The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (19 page)

‘Now he won’t shut up.’ There was another, longer pause then, before a bolt was slid across. And a second one. Then a third and fourth. Then a key in a lock. And the beep of an alarm being deactivated. Finally the door swung open. A large woman, her hair tied back, a glass of white wine in her hand, a cigarette in her fleshy face, looked us up and down. ‘I told him all these locks were a waste of time. If they’re going to get you, they’re going to get you. Youse might as well come in.’

She led us into the front room. Magazines were scattered across a sofa and on the floor. There was a grey-muzzled Labrador sleeping in one armchair, and an ashtray sitting on the arm of the other. I am allergic to dogs. And cigarette smoke.

‘Park your bums there and tell us what this is about.’

Alison began. ‘Well, it’s quite boring really. It’s not like
Columbo
.’

The woman tutted. ‘Columbo wasn’t a private eye. He was a cop. Rockford was a private eye. I could jump his bones, any day of the week. Maybe he’s before your time.’

‘James Garner,’ I said.

The woman smiled.

‘Anyway, we work for an insurance company. Your husband filed a claim and then—’

‘My husband is dead.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. Was this just—’

‘Five years gone. Michael is my son.’

‘Okay. Right. Still sorry, but . . . pleased. Michael filed a claim, and then he quickly withdrew it and . . . Well, we’re just doing a follow-up, on behalf of the company, to see if there was some reason, you know, if he was dissatisfied with his policy, or the service he got. They use a call centre in Scotland; sometimes the language barrier . . .’

‘And they hire private detectives for that?’

‘Yes they do,’ said Alison.

‘No they don’t,’ I said. ‘Mrs Gordon . . .’

‘Millie.’

‘Millie. Let me be frank.’

‘You’ve suddenly found your knackers.’ Millie took a sip of her wine.

Alison was looking at me, pretending to be annoyed. It was a variation of the old good cop/bad cop routine. We hadn’t worked it out, it just came natural.

‘Millie . . .’

‘Are you here for him, that nutter who attacked him? Because if you are, you can just . . .’

‘No, we’re not.’

‘Well you’re not here for Michael. So maybe you’re representing the fucking dog.’

She smiled, but it was a bitter kind of a one, with a hint of drunk thrown in.

‘Millie.’ This was Alison. ‘We can’t tell you about the case, but it really isn’t about your son. It’s a murder thing, and it’s really complicated, and one of those complications involves the man I think we’re both talking about, and the more we know about him the more it helps us to solve the case. We don’t mean any harm to your son, honestly, we just want to know what happened with the dog.’

‘Exactly,’ I said.

‘Do you have ID or anything, like a licence?’

‘No, ma’am,’ I said.

‘Ma’am,’ Millie repeated, smiling again.

‘A licence, that’s more of an American thing. We have business cards.’

Alison nodded at me. I rifled in my wallet and held one out.

‘Sure any fucker could run off one of those,’ said Millie, declining to take it. ‘Not that it matters. He’s not here anyway, he’s gone off.’

‘Gone off where?’

‘England. Possibly.’

‘For a holiday, or . . .’

‘No, for fucking good. He was scared, wasn’t he?’

Alison moved to the edge of the sofa. ‘Of what?’

‘Getting another hiding.’

It came out in dribs and drabs, and a few dribbles as well. She was liberal but careless with her consumption of the wine, though not so liberal or careless as to offer us any.

Michael Gordon worked in a bank, played football, had good friends, a steady girlfriend; just an ordinary bloke. His girlfriend lived in Comber with her parents. When he took her home at nights he usually drove through Hillsborough, then along the Comber Road. One summer evening, still bright, he was driving back down that road when a Jack Russell suddenly dashed out in front of his car. He braked, but too late. Michael, being a conscientious guy, jumped out of the car instead of driving on. The owner, having heard the skidding tyres and his dog’s dying yelp, raced out of the house. Michael, having done nothing wrong, tried to explain what had happened, but the owner was in a blind fury: he punched Michael in the face, he bounced his head off the bonnet and he kicked him repeatedly in the stomach. The owner’s wife came running out and dragged him off. Michael scrambled back into his car and drove home.

