Dr. Yes (22 page)

    They
say if you want to stop somebody from snoring you should gently pinch their
nose, but it wasn't having much effect. I think to be sure you should block all
airways, forcefully, and hold them down until they stop moving. What is a death
rattle but a final snore? Sometimes the temptation is
overwhelming.
But
then common sense prevails and sanity is restored. I would be caught, and then
how would I survive prison with my claustrophobia? And she lies there, unaware
that her lives are in the balance, every night we stay together.

    There
was a knock on the front door, unexpected and heavy. Alison mumbled, 'Brian?'
and I immediately regretted allowing her to survive.

    Who
could be calling for her at this time of the morning but a lover? Or a postman
with a parcel that would not fit through the letter box. Or a lover. The
knocking came again. It could be a lost traveller seeking directions, or a
relative in distress, or a fireman saying the building is burning and for God's
sake get out while you still can, or the ghost of Christmas to come with
special offers, or Mother, tracking me down, or a lover, or a lover, or a love—

    Alison
jabbed me with her elbow. 'Will you just frickin' get it? I've nothing on!'

    Oh
yes, I remembered now. She did, after all, have a craving.

    I
stumbled out of bed, pulled on underpants, trousers, socks, shoes, T-shirt. I wasn't
sure what was louder, the repeated knocking or the clicking of my joints.

    'Will
you hurry up?'

    She
was face down in her pillow, and snarling out of the side of her mouth. I
should have finished the job while I had the chance.

    'I'm
going, I'm going!'

    I
moved along the hall. By the time I reached the door, most of the grogginess
was gone and I was thinking clearly. This normally doesn't last for long, as my
meds dull me right down again. But such was my rush to crave last night that I
had left them behind. I would have to go home for them before work. But now I
really was
thinking about who would call at this time, bearing in mind the
dangerous line we were in, and that perhaps I shouldn't just open the door in
case it was Buddy Wailer with a silencer.
Knock loudly, kill quietly.
The moment it was wide enough he'd shoot me in the eye. I was wondering which
eye would be better to get shot in. You have to give way to traffic from the
right at a roundabout, so surely the left eye would be better, but what if I
was to go on holiday to France, where they go round the roundabouts the wrong
way, or at least they don't think they're going round them the wrong way, but
I, as a visitor, would find it strange, and would need the use of my left eye,
not that I was ever going to go to France, what with their French cows, or on
holiday, because I get violently ill if I move outside of a three-mile radius
of Belfast and . . .

    'Answer
the frickin' thing!'

    I
stood behind the door and called, 'Not today, thank you!' before stepping
smartly to the side in case they, he or she, shot right through it.

    There
was an audible sigh, and a familiar voice said, 'Just open it.'

    So I
opened it, and DI Robinson was standing there, shaking his head.

    'Does
your mother know you're out?' he asked.

    I
gave him my wiseacre smile and said, 'What is it?'

    'Can
I come in?'

    'Do
you have a . . . ?'

    But
he had already brushed past me and was moving down the hall into the kitchen.
When I reached the kitchen he was filling the kettle.

    'Make
yourself at

    'Tea
or coffee?'

    'No,
I don't . . .'

    'Is
she in?'

    'Is
who in?'

    'Don't
play funny buggers. Get her up, I need to speak to the pair of you.'

    'You
talk as if we are a pair.'

    'Just
get her.'

    I
went and told her who was there, and that he wanted to see her, and she
grumbled a bit but wouldn't get out of bed until I left the room. She was funny
about me seeing her naked, despite the fact that I had just recently performed
the procreative act with her, even though she was already seeded. I returned to
the kitchen.

    'How
does she like her coffee?' Robinson asked.

    'Black.'

    'Like
her men.'

    'What
do you mean?'

    'I
was only joking.'

    'No,
what do you mean?'

    'Relax,
Sherlock. Take a seat.'

    I
stood where I was. He leant against the sink while the kettle boiled. He was in
early middle age. He had the wan, unshaven and lightly crumpled look of someone
who had not been to bed. That he felt the need to visit Alison's home
before
he went home was not a good sign. Or proof that he was her lover, and had a
habit of calling unannounced when the notion took him, that he was actually the
father of her child but had refused to take responsibility, and that she hated
him but loved him at the same time, and welcomed him into her bed for lusty sex
while knowing that they would argue violently later, and perhaps that was part
of the attraction. I looked at him and wondered if any of that had come out in
the form of actual speech, and he looked back at me with a face so unreadable
that I would probably never know. Alison appeared in the doorway, still
buttoning a pink dressing gown with a bunny embroidered on it, but with a stain
on his nose that might have been morning sickness or curry. She stood beside me
with her arms folded.

    'Need
help with a case?' she asked.

    'Yes,
matter of fact. Look, I made you a coffee. Black.'

    'Just
like your men,' I said.

    Her
brow wrinkled.

    'Show
some respect,' said DI Robinson.

    I
looked at Alison. 'Do you feel disrespected?'

