KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) (32 page)

I unloaded the Glock and handed the bullets to Tony. He put them in the glove compartment of the BMW.

‘So who are we up against?’ he asked when he got back in. ‘I thought we were just finding this Fothergill woman?’

‘We are but you can see with your own eyes that she’s mixed up with people who could be the Islamic militants who killed Sir Lew Greene.’

‘How do you make that out?’ Tony asked.

‘I wasn’t ready to believe that Lew’s killers were Islamics. You saw with your own eyes that those two who rigged the bomb were white guys and so were the earlier two.’

‘Yeah, they weren’t shouting
Allahu akbar
.’

Lee frowned as he followed his friend’s argument.

‘I didn’t think she was a suspect before but Fothergill met Lew on the day he was killed. She checked him out in Who’s Who and probably found out his address. Then she stole information he’d left for me and …’

‘… she disappears, your Uncle’s murdered, she shacks up with her Muslim boyfriend and turns up wearing Islamic costume among a bunch of Somalis who just might be celebrating your uncle’s murder.’

‘So …’

‘That bitch!’ Lee exclaimed, ‘she’s a f**king turncoat. Give me the gun; I’ll fill her in myself.’

‘Calm down, Lee, calm down,’ I said in a Liverpool accent.

They both laughed politely.

‘I don’t know that’s the right explanation of what Fothergill’s been up to but it’s possible,’ I said. 

There was silence for a while and then I sent Lee down Layborn Road to see what vibes he could pick up. It was possibly a mistake but Tony had been once and might rouse suspicions on a second trip so it had to be Lee. I wanted a feel about what was going on at 15 Layborn Road that electronics couldn’t supply.

‘It’s a f**king wedding reception,’ Lee said when he got back in the car twenty five minutes later. ‘The neighbours are all going ape-shit. There’s weird music and men dancing with each other in the back street. They’ve been at it all day and yesterday. One old guy said he’d called the police and a lot of f**king good that did. A copper told him to be tolerant of cultural differences or they’d do him for racism.  And I’ll tell you another thing, you know these Mozzies aren’t supposed to drink?’

I nodded, astounded at his flow of words.

‘Well, some of them are drunk out of their skulls and others are as high as kites on these leaves that they’re chewing …’

‘It’s khat,’ said Know-all Nolan.

‘No, they’re not eating f**king cats! That’s the Chinese, int it? They’re doped, going round giggling at each other like a right bunch o’noodles. One of them wanted to dance with me but I showed him where to go.’

‘Did you see Fothergill?’

‘No women. The old guy I spoke to said they’re all upstairs. They never have a party with men and women in the same room. Unnatural, int it?’

Lee’s account confirmed what I was seeing with the spy cameras.

We settled down to wait. Things calmed down in Layborn Road and by midnight men were drifting away from the party. Fothergill didn’t show her face. I’d heard of men wearing the burka as a disguise … but Islamic women dressing as men? That was a no-no. So Fothergill was still there
if
she’d ever been there, and
if
she’d not left Manchester as soon as Lakesha Uhura tipped her off.

There were too many ifs for comfort. If only Tony could have got a camera or a microphone
inside
the house.

The whole foray into Levenshulme had too many ifs but it clearly states in the Private Detective’s Handbook that you follow your clues until you’ve eliminated all possibilities. Then what remains is the truth. I comforted myself that wherever Fothergill was Osman Ahmed Gullet was close by.

We took turns for short naps, two of us studying the receiving set while one dozed. Clint slept on peacefully.

After almost eight hours of squinting at a small screen the action started shortly after two. Three women, all wearing hijabs of various sizes and colours and up to eight men emerged onto the street. The women were also wearing ankle length coats: one coat was a light shade and the other two black or navy. They stood talking for a while then three taxis showed up at once and they all split up and began piling into them.

I started the car.

‘Not this clapped-out heap,’ Lee snarled. ‘Get in the Beamer.’

He was right.

As we transferred I peered at the image on Tony’s phone.

It was no use. It was impossible to see the hidden faces. My instinct told me that the woman who’d called herself April Fothergill would be in the lighter coat. That was probably some kind of residual racism … white woman – light coat … nonsense really but I had to pick one and she was the right height and general build.

‘Can’t you focus on this one?’ I asked, tapping the image I hoped was Fothergill.

