking for any excuse to turn this place over. I wouldn’t put it past some of them to plant stuff if they got in here so if you’re carrying anything you shouldn’t be it goes down the toilet now.’

‘He’s clean, Dave. He just has a tiny little spliff at night to help him sleep. He won’t smoke or do anything like that near you.’

‘Tiny little spliff’ didn’t cover it. His outer clothes were perfumed with the stuff.

‘Is that right Lee? No dope while you’re on the job.’

‘Yeah,’ he muttered.

‘Go on, I want to hear you say it.’

Tony nudged him.

‘No dope but I smoke roll ups and I’m not going to give them up,’ he said, pulling out a Golden Virginia packet. ‘You can’t ask me to stop smoking as well. It’s inhuman.’

‘You could use nicotine patches. They’re not inhuman.’

‘I’ve tried them. They don’t work.’

I glanced at my watch. Time was pressing.

‘OK,’ I conceded ‘but just make sure your smoke doesn’t come anywhere near me.’

He nodded eagerly enough. ‘Must want work’ crossed my mind.

Whatever Tony had said to him Lee seemed to have lost his aggression. Maybe it was being up so early in the morning. The guy might well be half addled but I needed him.

As with Tony, I paid him his wages in advance and promised him a bonus for a successful job. I’m a true capitalist that way. His eyes lit up when he realised he’d be driving the BMW up to Scotland and back. I gave him instructions about transporting Janine and the family from Glasgow to Burtonwood and handed him a sealed package with two grand in it for Janine. She’d have to buy euros when she reached Ireland. I was taking a risk putting such a sum in Lee’s hands but I had to gamble.

It was after ten when Lee left proudly clutching the keys of the BMW.
I calculated he’d have time for the round trip. He’d be on motorway almost all the trip

Now I had time for some work of my own.

I decided to make myself presentable, or at least more presentable. I went to the small toilet cum washroom at the back and quickly washed my face. Then I ran an electric razor over my features. I was a little too strenuous, losing flesh as well as whiskers. I slapped on aftershave and did a little dance of pain when it stung. None of this made any difference to my predicament but if I was about to become a customer on some pathologist’s slab at least I ought not to look like a vagrant.

The Manchester Office Temp Agency which had supplied me with Fothergill and other temp staff was at 27b Prince Regent Street South, Manchester 2. Before walking round there with Clint for company I installed Tony behind the reception desk with strict instructions to say nothing to investigators returning finished projects to the safe.

‘Just nod and smile, they’ll think you’re just another temp.’

‘Well, I am aren’t I?’

‘Not necessarily Tony, not necessarily if you play your cards right.’

I didn’t know what I meant by that but I think at the back of my mind I was already detaching the survival of Pimpernel Investigations from my own survival. Crazy or what?

I needed a picture of Fothergill. They were bound to have one at the Agency.

A walk among ordinary people who weren’t trying to shoot me, blow me up or trick me into some elaborate double game was a refreshing prospect but as soon as I got on the street I felt vulnerable. Who wouldn’t? There’d been four serious attempts on my life within the last twelve hours if you counted the two separate shootings. What I hoped was that Claverhouse and Hudson-Piggott had set up surveillance on me which would put off potential assassins. Otherwise … OK, possibly hoping for help from MI5 was farfetched but if Lew’s traitor did have men on the streets after my blood the presence of MI5 spooks would make them keep their heads down.

Then there was the ever present CCTV. If they were killing to keep the traitor’s existence secret appearing on Candid Camera wouldn’t be in their interest.

And it was possible that moving around was my best option. They say it’s harder to hit a moving target.

All I knew was that I couldn’t sit in my office waiting for something to happen. I had to get out there and find out who Fothergill was working for.

We left the office and were walking along Deansgate, Clint still clutching part of his Bin-Lid, when there was a loud explosion close by. I started to throw myself on the pavement but Clint grabbed my arm and said ‘Backfire’. He pointed to an old Morgan sports car chugging along across the street. As we watched it was enveloped in blue smoke and there were further loud bangs.

‘Bad ignition timing, Dave, gases exploding in the exhaust,’ he explained genially, ‘common on old sports cars.’

I looked up at him. Had I found another know-all mate?

We turned into Prince Regent Street South, a pedestrian area lined with exclusive shops.

I suppose we were conspicuous and people certainly cleared out of my large companion’s way as he ambled along. But I
had to balance one thing against another, exposure against security. Even the police would be wary about snatching me off the street with Clint at my side.

The front of Manchester Temp’s office was glitzier than Pimpernel’s: polished glass and chrome with a neon sign above flashing the word ‘JOBS’ in two colours. It could be taken as provocative in the current situation but fitted into the surrounding upmarket scene. There were shops selling designer handbags, jewellery, Rolex watches, handmade shoes and other costly items, so why not JOBS?

I tried to do reconnaissance by peering through the window but the view inside was blanked by masses of cards advertising positions at seven pounds – seven pound fifty an hour. It cost me quite a lot more than that to hire them from here: not a bad business if you can get it.

By peeking between the cards I was able to see a little of the interior. It wasn’t an ‘up-front’ place like Pimpernel Investigations with its reception desk as you went in and its charming proprietor a few feet away. This place looked more like a working typing pool. There were four small desks. At two of these young women were being interviewed by older women. There were two unoccupied interviewers one of whom spotted me.

She beckoned me to come inside. There was something commanding about her gesture, as if she was used to being obeyed.

‘That lady wants to speak to us,’ Clint said helpfully. His face was also jammed against the glass. He could see over the adverts.

‘Yeah, but if she offers you a job turn it down. Don’t forget you’re working for me.’

A beatific smile played across his gaunt features.

‘Yes, Dave,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I won’t forget. I’m working for you.’

I rubbed my chin and studied my reflection in the window glass. There were small red dots on my upper lip where I’d shaved too vigorously. What sort of man cuts himself shaving with an electric razor? I’d be lucky if they offered me a temp spot as a tea boy in a rundown backstreet garage.

Clint pushed the heavy door open.

Several pairs of eyes focused on him.

Fair enough, with his old-fashioned country clothes he did look as if he’d wandered off the set of a movie of a Thomas Hardy novel, playing Diggory Venn in ‘
The Return of the Native’
perhaps, although it wasn’t being coloured red from head to foot that made him distinctive.

I guessed that the female interviewers here were on commission just like my investigators, paid by the number of job seekers they placed in temp jobs. Certainly the woman beckoning us forward looked just that bit too eager.

She was tall, big haired, wearing several layers of makeup and her trout-pout smile was overly friendly. She might have been in her forties, fifties or even early sixties. I recognised her type. I’d seen dozens like her. In this little flock she was the bellwether: not male, not castrated and not wearing a bell but certainly a leader and not a person to be trifled with. She wouldn’t respond to the Cunane charm.

‘If you’ll both take seats I can quickly get your details and see if we have anything suitable for you.’

‘We’re here for information not jobs,’ I said. ‘Where do you keep your records?’

‘We don’t give out information,’ she said firmly.

I was checking the place out as I spoke. The rear of the room was divided by a glass partition to create a narrow corridor and a larger space. Inside the space two girls were seated at desks bashing away at keyboards, hell for leather. There were electronic timers beside each girl. At the dimly lit end of the corridor was a door marked ‘Office’.