The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (3 page)

‘Are you naked?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Are your curtains not closed?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you peek out?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘And he’s still there?’

‘Usually.’

‘He’s looking directly at you.’

‘Yes. I think so. I can’t really see his eyes. It could be me he’s looking at or just the house. But I don’t like it. He gives me the creeps.’

‘Well that’s not right,’ I said.

‘Can you help me?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She was, I suppose, an attractive woman. Late thirties maybe, black hair, shoulder length, her eyes pale blue. ‘It must be driving you mad. Pervert staring through your window like that.’

Alison had pretty much perfected the art of snorting, but it was less effective now. It just sounded odd.

‘So what would you do, and how much would it cost?’

‘Well don’t worry about the money, I’ll see you right.’

Alison . . .

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘No, not at all, I understand completely. It’s very frustrating when nobody takes your concerns seriously. This is what we’ll do. We’ll put him under surveillance, get some shots of the guy in action. Then we’ll track him down to his lair. We’ll find out everything there is to know about him – if he has a family, what he does for a living, if he’s doing this to anyone else, if he has a prison record, if he’s on the sex offenders register. Maybe he’s not a pervert at all; maybe he has it in for your family or bears a grudge; maybe he’s just staking out the property late at night so that he can come back and rob it during the day. He could be up to anything. We could have a quick word, warn him off, most likely you’ll never see him again. But that’s not really getting to the root of the problem. And if he is planning something else, that might just drive him underground. What we need to do is observe, build up a profile, work out what he’s really up to and then we’ll decide the best course of action. There aren’t many quick fixes in this business, I’m afraid, it’s going to take time. But he will be dealt with.’

‘Couldn’t you just beat him up?’

Alison gave it a double snort.

‘That’s not what we do. But I can assure you, once we deal with him, he’ll stay dealt with.’

I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded permanent.

‘Alternatively . . .’

It was Alison, turning from the shelf with a book in her hand. It was
The Riddle of the Sands
by Erskine Childers, one of the first and certainly one of the greatest spy novels. The author later suffered the most severe literary criticism imaginable.

My potential client turned to her, a little surprised. I gave her a devastating look. But not so devastating that she noticed.

‘Alternatively?’ the potential client asked.

‘Well I couldn’t help but overhear. The man at your hedge . . .’

‘Excuse me, but I believe I’m dealing with this?’

She ignored
me
completely.

‘Don’t mind him,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘We’re very competitive over these cases, but we do work well together. So let me get this straight. This guy, he stands at your hedge. He looks up at you or the house. He moves along a little bit. He looks up again. Then he leaves.’

‘Yes.’

‘And this is every night.’

‘Yes.’

‘About the same time.’

‘Yes, that’s right. About eleven.’

Alison looked at me and shook her head. She smiled again at the potential client. ‘Did you ever consider the possibility that this man might have a dog you can’t see because of the hedge? And the dog stops for a sniff or a pee every few yards, and the man has no alternative but to stand there with him? That he’s not really looking up at your house, he’s just waiting for the dog to finish his business?’

The woman in the red coat stared at Alison. Her mouth dropped open a little bit. ‘Good God,’ she said, ‘I never even thought of that.’ She looked at me, then back to Alison. ‘You’re good,’ she said, ‘you’re
really
good. You’re quite a team. That’s exactly what he’s been doing, and I’ve taken it the wrong way. I’ve told half the neighbourhood he’s a perv. I’m going to have to sort that out. How much do I owe you?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s on the house.’

‘But . . .’ I began. Alison raised an eyebrow. The woman looked confused. ‘Would you like to buy a book?’ I asked. It was only slightly less pathetic than shaking a tin at her, but it could mean the difference between three slices of curled-up cooked ham for Christmas dinner and a big fat factory-stuffed turkey. I waved an encouraging hand around the shelves.

The woman laughed. ‘No, sorry, I don’t read that shit.’

And then she was gone, out the door, and crouching down by her dog, clapping her hands and talking to him like he had a clue.

We both stared at the door.

‘What a bitch,’ said Alison.

‘So’s your face,’ I said.

Against my better judgement, and tempted beyond reason by Alison’s invitation to Starbucks, I found myself seated in said heaven less than an hour later, sipping a frappuccino – she paid – while attempting to maintain my frown. I have frown lines you could plant potatoes in, though since Alison’s flight they had lain largely fallow. Life was good without her. I had my books. I had my business. I had my customer. And I had my mother. Three out of four ain’t bad.