‘You can,’ he said, demonstrating the zoom function just as the woman climbed into the taxi. I noted that my target was carrying a heavy hold-all. It had to be Fothergill making a run for it. Three males got in the taxi with her and they were the first away.

‘Lee, follow that cab and that isn’t a joke.’

‘Yes, Boss,’ he grunted.

‘How can you be sure it’s her?’ Tony challenged. ‘They all look the same in those jilbabs.’

‘Jilbabs?’ I repeated.

‘Yeah, the long coats are called jilbabs.’

It was the early hours of the morning and I was tired and uncertain and Tony’s gift was grating on my nerves.

‘Is it those men, Dave?’ Clint said from the back.

‘Some men and they could be bad guys, Jaws,’ Lee answered. ‘Just the sort you like to take apart. Why don’t you sit back and enjoy the ride.’

Clint took no offence. When I turned to look at him he was smiling.

‘Big joke,’ he said. ‘He means the man not the shark, Dave. Is there anything to drink?’

Tony fished in his rucksack and passed him a large carton of orange juice.

We followed the taxi onto Stockport Road. It turned towards the town centre but soon veered off left following Dickenson Road, Platt Lane and then Lloyd Street into the heart of Moss Side. Travelling painfully slowly the cab dropped off first one man and then another. It was now nearly three.

The cab pulled into the kerb to drop off its last fares near where Marvin had his encounter with Shaka Higgings. Was Fothergill one of Lakesha’s neighbours?

‘Lots of Somalis live round here, Boss,’ Lee warned.

We watched a Somali man and a cloaked woman pay the driver and go towards a house.

‘Drive past them very slowly,’ I ordered.

‘I’m not thick,’ Lee protested.

As we crawled to within earshot of them they both turned towards us. Even in the yellow sodium street light it was obvious that the woman in the pale jilbab was black.

‘So now what?’ Lee asked as he accelerated away.

34

Friday: 2.00 – 3.00 a.m.

I was desperate. How could I be so wrong?

‘Say they’re leaving town, Fothergill and the boyfriend I mean, and they haven’t got a car. Where do they go at this time of night?’

‘Piccadilly Station,’ Tony piped up like a school swot. This time I wasn’t annoyed. I just prayed that he was right.

When we reached Piccadilly I left Lee and the now drowsing Clint in the car while Tony and I raced inside.

There were still trains arriving and a few people moving about but the first London train from Piccadilly wasn’t until six a.m. London because it had to be a Somali fugitive’s first choice of hiding place. Three hours of waiting would seem like an eternity to someone on the run.

We walked through the all night shops to make sure they weren’t hiding somewhere. We couldn’t find them.

Time was passing and I felt that Fothergill was slipping through my fingers again.

It was possible they were in a 24/7 cafe down in Piccadilly or Oldham Square but I hadn’t the resources to check everything.

‘Have you noticed the fares?’ Tony asked as I stood panting under the destination display on the main concourse. ‘It’s more than a hundred quid to London.’

‘I didn’t pay her enough to make her rich.’

That left buses.

‘They’ll not be going on a bus,’ Lee opined when we got back in the car. ‘Who goes on a bus these days?’

‘Not everyone’s as good at nicking cars as you are,’ I snapped.

Chorlton Street bus station was lit up like a Dutch brothel but nothing was happening inside. A few people and cars were gathered in the street outside waiting for arrivals or departures. I ran up and down both sides of the street looking in cars and doorways.

There was no sign of Fothergill.

To cap everything it started raining heavily.

I enquired at the ticket kiosk. Sweat was running into my eyes.

‘There’s a bus due in from Aberdeen and a military bus going to Aldershot, that’s all we’ve got in the next hour.’

‘I’m looking for this couple, she’s English and he’s a Somali man. It’s delicate, she’s running away,’ I gasped.

‘Nobody like that been here, mate,’ the man said dismissively. What would he have done if I’d said the girl was twelve years old: another shrug? I might have hit him if he wasn’t in a Perspex booth.

My disappointment must have been almost out of control because he took pity on me.

‘Try the other bus station,’ he suggested. ‘Shudehill’s busier than this place these days.’

‘Have you got a timetable or anything,’ I pleaded. ‘They’re heading for London.’

He shook his head. My hunger for violence surged again.

Instead I shoved a twenty pound note over the counter.

‘Like that is it?’ he said, ‘life and death? We’re National and I’m not supposed to give out stuff about rival companies but seeing as you’re so friendly …‘

He pocketed the note, turned and went round the back for a moment.

