The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (5 page)

‘Aye, sorry, Marston Court,’ I said. ‘Number twelve.’

‘Fifteen,’ said the newsagent.

‘Right,’ I said.

I had played him like a banjo. And it only cost me fifty-five quid for the sixteen issues of
Painter and Decorator
Jimbo Collins had failed to pick up.

‘Do you want a hand?’

I recognised the voice before I saw her, my view being obscured by the leaning tower of
Painter and
Decorators
.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, and then staggered a few yards along the footpath until I reached a bin. I tipped the lot into it before turning to snarl at Alison. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘I’m on a case,’ she said.

‘No you’re not.’

‘I’ve been tracking down RonnyCrabs and Jimbo.’

‘No you haven’t. You’ve been following me and hoping to pick up crumbs. You’re a sad, sorry individual.’

I started to walk towards the van. She fell into step beside me. She took my hand. I took it back.

‘So you know where they live?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Both of them?’

I grunted.

‘Marston Court?’ she asked.

I just kept walking.

‘At least that’s where RonnyCrabs is; I haven’t been able to find Jimbo.’

I don’t know if she saw my small, satisfied, yet triumphant smile. I had a whole orchestra of banjos at my disposal.

‘As I understand it,’ she said, ‘your job is merely to verify where they live, so once you eyeball them, that’s it tied up and the cheque’s in the post.’

‘If it’s any of your business,’ I said.

‘Anything the father of my unborn child does is my business.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘It’s in our interest to see you do well, and to lend assistance where we can.’

‘Christ.’

We walked in silence. Away from the main road our footsteps echoed on the damp pavement. There were Christmas lights in the windows of almost every house. It was not an area where anyone in their right mind would venture out carol-singing, but it was in the air.

‘I’m going for my first scan next week.’

‘Brain?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I was wondering if you want to come.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘No interest.’

‘I know you’re afraid of hospitals . . .’

‘I’m not afraid of hospitals.’

‘. . . or allergic to them, but I’m going private. It’s a consultant’s home I go to; he has an office in the grounds. The
grounds
. They earn a fortune, those guys. That’s where I’m going. You could manage that. There won’t be bugs. Or if there are, they’ll be a better class of bug. Nothing to be scared of.’

‘I’m not scared. I’m just not interested.’

‘In your own son?’

‘Says who?’

‘And when I say son, I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. It could be either. Or both. Could be twins. Or some kind of amalgam.’

‘Amalgam?’

‘You read about it. Babies that are like a mix. It’s to do with pollution or global warming or mobile phones. That would be something. Doesn’t have to be like the Elephant Man, could just be webbed feet or a hump or something.’

If there had been traffic, I might have pushed her into it. It is funny how quickly you can go from loving someone to just plain hating them. And it’s not even funny. It’s tragic.

We were approaching the van. It looked shiny and new and inappropriate to its surroundings. Alison, who
must
have seen it before, parked as it was every day outside the shop, clapped her hands together.

‘Isn’t it lovely?! It reminds me—’

‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Tell me what it reminds you of.’

‘What? Okay. The Mystery Machine!’ She cackled like the witch she was and ran her hands along the paintwork. ‘
Murder Is Our Business
! It’s so appropriate!’ Then she said: ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’

‘That noise. A scraping and groaning . . .’ She put her ear to the side panel. ‘What have you got in there?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes you have, you’ve a dog, you’ve gotten yourself a guard dog, you big scaredy-ba.’

‘I do not have a dog.’

‘You big eejit, with me not there to protect you you’ve gotten yourself a pooch . . . Whoa! It sounds vicious! Let me see, go on, let me see.’

‘Just mind your own business.’

‘Och, come on, come on, come on, you know I’m going to keep at you till you show me.’

‘I’m allergic to dogs, you know that.’

‘What the hell is it, then? A Vietnamese pot-bellied pig?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Come on, come on . . . whoa! It bloody whacked the side there! Man, dear, there’s no half-measures with you, is there? But I’m telling you this, when the boy comes along, you’ll have to get rid of it. I’m not taking any chances. You hear about these monster dogs eating children and . . .’ Her eyes widened. ‘I have it! I know you too well, mister – it’s the Hound of the Baskervilles! What was that, like an Irish wolfhound? I can’t remember, I read it yonks ago, but I don’t really like Sherlock, too gay . . . but that’s it, isn’t it? You’ve gotten yourself a vicious big wolfhound and you won’t show me it because you’re scared of it yourself!’

