KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) (16 page)

18

Tuesday: 1.20 p.m.

I took my time walking back. For some inexplicable reason I felt good. The rain had stopped. There were chinks of blue showing behind the perpetual cloud cover. We sauntered past Kendall’s and then turned the corner into King Street West and took the turn at the Korean restaurant (curried dog a speciality — that’s a joke but it is a Korean restaurant) into Butter Lane where my office is situated next to an Indian take away.

I suppose surviving firebombs, bullets and high explosives does something for the metabolism. I don’t know what, but I felt good.

Tony Nolan spotted us on the street from his receptionist’s desk and opened the door for us. He looked woebegone, a little frayed at the edges but I put that down to his early start of the day.

‘OK, Tony it’s your lunch break,’ I announced genially. ‘I want you to go and get a good lunch somewhere and then I’d like you to go to M & S and get yourself a nice dark suit, with shirts and ties and shoes to match.’

‘What?’ he croaked, his lips pursed in a frown.

‘You heard, Tony. We offer a high class service at Pimpernel and I want the employees to look as if they’re capable of delivering it.’

‘Who’s paying for this?’

‘I am Tony, bring back the till receipts and I’ll refund you. You’ve got money. Look on this as an upgrade to match the reconditioned brain.’

He showed me his teeth in what I took for a smile.

‘Have you come into money, Boss?’

‘You could say that Tony but even if I hadn’t we have standards here at Pimpernel so you need a suit.’

‘Yeah, a suit: it might work for me but I don’t think you’ll ever get Lee into one.’

‘Maybe not,’ I agreed. ‘We’ll regard him as our undercover operative, our link with the mean streets.’

‘Yeah, that’s Lee all right. Three blokes came and shoved stuff in your safe. They didn’t even look at me.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

‘Good, I suppose. Two of them were ex-coppers.’

‘Anyway, it’s your lunch break. Take Clint with you, he looks as if he’s getting hungry again.’

‘Yes, Tony,’ Clint said eagerly, ‘I found this sandwich place that does bin lids.’

‘Bin lids?’

‘These great sandwiches Tony. All you can eat on a giant barm cake.’

‘
Tony
, since when am I Tony to you?’

‘It’s not right to call you bad names,’ Clint said piously.

The mention of food roused him from the sofa where he’d sprawled as soon as he got in the office. Being so large is a handicap for Clint just as much as if he was severely disabled. Too big for a normal room, he tends to drape himself over whatever seating’s available to lessen the impact of his presence. He now bounded up, laid an arm on Tony’s shoulder and guided him towards the door.

‘I can take you,’ Clint continued. ‘It’s a really good place and there’s seats and everything.’

‘OK, lead on,’ Tony muttered, raising his eyebrows to me as he was hurried out of the office.

I locked the door behind them and put the ‘closed’ sign up.

I grabbed the phone. ‘Real’ April Fothergill’s number was inoperative. The same with the address as I knew without checking, there was no ’21 Sunnyside Villas, Paradise Lane, Moss Side East’. I checked anyway. Zilch! The woman was as much a fraudster as Gonzi and Big Hair. Who’d have thought it? I saved myself the chore of looking up her references. I didn’t recognise the name of a single firm she claimed to have worked for. She was as phony as a nine pound note.

I had heavier problems to worry about.

I didn’t have long to brood about Brendan Cullen’s warning words before rattling at the door told me that Marvin Desailles had arrived.

A tall black man with a thin face, a beaky hatchet-like nose and long, well-tended locks dangling from under a black and gold Rasta tam over a well cut dark suit; he couldn’t be taken for anything other than a member of Manchester’s burgeoning black middle class. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t routinely stopped by the police. The locks and the tam saw to that.  Admittedly it was usually young green-horns who stopped him but nevertheless he was stopped even close to the law courts where he plied his trade.