‘There’s a Preston to London Megabus leaving Shudehill Interchange at four a.m.’ he said when he came back.

It was now just after three forty five.

We made it to Shudehill by three fifty. Switching drivers, Tony circled the block in the BMW while Lee and I dashed into the bus depot.

The blue London-bound bus had just pulled in from Preston. The driver was lifting up the luggage hatch for the line of passengers.

I scanned the crowd.

There were two figures in black burkas standing with their backs to me, one tall and the other shorter.

It could only be Fothergill and her partner. They must have changed to trick me.

I advanced into the queue and grabbed the shorter person by the arm and spun her round.

The woman’s face was completely veiled in black. There was a narrow gap for vision and a pair of thick specs poked out of that. Behind the specs was a pair of very dark eyes. I glanced down at the woman’s feet. She was wearing sandals without socks. Her skin was brown.

Her companion was heavily built and pregnant and also had specs in her letterbox.

They both started to wail. It wasn’t a loud sound, just thin and persistent and I guessed they could keep it up for hours.

I whipped out my private detective’s ID, the one with the photo and the Pimpernel Investigations logo and flashed it at them. It looks nothing like a police warrant card but I didn’t let them look at it for long.

‘Sorry, police, mistake,’ I babbled.

At the mention of the word police the wailing suddenly stopped. The pregnant one was holding a white plastic bag, which she held protectively to her bosom. Our eyes met for a moment and then she lowered her head and pressed forward to stow her suitcase in the luggage compartment.

None of the other passengers, who included several Muslims, made any fuss on their behalf. It was so early in the morning that I think a lot of them were asleep on their feet.

Lee grabbed my arm and pulled me away.

‘Nice one, Boss,’ he said gleefully, ‘for your next trick try grabbing someone really feisty like a couple of nuns. We’d better clear off before the Filth arrives. That driver saw you.’

I’ve experienced some bitter moments. Having a cell door slammed in my face and being told I was a nonce were among them, but this was special. If I couldn’t pin down Lew’s killer it wasn’t just my life in jeopardy.

We began to walk away. At that moment a taxi drew up in the street outside and a couple got out and began running to the bus.

I pulled Lee behind a pillar.

I hardly dared to breathe in case the sound frightened them away.

It was Fothergill and her Somali pal and they weren’t wearing Islamic costumes. Fothergill was in blue jeans and a dark jacket. There was a white baseball cap on her head. She was still the same trim, neat person I’d had such confidence in at the Pimpernel office. Osman was in a leather jacket and denim jeans. The only Islamic touch was the white crocheted cotton cap on his head. Both were wearing small rucksacks and carrying plastic bags in their hands.

I let them pass us and then jumped out and shoved the Glock into Osman’s back.

‘Going somewhere, Miss Fothergill?’ I asked.

‘Mr Cunane!’ she said in sudden fright, dropping her hand luggage. Even under the artificial lights I could see the colour drain out of her face. I let her glimpse the Glock while still covering Osman. I’ve seen enough fear in people’s faces to know that my former receptionist was expecting me to kill her. Her face and body were screwed up as she waited for my bullet.

Suddenly, what should have been a moment of triumph was the very opposite.

I felt sick.

The Somali somehow sensed my moment of weakness; his free right hand moved towards his jacket.

‘Don’t Osman,’ I said ‘or you’ll get a taste of what Lew Greene got.’

‘That wasn’t us. It wasn’t our fault,’ the interpreter blustered in heavily accented English. His hand was still moving to his inside pocket.

I jammed the gun even harder into his back.

‘I’ll shoot,’ I warned.

‘Yeah, do, Boss,’ Lee advised. ‘Give him what his mates gave your uncle. Shoot the bastard.’

‘Do what he says, Osman,’ Fothergill gasped. She reached her hand out to the Somali and clutched his arm.

I could feel the tension in Osman’s body. All his muscles were coiled for action. I got ready to deck him with the gun. There was no way Fothergill was walking away from me again.

Then Osman exhaled slowly and the stress went out of him. He muttered something in Somali.

‘Check him out, Lee,’ I ordered.

Lee pushed Fothergill out of the way, pulled Osman’s arm down to his side and then thrust his hand into the jacket.

‘Nice,’ he said, pulling out a large curved knife. He then twisted Osman and, pulling the scabbard off him, sheathed the curved blade.