It was cold and winter dark and I wanted to get home to No Alibis. I dug my fists into my pockets.

Alison raised an expectant eyebrow.

I just looked at her.

‘Is it something really embarrassing? It’s probably a Labradoodle.’

‘Your face is a Labradoodle.’

‘Open the door.’

‘You can’t order me what to do.’

‘Yes I can, we’re partners.’

‘If we were partners we would have to agree mutually. And we’re not, anyway.’

‘We’re partners for life, and you know it. And if I’m eating for two, I’m also voting for two, so you’re outvoted. Open the frickin’ door!’

‘No.’

‘I’ll stay here until you do.’

‘Feel free. But I’m driving off.’

I had the keys out and was moving around to the driver’s side.

‘You wouldn’t leave a pregnant woman alone here in this neck of the woods, would you?’

‘Watch me. Besides, I’m sure you didn’t walk here. Where’d you leave your broom?’

‘You’re funny.’

‘So’s your face.’

‘I’ll only follow you to Marston Court.’

‘Feel free.’

I got in behind the wheel and started the engine. Alison stood looking at me. I put the van into gear and pulled out. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she couldn’t quite believe that I was actually driving off, but I had no qualms about it at all. When you’re solving a crime you have to remain focused. I’ve always been focused.

But I have not yet invested in satnav.

I slid the divider across and glanced into the rear.

‘Mother,’ I said, ‘have you any idea where Marston Court is?’

I’d been watching the house for about five minutes when I noticed in my side mirror that Alison had pulled in behind. She had lately been driving a red Volkswagen Beetle that was hard to miss. I knew it was her car because on nights when Mother’s drunken rages get too much I sometimes walk out to her house and stand in the bushes in her front garden. I find it quite calming. I hate her, but still feel protective of her. I’m pretty good at blending in. The dark clothes and balaclava help. One night she opened the front door and guldered, ‘I’m calling the police, you fucking nutter!’ into the darkness, but I’m not convinced it was directed at me. It’s an odd neighbourhood. Alison exchanged her old Mini for this Volkswagen the week after we split up, or nine days after she caused Mother to have a stroke. I think it was a way of assuaging her guilt. Really, for the guilt-assuaging to work, she should have bought my
mother
the Volkswagen rather than treat herself, though obviously she would then have had to have the steering wheel and gears and brakes adapted.

Alison made no attempt to get out of her car, though she knew that I could see her. Once in a while, and purely for my benefit, she gave the universal sign for wanking. It was an odd situation to be in. I was watching a house for signs of Jimbo and RonnyCrabs while Alison was watching me. For the first time in my life I was both stalker and stalkee.

The house in Marston Court was an end of terrace. The gable wall, which faced where I was parked, was completely covered in a mural commemorating and celebrating soldiers who had fought and died during the Battle of the Somme. Sometimes the art world is astonished when a seemingly worthless painting goes in for cleaning and the experts discover a work by an Old Master hidden beneath the first layer of paint, and something similar was true of this First World War scene, except it wasn’t terrifically well hidden and was of no value. Thanks to the quality of the paint, or perhaps the degree of absorption of the brickwork, it was still possible to make out the original mural, which celebrated the Red Hand Commandos and their murderous exploits during the Troubles. It crossed my mind that Jimmy and RonnyCrabs, being painters and decorators, might have created either one or possibly both of these murals themselves, which in turn suggested that they might once have supported or even been members of a terrorist organisation. Since peace had broken out, terrorists of a Republican leaning had laid down their arms and embraced the political process; freedom fighters from the Loyalist side had pretty much held on to their guns and started (or more usually continued) to deal in coke. The only thing that had really changed was the geographical boundaries within or without which it was con sidered safe for them to deal. As borders had come down all across Europe, so they had across Northern Ireland. The peace dividend for Republicans was power-sharing; for Loyalists it was enlarging their market. I smiled happily. One glance at an historical mural and I had
defined
Jimbo and RonnyCrabs. Their pedigree, or lack of. I had been good at this crime-busting right from the start, but with experience, I was definitely getting better.