    'Usually.
If Jeff was alive, he'd insist on calling it an Afro-Caribbean coffee.'

    'Lattes
totally confuse him,' I added.

    'Same
old Punch and Judy,' said Robinson. 'And in case you're trying to get my
knickers in a twist, I saw Jeff last night, down at a poetry launch, and he
appeared to still be alive.'

    'You're
writing poetry now?' I asked. 'You should try writing about what you know.'

    'Not
writing poetry, no; there was a bit of a rumble had to be sorted out. Anyway,
I'm sticking to crime.'

    'You
should try writing about what you know.'

    He
smiled without meaning it; we smiled meaning it for each other, but not for
Robinson, though it was probably difficult to tell, although we could tell,
because we knew each other so well.

    Robinson
put the two mugs on the table and pulled back a chair. 'Join me,' he said.

    'Is
that an order?' Alison asked. 'In my own house, at six in the morning?'

    'I'm
just saying, take the weight off your feet.'

    'I'm
not fat, I'm pregnant.'

    The
jury was out on that one. He held his hand out and indicated the chairs. We
exchanged glances and shrugs, and sat.

    'So,'
he said, 'what have you kids been up to?'

    'Nothing,'
I said.

    'Nothing
much,' said Alison.

    'Out
last night? Say between nine and one?'

    'I
was here,' I said.

    'So
was I,' said Alison.

    'Doing
it,' I said. I looked at Alison and said: 'Your brow will stay like that if you
keep frowning.'

    Before
she could respond, DI Robinson said: 'Know anyone by the name of Liam Benson?'

    'Has
he been murdered?' I asked.

    I
just blurted it out. Sometimes I can't help myself.

    Robinson
sat back and clasped his hands. 'Here we go again,' he said wearily.

    Of
course I tried to claw it back by saying it was a natural assumption, seeing as
how he investigated murders all the time, and why else would he be here with us
so early in the morning unless it was something as serious as murder.

    I
said, 'We're still on the Augustine Wogan case.'

    'Still?'

    'Yeah.
Still.'

    'Why?'

    'We
believe he was murdered.'

    'Why?'

    'We
have our reasons.'

    'So
how does Liam Benson come into it?'

    'He
works freelance for Dr Yeschenkov. We called by yesterday to ask him some
questions. He wouldn't tell us anything. End of story.'

    'Did
you think he had something to tell you?'

    'Yes.
But he was more scared of Dr Yes than he was of us.'

    'Go
figure,' said DI Robinson.

    'Is
he really dead?' Alison asked. Robinson nodded. 'Murdered?'

    'Don't
know yet. We fished him out of the Lagan about midnight. Crack on the back of
his head, but he may have collected that on the way in. They're checking out if
he was dead before or after. I can't think of any sane reason why anyone would
choose to dump a body on that particular stretch - too many people passing - so
he was either attacked there or he went in of his own accord. He had this in
his trouser pocket.'

    DI
Robinson produced an evidence bag from his jacket and pushed it across the
table towards us, before turning it round so that we could read what it said on
the damp-looking business card it contained. It had Alison's name, home
address, work and home phone numbers, mobile number, plus her Facebook, Bebo,
MySpace, Twitter and e-mail contacts. It described her as a comic-book artist.
I pushed it closer to her.

    'You
have a lot of explaining to do,' I said.

    She
gave me an upper-lip sneer and pushed it back. 'It was the only card we had
with us at the time,' she said to Robinson. 'What would he be doing by the
Lagan anyway, if he wasn't intent on jumping in? I mean, there's a tourist
path, but not at that time of night.'

    'Unless
you're gay,' I said.

    'Gay?'
said Alison.

    'It's
a well-known rendezvous spot. You didn't know that?'

    'I
didn't know that.' She was studying me. When I looked round, so was Robinson.

    'You're
both funny,' I said.

    'You
see anyone laughing?' said Robinson. 'And of course, we have
this.'

    He
produced a second evidence bag. It contained a mobile phone.

    'His clothes
protected it pretty well from the water; a bit damp, dried out in half an hour
sitting on a radiator. The boys lifted prints, but only his. We checked his
texts; most recent was an hour before we think he went in, to and from a
pay-as-you-go phone, so untraceable.' Robinson called up the messages, pushing
the buttons through the plastic of the bag, even though, with the prints
lifted, there was no need. He slanted it so we could read it and said, 'This
was from Liam.'

    
We
nd to tk, mt usual 9
?

    'And
this was sent back.'

    He
called it up.

    
See
u then buddy
.

    Robinson
was fixing me with one of his fixing looks. He said, 'The question is, do you
have a pay-as-you-go phone,
buddy?'

    And
the answer was no.

    If
Robinson expected his early-morning visit to spook us, he was sorely mistaken.
We were old hands at this, veterans, battle-hardened by close hand-to- hand
combat on the war-torn streets of Belfast. If it did anything, it renewed our
resolve to find out exactly who had murdered Augustine and why. And possibly
make some money from it while we were there.