The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (6 page)

‘I did. I liked them. They’re into dope and comics.’ Alison beamed.

‘What?’

‘They let me flick through their collection. And guess what?’

‘What?’

‘Guess.’

‘Alison, I couldn’t—’

‘They had one of mine! They bought it here!’

‘They . . .’

‘They’re customers of yours!’

‘They . . .’

‘What are the chances of that?!’

Given the narrow breadth of my customer base, pretty damn remote. However, I shrugged modestly.

‘They bought one of
your
comics; it doesn’t make them customers of
mine
. Your comics are hardly representative of what—’

‘Oh boil your head. It made
my
day.’

‘I’m happy for you. Thanks for your help.’ I picked up the camera and placed it under the counter. ‘Seeing as how you got so pally with them, did they happen to mention Billy Randall?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, they brought it up themselves. I think they were trying to impress me.’

‘You’re easily impressed.’

She gave me a look. ‘Aren’t I just. They showed me the YouTube video. They’re very proud of it.’

‘I suppose you cackled along and told them they were great.’

‘Kind of. I asked them why they did it. They said,
because he was there
. As in . . .’

‘Everest.’

Alison nodded.

I nodded.

We had a minute of silence while I waited for her to get to the point I knew she was getting to.

‘You know, they’re quite harmless.’

‘They’ve made a worldwide laughing stock out of an innocent man.’

‘They were just messing around.’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Doesn’t it change things?’

‘Doesn’t what what?’

‘The fact that they’re customers.’

‘God no.’

‘You’ve got few enough; once word gets around that you’ve sold two of them out to the likes of Billy Randall, you’re going to have none at all.’

I laughed.

That was obviously bollocks.

To get her off my back I told Alison that I would sleep on whether or not to sell her only two fans out to Billy Randall. Obviously, with my ailments, I don’t sleep; they’ve yet to invent a pill that can knock me out. But that is neither here nor there. As soon as she left, I e-mailed Billy Randall the two posed photographs of Jimbo Collins and Ronny Clegg together with their address and a grossly inflated bill. I expected it would be dealt with by one of his secretaries, but within a few minutes a response came pinging back from the man himself.

Thanks, mate! I owe you!

Yes he did. And he wasn’t my
mate
. He was using
mate
in a way I despised, adding it to his speech to try and connect with his working-class customers, because that’s how they spoke.
Mate
on the end of everything. I wasn’t sure what I resented more, the uninvited familiarity or the fact that he thought
I
was part of his constituency. I stared at the e-mail. I knew what Alison would have said. You’re reading too much into it. He’s just saying thank you. But what did she know? She worked in a jewellery store selling cheap bangles. He could have gotten away with saying mate to her. Except you don’t say mate to a girl. Love? Dear? Sweetie? As I pondered this, and waited for the Twix to settle the bile in my stomach, an instant message popped on to my screen.

Working hard?

It was Alison.

I typed,
Yes
.

Then I switched the computer off and returned to
The Ferguson Affair
.

Within twenty minutes she was at the door, yipping and yollering that it was Christmas and it was snowing and I had to come out and play in it. A brief glance confirmed that it
was not
snow but sleet. Alison was bouncing up and down with excitement, breaking off only to gather up
stuff
and throw it at shoppers walking with their umbrellas up but at an angle to stop their red faces getting further stung by God’s inclemency. They glared at her and she shouted Merry Christmas and some of them forced a smile but mostly they just kept walking. Her cheeks were flaming. She had her favourite woollen flying cap pulled down over her ears and loosely tied under her chin.

‘I love Christmas!’ she shouted.

‘Technically it’s not yet Christmas,’ I said, but I don’t think she heard. I remained behind the counter. ‘Could you close the door?’

With the delicate state of my immune system it simply wasn’t safe for me to be exposed to vagaries of temperature. If it was cold, I could cope; if it was hot, with the central heating on and a hot-water bottle at my back, as it had been, I was fine. But sending my body mixed signals like this, with one foot in the Amazon and the other in the Arctic, could only lead to confusion, breakdown and death from a bizarre mixture of heat stroke and hypothermia. Fortunately I have so few customers that this is not ordinarily a problem.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, Alison came in and closed the door. She briefly rubbed her pink, damp, freezing hands together before suddenly turning the
Open
sign to
Closed
, and flicking the lock on the door. She spun around to face me, grinning defiantly.