There was a tap on my window. Alison smiled in. I rolled it down and said, ‘What?’

‘I was thinking.’

‘Always a bad—’

‘You have a shop to run, and you could be here for hours.’

‘Jeff’s perfectly—’

‘You think?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘I’m off for the rest of the day; nothing to do but grow a baby. I could hang around here and wait for them to arrive and take their pictures, or if you want I can sketch them.’

‘Sketch them. You think they’re going to pose? Anyway, I’ve seen your stuff.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, Billy Randall would want to be able to recognise them. If I showed him your version of them he’d think I was mental.’

‘You are mental.’

‘Or on drugs.’

‘You are—’

‘You know what I mean. Your stuff isn’t exactly realistic. It’s surreal.’

‘You don’t know your artistic arse from your artistic elbow; stick to what you know, Mystery Man. And anyway, I can
do
normal. I can do
any
style.’

I looked at her. She raised an eyebrow. I had a camera on the passenger seat. It had the appropriate lenses for long-range work. I missed my shop and I didn’t fully trust Jeff. Was there any harm, really, in letting a pregnant woman hang around outside the home of two drug-dealing ex-terrorists trying to surreptitiously take their photographs? Hardly any. There was only a negligible chance of her being beaten up. Besides, she was volunteering not because she wanted to steal the case from me but because she was trying to win her way back into my affections so that I would look after her and her unborn child. Also I’m manually illiterate and usually I manage to screw up even foolproof cameras. And she was doing it for free. There was no downside.

But I wasn’t just going to cave in.

‘What if you break the camera?’

‘I won’t.’

‘You promise to wear the strap?’

‘Even though I’ll be in my car, yes.’

‘It’s an expensive camera. If there’s even a scratch on it, you’ll have to buy me a new one.’

‘Okay.’

‘It means if they don’t arrive until tonight, you’ll have to stay until you get them.’

‘That’s not a problem.’

‘What if you need to pee?’

‘I’ll hold on.’

‘I thought if you’re pregnant you have to pee all the time.’

‘That’s not till I’m all fat and horrible.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘You’re funny,’ she said.

‘So’s your face,’ I said.

I stopped on the way home to let Mother out before continuing on to the shop. I checked the till to make sure Jeff wasn’t stealing before letting him go. I sat in my chair and put my feet up on the counter and opened a Twix. I had decided, in the absence of customers, to treat myself to a leisurely reread of one of Ross MacDonald’s non Lew Archer novels,
The Ferguson Affair
, but had barely gotten past page one when the door opened and Alison came in, beaming. It wasn’t much more than forty-five minutes since I’d left her.

‘Fed up or beaten up?’ I asked.

‘Ta-da!’

She placed the camera on the counter and pushed it across, with the digital screen facing me. I took my time placing the bookmark properly and then set the book, which was a long out-of-print Knopf edition, back under the desk. I sighed. I positioned the camera so that I had the best view of Alison’s picture. It showed two young men in T-shirts and track bottoms, posing with their arms folded before the First World War mural.

‘That’s Jimbo,’ said Alison, pointing at the one on her left, ‘and that’s—’

‘I get it.’

‘Real name Ronny Clegg. They were extremely co-operative.’

‘Did you promise them sexual favours?’

‘Yes.’ I kept my eyes on the picture, though inside something churned. ‘They arrived home just after you left. I knocked on the door and told them I was taking photographs for a book on Belfast’s murals and could I take the one on the side of their house, and by the way did they happen to know who painted it? Couldn’t have been more helpful. They invited me in, made me a cup of tea.’

She reached across and pushed a button. A different photo appeared, this time of them sitting on a sofa, with cups in their hands, grinning inanely. It was a wide-angle shot. The room looked cramped and cluttered. A Jack Russell dog stood off to one side, ears erect. My nose crinkled, ready to sneeze. There was a computer sitting on a desk to their right. ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’