‘You can get five years for carrying that thing around,’ I commented oddly. I was so relieved at disarming him without bloodshed that I might have said anything. I slipped the Glock under my belt behind my back.

‘You’re not the police. You’re only private,’ he spluttered.

‘I’m the man who’s telling you what to do,’ I said. ‘You’re booked on that coach aren’t you?’

‘We both are,’ Fothergill said quietly, finding her voice again although her face still had a deathly pallor.

‘Well, Osman’s catching the bus; but not you Miss Fothergill. You’ve got something that belongs to me.’

‘You’re not letting him go,’ Lee protested. ‘Your uncle’s dead because of this piece of shit.’

‘You heard him, I’m not the police. I can’t arrest him and I don’t want to shoot him but I want rid. He’s going on that bus if he doesn’t want me to take him on a visit to MI5.’

Fothergill and Osman stared at each other for a moment. It would be nice to say that a look of love and longing passed between them but it didn’t. The only impression I got was of frantic calculation by two desperate and not very involved people. The last passengers were filing onto the bus. The driver checked his booking roster and looked around.

‘Go!’ Fothergill urged. ‘I’ll text you.’

I wasn’t convinced by her nobility. The woman had a stage career ahead of her.

All I wanted from her was my stolen property and some information.

I realised that I had no idea what was going on in her head.

Osman bent forward and gave her a hasty peck on the cheek and then dived onto the bus.

We stood for three more minutes until the bus pulled out of the Interchange punctually at 4 a.m.. Osman was in a seat at the back. There was no particular expression on his dark face as the bus slid past us and no wave for Fothergill.

She, however, had tears in her eyes.

‘Next stop London,’ Lee announced.

I came down from the adrenaline rush and suddenly felt tired at the prospect of what lay ahead.

I wasn’t ready to trust dear, sweet Miss Fothergill not to have all kinds of secret equipment stowed beneath her so-normal exterior. Still, if she did have hidden knives or guns I was stymied. I couldn’t search her in the middle of a bus station or anywhere else for that matter.

She appeared to be on the point of fainting, a brilliant actress. The quick look of calculation that passed between her and the Somali gave the lie to this emotional scene.

We each took an arm and escorted her out to the street. I realised that what I was doing could be called kidnapping.

Tony completed his circuit in the BMW and pulled in opposite us. He gestured to me with his hands. I realised that he was signalling that there wasn’t room for Fothergill, Clint and a third person in the back. Opening the door, Clint sprang out onto the pavement, followed by Tony holding out the car keys to Lee.

Fothergill looked at Clint and flinched.

‘This proves you’re a criminal,’ she said.

‘What are you on about?’ I asked.

‘You’re a filthy murdering criminal and this is your gang,’ she said.

‘Get in the car,’ I ordered.

‘What, so you can kill me?’

‘Clint, pick her up. Tony go round to the other side, she’ll sit between us.’

Clint did as he was told, inserted the terrified woman into the rear middle seat and then took the front seat.

Lee did a u-turn and headed out of the city centre.

‘You cold hearted maniac,’ she said. ‘Where are you taking me? I’ve a right to know if you’re going to kill me.’

‘Cold hearted, that’s good from the piece of work who methodically spied on me for weeks. We’re going to somewhere that’s convenient to ask you a few questions. Now, get your head down and shut up.’

I yanked her baseball cap down over her eyes and made sure she wasn’t looking out.

I watched her closely. Her breathing came back to normal but her lips continued to tremble and she gave a convincing impression of someone who was surprised at still being alive.

The drive back to Ridley Close seemed to go on forever. The shop fronts and buildings along our route through Sale were becoming as familiar to me as the path to my own front door. A faint predawn light was illuminating the trees when we turned into Ridley Close.

My problems began when Lee drove into the dark space of the garage.

The prisoner let out a little shriek.

‘This is where you’re going to kill me, isn’t it?’ she gasped.

‘No,’ I said sharply.

‘You are. You’re a murderer. I heard you say it.’

‘Get her out of the car,’ I ordered, speaking more harshly than I intended because I was anxious to prevent her rousing the neighbourhood by screaming her silly head off.

She wouldn’t get out of the car. She struggled and when Lee leaned forward to get his arm round her she gave him a bloody nose with her elbow. He recoiled, cursing.

Clint reached in with his long arms and hauled her out. She lashed out and kicked with all her strength but his long arms held her still. The struggle seemed to revive her.