The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (18 page)

‘Focus,’ said Alison.

I gave her the thumbs-up.

She exited No Alibis.

She crossed the road and entered the jeweller’s.

I watched her front door for twenty-seven minutes in case she tried to escape.

Focus.

From the Latin,
focus
.

Focus, a point towards which light rays are made to converge.

Focus, an earthquake’s underground point of origin.

Focus
, a jazz album by Stan Getz.

Focus, the part of a sentence that contributes the most important information.

Focus
, a novel by Arthur Miller.

Focus, a US Navy air-to-surface missile.

Just fucking
focus
.

I was thinking about the time line, and the crime line, and decided to go back to the very beginning, because it all surely started with the death of the dog we now knew as Patch. The manner of his death might seem irrelevant, but I have always believed that until you know everything you possibly can about a case, you cannot properly sift through the facts to find the relevant. It’s like looking for a Hallowe’en sixpence in a single bowl of apple pie and custard, when there are five other bowls it might equally be hidden in. To be absolutely certain, you have to go back to the original pie dish, before the portions are served up, and search not just through the sweet stewed apples and soft pastry, but the hard crust that gets left at the edge; indeed, you have to be sure that the sixpence has actually been placed in the pie in the first place and is not just a lie designed to test your honesty and patience, that in fact you haven’t been set up and caught in the act, which results in you being locked in a dark cupboard with the corpses of trapped mice and not allowed out for three days.

It seemed clear to me that Patch had come to a sticky end, which had set the whole stuffed dog thing into motion. He wasn’t much more than a pup, and surely too young to die from natural causes. More likely the exuberant little critter had charged out into the road and been knocked down. Working on the principle that where there’s an accident there’s an insurance claim, I decided to call Billy Randall. He sold cheap travel insurance deals with his holidays. He was connected. Insurance companies are like that. They conspire against you.

Despite the fact that he’d given me a number that he said was his direct line, I still had to work my way through a dozen different options courtesy of his automated answering service. Eventually I was put through to him.

He said, ‘Have you never heard of the Data Protection Act?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good. As long as you’ve heard of it. Then we can agree it’s a lot of bollocks. Has this something to do with our case or are you pulling a scam?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

‘No matter. Give me those dates again.’

I gave him the September before last, when Patch had made his first and only appearance in
QIP
magazine as a six-week-old pup, and last July, when he had been stuffed by the senior Gunn while his son was on holiday. Datewise it was fairly vague, but it was considerably narrowed down by what I presumed was the location: the Comber Road in Hillsborough, where Wilson McCabe had moved to on his appointment as Chief Constable of Northern Ireland. Of course I didn’t tell Billy Randall he lived there.

‘Okay, leave it with me.’

‘As soon as possible,’ I said.

‘Keen.’

While I waited for him to call back, I brought up my website and issued, first of all, an apology to my small and annoying database of occasionally loyal customers for the computer glitch that had caused them to be bombarded with increasingly desperate pleas to join my Christmas Club, and then followed that with a different kind of appeal. What they lack in spending power they make up for in diversity. Spread out across the city, there was a reasonable chance that at least one of them would spot Greg’s BMW as he drove it to and from Holywood each day. I thought it better not to mention MI5. I was looking for his home address or other locations he might frequent. This would serve two purposes – first, if we were fairly sure that Greg and his buds were rogue agents working without high-up approval, then they had to be holding Jeff somewhere apart from their headquarters. Second, if Greg really did have access to my computer, then he would soon know that I was on his tail as much as he was on mine, and while that might not exactly terrify him, it might give him pause for thought.

Billy Randall got back to me within half an hour. He said, ‘Sure you don’t want to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that you do or you don’t?’

‘Just tell me what you found out.’

‘Keen
and
efficient. You’re some pup. Just like the late and no doubt lamented pup in this case – the policy-holder made a claim against the Police Service of Northern Ireland for damage to his vehicle as a result of his hitting an unleashed dog, front driver’s side panel, and a personal injury claim for whiplash.’

