KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) (12 page)

They were playing me like a violin. I caved and fed Hudson-Piggott all the details he relentlessly demanded.

‘You had a spell in prison.’

‘I was never sentenced.’

‘But you were in prison.

‘On remand and I was completely exonerated.’

‘During your prison time did you come into contact with Muslim prisoners?’

‘Some.’

‘Did you read the Koran or convert to Islam?’

‘What?’

‘What is your religion?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Come on Dave,’ Cleverhouse chipped in, ‘you must realise that many violent extremists converted to Islam while they were
inside, Richard Reid the Shoe Bomber, for instance. We have to ask.’

‘I’m not a violent extremist or a Muslim but I’m not surprised their numbers are increasing if this is the way you lot carry on.’

‘We’re talking about terrorism, Cunane, something I find it difficult to be humorous about,’ Hudson-Piggott sniffed. ‘We should tell him about his relative now.’

Cleverhouse put on a grave face and told me about Sir Lew’s death. She laid on the ghoulish details with a trowel: bruises all over his body, finger nails pulled out, head hacked off with a blunt garden tool.

Hudson-Piggott was George Smiley now, not Bill Haydon, watching me like a hawk, gauging every reaction. However, it wasn’t difficult to simulate surprise and shock because after the events of the last twenty four hours I was surprised and shocked.

‘I need a drink,’ I said.

Giving me a sweet smile, Cleverhouse dug out the Glenmorangie and the glasses.

I poured.

‘Join me?’

‘Too early for me,’ she said, ‘but Harry?’

‘Yes, I’m partial to single malt at any time of the day,’ Hudson-Piggott said.

I poured him a dram and we drank together. Seeing him drink made me remember Lew yesterday. Hell, he’d kept his distance in recent years and he didn’t approve of my career but he was a relative I’d known since childhood.

What type of sadist tortures a dying man?

My eyes may have moistened I’m not sure. My hand quivered.

‘Are you all right?’ Cleverhouse asked. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’

‘It’s shock, that’s all,’ I muttered, biting back an angry comment. We sat in respectful silence for a moment and then Hudson-Piggott resumed his questioning.

This time it was all about Sir Lew and his wife Magdalen. Was I aware that Magdalen (and she was always Aunty Magdalen to me, never, horror, Aunty Maggie) owned a considerable estate?  I gave what answers I could, mostly honest ones.

‘I wasn’t aware of things like that. They were never discussed in my childhood.’

‘Without doubt you must have known there was a prospect of you inheriting a fortune.’

‘When I was young my parents and Sir Lew were anxious for me to have a career in the law. Sir Lew would have found a place for me in chambers. When I set out on my own as a private investigator he was very offended. He told me that mavericks rarely amount to anything. If I ever gave his money a thought, and I repeat I never knew he was so wealthy, I assumed none of it would come my way. For years my contact with him has been limited to Christmas cards, very tiny Christmas cards. I went to Magdalen’s funeral six years ago and he came to my wedding last year. That’s about it.’

‘Surely there’s more. Your father has told us that he informed you about Sir Lew’s will yesterday evening.’

‘So what? Am I supposed to be so greedy that I went round to his house and butchered him immediately? Talk sense.’

‘You’re asking us to accept that until the last few hours you knew nothing about an inheritance conservatively estimated at upwards of a hundred million.’

I swallowed and took a deep breath. A hundred million, could it be so much?

‘I’m not asking you to accept anything. I’m as astonished as you are and I’m sure there’s some catch and it’ll all go to some cats home or other.’

‘Cats home! Into cats was he, Sir Lew?’

‘Dogs home then; I’ve no idea.’

Hudson-Piggott cleared his throat for another go but before he could speak, Cleverclogs intervened.

‘The problem is Mr Cunane … you know we’d both be more comfortable with Dave …’

‘Tell me your real name and I’d let you call me Dave all day long.’