I like Starbucks not only because of the wonderful coffee and buns, but also because it is what it is. It does not offer insurance. There is no deal on mobile phones. It does not mix and match, but stays pure, like its coffee. I detest places that try to be all things to all men. In No Alibis you might on a very rare occasion be offered a cup of coffee, but you certainly won’t come in and order one. You come in to buy a book. The clue is in the title: book
shop
. A further clue is in the sign above the till that says,
This is not a fucking library
. Certainly you can browse. Certainly you can read the back cover. But you will be discouraged from actually opening the book and reading. That is like attempting to have sex on a first date. You have to build a relationship with a book. You can’t just plough in. You have to admire it first, you have to nuzzle it and pet it and slowly get to know it. You have to drive it home with that ecstatic sense of anticipation, but not rush it. You have to get rid of your problem children and narking wife and turn off the television and sit in a comfortable chair and then slowly draw it into the night air and carefully, carefully peel back its cover. You must read about the author, you must look at his back list, you must focus with extraordinary concentration on the very first paragraph, because you know, you know very soon if this is the one for you. Sometimes authors can be quite deceiving – you read that first paragraph, that first page, and think this writer has nothing to say for himself, there is no personality, there is no vim or vigour, no humour, and you want to give up. Sometimes you are completely right to do so. Other times, if you stick with it, the personality slowly begins to emerge, you realise that this author is no Flash Harry, because anyone can concoct an explosive opening paragraph, but sometimes there is nowhere to go after that. Books are like women. They can be hard on the outside, or they can be soft. They can be fat, they can be thin. They can be funny, they can be serious. They can be utterly demented. There can be lots of sex, there can be no sex at all. Some books might tease you along with the promise of sex but ultimately chicken out. Trying to read more than one at a time can be dangerous. And when you’re finished with a book, you can put it in a box in the attic.

I am, I suppose, like a literary dating agency. I match people up with the right books. People who have spent years trying to find
their
author, but are lost, or bitter, scarred by numerous unfortunate encounters, or spinstered off after one early disaster, come to me in desperation, one last attempt before they give up for good. They tell me what they need in a book, and a little bit about themselves. Quite often they inflate their own CVs to make them sound more interesting, better educated. They might
say
that they are looking for something literary, something laden with numerous broadsheet recommendations, something, God forbid, translated, but it is my job to see through these little acts of foolish bravado, to make them understand that what they think they should be reading is not necessarily what they need. Even within the ghetto we call crime, there have been numerous occasions when I’ve had a customer in the shop saying they want a James Ellroy when I can tell just by looking at them that they will be much happier with a Robert B. Parker. I’m a doctor of crime fiction, and what I’m giving them is a literary prescription. Take one Parker a week, madam, but beware, there is a very real danger of overdosing; under no circumstances attempt to read more than this without first consulting your bookseller.

‘Hello. Earth to . . .?’

‘What?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Well you haven’t changed.’

‘Neither’s your face.’

‘Will you stop that, it’s stupid and it’s juvenile.’

‘So’s your face.’

‘Please.’

I shrugged. I sipped my frappuccino. In the preceding six weeks I had worked my way through the menu three times. One of the waitresses said to me, ‘You again, you’ll be getting shares in this place.’ That was just a stupid thing to say. But I didn’t tell her that. Sometimes I can hold my tongue. It comes with maturity.

‘So how have you been?’ Alison asked.

‘Great.’

‘Miss me?’ I gave her my screwed-up-face look. ‘Like a hole in the head, huh?’

I maintained a diplomatic silence. There was Christmas music playing in the background. There were damp footprints on the wooden floor. Stuffed shopping bags sat under tables.

‘Did you really throw my comics out?’

‘Yes.’

‘How would you feel if I threw your favourite books out?’

‘I wouldn’t lend you my favourite books.’

‘Well that’s true. Even when we were going well.’

‘Were we ever going well?’

She smiled. ‘Cup half empty as ever.’

‘Realist.’

‘Pessimist.’

‘So’s your—’

‘Please.’

I glared.

She said, ‘This is stupid.’

I was very tempted.

‘We
were
going well,’ she said. I shrugged. ‘We shouldn’t throw this away. I’m
sorry
. There’s only so many times I can say it.’