‘And did they pay out?’

‘No – the policy-holder withdrew his claim.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Probably accepted cash to settle it. Or, it being the police, perhaps he didn’t want them turning the tables and investigating him. I know, you’re shocked, but it happens.’

The policy-holder was a Michael Gordon; he lived on Windsor Avenue, he was twenty-seven years old. I was intrigued by the fact that this Michael Gordon had chosen not to pursue his claim. Ours is a litigious society.

‘And what sort of a car was he driving?’

It was back to not knowing what was or wasn’t relevant.

‘Focus.’

‘I am. But what sort of a car was he driving?’

‘Very good, you’re very quick. A Ford Focus.’

I laughed, and he said what, and I said nothing, and he said no, what, and I said, no, nothing.

‘How’s it going with our other thing?’

‘It’s going well.’

‘Anything you can tell me?’

‘Not at this time.’

‘Do you need any more money?’

‘No, I have more than enough.’

He laughed, and I said what, and he said nothing, and I said no, what, and he said, no, nothing.

He wanted to ask more, but I made my excuses and hung up. I liked the fact that he hadn’t connected the dead dog to our case. He
could
have been laying a double bluff, but it didn’t feel like it; I’m pretty good at reading people, although better at books.

I called the sandwich shop down the street and had them deliver a lunch. When it arrived, I checked it for glass and poison. Then I ate it. It was yum. I called Mother to check that she wasn’t dead. I served a customer who for once had no ulterior motive beyond buying a book. After a grim start, it was turning into quite a good day.

I called Alison to tell her how well I was doing.

She said, ‘See what you can do when you try?’

It made me feel like I was eight years old, but in a good way, like it was praise from an imaginary mother. When I really was eight years old my actual mother took me to our local swimming pool, inflated my armbands, slipped them on to my feet and said, ‘This is what it feels like to drown,’ before pushing me in.

But then Alison went and spoiled it by adding, ‘And . . .? What did Michael Gordon say when you called him?’

‘I haven’t called him.’

‘Well call him
now
. Remember last time you imparted any kind of information to Billy Randall? Jimbo and RonnyCrabs were executed very soon afterwards.’

‘But
he
was telling
me
about the driver . . .’

‘Yes, but only because
you
asked
him
to find it out. Now that he knows, what if there is a connection, what if . . .? Jesus, man, you’re not trusting him now, are you? Don’t you think—’

But I had hung up. She had a reasonably good and valid point. If Michael Gordon had any light to shed on
The Case of the Cock-Headed Man
, it would indeed be better to speak to him now in case there was some remote possibility that that light might be extinguished.

And there could have been a multitude of reasons why he wasn’t answering his phone.

‘We are a good team, aren’t we? What with me being a cup half full and you being a cup half empty and cracked and leaking over your tractor trunks, we’re made for each other.’

She was chirpy and not at all concerned about the dangers that came with blatantly walking along a Lisburn Road busy with traffic or the fact that we might be walking into a trap. Geographically, on a map, the Windsor Park we were heading for appears to be only around the corner from No Alibis, but actually physically walking it, it was at least a mile, and I wasn’t happy. I’m not designed for hiking: extended motion causes my calipers to bite into my leg skin. Also, exhaust fumes set off my asthma. More pertinently, we were going to call on Michael Gordon to see why he wasn’t answering his phone, and according to Alison, that meant that he was dead, murdered by Billy Randall or someone who was able to monitor Billy Randall’s calls, and that meant getting ourselves into another dangerous situation, one from which we would have no easy means of escaping because we were bloody walking because Alison thought it would be good for us and for our unborn. I had tried running, once, and it wasn’t for me. She also thought it would be better for the environment. I failed to see how my body decomposing on the sidewalk would be good for anything.

‘Are we there yet?’ I asked for the third time.

‘Nearly.’