I tried saying something, but I was so incandescent with rage that I only managed a weak splutter, like sugar in a moped’s exhaust.

‘Sit where you are and shut up, Mystery Man,’ said Alison. ‘I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

She crossed to the counter.

‘Whatever you’re selling,’ I finally managed, ‘I’m not buying. Particularly if it’s comics.’

‘Shut up. This is going to be our baby’s first Christmas. I think we should all spend it together.’

‘I have other plans.’

‘You and the vegetable.’

‘Don’t start me.’

‘You’re going to plonk her in a chair in front of the telly, stick a paper hat on her head, and spoon-feed her mash and gravy. And that will be the highlight.’

I just glared at her. Actually I wasn’t intending to let Mother out of her room. I would sit by her bed and read
Psycho
aloud to her. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it. At least, she hadn’t yet.

Alison folded her arms on the counter. I leaned back in my chair.

‘Have you even ordered a turkey?’

‘You don’t have to have—’

‘This is my offer. You and . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘You and your mother come to my place for Christmas. Lovely big meal. All the trimmings. Neither of you will have to lift a finger, not that you would or she can. It’ll be my way of saying sorry to her. Have you told her about the baby?’

‘What baby?’

‘Well then Christmas will be a splendid opportunity. The best present ever. How will she feel about becoming a granny?’

‘I can’t see how it will improve her demeanour. She despises being a mother.’

‘Look. Will you come?’

I loathe Christmas. I hate the greed, the panic, the hypocrisy, the myth, the red suit, the mewling children, the carols, the forced bonhomie, the shopping, the wrapping, the drinking, the overindulgence, the television, the weather, the inappropriate presents, God, Jesus, angels, twisty winky lights, toppling trees, artificial trees, real trees, tinsel, cards, postmen, stamps, doorbells, cards that say we tried to deliver, aftershave, socks, jumpers, book tokens, book tokens, book tokens, stuffing, sprouts, cranberry sauce, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake and Lord protect us from Baileys Irish Cream.

‘Okay,’ I said.

Her mouth dropped open, surprised by my sudden capitulation.

‘Brilliant!’

I was a little surprised myself. It wasn’t the baby. There was no wish to repair fences. Partly it was because I knew Mother would hate it. Mostly it was the free food.

Definitely not the baby.

I detest babies.

Alison was near overcome with excitement. She leaned across the counter to try and kiss me, but I stayed out of range. She wasn’t fazed in the slightest. She clapped her hands together. ‘I’ll tell Brian to bring a couple of extra chairs!’

I need not go into the detail of what happened at Alison’s home for waifs and strays on Christmas Day, suffice to say that Mother played up, while Brian, Alison’s ex, got very drunk and began to accuse me of somehow causing the severe beating that very nearly cost him his life while I was solving my previous case. This was clearly preposterous. I tried to explain to him that sometimes, when fighting crime, innocent civilians get hurt. He was merely what we refer to as collateral damage. This did not sit well with him and he called me names. He also flew into a temper when I denied eating the last roast potato and then went into a giant huff when Alison announced that she was pregnant. Mother, being drunk and unconscious, seemed to take the news well. Later, having succumbed to a glass of wine myself, even though I was well aware of the effect it would have on me, what with my massive intake of prescribed and imported medication, I approached Brian in the dark corner of the living room where he’d hidden himself and put my arm around him and gave him a squeeze and told him it wasn’t true. A light of renewed hope suddenly appeared in his eyes. ‘You mean she isn’t pregnant?’

I shook my head sadly. ‘No, I didn’t eat the last roastie.’

He chased me into the garden. He pounded my head repeatedly into the sleet-covered grass while Alison tried to pull him off. Mother, waking in a temper, rattled her walking stick against the window frame and screamed, ‘Kill him! Kill him!’

So it was a relief to reopen the shop on Boxing Day.

That lasted for all of about thirty seconds.