‘Yes, and we might question you all day long unless you tell us what’s really going on here. You expect us to believe that a relative you’ve had minimal contact with for years walks in here and …’

‘We talked about cricket and about my parents, just making small talk. It was rather embarrassing really. Then he told me about his cancer and left. That was it.’

‘No, that was not it!’ she shouted, switching off the charm.

Round Three to me, I win on a knock out.

I got up and walked to the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I thought I’d go for a walk as I didn’t invite you here and I don’t seem to be under arrest.’

‘Stop being stupid and sit down.’

‘Is it stupid of me to think you’re leading up to suggesting I killed Sir Lew?’

‘You had a motive.’

‘I was in such a hurry to inherit that I tortured and killed a man with terminal cancer who’d already signed a will in my favour? Now who’s being stupid?’

‘Put like that it does seem unlikely but you must understand we have to eliminate you before we can be certain this is a terrorist case and not a domestic murder.’

‘I suppose so but can I have my desk back?’

‘Are you trying to be funny again, Cunane,’ Hudson-Piggott asked.

‘No, I
really, really
want my desk back.’

Cleverhouse looked at Hudson-Piggott, shrugged and then moved.

Was the whole desk thing some kind of dominance game? Move 178 in the MI5 interrogation handbook?

We changed places.

‘Admittedly the idea of you killing Sir Lew is a little off the wall but there are some odd features about your activities that need answers. For instance why were you and those two weirdoes outside in this office well before eight?’

‘They’re not weirdoes and I’ll turn up at my office whenever I like.’

‘They’re seriously weird. They look like something out of the Brothers Grimm. Is it one of your quaint Northern customs to have a contrasting pair of heavies; Little and Large, Cannon and Ball, Eric and Ernie?’

‘Vivid turn of phrase your boss has got,’ I said turning to Hudson-Piggott.

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘if that’s the way you want to play it.’

‘I’m not playing anything with you. You just insulted my friends and I remarked to your underling, the bug-collector here …’

‘Bug-collector!’ Hudson-Piggott muttered.

‘Yes, you look very like an entomologist of my acquaintance.’

‘Can we get on?’ Cleverhouse interjected.

‘Speed things up if it means you’ll leave sooner.’

‘Harry.’

‘We’ve been to your home address and there are signs of recent violence there,’ the entomologist said.

‘What signs?’

‘A petrol fire in the farmyard and a bullet hole in one of the bedroom window frames. There were also shotgun and 9 mm cartridge casings in a field adjoining the house.’

I squirmed. In my hurry to get away from Topfield Farm I’d neglected the adjacent field. At least they hadn’t found the things I’d buried but that might only be a matter of time. The assassination box was in the shed. As far as I knew it contained nothing illegal. If they found it I could claim it was one of the tools of my trade.

Hudson-Piggott picked up on my discomfort. There was a glint in his eye.

‘People sometimes shoot rabbits there,’ I said lamely.

‘Not with 9 mm semi-automatics, they don’t. Also Cunane, your family appear to have disappeared.’

‘Yes, very worrying that is, Dave,’ Cleverhouse added. ‘In view of the possibility of domestic violence we put out a nationwide call for your car and guess what?’

My heart gave a lurch. My too active imagination was already flashing up images of wrecked vehicles and motorway pile-ups.

‘What?’

‘A vehicle registered to you was recorded crossing the Erskine Bridge over the river Clyde outside Glasgow at five a.m. this morning. The image was blurred but the driver was a woman. She was doing well over ninety miles an hour so the Strathclyde Police want to trace her. They’ve put a dedicated team on it at our request.’

‘So?’

‘So your uncle reveals that you are to inherit a fortune, he is brutally killed, your family flee after a violent incident at your farm, you arrive here out of normal hours accompanied by two minders. It’s all connected Dave. Don’t you see?’

I shook my head.

‘What minders?’

‘The giant and the little shifty one who misses nothing.’

‘They’re friends of mine.’

Just then a mobile rang. Hudson-Piggott pulled it out of his suit.

‘I’ll have to take this, confidential,’ he muttered.