Millie poured herself another glass. It was sparkling wine, and bubbled up over on to the arm of her chair. She massaged the spillage into the material before sucking her fingers. ‘He’d done nothing wrong, yet that animal laid into him. You should have seen the state he was in when he got back here. I know he’s twenty-seven, but he’s still my boy. I put him in my car and took him to casualty. They couldn’t do much about his nose, but they put a couple of stitches in above his eye.’

‘You called the police, though?’ Alison asked.

‘Of course. Told us to come down and make a statement. Michael was miserable, God love him, but I made him go down and do it. I took photos of his battered face on my mobile. And the damage to the car and the blood over the bonnet.’

‘Because . . .?’

‘Because you know what this place is like – I thought the bastard would try to sue my boy for killing his dog. And, you know, I thought we’d be entitled to a few quid ourselves.’

‘So he informed his insurance company when, next day?’

‘Nope, same night. Did that. Went to work as normal, he comes out and these two big fellas are waiting for him, bundle him into a car, take him up the Craigantlet Hills, put a gun to his head and say if he doesn’t withdraw his statement, if he doesn’t tear up his insurance claim, if he doesn’t get out of the country real quick, then he’s a dead man. Then they drag him out of the car and give him another kicking for good measure. He was outta the country without passing Go.’ Millie shook her head. Tears in her eyes. ‘I thought all that shite had gone away, but I guess it hasn’t. It’s just been hiding.’

Alison had her arm looped through mine as we walked back down the Lisburn Road. The traffic had lightened; it was crisp and cold and the moon was out. We both felt sorry for the sad old woman, but not at all sorry that we had ruthlessly grilled her for information. She had refused to give us her son’s phone number in England, but had promised to pass on our number to him before herself passing out in her chair. We let ourselves out of the house.

We no longer needed to speak to Michael Gordon directly. What had happened to him was unfortunate, despicable given that the man who had first attacked him was the most powerful police officer in the land. But people lose their tempers. The Chief Constable had apparently further abused his power by forcing Michael to flee his home. But what did it have to do with the missing Jack Russell or our case?

I said, ‘This is about Jimbo and Ronny, it’s not about Michael Gordon. And by the way, Michael Gordon not being dead means you owe me all the money in the world.’

‘I didn’t say he had to be dead, I said something must have happened to him to stop him answering his phone, and something did.’

‘Ages ago. It’s hardly the same.’

‘
Anyway
. Does it help us?’

‘Well it confirms that Wilson McCabe is prone to violence. That he’s not above using a couple of heavies to get his way. So if Jimbo and Ronny did cross him, and they were killed shortly after, then there’s a chance McCabe was either directly involved or ordered it.’

‘Which gets Billy Randall off the hook . . .’

‘No it doesn’t. McCabe or someone is still setting him up for it. But at least it helps
us
to know that he’s innocent. We can concentrate on who really is responsible. McCabe beat Michael up – but it’s not just one man losing his temper; it’s his job, his public image, he must have known that if it got out he’d be out on his ear, so he calls the heavy mob. But we’re still only connecting him to a beating, not the murders. Then there’s Greg and MI5. Why do they feel the need to hold Jeff and threaten us? Just to get their hands on a stuffed dog? Why are they involved at all? MI5 deals with national security and terrorism. It doesn’t investigate murder. So, logically, the Jack Russell would have to have something to do with national security or terrorism, and it belonging to McCabe means that he must also have something to do with national security or terrorism, either investigating it, or involved in it, or he’s a target.’

‘You mean like the Jack Russell is a means of killing him? It’s a bomb, or it’s stuffed with anthrax?’

‘Well there are enough former terrorists running around; maybe one with a grudge wants to remove the new head of the PSNI and start the Troubles up again. Or maybe MI5 themselves want to remove him.’

Alison stopped and looked at me. ‘To a certain extent I’m okay with terrorism. There will always be misguided nutters. But if you think MI5 are trying to get rid of him, then that’s . . . well that’s . . .’

‘A conspiracy that goes to the highest levels of power.’

‘Bonkers,’ said Alison.

We walked in subdued silence for a little while, me with one eye on the traffic in case it suddenly dived at us, Alison with her eyes down and her lips moving very slightly as she debated something with herself. We reached the bottom of Botanic Avenue and were just turning towards No Alibis when she removed her arm from mine and gave me a grave look.

‘What?’

‘We have to go back to Millie’s house.’

‘Why? She’s out for the count.’

