Mystery Man (4 page)

Meanwhile, I refocused on the paint pot and decided to call The Wholesale Paint Supply Company. I asked to speak to the manager and was immediately put through to a man called Taylor. As I like to keep a little separation between my detective work and my bookselling activities, I told him that my name was Walter Mosley and that I was an interior designer. I explained that I'd come across this simply divine shade of red paint, the Dulux Red Devil Matt Finish. It was glorious and warm and yet curiously violent, and it reminded me of my mother and the feast of the Passover and that warning they painted on doors about first-born sons or overdue rent. Perhaps, in retrospect, I sounded a little intense, but I believe that if you create a character you have to inhabit it and sell it, and I certainly did that. He responded with, 'It's only a friggin' tinna paint, mate.' I laughed heartily and told him I was interested in purchasing the DRDM Finish in bulk, but before I did I needed to know if it really was as vibrant as it looked in the pot and as mesmerising as it appeared on the colour charts; I wanted to see it in situ. To that end I asked him for the names of customers who had recently purchased it. He was a bit reluctant at first, but once I mentioned that I had the contract for the interior design of the new
Titanic
they were building next year and would be looking for a dependable supplier he changed his tune and quickly furnished me with the information I required. I jotted down the names of four decorating firms who had purchased the DRDM Finish in the past six months. Of these, only one had bought just a single pot. Dessie Martin and Son, with an address on the Ormeau Road. I asked if by any chance he kept a record of the serial numbers of the pots they sold. He said they did. I asked him to read out the serial number of the pot sold to Dessie Martin and Son. Before he did, he asked me why I wanted it. I told him I collected serial numbers of paint pots. It was the first thing that came to mind. He gave me a rather long 'Okaaaaaay,' and, perhaps with one eye on the
Titanic
contract, proceeded to read out the number. I had turned my pot over by this point, and repeated each number as I matched it to my own.

'Bingo,' I said just as he finished.

'Excuse me?'

'Nothing – I ah, I think I'll call this Dessie Martin and see just how wonderful the finish is before submitting my order. Thank you very much for your—'

But before I could finish, he cut in with, 'Dessie Martin is dead.'

That really threw me.

'Nice bloke,' he said kindly, 'asbestosis, just a few weeks back. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid.'

The trail had gone from red hot to stone-cold dead in an instant. Still, at least I would be able to tell Albert McIntosh that his troubles were over. I thanked Taylor again and was about to put the phone down when he said, 'Listen, mate, is that true enough about the
Titanic,
are they really building another one?'

'Don't be such a moron,' I said and cut the line.

The phone rang a couple of minutes later and I said, 'Good afternoon, No Alibis, Murder Is Our Business,' and a familiar voice said: 'Is that Walter Mosley?'

'No,' I replied automatically.

'I just hit 1471 and this number came up. Is this not his phone?'

'Ah – yes,' I said. 'But he's gone. Just this moment.'

'When will he be back?'

'He won't. He's gone for good. He's accepted a job in Jerusalem.'

'So who the hell are you?'

'We share a house. But he's moved out. Just right now. He won't be back. He called me an idiot.'

'He called me a moron,' said Taylor.

'He's a bad egg.'

'If I ever see him,' said Taylor, 'I'm going to beat the head off him.'

'He'll deserve it,' I said. 'I heard every word.'

'What's that place called again?'

'What place?'

'You said hello, Noahbylies or something? And you definitely said
murder is our business
.'

I cleared my throat. 'Noahbylies – yes, indeed. It's an . . . Elvish word. Elvish for bookshop. We specialise in science fiction and fantasy novels. You know,
Lord of the Rings.
Mordor is our business.'

There was a long pause, during which my heart beat perhaps as hard as it ever has, harder even than the day I first set eyes on the girl in the jewellery shop across the road, the girl I hadn't yet had the courage to approach but with whom I was deeply in love.

'Right. Okay, mate. If you see him again, tell him he's a cheeky bugger.' He put the phone down and so did I. I immediately clapped my hands together. Once again I had outsmarted an enemy by deftly switching character and twisting circumstance to my advantage. However, to be absolutely certain I called BT and requested a change of telephone number. It would cost me several hundreds of pounds and countless man hours to change all of my stationery and inform my customers and suppliers, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I was already dealing with one insane tradesman, I didn't need another one on my tail.