I had rather hoped that with No Alibis being closed on the Sunday, and then also the next day, Christmas Day, there would have been a queue of customers snaking away down Botanic Avenue, all anxious to convert their book tokens into quality crime fiction hand-picked by an expert, but there was nobody waiting at all.

I raised the shutters, unlocked the many and various locks and combinations, and had just entered the shop and switched on the computer when the front door opened behind me and I glanced hopefully around, only to see a familiar figure step through the breach. Although he has been a regular in the shop, and bought numerous books, some of them quite valuable, I have never quite been able to either relax in his company or regard him as a proper customer. It seemed to me that there was always an unspoken and ulterior motive to his visits, that since I had once bettered him, he now felt he had to keep a professional eye on me. Or perhaps he wanted me to teach him a thing or two about crime-busting.

I said, ‘Hello, Detective Inspector, merry Christmas, et cetera, et cetera.’ He was wearing his usual charcoal suit and black moustache. ‘Did you have a good one?’

DI Robinson patted his stomach. ‘This’ll see me through to spring.’

It had just gone nine. He was lucky he hadn’t gotten Mother, but I’d decided to give her the morning off. It was Christmas, and her idea of goodwill to all men did not extend to all men, or any.

‘Hoping to pick up some cheap bargains in your post-Christmas sale.’

Cheap, bargains and sale – three words not bandied about lightly in No Alibis. Nevertheless I smiled indulgently. I nodded around the shelves. ‘See if there’s anything you fancy, I’ll see what I can do.’

But instead, he moved closer to the counter, and my spider-sense began to tingle.

‘So did you have a good Christmas?’ he asked.

‘Quiet.’

‘Home with Mother?’

‘Alison’s.’

‘Ah. That’s back on, is it?’

‘Did you hear it was off?’

‘Word on the street. She’s a lovely little lady.’

I had never considered that he might have an interest in Alison. Just because I didn’t want her, it didn’t mean I would allow anyone else to have her. I surreptitiously checked his wedding finger. No ring.

‘She has her moments,’ I said. ‘We’re having a baby.’

‘Really? Congratulations are in order.’

I nodded. He nodded. They didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

‘So that’s where you were Christmas Day.’ He picked up my copy of
The Ferguson Affair
– which, frustratingly, I’d left in the shop over Christmas – and briefly studied the plot summary on the back cover. ‘You still doing some of this?’ he asked.

‘Reading?’

‘Investigating.’

I took the book from him. ‘If you’re not intending to buy,
don’t touch
! Fingerprints reduce the value.’ I forced a laugh. He forced one back. ‘Investigating? Now and again. Why?’

‘Oh, no reason. Still doing your creative writing class on a Saturday?’

‘It’s finished for this year, starts again in the spring.’

‘With Brendan Coyle?’

‘Possibly. Why, were you . . .?’

‘Well, they say write about what you know. Thought I might give it a bash. The old crime novel, don’t you know? Poacher turned gamekeeper. Or the other way around. What do you think?’

There was something quite alarming about the thought of DI Robinson writing a crime novel. It would have lots of plot but little character. Still, it hadn’t stopped Christie. ‘Yes. Ahm. Absolutely. Do you think it’ll be one of those open-ended ones, where the mystery never quite gets solved?’

His brow furrowed. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Writing about what you know.’

He seemed to look at me for a
long
time. And only then did he smile, and presently the smile became a soft chuckle, which gradually morphed into a laugh. ‘You, you’re quick, aren’t you? Very good. Open-ended. So, anyway, you were at Alison’s all day Christmas Day? And at night?’

‘There . . . too . . .’ It was an abrupt return to his original line of questioning, and worrying. ‘Why?’

‘You didn’t tune in to the news or anything?’

‘Just the Queen.’

DI Robinson nodded. ‘We’ve been holding a friend of yours down at the station.’

I snorted involuntarily. The very
notion
of friends. ‘Oh yeah?’ I decided to maintain the charade. I liked the idea of friends, but not the reality.

‘Name of Billy Randall.’

He couldn’t help but see my surprised look. ‘He’s no friend of mine.’

‘But you do know him?’