Dr. Yes (30 page)

    'But
...'

    I cut
the line. I began to punch in numbers.

    Alison
said, 'What are you . . . ? Are you chickening out and calling Robinson?'

    I
shook my head. Before I pushed the call button I said: 'What did I do before we
left Buddy's house?'

    She
began to shake her head, but then it came to her. 'You went to the bathroom to
wash your hands, and then when I told you to hurry up, you said you couldn't,
you had to use the toilet, your irritable bowel was playing up. How the hell
does that . . . ?'

    'While
I was sitting on the throne I noticed that he had a phone extension in there. I
remembered you said he got a call that panicked him. So having nothing better
to do while waiting for plop, I called 1471 and got the number of the last
person who called. And now I'm about to find out who it was. You see, you think
I'm just having a poo, but I'm always working something out.'

    I pushed
the button. It rang five times. Then it went to answerphone. The message,
delivered in a familiar voice, said, 'Hi, you're through to Pearl. I can't talk
to you right now, but please leave me your number and I'll get right back to
you.'

    I
chose not to. I cut the line.

    'Pearl,'
I said.

    'As
in Knecklass? The trampy vampy?'

    'The
very one. She calls Buddy, tells him to bury the evidence. Buddy's American. We
know he's a professional, he's surely buried bodies before, but he can't know
over here that well, so how come he drives straight to Tollymore?'

    'Because
she told him where to go.'

    'Exactly.'

    My
phone rang. I answered with: 'Jeff, I said give us five . . .'

    'Hey,
I recognise that voice.'

    It
was Pearl, with the same trick as mine. It wasn't much of a trick. In fact, it
was no trick at all. People did it all the time, every day. It was a useful
service provided by a forward-thinking telecommunications company. Useful
things can fuck you up pretty easily.

    'Is
that Pearl?' I said. I made big eyes at Alison. She made them back. Pearl was
in a car, somewhere; I could hear traffic, her indicators, a radio. 'Funny, I
was just calling you.'

    'Yes,
I know. You didn't leave a message.' 'Well I hate those things. How's it going?'

    'Yeah,
great. I haven't heard from you in ages; are we still friends?'

    'Yes,
of course,' I said.

    'Special
friends?' she purred.

    'Definitely.'

    Alison's
ear couldn't have been any closer.

    'You calling
about the case?' Pearl asked.

    'What
case?'

    'Hey,
stop messing!
The
case. Augustine!'

    'Oh,
that, no, I wasn't calling about that. Just wondering how you were.'

    'Aw,
isn't that sweet? You know me, busy as ever, out on the road. Clinic business.'

    'Really?
I thought you were just the receptionist.'

    'Oh,
you're so cheeky. I am, but I do sales, and give talks to women's groups. Times
are hard, sometimes you gotta drum up business. They even call me a director,
but do you think I have shares? Not a chance. What about you? You sound like
you're driving too.'

    'Yeah,
out on the road, looking through some book collections down Newcastle way.'

    Alison
looked at me. She could look all she wanted. I was immune.

    'Newcastle
. . . really? A long way to go for books.'

    'Yeah,
I know. There's thousands of them to go through. Sometimes you can't see the
wood for the trees, but if you stick with it, usually you find exactly what
you're looking for.'

    Her
voice had lost a little of its chirpiness. She said, 'I thought we were going
to work together on this case.'

    'So
did I,' I said. 'Been kind of busy.'

    'I
get the feeling you're avoiding me.'

    'Me?
Never. Didn't we just agree we were special friends? You know I'd give you my
last Rolo.'

    Under
her breath Alison said, 'Jesus, subtle as a brick.'

    'Anyway,'
I said before Pearl could come back, 'gotta go, traffic's a bit mad, not even
out of Belfast yet. Sure, call in and see me some time; now I know the type of
books you like, I can keep you well supplied.'

    She
was just starting to say: 'Maybe we could meet ...' when I hung up.

    I
looked at Alison. She gave me her disgusted eyes, which were just like her
normal eyes, but disgusted.

    'You
got rid of her pretty quick,' she snapped.

    'Yes,
I ...'

    'Something
to hide?'

    'What?'

    'She's
the one you really want.'

    'What
are you talking about?'

    'I
see the way you go all gloopy when you speak to her, and your cheeks go all
red.'

    'Would
you ever wise up?'

    'Don't
tell me to wise up!'

    'Okay,
okay! I wasn't . . . she isn't . . .'

    Alison
took a deep breath. We picked up speed.

    'It's
just the case,' I said.

    'Uhuh.
Whatever you say. So why did you have to tip her off? The first thing she's
going to do is phone Buddy and warn him we're in the area. It sounds to me like
you're in league together.'

    'She's
not going to warn Buddy about anything.'

    'You
know her that well, do you?'

    'Yes.
No. Just think about it, Alison, would you? Buddy could bury the evidence
anywhere, but she's directed him to the most out-of-the-way place you can
imagine. Why?'

    
'Because
it's out of the way, knucklehead; nobody will ever find the body!'

