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

He put the phone down before I could reply.

I stepped out of the call box.

There was still plenty of activity along Whitworth Street. Taxis were on the go the whole time, picking people up from the clubs that line the bank of the Rochdale canal. With its footbridges across the canal this small part of Manchester has an exotic feel. It’s definitely not Amsterdam or Venice but there’s something that draws the crowds. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of a big city where drinks and entertainment are on tap 24/7.

The people, drunk and sober, were predominantly young, students blowing their loans.

I looked at my watch. It was well after three.

I briefly considered my options and decided that I didn’t have any. Convincing them I didn’t know a thing about them was a chance in a million. OK, make that ten million but I had to try.

9

Tuesday: 3.50 a.m.

It began raining heavily while I waited for Bob’s soon-to-be redundant bookends.

The streets cleared.

Lights gleamed on the dark waters of the canal. The clubs began shutting their doors.

I shivered in my dark water-proof. It kept the rain off but provided little warmth.

Finally there were two cars, both large and dark, one a BMW estate, the other a Volvo. They entered the street from the Deansgate end and drove slowly.

The drivers were hard to make out but they could only be Bob’s gofers.

When I waved him down, Lee stopped and jumped out of the BMW. It was the early hours of the morning but his movements told me he was hyper. I’d never learned his surname. Lee hadn’t been a great success at crime. Walking round in scally costume of bright red Lacoste jumpers all the time hadn’t helped. He was still in scally gear but he’d apparently learned the value of camouflage. The Rockport boots were still there and the bling: heavy gold chain necklace, sovereign rings on three fingers, and bracelets, but he’d toned down the colour scheme. He was wearing black Reebok full-length trackie bottoms and a black Reebok top with grey inset down the sleeves. A black peaked cap with blue side panels concealed his carroty hair, just a few ginger strands poked out in front of his ears.

Lee stood about five feet two in his boots but that didn’t stop him being aggressive to the point of insanity. He always came onto people like a human pit-bull and liked to greet strangers with ‘Who’re you looking at then?’

Big men crossed the road to get out of his way.

Even in the unnatural glow of the sodium street lights the
expression on his face signalled that his combat level was high. His ugly mug wasn’t something you wanted to look at even in twilight. Livid spots jostled for lebensraum on his pitted skin.

‘How’s it hanging, Lee?’ I asked just to pull his chain. ‘You’re looking well. I could take you for a Swiss banker in those dark clothes.’

‘Who are you calling a wanker!’ he snarled.

There was a twang in his accent that could be taken as Scouse by the uninitiated. I knew he came from Benchhill, Wythenshawe, in Manchester’s Deep South.

‘Well, it’s nice to see you too, Lee,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m just being friendly. Would you like a smack on the gob instead?’

‘Coming on hard again, are you?’

Last time we’d met he’d been paid to assault me.

‘No, just talking to you in a friendly way.’

‘I can do without running f**king errands for you, Cunane. You might have got off all them sex murders but in my book you’re still a nonce.’

‘Hey, you should try for a job with the police Lee. You’re wasting your time as Bob Lane’s gofer. Yeah, the local Filth want men like you who don’t bother their heads about little things like proof and evidence.’

‘Are you saying I’m a copper’s nark,’ he yelped.

He started forward angrily.

‘Hang about, Lee!’ No-Nose said, emerging from the Volvo and wrapping his arms round his partner in crime. Oddly enough, No-Nose had a book in his hand. I wondered where he’d nicked it. The book shops weren’t open yet.

‘Mr Cunane’s a friend of Bob’s. You don’t want to mess with him.’

‘Get your f**king hands off me,’ Lee grunted. ‘He said I’m a grass.’

‘Sorry about this, Mr C,’ No-Nose apologised, tightening his grip. ‘What you said is a very sore point with Lee.’

‘It’s all right, Tony,’ I said. ‘Let him go and I’ll punch his lights out for him.’

His mother and I are the only ones who ever use No
-Nose’s given name, Tony. I’ve known him for a long while. He worked as an undercover messenger for Bob when Bob at one time.

‘Lee, will you stop pissing about?’ No-Nose pleaded.

