When Hell Freezes Over Page 11

  “Am I free to go back home?”

  “I cannot keep you here.”

  “Good! You know where you can find me if you want me again.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  ***

  Back at the hotel, I booked a seat for the first flight I thought I could manage—early the next morning, as it turned out. I still had to arrange and supervise getting the equipment moved. Campbell had balked at allowing anything to leave his crime scene, until I pointed out that the storage shed/rehearsal hall had nothing to do with the murder, and if he so desired, he could have his people on hand to see if what I’d be taking contained anything pertinent to his investigation.

  Getting that amount of equipment moved in a short time required me to do something I didn’t like doing: trading on my name.

  A call to Jeremy, a pal in London who ran the same sort of business as I, and with whom I had on occasion traded clients as they toured on either side of the Atlantic, produced a couple of businesses in Glasgow that could handle what I needed. Jeremy had also heard of the pending Neurotica reunion concert.

  “You swore up and down you’d never play again!” he said in mock outrage.“Michael, you’re letting me down. Is hell actually freezing over?”

  I sighed. “There’s more to the story than I can say at the moment, but the long and short of it is, I would look like a churl if I refused.”

  “Well, I was always hoping I’d get to hear the band live, but it’s a real bummer that it had to come about this way. Losing Angus is a shame. He was the best. Keep me informed about the concert. I plan on coming, yeah?”

  “I’ll have tickets set aside for you. And thanks for the info.”

  The first place I called told me there was no way they could do it for three days.

  Upon calling the second number, the male voice on the other end sounded infinitely bored. “Yeah, mate, what can I do for you?”

  I choked back a tart comment. If one of my lads answered the phone like that, he’d get a good ticking off, and if it continued, he could expect the sack.

  “My name is Michael Quinn, and I got your number from Jeremy Withers in London. I need some equipment moved and stored.”

  “So?”

  “Can you handle it?”

  “How much stuff?”

  I told the bloke that I figured a twelve-foot lorry would do the job.

  “It’s all in flight cases, packed and ready to go. The problem is that it’s at a farmhouse north of Dunoon. It has to be moved immediately.”

  “You’re kidding me. How do you expect that’s bloody well going to happen?”

  “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m really stuck. I have to leave for Canada early tomorrow morning.”

  “You do have a problem, mate,” the voice answered insolently.

  “Would a little something extra for express service help?”

  “Oh, you could expect to pay extra for same-day service without your kind offer.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Well, I can’t say that we can, and I can’t say that we can’t.”

  My anger began to boil over. “Can you be any more vague?”

  “We usually expect people to plan these things out ahead of time and book in advance.”

  That did it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be so considerate. Why don’t you be a good lad and put me on to your boss?”

  “He’ll tell you the same.”

  “I don’t think so. Tell him Michael Quicksilver’s on the phone.”

  “You said your name was Quinn.”

  “My professional name has always been Quicksilver.”

  The turnaround in employee attitude was truly breathtaking.

  “You’re kidding! The Michael Quicksilver from Neurotica? God! I’ve always wanted to meet you. You’re one of my heroes!”

  “Well, if you get that lorry out here before I leave for Canada, you’ll not only get to meet me, but I’ll help you load the equipment!”

  “Bloody hell! Wait until I tell the boss. This is all Neurotica’s gear, I take it? I heard on the news you were going to play again.”

  “Yes. Now when can I expect you?”

  “The old man will want to speak to you. Just a sec.”

  The boss sounded as enthusiastic as his employee, and I eventually had to cut him off. I could see the lorry showing up at midnight if I let him talk any longer.

  It never made me comfortable to hear people go on about me, and I was especially uncomfortable now, since I didn’t want to be playing with Neurotica anyway.

  ***

  Before heading back to Angus’s for the equipment pick-up, I tried the office, hoping my lads wouldn’t be tardy because the boss didn’t happen to be around to crack the whip. Surprisingly, Hamed, always the last to show up, picked up on the first ring.

  He assured me everything was going swimmingly, nothing out of the ordinary. Even though I wanted to, I didn’t ask if any more cops (or anyone else, for that matter) had been nosing around. The less my crew knew about my troubles, the better.

  “I should be back tomorrow around closing time.”

  “Hey, boss,” Hamed said just before hanging up. “I caught a report on the radio this morning that said you were going to play a concert in Glasgow with your old band.”

  I sighed deeply. Bad news travels faster than ever in our electronic society. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Do we get to come?”

  “Only if you pay for your own plane tickets,” I said, surprised by his cheek.

  “Everyone always says you’re a cheap bastard,” Hamed shot back.

  “Nobody says that, and you know it. You’ll have to find another tack if you want a transatlantic ticket.”

  “We can hump the gear for you, then.”

  “That’s more like it. I’ll think about it.”

  ***

  The equipment got moved, the cops didn’t bug us in the slightest (although they did watch the goings-on closely—probably out of boredom) and the flight back to Canada the next morning was uneventful. The temperature, too, had risen. Things were looking up slightly.