He went out and I heard the outer office door shutting.

I started checking the contents of my desk drawers.

‘Everything’s there,’ Cleverhouse said.

‘Yeah, I’m sure. It’s the additions not the subtractions that worry me.’

She laughed.

‘If you’re implying that we’ve bugged this place you’re wrong.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, Mr Private Eye, you are. I’ll make you a bet that there are more bugs in this place than in a cheap doss-house. But they’ve not been put here by us. You’d never find our stuff in a hundred years.’

A second later Hudson-Piggott returned.

‘Something’s come up. We’ll have to postpone our interesting chat with Mr Cunane for now,’ he said.

Cleverhouse leapt to her feet and they both left.

‘Don’t go away, Dave,’ she said in parting. ‘We can track you anywhere you go and I’m really, really looking forward to a chat with your wife.’

‘She’ll only tell you what I’ve told you.’

She gave a knowing look and left.

Tony nudged me. ‘Look at the brief cases,’ he whispered.

I watched as the pair of fitness freaks ushered Cleverhouse and Hudson-Piggott into the car.

‘They’ve got submachine guns in them,’ Tony said. ‘Uzis or MP5s I should think. You can see the handle of that one.’

I’d never seen a pistol grip on the side of a brief case before.

14

Tuesday: open for business

‘Tony call the number listed under Electronic Counter Measures in the office phonebook and get them to send someone to sweep this dump for bugs.’

‘No need. I can do it myself,’ he said eagerly.

‘I said, phone!’

‘I can do it.’

I was in too much of a hurry to argue. I’d have to phone myself later.

‘Well, get on with it then!’ I prompted.

I was standing at the office door watching the grey Range Rover bearing the four MI5 operatives disappear into the busy morning traffic.

I waited a moment and scanned the street to see if they’d left a spy to keep an eye on me.

Paranoid?  I was entitled to be.

Scanning the street was hopeless.

The pavements were crowded with workers hurrying to beat the 9 a.m. deadline at their offices. There could be any number of people watching us. I’d just have to chance it and make my move before they were ready.

‘Clint!’ I yelled, ‘come with me.’

He roused himself and joined me at the door.

I set off jogging back the way I’d come earlier, towards Bridge Street and the telephone boxes on the other side of the Irwell.

Clint trotted along beside me and when they saw him charging towards them pedestrians gave us a wide berth.

Janine wasn’t safe at Colquhuons. The road from the Erskine Bridge went right past the golf resort on the banks of Loch Lomond. The police would scour time-share villages and bed and breakfasts where a family might be hiding. At best I had hours to
get them out of there, at worst Janine might already be in custody and that might have been what Harry Hudson-Piggott’s urgent call was about.

I had to reach Janine before the police did.

The pair of telephone boxes came in sight. Both were occupied.

I was gearing up to wrench the person off the phone when one of the boxes was suddenly vacated.

I dived in and discovered that I couldn’t remember Janine’s mobile number off the top of my head. I plucked my dismantled mobile phone out of my inside pocket and fumbled it back together. I’d taken the battery out as a precaution.

As soon as I switched on text and a message came in.

The text was from Janine:
Arr. Safely. How r u?

There was a voicemail from Paddy. I had no time for that now.

Every second might be vital.

I found Janine’s number and started to dial then I paused.

If my mobile was being monitored Janine’s probably was as well.

I found Clarrie White’s mobile number and dialled that instead.

It rang and rang and rang.

‘Dear God, please make her answer,’ I prayed silently. Clarrie often forgot to charge her phone or left it out of earshot.

The phone continued to ring. It would go to messages any second.

‘Pick it up, you old bugger,’ I muttered through clenched teeth.

‘Who’s an old bugger?’ a cockney voice asked.

‘Sorry, Clarrie,’ I gasped, suddenly short of breath.

‘Who’re you calling an old bugger, then?’

‘Not you my love, someone was trying to get in the phone box.’

‘What’s going on Dave? Janine’s told me what’s been happening at the farm. Petrol bombs! I think you should get out of there now.’