Marvin clings to other island customs in addition to his religion and his headgear. He likes to have a leisurely chat before getting down to practicalities. I owed him the courtesy of listening. Marvin had stuck by me through thick and thin even though his cousin Celeste was one of the main traitors during the attempt to oust me from my detective business.

‘Hey, Dave, my bwoy,’ he drawled, he likes to come on heavy with the accent and the patois from time to time. It’s an affectation. He has a degree in law from Leeds University and he didn’t get that by doing Lenny Henry impressions.

‘Dave, you goin’ to put some work this poor bwoy’s way?’

‘I am.’

‘Jah Bless. It can’t come too soon for I-an-I.’

I relayed an edited version of recent events and of Lew’s death. I told him that I’d been tipped off that the police would be asking me to put my face on TV to appeal for information.

‘An you don’ wanna do that?’

‘Listen, Lew was a relative, OK, but I only saw him once in a blue moon and he didn’t exactly approve of me.’

‘Oh, I got lots of relatives like that, mon.’

‘Yeah, he died horribly and I’m upset about it but I can’t look like someone who’s just lost his nearest and dearest. I’ll come across as too cool and a million people will decide I killed the poor guy. I think that’s what the police want. They’d love to see my face on a wanted poster.’

‘You soundin’ a teeny bit OTT, there mon.’

‘No I’m not. Some of them hate my guts.’

‘You know best. So you want me to deal with the Beasts?’

‘Beasts Marvin? Don’t forget that my old man has been a
copper for most of his life.’

‘De Babylon, de bacon, de dibbles, call them what you like, mon, but they all smell of frying pig,’ he drawled.

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Don’t you worry Dave, my mon. The good old firm of DQW will keep them rascals off your back.’

The title DQW which he has engraved on the cards he distributes liberally is a satire against a big Manchester firm with a three letter acronym which had turned him down for a job. He said it stood for ‘Drinkwater, Quick and Whittle’ which always got a laugh in Manchester pubs. There’d been a complaint to the Law Society so he quickly employed two recent graduates Mark Quinn, and Clarice Woods which enabled him to claim that DQW stood for Desailles, Quinn and Woods although the two partners quickly departed when their brief internships were over.

Marvin is strictly a one man firm and the police detest him because he plays by his rules, not theirs.

It turned out that I hadn’t called Marvin a moment too soon because our heart to heart was interrupted by rattling at the door.

It was caused by two uniformed male coppers and two others, a man and a woman. The non-uniform pair were both very well dressed and to my eyes obviously not CID.  The sandy haired man wore a dark well-cut suit with a club tie and the woman a navy skirt and matching jacket. She had a thin gold chain round her neck with a crumpled up piece of metal dangling from it. The necklace-wearer was a lot younger than her companion.

The higher ranked uniformed man introduced himself as Chief Superintendent Thornton of the Cheshire police. His partner was Inspector Stott.

‘Condolences Mr Cunane, we’re sorry for your loss. I understand that regrettably you’ve already been informed of the circumstances of your relative’s murder, quite against procedure that is, but as you’re his next of kin we’re legally required to notify you officially.’

It was Stott who spoke and he sounded peeved.

The young woman coloured up and started to say something but the older man laid his hand on her sleeve and she subsided.

I was grateful that Stott didn’t suggest that Lew was my uncle. ‘Relative’ was as far as I wanted to go and I could have quibbled about the reference to ‘next of kin’ but I held my tongue.

I waited for him to introduce the suited couple and Stott followed my glance.

‘These are two colleagues from another service here to observe,’ he said.

‘MI5,’ I said in a whisper.

He gave a barely detectable nod and curled his lip. I didn’t know whether his resentment was because he didn’t like spooks or that he regretted missing the chance to grill me himself. I guessed it was the latter.

‘Yes, you’ve answered questions to their satisfaction and there’s no forensic evidence to link you to the scene so unless further enquiries reveal something else you’re in the clear as far as the Cheshire Constabulary is concerned. However, as the deceased’s next of kin we were wondering if you could help us in our enquiries.’