  Even so, by the time I got through customs and retrieved my bagsand car, it was well past three p.m. Having spent a second almost sleepless night, I really wanted to just head home, but thought it would be a good idea to check in at the business, since I’d been away so much.

  I also had another reason.

  Hamed had not been exaggerating. Everything was ticking along quite well without the skipper at the helm, although my desk was covered with papers requiring my attention. All hands were present, and they’d even swept the place and cleaned the bathroom.

  Telling them I had business to take care of with the landlord who kept an office in the complex, I went out the door, but instead of heading off to see Jerome, I walked to the far end of the building, where an investigative service rented space.

  The office I entered was small and bare-bones in decor, with a rather beat-up desk, a long row of filing cabinets and stackable plastic chairs for the clients to park their bums on. The walls had been painted white quite a while ago, and the carpet was a bilious green with a lot of salt stains near the entry. A fake redhead in her late twenties sat behind the desk, busily tapping on a keyboard. The room stank of burnt coffee and cigarettes.

  “I, ah, would like to talk with someone,” I said, standing in front of her desk.

  The girl looked up and was about to speak when the phone rang. Holding up a finger in a waiting motion, she answered it.

  “Good afternoon, O’Brien Investigates... Just a minute, Mr. Saunders, I’ll see if she’s available.” She pressed a key on the phone. “Shannon, it’s our Mr. Saunders. Are you in?... Okay. I’ll connect him. Oh, and there’s someone out here who wants to speak to you... Just a sec.” She turned back to me. “Your name?”

  “Ah, Michael Quinn. I own Quinn Musical Equipment at the far end of this building.”

  The information was relayed, and I was as
ked to take a seat.

  Ten minutes later, a woman who looked to be in her late thirties came through the door behind the secretary’s desk and walked over, extending her hand, then stopped dead, staring at me. “Hi, I’m Shannon O’Brien. Please step into my office.”

  The inner sanctum wasn’t much more plush than the reception area, adding to my misgivings.

  “You own this business?” I asked bluntly.

  “Yep, every last stick of crummy furniture.”

  If my question bothered her, it didn’t show.

  “What kind of, ah, investigations do you handle?”

  She stared at me again for a very long moment with her head tilted to the side and something unreadable in her eyes. “Well, Mr. Quinn, I think we could handle whatever it is you need. I’ve been a private investigator for seven years, and I come from a long line of cops. Please don’t let the fact that I’m a female—”

  “No, no,” I interrupted. “I meant no insult. I just have no idea how these things work. You see, I’ve never needed an investigator before.”

  She sat down tiredly behind her desk. “Sorry. I’ve been in this business long enough to know better than to make stupid assumptions.”

  Shannon O’Brien didn’t look like any private investigator I’d ever seen on the telly or read about in paperback novels. Rather pretty, with shoulder length honey blonde hair held back by a clip, no make-up and wearing jeans, a blouse and trainers, she seemed more like a mum about to pick up her kids from swim lessons. Although she was tall and appeared quite fit, I did wonder how she could have landed in such a potentially dangerous line of work.

  “Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you whether we can handle it.”

  Something about the intensity of her gaze stopped me from giving the whole thing up as a stupid idea and bolting out the door. She leaned back in her chair, waiting.

  “This is all going to sound rather confusing. You see, there’s this woman, well, more of a girl actually...”

  She smiled grimly. “There usually is.”

  “No, no,” I corrected, “it’s not like that at all.”

  As I sat trying to gather my scattered wits, the woman leaned forward and folded her hands in front of her. “Mr. Quinn, let me assure you that by now I don’t think you could say anything that would shock me. Everything you tell me will stay between us—unless what you want done involves something criminal. I’m not a lawyer, doctor or priest, so that sort of thing can’t be kept confidential.”

  “It does involve a crime, but I had nothing to do with what actually happened.”

  “Okay, start at the beginning,” she said, leaning back again. “I’m a good listener. Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea?”

  Remembering the odour of burnt coffee when I’d first entered the building, I politely declined.

  I took a deep breath and ran down the story pretty well as I’d told it to Campbell. Unlike the police detective, she asked no questions, made no comments and only took notes, so subsequently, it became easier to talk as I went on.

  When I finished, she cut to the chase. “And how do you see us being able to help you?”

  “I want you to find the girl. I don’t know if the police in the UK will be able to do that. There are too many diplomatic hoops to jump through, aren’t there, since she’s over here?”

  “Is part of this because this Detective Chief Inspector Campbell seems to think you’re more involved in what happened?”

  This woman was pretty darned sharp. “Yes.” “Do you think anything the girl told you was true? We don’t have much to go on. Did Campbell say whether they’d gotten any prints of hers from the crime scene?”

  “I didn’t think to ask.”

  “Okay. Here’s the way I think we should proceed.” O’Brien ticked off the points on her fingers, something I was going to discover she did quite a bit. “First, I’ll go to the hotel where the girl stayed and see what I can find out. There’s probably not much to learn, but you never know unless you try. First rule in this business is ‘Expect you’ll get lucky’. It’s amazing how often you do. Next, I will get in touch with a colleague in New York to see what he knows about the Mastrocolle crime family. At least we know they exist, so that’s one truth she told you. Who knows, maybe she is the man’s daughter. There has to be some reason why she gave that name and not another.”