‘Listen Clarrie, there’s worse. You, Janine and the children
need to leave Colquhuons in the next ten minutes.’

‘Are you saying they’re on their way here with their bloody bombs? This is worse than what my mother had to put up with when Hitler bombed Plaistow.’

‘Calm down, you’re not in physical danger but you need to leave. Can I talk to Janine?’

I could hear noises off as Janine was called.

‘Dave!’ Janine said urgently. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. I’ve just had an unpleasant half hour with MI5. I don’t know quite what they’re up to but …’

I could hear Clarrie and children all talking at once in the background. Even Mangler was adding to the din.

‘Go outside,’ I shouted.

She did. The background roar faded.

‘Your plan was for me to convince the man who sent those bombers that I know nothing and then back out of things gracefully …’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not going to work. They came back to Topfield and left a massive remote controlled bomb in our living room.’

‘Oh no! Are you all right? Did they blow the house up?’

‘No time to explain now but the house and I are both fine. We defused the bomb.’

‘We? Who’ve you got with you?’

‘There’s no time for explanations Janine, just listen and do what I say.’

‘Yes, Master.’

I had to grin.

‘MI5 seem to fancy the idea that I killed Lew.’

‘Outrageous!’

‘I think they’d prefer it to be me rather than Islamic terrorists or Lew’s mystery man, less awkward questions for them that way. Anyway, the police spotted you doing ninety over the Erskine Bridge and …’

‘They’re on their way.’

‘Yes, MI5 would like to know what happened at Topfield last night. On Bren’s advice I’ve told them nothing and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘So?’

‘So get back in the car and get away now. Back towards Glasgow I should think.’

‘But what about Mum? I’ll never fit her in the Mondeo with the children, Mangler and a ton of luggage.’

‘Always practical aren’t you?’

‘One of us has to be.’

‘OK, this is what we’ll do. Splash some mud over the Mondeo’s number plates and drive to Glasgow Airport. Clarrie will have to follow in her car. Park the cars in the long stay and load your luggage onto trolleys and then go into arrivals and wait near the meeting point. I’ll send a man to take you all somewhere else in a different car.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s better if I don’t say. He’ll make himself known to you.’

She didn’t reply.

Although there were many miles between us I detected stiffening at the other end of the line. I knew I was pushing my luck. With the Janine of old there’d have been a flaming row and accusations of child endangerment before now but then she had seen the petrol bombers with her own eyes.

There was a pause of several seconds that felt like hours.

‘Jan …’

‘Wait! I’m trying to think.’

‘I was only going to say that I’m trying to do what’s best for all of us but if you want me to cooperate fully with MI5 and take the risk of being made the scapegoat for their failure to protect Uncle Lew from whoever killed him I will.’

‘Stop trying to be so noble Dave and let me think for a minute. I’ll tell you one thing. I wasn’t doing over ninety on the Erskine Bridge so someone’s telling lies. Jenny was wide awake and you know what a phobia she has about us speeding.’

‘Yes.’

‘So I don’t see why I should answer any of their questions about anything. OK, we’ll head to Glasgow. Any more orders?’

‘Yes, if you get the chance buy several mobiles under false names and give the man I send a couple of them with your numbers. Use your mother’s credit card. I won’t be able to last a day without speaking to you.’

‘Me too.’

‘Don’t forget mobile phones are radios. They’ll be listening for us.’

‘
Phones are radios
,’ she repeated robotically.
‘Don’t use own credit card.’
I knew she was sending me up but she had to be warned.

‘You might have to wait for a few hours at the airport but someone will meet you so get going now.’

‘
Yes, lord and master
.’

‘Jan …’

‘No, I mean it Dave. I love being ordered about … well … just occasionally … perhaps it’s the pregnancy.’

‘Yeah, well normally I love arguing with you Jan and then doing what I’m told. Is there anything else?’

‘No, we’ll be there or we’ll be square. Love you.’

‘Love you again but bye, I’ve got to go.’