‘Exactly. We left her asleep, with her ashtray on the arm of her chair, and a cigarette burning on the side of it. Do you remember the way she gave little jumps and starts in between snores?’

‘Yes. So?’

‘What if she knocks the ashtray over and doesn’t wake up and the carpet catches fire? She doesn’t have a smoke alarm, I checked. I always check. The smoke will kill her before she even wakes up.’

‘She’ll be fine, don’t worry about her.’

‘No, really, I think we should go check.’

I laughed. ‘Would you ever wise up?’

I didn’t mean anything particularly harsh by it, but Alison reacted as if I’d just slapped her across the face.

‘What do you mean,
wise up
?’

‘She’s not going to catch fire. And even if she does, it’s none of our business.’

‘Of course it’s our business! She got drunk because of us.’

‘Bollocks, she was already steamboats when we arrived.’

‘She was tipsy, but she wasn’t plastered. It was talking about her son got her plastered. If she dies it’ll be our fault.’

‘Alison, for God’s sake, she’s a grown woman, she can look after herself. Anyway, the dog will start barking if there’s a fire.’

‘The dog was snoring louder than she was. I’m worried. We should go back.’

‘Alison, you can’t mother everyone.’

Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

‘You think I should just concentrate on you, do you? Well I’ve news for you, buddy boy, you’re going to have to start learning to stand on your own two feet, because when the little man comes along I won’t have time to go running after you.’

‘And what has that got to do with old Mother Hubbard?’

That was probably the wrong question to ask.

‘You would just let her burn, wouldn’t you? You selfish, arrogant dwarf.’

‘Dwarf ?’

‘You’re an emotional dwarf. You’re stunted. You’re . . .’

‘Alison, it’s your hormones . . .’

This, in retrospect, was also quite probably a mistake.

‘Hormones? Hormones? And what the fuck would you know about hormones? Why don’t you just fuck away off ?!’

But, in fact, she was the one who spun on her heel and walked away.

I started after her. ‘Alison, please . . .’

‘Leave me alone!’

So I stopped.

This, also, in retrospect, was the wrong decision.

She yelled back: ‘And you would, wouldn’t you? You’d leave me out here in the middle of fucking nowhere! You’d have me go back to that fucking house, you’d have me break down the fucking door, you’d have me fight my way through the smoke and flames and you’d have me drape that fat old tart over my shoulders and carry her out of the house, and then you’d have me give her the kiss of life, and then you’d whine at me until I went back for the fucking dog as well, and all of it in my fucking condition, you fucking wanker!’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘NO!’

There were a number of strategies I could have followed and perhaps should have followed. I could have walked some yards behind, like a bad dog. I could have thrown myself at her feet and begged forgiveness. I could have caught up with her in the Mystery Machine and given her a lift the rest of the way. I most certainly could have said, you wait here, I’ll go and check if the old cow is still breathing.

But I just stood for about thirty seconds to see if she’d turn around, and when she didn’t, I walked back to the shop. She was storming off in a huff when she knew full well that I only had about eighteen hours left before rogue MI5 agents carried out their nonspecific threat. She was worried about an old smoker we hardly knew catching fire when we were up to our own necks in a conspiracy that threatened to threaten our national security. She was the selfish one. Sod her. She could rescue the old bag and then go back to her fricking jewellery and comics and leave liberty and justice and saving the British way of life to me.

I entered the shop via the back entrance. I turned the lights on and studied the books. I have an abiding interest in patterns. I particularly enjoy the strange patterns that are thrown up when a customer removes a book from one shelf and replaces it on another without me seeing. It’s not about finding the book, it’s about how it now relates to the books around it, and the sort of disruption and realignment caused by the space it leaves behind.

I did that for a while. It is quite relaxing. The patterns, the smell of the print, the little memories of reading each and every one of those books, the authors who wrote them, the originality or otherwise of the plots, the reviews, the sales, the attempted shopliftings. This was my shop. It was my story, my plot, my home. I was indeed feeling mellow, enough to even contemplate forgiving Alison if she first made a heartfelt and grovelling apology. The fact that I hated ninety per cent of human beings shouldn’t reflect badly on her; if you liked people and had an interest in them, then being concerned about their well-being went with the territory. I suppose it
was
nice of her to care so much about a stranger. She had heart. She would be a good mother. When she returned I would take her to Starbucks. And she was bound to return. I was irresistible.