Nice that. A copper practically accuses me and then asks for my help but thanks to Bren I knew that they didn’t really want my help.

I was careful to keep my face expressionless and to remain silent.

‘Frankly, Mr Cunane, our enquiries are hitting a blank wall at the moment and we wonder if you could assist us by making a televised appeal for information. I can help you with what to say … basically that as the victim’s relative you want justice for him.’

I cleared my throat but Marvin swooped before I could speak.

‘Whoa mon!’ he said, gripping my elbow and pulling me to one side.

‘Who’re you?’ the Chief Super rasped, possibly as a Cheshire cop he was unfamiliar with Marvin Desailles.

‘I is this bwoy’s mouthpiece. I is telling him not to go on no television.’

The Caribbean accent was laid on with a trowel.

‘It would be very helpful …’ Stott suggested. ‘You could appeal to the public for help.’

‘No, Mr Cunane wasn’t close to de deceased.’

‘But he’s Sir Lew Greene’s next of kin. People will assume he doesn’t care about the murder.’

‘Gwan! He care plenty, mon! But, he only seen de dead judge three times in de las’ fifteen years. He be t’inking he seem cold and unfeeling on de telly. You askin’ he to put himself in de frame as de killer. So no telly.’

Marvin began to steer me towards the inner office but Chief Superintendent Thornton wanted to have the last word … ‘Hmmmph …your client may be unwilling to help us but I don’t expect he’ll be so unwilling to spend the late Sir Lew’s millions. To my mind there’s something not right here.’

He favoured me with a resentful scowl.

Marvin was in his face in an instant.

‘You be out of order, Mr Babylon. I be reporting you to the PCC for intimidatin’ Mr Dave. An another t’ing, Mr Superintendent, when do you be releasing de deadman’s body to my client? He be wantin’ to arrange de funeral right away. It be his religion.’

Marvin’s final comment was news to me and it didn’t impress Thornton. ‘Not for some time,’ he responded dully, ‘there are more tests.’

‘I be phonin’ you every day an if I gets any attitude from you I be reportin’ you.’

‘Why you …’

‘Cheeky black man, is that what you want to say?’ Marvin asked, turning off the accent when he’d got Thornton where he wanted him.

Stott rescued his chief and the four scuttled out of the office.

‘Well, Marvin, that went well,’ I said, ‘now you’ve made an enemy for life.’

‘No, he was already an enemy. I know his sort.’

‘You could be right.’

‘I am, trust me. Now what are these millions he was yakking about?’

‘Er … I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘You don’t trust your lawyer, is that it Dave?’

‘No, it’s just that I can’t believe I’ll ever inherit. I’m sure we’ll find that he’s fathered five children living in Levenshulme with great expectations or something.’

‘Dave, you’re a babe in arms. Claimants will start turning up like wasps round a jam jar if you don’t grab what’s yours straight away. You must let me act for you. I’ll get in touch with Sir Lew’s lawyer. Have you got a copy of the will?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the lawyer’s name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should. If you’re the next of kin like the dibble said he should have been in touch already. The Judge’s chambers will know. I’ll phone them as soon as I get back to my office. Just as a matter of interest how much are we talking about? That dibble was exaggerating to annoy you, right?’

‘Actually, it’s over a hundred million, well over. Sir Lew was wadded.’

Marvin goggled at me in disbelief and grinned at my joke but when I didn’t return his grin he suddenly threw his arms in the air and let out a piercing howl of triumph. Then he linked my arm and we did a crazy dance round the office or rather he did while I stood still.

Suddenly he stopped.

Suspicion crept across his narrow face like a dark shadow.

‘It’s that cousin of mine; isn’t it? You don’t want me acting for you.’

‘No, Marvin, you must act for me. It’s like you said, I
am
a babe in arms.’