That evening's event in Serial Killer Week was a competition for the most fiendish idea for a serial killer novel. Although one might think that all possible themes have already been exploited, I believe it bears comparison to the composition of love songs – every time you think the subject is exhausted, something fresh and original from Chris de Burgh comes along. However, it soon became clear that the majority of those in the audience were not treating the subject with the seriousness it deserved. I had spent a lot of time and effort organising the event, I didn't need idiots suggesting that the next big serial killer twist might be to have a character who doesn't actually kill his victims, but just gives them dead legs. Or that a great name for a serial killer might be the Coco Pop Kid. So I put the cork back in the bottle and brought the proceedings to an early conclusion. I kept smiling throughout, as one must, but inside I was seething.

Later, with the shop empty and the shutters down, I sat drinking flat Coke and slowly began to mellow out. I decided to check my e-mail and was gratified to find that my proper customers, those who weren't just interested in playing the big man or making fun of a legitimate and relevant branch of literature, had responded in considerable numbers to my request for information. There were more than a dozen examples of what was surely the phantom graffiti artist's handiwork from all different parts of the city. A footpath on the Malone Road bore the legend
Alan McEvoy beats dogs
; a gable wall on the Andersonstown Road had
Seamus O'Hare plays away from home
; on Palestine Street the front door of a student flat had been daubed with the words
Coke dealers live here
and a parish house in Sydenham was decorated with
Rev. Derek Coates does not believe in transubstantiation.
They continued in this vein. Whether they were lies, slurs, slanders or half-truths was not my business; the only evidence I was interested in was that of their very existence, and it just galled me that their sheer volume was now of no relevance at all. Dessie Martin was dead. In fact, the effort of it all had probably advanced his demise, weakened as he was by asbestosis. But then, when I checked the very last e-mail, from a fan of Lord Peter Wimsey in the north of the city, I was suddenly brought up short – the words
Michael Lyons wears a dress
had appeared on a wall, the night
after
my request for information. For several moments I was stunned by this, but then it came to me and I cursed myself for being so retarded. The evidence had been there all along – Taylor had said it was Dessie Martin and
Son.
It wasn't the sins of the father, it was the misdemeanours of the son.

I rapidly checked the Yellow Pages and found the phone number for Dessie Martin and Son. Although it was well after business hours it was probably a small enough concern to have been administered from home. My call went straight through to an answering machine and, somewhat poignantly, I thought, an elderly voice, rasped out through laboured breaths, said that they were closed for the evening, but in an emergency could be contacted on the following mobile number. I wasn't quite sure what kind of an emergency a painter and decorator could expect to have, apart from dripping and peeling, but nevertheless, suffused with adrenaline at the prospect of confronting my nemesis, I called the mobile number.

He answered on the third ring. 'Jimmy.'

'Jimmy Martin?'

'Aye.'

'Your dad was Dessie Martin?'

'Aye – who's this?'

'I am your nemesis.'

'What's that, Polish or Romanian? I'm not takin' anyone on at the moment . . .'

'No, you misunderstand. I represent a number of people you may be familiar with. Alan McEvoy, Seamus O'Hare . . .'

'Oh shite!'

'The Rev. Derek Coates . . . Albert McIntosh . . . need I go on?'

'Listen, mate, I—'

'You have slandered these men, you have sullied their reputations, they're going to sue you for millions, do you hear me?'

He was panicked and frightened, and it felt good.

'Please – you have to understand it wasn't me, it was my da.'

'Not last night it wasn't!'

'Shite!'

'We know everything, Jimmy Martin, everything.'

'Oh God . . . look, I'm sorry . . . it was my da . . . he made me promise I would finish his work, it was only the one, I swear to Christ.'

'You better tell me all about it, son,' I said with calm but threatening authority, a tone I had perfected over twenty years dealing with publishers' reps. 'How did all this start?'

There was a moment's hesitation; then, when he spoke, his voice was softer, and cracked several times with emotion. 'Look . . .' he said, 'I'm really sorry . . . My da wasn't well for a long time. He had as—'

'Asbestosis,' I cut in.