I put the receiver back into the cradle.

There’s probably no bigger control freak in the country than Janine. She likes to plan her movements and everything about her life in the minutest detail. So perhaps it was her pregnancy, or maybe it was witnessing those bombers trying their very best to obliterate us all, but for once Janine was cooperating without major warfare breaking out.

I had to do something else.

I consulted my BlackBerry again.

Suddenly there was a loud rapping on the door of the phone booth. I almost vomited the breakfast I hadn’t eaten. I swivelled expecting to see machine guns pointing at me.

A large, fierce looking black lady was gesturing at the phone I’d just picked up again.

I signalled to Clint.

He pushed himself in front of her and smiled angelically.

She looked like a very determined lady but she could see that she’d met her match with Clint. She threw up her arms in disgust and turned away.

I called Barney Beasley, a small time crook in Levenshulme
who’d once played a part in a massive benefit fraud involving Irish workers on major construction projects. Beasley was the henchman of the guy who provided the lads with false identities so that they could go on claiming benefits while working all the hours God sent them. Thanks to me he’d been able to avoid being scooped up when the scam unravelled and his mate got nine years. I knew that Beasley was a master of the various methods of leaving England without documentation.

He owed me one but I doubted if he’d see it that way.

One of his many children answered the phone.

‘Daaaad!’ she bawled, ‘someone for you.’

‘Who the f**k is it?’ I heard him shout in reply.

‘Who the f**k are you?’ the girl asked. Judging from her voice she might have been ten or so.

‘The parish priest.’

I heard her catch her breath for a second.

‘Go on, I can tell you’re not Father Braden. Who are you really?’

‘Tell him it’s a friend who remembers the Clarke case.’

I heard the girl relay this message then there was a thunderous and sudden rumble of heavy boots down a staircase.

‘You!’ Beasley croaked in a harsh Irish accent. ‘You have the barefaced gall to call me? You’re no f**king friend.’

Beasley was far too fly a bird to drop names on a phone line and I was grateful for that.

‘Gall to call? Hell, Barney, next time you get out of bed walk to the window and check there are no bars in front of you. You should thank God that I am your friend or right now you’d be sharing a cell with Jim Clarke. When does he get out by the way?’

‘He’s got another two years, poor sod,’ Beasley said in a more moderate tone. ‘His wife’s left him you know. Things were never the same between them after a certain person towed away the caravan she was sleeping in and kicked her out on the motorway.’

‘I didn’t kick her out. She ran off of her own volition.’

‘So you say. She says different.’

‘I’ve got a little job that’s right up your street. It’ll pay well.’

‘Get away, you bastard, I wouldn’t touch your money.’

‘So you’ll do it for nothing?’

This produced a rasping laugh from Beasley.

‘In a pig’s ear I will. What do you want?’

‘I want four people transporting to the land of bogs and mists without benefit of papers.’

‘Like that, is it? Have the police finally caught up with you?’

‘It’s not for me and they aren’t criminals; two women and two children, oh, and a dog. I just want these people moved without leaving a paper trail. You used to be good at that.’

He laughed again.

‘Used to be, hah! When do you want this transport?’

‘Today.’

‘You don’t want f**king much, do you? Today will take some arranging. Give me your number and I’ll phone you back in ten.’

I gave him the number. I decided to wait in the phone box. It was one of two and I couldn’t afford to miss Beasley’s call.

The determined lady had gone away but other people gestured impatiently at me. I’d no idea call boxes were so popular. Perhaps they can’t afford mobile tariffs in this part of Salford. I told Clint to pretend he was next in the queue. He put his ugly face on and they sheered away when they saw him.

After fifteen minutes Beasley rang back. That wasn’t bad really. It would probably take longer to book a flight out of the country.

‘Right, this will cost you,’ he said, ‘and I want cash on the nail.’

‘Sure you do,’ I agreed.

‘A monkey for me and a carpet for the driver.’

‘A carpet?’

‘Three hundred, you dickhead.’