I had been phoning Michael Gordon right up to the point where I locked the shop up for the night, and then twice on my mobile as we walked, but still no response. There was nothing suspicious about it at all, I argued, we were only concerned because of the life we led: mystery books and murder. Lots of people didn’t answer their phone. He didn’t have to be in trouble; he could just as easily be at work, or at the laundry, or grocery shopping, or at the cinema, or buying pot plants, or discussing politics over a coffee in a fashionable café, or . . .

‘Murdered,’ Alison said.

‘I’m cold.’

‘Not as cold as him.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘I bet you all the money in the world that there’s something up.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You don’t have all the money in the world.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes I do. It’s impossible. It’s so childish.’

‘You’re just scared of losing.’

‘I’m not scared of losing. It’s just stupid. Besides, we shouldn’t be betting when there’s a man’s life at stake.’

‘See, I’ve won already. You think he’s in trouble.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You bloody did.’

‘Just . . . shush.’

‘Don’t shush me, hypocrite.’

‘I’m—’

She stopped me by kissing me.

It’s an effective way to shush me.

There, in the middle of the footpath, with going-home traffic all around us, potentially hundreds of people who could see that I had a girlfriend.

Michael Gordon’s home was a crumbly-looking semi. There were lights on. Alison said that didn’t mean anything. His last dying move might have been to switch them on. The front-room curtains were closed, although what appeared to be a forgotten string of Christmas lights continued to wink on and off.

Alison approached the door.

I held back.

She said, ‘What? Scared?’

‘No, I . . .’ I studied my shoes.

‘What?’

‘I always feel slightly foolish when we say we’re private detectives.’

‘I don’t. I get like a sugar rush. Honey, you’re the man, you’re the brains, you’re the solver, don’t be embarrassed.’

I shrugged.

She held her hand out to me. ‘Come on. And if we don’t like the look of whoever answers, we can try Hallowe’en rhyming.’

‘It’s January.’

‘Never too early.’

I joined her. She squeezed me. She rang the bell. It was an old-fashioned one and sounded laboured.

‘We’re not breaking in,’ I said, ‘no matter what.’

‘Chicken.’

‘You can’t just say chicken.’

‘I believe I just did.’

‘I have a healthy respect for property, and privacy.’

‘Chicken.’

Further debate was rendered irrelevant by a light coming on above us. I could now see that the paint on the door was ancient and cracked and peeling. There was a fair to middling chance of getting lead poisoning from it, although probably only if I licked it.

‘See?’ I said. ‘Alive and kicking, scaremonger.’

‘Chicken,’ said Alison.

‘Yes? Who is it?’ A woman’s voice, suspicious.

Alison nodded at me, I nodded back. She nodded at me, I nodded back.

Alison shook her head and said: ‘We wanted to have a word with Michael?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Alison nodded at me. I nodded back. Alison sighed. ‘We’re private detectives.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘In Belfast?’

‘Yes.’

‘Private detectives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stand in front of the peephole where I can see youse.’

Alison stood in front of the peephole. She glanced at me. I stood where I was. I don’t like being observed, or judged. Alison grabbed my arm and dragged me into the picture. I winced. Haemophilia.

‘Youse don’t look like private detectives.’

‘We’re not supposed to,’ said Alison.

‘And what’s up with Smiler?’

Alison looked at me, then hissed: ‘What are you smiling for?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well stop it.’

I did my best. Sometimes when I’m embarrassed I suffer from a kind of lockjaw.

‘He’s not smiling,’ said Alison. ‘He just has too many teeth.’

The woman was quiet for a while. Then: ‘Is this a wind-up?’

‘No, madam, I assure you . . .’

‘Madam? Aye, right. Well I told you, he’s not here.’

‘Can we . . . come in and wait for him?’

She laughed. ‘Good one.’

‘Or is there somewhere else we can contact him?’ That was me.

The woman said, ‘He talks!’ Then: ‘Is this about that fucking dog?’

We exchanged glances.

‘Yes,’ I said.