'Christ. Okay – he was sick, but he continued working right up to the end, but as time wore on it began to really get to him that the people he was working for were such hypocrites. All smiling and nice to your face, but behind closed doors, they had all these secrets. You see, Mr . . . ?'

'Mosley. Walter Mosley.'

'Like yon detective fella?'

I cleared my throat. 'Just stick to the story, son.'

'Sorry, of course – Mr Mosley, you have to understand, we're painters and decorators. We get left alone in people's houses or offices all the time. Whenever you're gone, we go for a hoke. We all do it. Painters, cleaners, plumbers . . . We look in drawers, we open cupboards, we go into your bedroom, we switch on your computer, we check out your hidden DVDs. We don't generally steal stuff, and what we learn we keep to ourselves. It's like an unwritten rule. Tradesman's honour, we call it. We're just curious, there's no real harm in it. But my dad was dying, and he couldn't stand that his life was ebbing away while all of these people were prospering despite their sordid little secrets. So he wanted to expose them, and I knew he was doing it and I don't know if the satisfaction of it kept him going, but he certainly stayed on his feet much longer than the doctors told us he would, but as he was getting to the end he just couldn't do it any more, so he made me promise to finish his work. It's done now, Mr Mosley, there will be no more graffiti.'

It was a sad tale, and it had the ring of truth to it, but a crime is a crime, is a crime. It wasn't an accident, it wasn't a one-off act of vandalism committed in a moment of madness; these acts were premeditated, they had sullied the reputations of hard-working individuals across the city. The fact that Dessie Martin was dead was unfortunate, as was the misguided decision by his son to carry on his campaign of hate. But justice must be served.

'Jimmy,' I said, 'there are some very angry people out there.'

'I understand that.'

'And they want something done about this.'

'I know . . . but if they sue . . . if they go to the cops . . . I've a young family, I . . .'

'Would you be willing to undertake some form of community service?'

'Yes – anything.'

'Well. I will put that to them. Stay by your phone.'

I cut the line. I drank another Coke. I ate a Twix. Then I called him back. He answered on the first ring.

'Jimmy,' I said, 'you're a very lucky man. I have spoken to the Committee . . .' I paused there for a moment, and I could almost feel him quake at the mention of this nonexistent organisation, 'and they are willing to give you a chance. We have considered several possibilities for your community service – obviously employing your professional talents – amongst them repainting the headquarters of the Samaritans or a church hall in Finaghy, but ultimately they have decided that you must first whitewash over all the offending graffiti and then you must decorate, completely free of charge and without complaint and to the highest standard, a bookshop in Botanic Avenue that plays a vital role in educating the local community. Only on completion of this will we, they, consider halting the legal process that we, they, have recently set in motion. Are you prepared to do this?'

'Yes . . . yes, of course,' he replied quickly, 'and thank you so much for giving me this last chance.'

'The pleasure's all mine,' I responded.

With Serial Killer Week over for another year, and the university closed for the summer, my usual trickle of customers had slowed to a turgid drip, leaving me more than enough time to contemplate both my navel and the unabashed beauty working in the jewellery shop across the road. I guessed that she wasn't the owner of the business, as she never seemed to be the last to leave or to lock the premises after her. Of course she might just have been rather accomplished at delegating responsibility, a path I had once ventured down with my trusty assistant Jeff, only to be mightily disappointed. I need not go into details here, other than to say it involved Dixieland jazz. She was petite, and when leaving never appeared to wear jewellery – at least as far as my binoculars could detect – which I thought said a lot about her. She usually walked at a steady clip, always clutching a paperback book in her hand, yet in passing No Alibis never once thought to stop in or to glance through the open door or to admire the life-size painting of Columbo that dominates the wall behind me. I had once gone a bit mad and given her a little wave as she passed, but she either didn't see it or deliberately ignored me. A shuffling drunk did notice, however, and misinterpreted my friendly gesture as an indication that I wished him to continue on his merry way. He therefore immediately and perhaps understandably entered my shop and spat on a table of books and called me the kind of names that do not feature in the average episode of
Murder, She Wrote.