‘It’s not me you have to apologise to.’

‘I tried. Your mother told me to, and I quote, fuck off. At least I think she did; it’s hard to make out what she’s saying.’

‘Because you caused her to have a stroke.’

‘I did not, that’s just ridiculous.’

‘She is partially paralysed because you insisted on charging into her room like a banshee.’

‘That’s simply not true.’

‘You mean you didn’t?’

‘I just wanted to see if she was okay. I wanted to see if she existed.’

‘Existed.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘She went into shock. She had a stroke. She is permanently paralysed. She will never recover.’

‘Yet you have her working in the shop.’

‘You don’t miss much. I’m trying to help her.’

‘She’s driving away your customer.’

She smiled. I did not. I had no idea what I was doing there, apart from enjoying the coffee. I had once admired her from afar, and then she had seduced me. She had taken my virtue, paralysed my mother, and was now coming back for more. She was a vampire, insatiable.

‘Come on.’

She put her hand out across the table and took my own. I took it back. She sat back. She tutted. We sat in silence for a little while. The Christmas music was annoying.

She said, ‘You have a new case.’

‘Do I?’

She nodded. ‘Billy Randall.’

‘How do you know that?’

I knew how. She was a witch and had witch powers.

‘Jeff told me.’

‘What’re you doing talking to him?’

‘Why, have you told him not to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I don’t like him doing what he’s obviously just been doing. Talking about my business.’

‘He can’t help it. He loves me.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. He loves anyone who shows any interest.’

‘Billy Randall, the Dick-Headed Man.’

‘Cock.’

‘Dick.’

‘Cock.’

She shook her head. ‘Are you ever wrong?’

I raised an eyebrow. Sometimes it is better to stand your ground and show backbone even if you are wrong. Empires have been built upon it. In this case, of course, I was not wrong.

‘It’s not much of a case,’ I said. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’

‘Well that’s good. Is he as obnoxious as he appears?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘You should get on well then. I looked it up on YouTube. Annadale Embankment, no?’

‘Maybe. If it is, it’s no concern of yours.’

‘I was thinking of heading over that way myself.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘I was thinking of tracking down RonnyCrabs and Jimbo and then giving the dickhead a call.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘To show you I’m indispensable.’

‘Nobody is indispensable.’

‘Also I hear he’s single.’

‘You’d seduce a cock-headed man.’

‘I usually do.’

‘He’d see right through you.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Did I not?’

‘No.’

‘Right.’

‘In fact, you’re still in love with me.’

‘Really.’

‘Yep. You’re just too pig-headed to admit it.’

‘And you think I live in my own little world?’

‘You do. And you are. Admit it and let’s stop this craziness. We’re made for each other. You know it, I know it. Who else would have you?’

‘You’re really winning me over.’

‘At least we’re talking.’

I stared at her. She was evil incarnate.

‘I’m six weeks pregnant,’ she said.

‘So’s your face.’

Next morning Jeff said, ‘You appear distracted.’

I said, ‘You appear not to be working.’

He rolled his eyes and returned to not working.

Jeff has it easy. Because I don’t trust him to order books or keep track of the stock and because customers are few and far between, he has relatively little to do. I don’t allow him to surf on the premises, or to have his friends in, or to use the landline or even his own mobile, so most of his time is taken up with staring into space and imagining unimaginable horrors being perpetrated on political prisoners in Third World countries. I had suggested that given his current employment with me he might be better off working in his spare time for an organisation like PEN, which specifically represents writers banged up abroad, rather than his current choice, Amnesty International, but he rejected that on the grounds that he couldn’t summon much interest in the type of writer that PEN represents, and after due consideration I found myself in that rare situation, total agreement with him. There is an inescapable irony to the fact that while every nation on earth boasts its own crime fiction, no crime fiction writers are currently locked up. That is because they have a healthy respect for the law. Literary authors, who tend to think that the sun shines out of their ink holes, believe that they are above it. When they rattle on about this or that they think they are promoting freedom of speech, but what they’re actually supporting is anarchy. They believe that just because they can string a few words together their views are more important or relevant than anyone else’s. But mostly we won’t support PEN authors because their books are usually shit. People would pay a lot more attention if John Grisham or James Patterson were locked up for criticising the state, although obviously, some would clamour for that even if they kept their traps shut.