Dr. Yes (25 page)

    Alison
climbed in. 'Don't do what?'

    'THAT!'
I shouted.

    She
laughed. 'Jesus, man, take a chill pill.'

    I
took a deep breath. When I had recovered sufficiently, I explained to her
why
we were so upset. She said, 'Oh. Well, I still think your reaction was
a bit extreme. You screamed like a couple of schoolgirls.'

    Jeff
and I fumed, united.

    Up
ahead, Dr Yeschenkov emerged from the clinic. He paused on the top step while
he answered his mobile phone. Even from a distance, he had a lot of bright
teeth. Passing cars were flashing at him to turn them down a bit.

    'Okay,'
I said, 'here's where it gets interesting.' It was time to take command, show
them exactly why I was the boss and they the munchkins. 'Jeff, head for the towpath;
it's dark enough now for incognito fumbling. Alison, back to your car, wait for
Buddy to emerge, then follow him back to his lair. I'm going after Dr Yes.
Understood?'

    'Swell,'
said Alison, 'leave me to the murderer why don't you?'

    'I
don't want you to rugby-tackle him, I just want you to tail him. You can do
that, can't you?'

    
'I
suppose
.'

    'And
when I say tail, I don't mean right
into
his house. Agreed?'

    '
Agreed
.'

    'Alison,
I'm serious. We've all watched the same movies, and we've all groaned at the
same point when she sees him leave his digs and decides to break in and nose
around. Everyone but the stupid cow knows he's just gone round the corner for a
pint of milk and a Topic, and that he'll be on his way back in a minute and
then she's going to get trapped in there with him. So do me a favour, just
follow. You're three months pregnant; don't do anything you'll regret later.'

    'Like
sleeping with you?'

    
'Just
go.'

    Dr Yeschenkov
was in his car now, and reversing out of his space.

    'You
all know the drill. If there's anything interesting going down

    'Be
wary of that on the towpath, Jeff,' said Alison.

    '. .
. call me, keep the line open, wear your earpiece. Stay safe.'

    Jeff
got out, grumbling. 'It's a long walk from here to the towpath.'

    'Then
run.'

    Alison
leant forward. She put a hand on my shoulder. I stiffened. I don't like human
contact at the best of times.

    Her
mouth moved to my ear. She whispered: 'Honey?'

    '
What
?'

    I
don't like anyone whispering in my ear. The ear is like an express tunnel into
the brain. And the mouth contains more bacteria than any other part of the
body. Whispering is tantamount to spitting a disease into the cerebral cortex.

    But I
was prepared to make an exception for sweet nothings.

    Her
voice was husky. She said, 'I don't mind you treating Jeff like an idiot, but
if you keep it up with me, I'll fucking brain ye.'

    She
smiled pleasantly and exited the vehicle.

    You're
probably thinking, Dr Yeschenkov in his sleek Porsche, capable of nought to
sixty in five seconds, or six seconds, or seven seconds, or eight seconds, or
nine seconds, and me in the Mystery Machine, capable of very little; how was I
ever going to keep pace with him? But I had several things in my favour that
allowed me to follow at a respectable distance and not once lose sight of him.
One was the fact that he drove dead slowly. Another was that he was still on
the call he'd started on the steps of the clinic. A third was the common
knowledge, even to an American interloper, that post-Troubles Belfast cops have
little to do with their time and are always on the lookout for boys and their
fast toys.

    There
was a light spring rain. Neon reflected off the tarmac on Great Victoria
Street. The Grand Opera House gleamed. The National Trust's Crown Bar invited
in the gullible. Dr Yeschenkov turned down a side street and emerged on to
Bedford Street, opposite the Ulster Hall. Three doors up, the glass-fronted Forum
International. He pulled into the set-down-only area and got out. He smiled at
a doorman in a top hat and beige livery and breezed into the foyer. He was
carrying what looked like a medical bag.

    I parked
a little further down Bedford. I checked in with Alison. No sign of Buddy. I
called Jeff. He was out of breath. He complained about the rain. I locked the
car and walked towards the hotel. The doorman gave me a look and I said, 'Wet
night.' He grunted. I walked into the foyer. No sign of Dr Yeschenkov. Plush
carpets. Muzak. Reception straight ahead, elevators to the right, restaurant
also to the right, plush sofas and chairs on the left, a twirlygig stuffed with
leaflets promoting shows and tours, concierge at a desk beside it.

    I
walked over and sat down opposite him. He looked to be about thirty, black
suit, black poloneck, and goatee beard. He said good evening and how could he
help me, Belfast accent, working class but on the make. It was a big hotel. He
had no way of knowing if I was a resident or not, short of asking.

    I
said, 'Is it true what they say about concierges?'

    'Sir?'