  “It can’t be true.”

  “We won’t know unless we ask, will we?” She looked over at me for a moment, sizing me up.“In the meantime, I’d watch your back. These guys will likely come after you next. It might be a smart idea to get out of town for a while.”

  “I’m not running away. I can’t, anyway. I have a business to operate.”

  Where the hell had that response come from? Straight out of the id, and it really surprised me, considering that getting myself out of harm’s way would have been my first reaction two weeks earlier.

  O’Brien continued to gaze intently at me across her desk. “That could prove dangerous.”

  “Yes, it could. I can take suitable precautions.”

  “Do you want me to arrange for a bodyguard?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I usually have two or more people around me at work. Surely these thugs aren’t going to take on all of us.”

  “What about at home?”

  “No one knows where I live.”

  She began ticking off points on her fingers. “How about if they follow you, how about—”

  I held up my hand. “I’ve gotten pretty good over the years at knowing when I’m being followed—even by professionals. I doubt if these blokes are better than journalists!”

  “Okay. I get the picture. Just be very careful.” She picked up her pen. “Now give me the numbers where I can contact you, and I’ll need your home address, too.” After copying it all down, O’Brien added,“I’ll also need a retainer. A thousand ought to do it. You’ll receive an update every few days at the very least, along with a rundown of what we’ve spent money on. And I should warn you; this could get expensive.”

  “I want to find that girl, whatever it costs. I’m good for it.”

  “I’ll bet you are, Michael Quicksilver.”

  I started at her use of my stage name. “You knew who I was when I walked in?”

  Shannon O’Brien laughed. “As soon as you walked in my door, but I had no idea you were my neighbour!”

  “You know about Neurotica?”

  “I was the president of my high school’s Neurotica fan club,” she said with a grin. “I finally had tickets to hear you guys, and then you left the band. I was heartbroken at the time. Why did it happen? The reasons I heard didn’t ring true.”

  I sighed. “That’s a very long story.”

  She looked at me with that piercing gaze. “You’ll have to tell me some time.”

  Ten

  Remembering the neglected paperwork that had been piling up on my desk for almost two weeks, I felt a twinge of responsibility. If another sleepless night lay ahead, I could at least get something useful done. I shoved my cars keys back into my pocket and headed for the shop.

  I’d been talking with the surprising proprietor of O’Brien Investigates far longer than I’d realized. Day had faded to winter night, with clouds rolling in from the northwest, the direction that always brings snow. Not having heard a weather report since arriving back in Canada, I had no idea how much of a dump had been forecast. With several pick-ups and deliveries scheduled for the next day, even a small amount of snow could throw a major spanner in the works. Quinn prided itself on always being “On Time and On Spec”. The next day might well turn out to be more interesting than I’d have preferred.

  The running of my business was too much on my mind as I turned the corner and arrived at my side door. It was locked. With snow on the way, the lads had probably bolted as soon as they decently could.

  Fumbling around in my coat pockets for my keys, my mind occupied with mundane matters, I never heard them approachin
g.

  Next thing I knew, someone grabbed my shoulder, spun me around, and a quick shot to the gut had me gasping for air. I went down on one knee, but they grabbed my coat and yanked me roughly back to my feet.

  There were three of them, all big, all mean-looking. Two had me firmly by the arms. The third one stood back a few feet towards the middle of the driveway. This bloke was dressed better, and I got the feeling from his demeanour that he’d organized this little party. After peering at me for a good, long moment, he nodded once.

  The blond one grabbed a handful of my hair and smacked the side of my head smartly on the metal door frame. It connected with enough force to make my ears ring and my eyes smart. Everything got very wobbly for a moment, but they held me up firmly.

  The other one, an ugly dark-haired brute a with ponytail and a squashed nose that spoke of many fights, then said softly into my ear as they continued holding my head against the frame, “The keys, friend. Unlock the door.”

  I didn’t like my chances anywhere with these three blokes, but I liked them even less if they had me alone in the warehouse, where they could leisurely beat the snot out of me—or worse. The memory of that blood-stained chair in Angus’s sitting room was still fresh in my mind. Even out here, I was in great danger. At the far end of a deserted industrial mall, meagre light coming from a pole too far away, the possibility of someone seeing what was going on and coming to my aid seemed pretty remote.

  I made a show of searching for my keys, and the thugs loosened their grip a bit. When I finally pulled the keyring out of my pants pocket, I quickly shoved the blond one and flung the keys high over my head, where they thankfully landed on the roof, twenty feet above.

  “That’s going to cost you,” Blondie said as he recovered his balance and his grip.

  He and his chum slammed me against the door frame again, much harder than the first time. I saw stars.

  At a signal from the leader, the ponytailed one on my right let go of me and slapped my face hard. The shock of the blow was really quite astounding, partly because of the noise, and partly because I’d figured the next hand laid on me would be a closed fist.