‘Yeah, no hard feelings, Lee,’ I said, ‘I was only messing with you.’

I held out my hand.

Lee’s struggles subsided and No-Nose let him go. He shook my hand and looked away.

‘Which car do you want?’ he asked.

I walked round both cars, taking my time.

‘It’s not as if you’re buying, Mr C,’ No-Nose whispered.

‘I fancy the Beamer,’ I said to Lee.

‘It’s too good for the likes of you.’

‘Lee!’ warned No-Nose ‘the big guy’s listening to you. This’ll all go straight back to Bob.’

The big guy was indeed listening.

Clint was struggling to get out of the back of the BMW. He couldn’t work the door handle but he had the window open.

In appearance, apart from his abnormal size, Clint might have been a prosperous farmer from the nineteen thirties, as restored by the National Trust for a Beatrix Potter exhibition. If you ignored the taut skin and bony cheekbones you could say his rosy red and weather beaten complexion was bucolic. His clothes also belonged in an exhibition. A vintage green tweed jacket with massive brown leather buttons covered his upper body. His ensemble was completed by green cord trousers. The corduroy was so thick that it was almost bullet proof, certainly arrow proof.

Clint’s dark brown hair is another unusual feature. Like him, it follows an unusual pattern. Thick and wiry, it swirls round his head like an angry sea round a reef, sticking out at odd angles.

‘It’s all right, Clint. Stay in there,’ I said. ‘I’m taking this car.’

Clint grinned sheepishly.

‘It’s nice to see you, Dave; to see you nice.’

‘Yeah, it’s nice to see you too, Clint,’ I said.

Despite earlier misgivings, I meant what I said. I was fond of the big guy. It was just being responsible for him that could get heavy.

He immediately began another struggle against German technology. This time he was trying to get his seat belt back on. It wasn’t exactly rocket science but Clint was finding it impossible to secure the belt round his outsized frame.

‘If you’re going in the BMW, I’ll have to come with you,’ No-Nose announced. ‘You could have had the Volvo on a loan but Bob wants the BMW back by lunchtime. He said something about the airport.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said, holding my hand out for the keys. ‘I just need to go home. There’s something I have to do.’

I didn’t mention that I might need the speed of the BMW.

Bob’s Beamer was a brand new X5M Sport with 355 horse power and white leather interior whereas the Volvo was two years old. It was nice of Bob to give me a choice. Cynically, I guessed at his motive. The offer of a ride in the new car had been necessary to lure Clint out of his bed. The big man was into cars in a big way.

Lee reluctantly passed over the keys. I hopped in and No-Nose joined me. I quickly did a U-turn and headed out of Whitworth Street making for Chester Road and the M60.

As I raced up the ramp onto the motorway in the early light I got my first glimpse of the distant eastern hills. A faint glow of dawn was backlighting the cloud streaked sky over the peaks. The rain had stopped and it looked as if it might stay fine for a while.

I kept my foot down and raced for the intersection that would take me to the A34.

I knew I might be heading back into danger. What would I find at Topfield? Would the bombers have come back and burned down the house for spite? Were they waiting for me? Somehow the coming daylight reassured me. I felt that my mysterious enemy preferred to operate in darkness.

‘You’re very patient, Mr C.’ Tony remarked. ‘I’d have been swearing like blue murder with Lee going on like that, but you never seem to do much of that. You never did much effing and jeffing when we were inside and everyone swears there, even the screws and the chaplains.’

‘No,’ I agreed, deciding to change the subject. ‘What is it with you and Lee? You’ve not come out of the closet, have you?’

‘No,’ he said, as evenly as if I’d asked him what his shoe size was. ‘We’re not gay. It’s just that Lee needs someone to keep
him out of trouble and I seem to be the one.’

‘And who keeps you out of trouble, Tony?’

‘I’m going straight, honest, Mr C.’

‘He is,’ Clint chimed in. ‘He comes to help me at the farm some days.’