    'You
want something, anything, twenty-four hours a day, you're the man to see.'

    'Within
reason, sir.'

    'What
kind of reason?'

    He
had been sitting back; now he leant forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped.
'Why don't you tell me what you're looking for and I'll see what I can do?'

    'You
can be discreet?' 'The soul of.'

    'The
soul of discreet?'

    'Of
discretion.'

    'Concert
tickets?' 'Absolutely.'

    'At a
premium?'

    'At a
discount.'

    'Dodgy
seats behind the mixing desk?'

    'Front
row.'

    'VIP
party afterwards?'

    'If
humanly possible.'

    'At a
premium?'

    'At
your discretion. Who do you want to see?'

    'No
one, just establishing the boundaries. Quiet night.'

    'It
is a quiet night.'

    'Not
much to do.'

    'No,
there's not.'

    'What
if I want to take someone up to my room?'

    'A
visitor?'

    'A
visitor, yes.'

    'That's
not a problem, sir.'

    'It's
a single room.'

    'That's
not a problem, sir.'

    'A
friend up to my room, for a couple of hours.'

    'Soul
of.'

    'What
if I don't have any friends?'

    'I'm
sure you do.'

    'Yes,
I do, but not right here, right now. Could you recommend a friend?'

    'Yes,
I could do that.'

    'A
blonde friend?'

    'Yes,
sir.'

    'Premium?'

    'Discount.'

    'If I
wanted two?'

    'Two
friends?'

    'It's
a quiet night.'

    'Yes,
it is. Two won't be a problem.'

    'How
does it work?'

    'How
does what work?'

    'Finding
me friends deserves a reward.'

    'At
your discretion.'

    'Have
you ever met Dan Starkey?'

    'Dan
...?’

    'He's
a reporter on
Belfast Confidential
; he goes about exposing hotels and
how they work hand in hand with escort agencies supplying sex-trafficked call
girls to their clientele.' 'No, I haven't.'

    'You
have now.'

    I
took out my mobile and pushed a button, as if I was switching off a tape. To
his credit, he did not flicker or flinch. He remained as cool as his clothes.

    'Nice
one,' he said. 'Walked into that.'

    'Yeah,
you should have asked what room I was in.'

    'Noted.'

    'But
I don't have to write anything. A little info is all I'm looking for.'

    'Really?'

    'Yeah.
Doing a piece on yer man. Dr Yes.'

    'Dr
Yeschenkov?'

    'That's
the one. He came in a minute ago.'

    'Yes,
he did.'

    'Visiting
his patients.'

    'Yes,
he is. He's here most nights.'

    'Have
much to do with him?'

    'He's
always pleasant. He tips well. His patients are from the needy end of the
spectrum.'

    'Does
he ever have company?'

    'Sometimes,
other doctors, nurses. There's an arrangement with the hotel.'

    'Does
he ever stay over?'

    For
the first time the concierge hesitated. It was only for a fraction of a second,
but it was enough.

    'How
do you mean?' he asked.

    'The
clinic block-books rooms?'

    'Yes,
it does.'

    'But
not all of those rooms are going to be used all of the time. I'm guessing the
hotel doesn't want those rooms let out to ordinary guests, because the guests
don't want to be seeing patients in all states of disrepair roaming the
corridors screaming in pain. So there are certain rooms that stand empty, and
I'm asking if Dr Yes ever stays over.'

    The
concierge cleared his throat. 'Occasionally.'

    'He
have company?'

    'Occasionally.'

    'Mrs
Yeschenkov?'

    'Occasionally.'

    'This
woman?'

    I
turned my phone to show him the photo of Pearl I'd lifted from the Yeschenkov
Clinic website.

    'Occasionally.'

    'It
doesn't do her justice,' I said.

    'Nope.'

    'She's
bigger than that.'

    He
looked me dead in the eye. 'She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She
sat where you're sitting one night and talked to me for twenty-three minutes.'

    'What
about?'

    'Absolutely
no idea, but at the end of it if she'd asked for my pin code I would gladly
have given it to her.'

    'Do
you know Buddy Wailer?'

    'Buddy
. . . ?'

    'Very
tall, very thin, might be with Dr Yes from time to time.'

    'Can't
say I . . .'

    'Carries
a hatbox.'

    The
concierge smiled. 'The Mad Hatter? Sure. We've all seen him.'

    'Frequently?'

    'Hard
to say.'

    'You
know what he does?'

    'Isn't
it obvious?'

    'Is
it?'

    'Hats?
The hatbox?'

    'Right,'
I said.

    'I
mean, we don't know, that's just what we guessed. Those women have more money
than sense, and time to kill. They have the shopping channel piped in, but it's
not the same. There's designers coming in here all day, can't believe their
luck: a captive audience, and a captive audience on painkillers and champagne.'