KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) Read Online Free
Author: Frank Lean
per job and I pay well, so there’s never a shortage of helpers despite what some coppers still feel about me. I hire specialists as needed. For secretarial staff I rely on an agency.
It’s costly but it guarantees anonymity and a degree of secrecy.
My days of jolly banter with staff at Pimpernel Investigations are long over. Miss Fothergill was unusual in that she’d been at her post for three months. Normally I rotate my receptionists more frequently but it was getting to be a drag constantly explaining procedures to new people so she was still with me. Fothergill’s tight-lipped manner had ensured her continuity of employment.
‘I’ll be out for the rest of the day,’ I told her. ‘I’m expecting the usual reports. Harold Millrace will probably arrive on the last minute, if not later. Anyway, as they come in make them sign for delivery, give them the usual receipt and bung their files in the deposit drawer of the safe. You have your key, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Cunane,’ she said, opening her drawer and brandishing the key. It was the key to the lockable deposit drawer normally kept open during the day, a fact that Sir Lew had just taken advantage of. Fothergill had the key to lock it if she went out for lunch or something. Even if it was left open, the main safe with its massive door was still secure.
Miss Fothergill didn’t have the key or combination for that.
Lew’s little black book was safe until I had a chance to return it to him.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll look at them tomorrow. Apart from that, lock up and leave at the normal time.’
‘Oh, I could hang on till Mr Millrace comes in if you like,’ she said obligingly.
‘No, that won’t be necessary. It’ll serve Millrace right if he has to make two trips and wait a day longer for his cheque.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered in a discouraged tone.
‘If there’s anything urgent, you can get in touch on my mobile. Keep yourself busy by filing all the stuff on my desk and sorting the post when it finally arrives.’
She nodded without speaking.
As I walked to the car park I wondered if Fothergill’s two little slips, firstly looking Lew up in ‘Who’s Who’ and secondly volunteering for extra duty were enough for me to get rid of her. I decided not. I was the one who’d introduced Lew to her and they’d probably been chatting for quite a while before I came. She’d recovered well and buttoned her lip satisfactorily. That’s the big problem with staff in Manchester.
They think they’re living in a soap opera and want to know all your business.
Of course my smile free policy goes against the grain. But I’m succeeding in growing a hard shell.
Prison does that for you.
Cunane, man of mystery, that’s the image I’m looking for as far as the temps are concerned.
Now Miss Fothergill, whose first name I couldn’t recall, knew all about my godfather and she’d seen him foil me with the notebook stunt.
I put thoughts of her behind me as I threaded my grey Ford Mondeo down the narrow lane from the multi-storey and out onto Deansgate. The morning rush was over and I made good time reaching the motorway.
3
Monday: M60 motorway, clockwise section 11 a.m.
I was still thinking about the business when I reached the orbital motorway. I didn’t need an economics guru to tell me that the country was in recession. Traffic was noticeably thinner.
Thoughts of Lew Greene’s mysterious villain made me study my rear view mirror with care. If there was a tail I couldn’t spot it.
Just to be on the safe side I zoomed off the motorway at Worsley and circled the roundabout twice.
Back on the M60 I changed lanes several times. There was definitely no one following me and in any case when I turned off onto the M61 there was nothing to distinguish my Mondeo from the dozens of others driven by salesmen and mid level executives. I approached Bolton on the A666, the road to Hell as my father often jokes, then passed through
It’s costly but it guarantees anonymity and a degree of secrecy.
My days of jolly banter with staff at Pimpernel Investigations are long over. Miss Fothergill was unusual in that she’d been at her post for three months. Normally I rotate my receptionists more frequently but it was getting to be a drag constantly explaining procedures to new people so she was still with me. Fothergill’s tight-lipped manner had ensured her continuity of employment.
‘I’ll be out for the rest of the day,’ I told her. ‘I’m expecting the usual reports. Harold Millrace will probably arrive on the last minute, if not later. Anyway, as they come in make them sign for delivery, give them the usual receipt and bung their files in the deposit drawer of the safe. You have your key, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Cunane,’ she said, opening her drawer and brandishing the key. It was the key to the lockable deposit drawer normally kept open during the day, a fact that Sir Lew had just taken advantage of. Fothergill had the key to lock it if she went out for lunch or something. Even if it was left open, the main safe with its massive door was still secure.
Miss Fothergill didn’t have the key or combination for that.
Lew’s little black book was safe until I had a chance to return it to him.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll look at them tomorrow. Apart from that, lock up and leave at the normal time.’
‘Oh, I could hang on till Mr Millrace comes in if you like,’ she said obligingly.
‘No, that won’t be necessary. It’ll serve Millrace right if he has to make two trips and wait a day longer for his cheque.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered in a discouraged tone.
‘If there’s anything urgent, you can get in touch on my mobile. Keep yourself busy by filing all the stuff on my desk and sorting the post when it finally arrives.’
She nodded without speaking.
As I walked to the car park I wondered if Fothergill’s two little slips, firstly looking Lew up in ‘Who’s Who’ and secondly volunteering for extra duty were enough for me to get rid of her. I decided not. I was the one who’d introduced Lew to her and they’d probably been chatting for quite a while before I came. She’d recovered well and buttoned her lip satisfactorily. That’s the big problem with staff in Manchester.
They think they’re living in a soap opera and want to know all your business.
Of course my smile free policy goes against the grain. But I’m succeeding in growing a hard shell.
Prison does that for you.
Cunane, man of mystery, that’s the image I’m looking for as far as the temps are concerned.
Now Miss Fothergill, whose first name I couldn’t recall, knew all about my godfather and she’d seen him foil me with the notebook stunt.
I put thoughts of her behind me as I threaded my grey Ford Mondeo down the narrow lane from the multi-storey and out onto Deansgate. The morning rush was over and I made good time reaching the motorway.
3
Monday: M60 motorway, clockwise section 11 a.m.
I was still thinking about the business when I reached the orbital motorway. I didn’t need an economics guru to tell me that the country was in recession. Traffic was noticeably thinner.
Thoughts of Lew Greene’s mysterious villain made me study my rear view mirror with care. If there was a tail I couldn’t spot it.
Just to be on the safe side I zoomed off the motorway at Worsley and circled the roundabout twice.
Back on the M60 I changed lanes several times. There was definitely no one following me and in any case when I turned off onto the M61 there was nothing to distinguish my Mondeo from the dozens of others driven by salesmen and mid level executives. I approached Bolton on the A666, the road to Hell as my father often jokes, then passed through
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