I looked across at the battered face of No-Nose Nolan. The No-Nose bit came from a car accident he’d had as a child and from neglect in getting it fixed. His face was fearsome. He looked as if he’d done fifteen rounds with both Klitschko brothers simultaneously, Vitali and Wladimir taking it in turns to flatten his features. But his face is his fortune to the degree that he has any fortune. His looks made possible a career as a collector for various loan sharks mixed with petty crime. From that he’d graduated to become a minor gofer for Bob Lane.

Scrawny and small as ever, he was looking more prosperous than the last time I saw him. He was wearing a respectable brown leather jacket, blue jeans and newish trainers.

No-Nose is so pathetic that there’s something endearing about him. I could understand why Bob extended sympathy to him. He was like one of those three-legged cats that people get attached to. You know you should have had it put to sleep after the accident but you find yourself stumping up for the vet’s bills.

I left the A34 and turned onto the Handforth Bypass. If you visit the bypass anytime after midnight during the football season you’ll often see one of the local multimillionaire footballers testing his new sports car. It’s one of the few straight stretches in the area that isn’t booby trapped with speed cameras.

I floored the accelerator and reached a hundred and twenty in a satisfyingly short time.

‘Speed limit’s seventy, Mr C,’ No-nose commented anxiously.

‘Who do you think you are, Tony, my wife?’ I said, enjoying the moment.

Before No-Nose could reply both of us were startled by a thunderclap of laughter from Clint.

The big guy thought I was incredibly funny.

‘No Nose isn’t your wife,’ he cackled. ‘Look at his face. Who’d marry him?’

No-Nose looked at me and shrugged.

I slowed down.

There were tears streaming down Clint’s face. He kept on rocking backwards and forwards with laughter.

We drove in silence after that and I kept within the speed limit.

I was grateful for the BMW’s four-wheel drive when we reached the hills. Some of the lanes were half flooded. I approached Topfield Farm very carefully. First I drove past the gate slowly and then looped back. I did that twice. There didn’t seem to be any men with guns or red Mini-Coopers around. The building was intact. Even so I took my time. I parked in the entrance lane and walked up to the five bar gate ready to run for cover at the first sign of trouble.

It was stupid but then I was crazy to have remained in the country. They could have sniped me like a sitting duck. Luckily my unknown enemies like to do things in a complex way.

There was nothing.

I opened the gate and drove into the yard.

‘Do you live here, Mr C?’ No-Nose asked wonderingly.

‘Yes, I did a lot of the building work myself.’

‘Must be worth a fortune, it’s the sort of place I used to break into.’

‘You can forget that.’

‘I told you. I’m as straight as a … as … as one of them giant spirit levels.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Anyway, you’ve got cameras on it. I never touch a place with cameras.’

‘What?’

‘Cameras, I’ve always been careful of them. You can do a job, come out clean as a whistle and then get yourself arrested a week later because you’re on Candid Camera. But, like, there are ways you can get round them.’

I’d intended to go straight in, get paper and one of Jenny’s marker pens and make a notice proclaiming my ignorance of all events concerning Lew. I knew it was a feeble plan but it offered a slim chance. Janine approved and I told myself that I had to give
her idea a try. I intended to offer them Lew’s unopened notebook as proof and to leave the office phone number for them to contact me.

But…there are no security cameras at Topfield Farm.

‘There’s no camera,’ I said.

‘Yes, there is. Look up there. It’s underneath the guttering just below the barn roof. The roof overhangs and you can’t see it very well.’

I screwed my eyes up and peered at the place he indicated.

I still couldn’t see anything but then there was a gleam of reflected light as clouds shifted.

‘Did you forget about it?’

‘No, it just wasn’t there when I left.’

Clint missed this exchange. He was once again having trouble exiting the BMW.

‘Clint, stay where you are,’ I said urgently. ‘We’re out of here.’

If there was danger I’d have to face it alone.

I scratched my head. Why go to the bother of installing a camera?

‘Hang about, Mr C,’ No-Nose said. ‘That camera’s focused on the porch door.  It’s a narrow beam, like. I know the type. It’s an Israeli model. We haven’t crossed its field of view yet. Whoever put it there doesn’t know we’re here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, look at the lens. You’d need one of them big fisheye jobs to get this entire yard and the house front on one screen.’