    'Yes,
granted, partly. But there's
more
to it than that. As soon as I
mentioned Newcastle, you could hear it in her voice. She's on her way to meet
him, and I don't think he's digging a hole for just one body; I think he's
digging it for two.'

    
'For
Pearl?'

    'No!
For himself, though he doesn't know it yet. He's killed Augustine, he's killed
Liam, but he didn't kill Arabella. Instead of getting rid of her, he's
preserved
her, and worse than that, he's left her lying around the house. They must know
he's a liability and they know we're closing in and the police are sniffing
around, so they're having to act fast. They've sent him down to Tollymore to
bury Arabella, and Pearl comes down to supervise and pay him off, maybe lull
him into a false sense of security by throwing in a little action as well.
She's a femme fatale, Alison, that's what they do. One minute she'll be
puckering up, thanking him for a job well done, next she'll be sliding a blade
between his ribs.'

    'You're
always thinking about her and sex.'

    'I'm
just saying

    My
phone rang. Before I could answer it, Alison let go of the steering wheel,
grabbed my hand and bent my fingers back until I screamed and released it. She
swapped it to her right hand, but as I lunged after it, she pushed her left
hand into my face. I peeled her fingers away from my eyes and twisted them back
until she yelped. I made another grab for the phone but she slapped my hand
aside and elbowed me in the face. As I cradled my already damaged nose, Alison
answered the still ringing phone by yelling: 'Keep away from my man, sugar
tits!'

    I
could just about hear Jeff shouting, 'What the fu . . . ?' in response as we
mounted the kerb and slammed straight into a bright red Royal Mail postbox.

    Our
airbags erupted.

    From
somewhere south of consciousness I heard Alison cry, 'I'm hormonal!' before
everything went dark.

    We
were fortunate, in a way, that the police no longer send patrols out into the
countryside. Out there, it's the law of the meadow.

    The
only witness to our collision with a Royal Mail postbox was an elderly woman
who lived in one of a row of cottages opposite it. She came scurrying out as
best she could and helped us out of Alison's car. Or so I'm told. I was
unconscious. Together, the old woman with the one leg - did I mention that? -
and the moderately pregnant Alison dragged me out and laid me on the side of
the road. Alison, knowing me too well, refused to give me the kiss of life, so
the old woman knelt over me and pressed her lips to mine, which meant that not
only did I get a lungful of old woman's breath, but also several crumbs of
slightly stale shortbread. No one can say country folk aren't generous.

    Her
affections, for there was certainly a little tongue action, absolutely brought
me round, enough to appreciate that I was in considerable pain, having been
elbowed on my broken nose by Alison and then assaulted by an airbag. Alison
curled her lip up at me and said, 'It wasn't that bad, lightweight.'

    I
growled at her that it was entirely her fault, and she snapped back, 'So?
What's your point?'

    'That's
my point!'

    'So?
What's your point in making that point?'

    'That's
just ... stupid talk.'

    'Oh,
I'm stupid now?'

    The old
woman looked from Alison to me and shook her head. She rolled her eyes, though
I'm not sure if that was voluntary or not. She said, 'Ah, I remember young
love.' She must have had a good memory. She shepherded us into her cottage. It
was full of china. She made us a cup of tea. While she was in the kitchen, I
said, 'Is the baby all right?'

    'For
all you care.'

    I
sighed. 'And the car?'

    'Oh,
get your priorities right!'

    'I
did!'

    'Yeah,
right.'

    She
was fuming.

    I
said, 'I know you're upset with yourself.'

    'Oh,
fuck off.'

    The
woman came back in with a tray. There was shortbread. I felt sick. She said,
'They collect the post in about half an hour. If you want to make a clean
getaway, you'd better get moving soon.'

    I
looked at Alison. 'We better. We have things to do.'

    She
nodded. She was settling down. She came over and gave me a hug.

    'Sorry,'
she said.

    The
old woman looked moist-eyed. She probably always looked moist-eyed.

    The front
of the VW was badly staved in. But it started first time.

    Alison
reversed, then got out and we examined the damage to the postbox together.
'There's not a scratch on it! It's a miracle!'

    'Not
really,' I said. 'It's a Jubilee pillar box dating from 1887. When the IRA
bombed the Arndale shopping centre in Manchester in 1996, just about the only
thing that survived unscathed was a Victorian box exactly like this. They're
built to last.'

    'You,'
Alison said, 'know far too much crap.'

    'It's
why you love me,' I said.

    I was
slowly learning that like the worst kind of soap-opera actor, Alison had a
limited range of looks. The same expression seemed to cover love, loss,
tragedy, elation and hatred, and so was always open to misinterpretation. Often
no reaction was the best policy, so I ignored her and got into the car and
waved goodbye to the old woman whose tongue I had so recently played host to.

    All
told, between the crash, the aftermath and the tea in china cups, we had lost
about an hour, and we were still twenty minutes away from Tollymore. Besides my
fractured skull and internal injuries, and the staved-in front and the cracked
window, the only other damage was to my mobile phone. It looked perfectly fine,
but, like Sophia Loren, was otherwise dead.