The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (9 page)

‘So what’d they do when they saw who it was?’

‘Surprised. People generally are, when they meet me in the flesh. But not unduly disturbed. They invited me in.’

‘Charlie too?’

‘Yes. But I suggested he wait outside.’

‘Having established the threat.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And what was it like inside?’

‘Jumbled. Run-down. I suppose, like a student house. They sat me down, got me a cup of tea. And then, bold as brass, they asked what they could do for me.’

‘Lose your temper?’

‘No.
No
. I just wanted them to know that we were coming from the same place, you know what I mean? Same roots. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, but I grew up on the streets just like they did. I am a common man, and I work for the common man. I asked them why they were attacking one of their own, why they felt the need to put a cock on my head and film it and make me a laughing stock all over the world.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘Because I was there. Like—’

‘Everest.’

‘Yes. Exactly. No apology, no vendetta, no anything. I said to them, so you just did it for badness, and they said no, for a laugh. I said, do you not care if people get hurt? And they said, what people? I said, me, my wife, my children, my business. And they said all they did was draw a cock on my head and again I asked them why, and they said, ‘cos you’re a dickhead. They started laughing, and they wouldn’t stop. I think they were on drugs.’

‘So you got angry.’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘So you called Charlie in.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You just took it on the chin.’

‘What could I do? I said I hoped they would have been more co-operative and they’d given me no choice but to call my legal people in. They just kept laughing.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then nothing. They were rolling around the place. I thanked them for their time and I let myself out.’

‘And Charlie went back later and beat them to death.’

‘Not that I’m aware. Charlie?’

‘Not me, boss.’

Billy looked at me. ‘See?’

I said to Charlie: ‘Has DI Robinson spoken to you too?’

‘Marple? Sure.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘Seemed perfectly happy.’

Billy Randall talked some more about how import ant he was, how he didn’t believe in violence, how he came up with the idea of using his own face on the billboards after vacationing in America, how he loved being able to shake things up in the travel industry, how his children had burst into tears the first time they’d seen the cock-headed man, how his office kept getting calls from newspapers and television stations wanting to do stories on the cock-headed man . . .

‘Are you even listening?’ Billy asked.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You’ve got a kind of far-away look in your eyes.’

Alison snorted.

‘Just thinking.’

‘Well, that’s good. Because you need to get the thinking cap on and get this sorted as soon as you can. Whoever set me up, damn sure they’re going to find some way to exploit it, and sooner rather than later. The court of perception is not a kind one, sunshine. If it gets as far as the internet that I’ve been questioned about this, it’ll be the end of me. I want this sorted. Twenty-four hours a day if you have to,
capiche
?’

‘Capisce.’

He squinted at me. ‘You’re an odd one, aren’t you? But I kind of like that. Here.’ He reached into his jacket and withdrew a manila envelope. He flicked it against his fingers, then laid it flat on the table and pushed it across to me. ‘First instalment.’

I looked at it.

‘From here on in, sunshine,’ said Billy, leaning forward, ‘we’re partners.’

‘From here on in, sunshine, we’re partners,’ Alison mimicked, trying to hug me while letting loose with a witchy cackle. I recoiled. She stood awkwardly for a moment before backing into a chair and sitting. Jeff pulled up another chair. I had made them wait to join me until Billy Randall and Charlie had climbed into a Jag parked opposite and driven away.

As Alison sat, she nodded down at the envelope. ‘Well?’

‘No.’

‘Look at it. Open it.’

‘Go on,’ said Jeff, ‘open it.’

‘If I open it, it’ll be like . . .’

‘Being paid to do a job,’ said Alison.

‘Open it,’ said Jeff.

‘Open it, go on, look at it, it’s so thick.’ Alison wrinkled her nose coquettishly. ‘I like it thick.’

‘So do I,’ said Jeff.

We both looked at him. He seemed impervious.

‘I
can’t
. Look, last time we agreed a fee, I did the work, I invoiced him. But a brown envelope stuffed with cash, that’s just . . . under the counter, shady. He can’t just buy me . . .’

‘He can buy
me
,’ said Alison. She snatched the envelope up before I could stop her. Jeff leaned over eagerly. Alison sat back, holding it as far away from either of us as she could, before peeking inside. Her eyes widened. ‘Holy shit!’ she said. ‘This is going to buy baby a lot of fucking bootees!’

Jeff started laughing, and then stopped. He looked at her, and then at me, and then at her. You could hear the cogs labouring. He started to say something. Then stopped. Alison turned the envelope so I could see. There was certainly a thick wodge of notes.

‘Blood money,’ I said.

‘Blood money – would you ever get off your high horse?
Blood money
.’

‘If he turns out to be the killer, and I accepted money from him, how’s that going to look in a court of law?’

‘
If
. Didn’t he say he didn’t do it? Isn’t he only trying to prove his innocence? Aren’t you just doing a job? Do you think a frickin’ lawyer defending someone is going to refuse to be paid even though he bloody surely knows if his client is guilty or not? Jesus, man, make hay while the sun shines.’

It was a poor choice of words, given that she knew how badly I suffer from hay fever. I said firmly: ‘Put the money down.’

‘Down?’

‘On the table. Nobody touches it until we know more about the case.’

‘I like the
we
,’ said Alison.

‘I like the
we
too,’ said Jeff.

‘We’re like
The Avengers
,’ said Alison.

‘Or
The Champions
,’ said Jeff.

‘Slip of the tongue,’ I said. ‘Now put . . . the money . . .
down
. . .’

‘You look all serious,’ said Alison.

‘I am all serious.’

‘I think I like you like that.’

‘Just put it down.’

Alison replaced it on the table. She raised an eyebrow at Jeff. I took the napkin that had come with the caramel macchiato and used it to lift the envelope and place it in my jacket pocket. I nodded to myself, satisfied, then looked at Alison, who was brushing a crisp new twenty-pound note across her fingers.

Jeff giggled. ‘How’d you do that?’

‘Nimble fingers. Comes from working with jewellery. Also, my dad was a professional pickpocket.’

‘Was he?’

‘Nah, don’t be daft.’ She held it out to me. I went to take it. She pulled it away. ‘Team?’

I sighed. She held it out again. I grabbed for it. She whisked it away and transferred it to her other hand.

‘Team?’

Jeff yanked it away from her and passed it to me.

‘
Thanks
for that,’ Alison whined.

‘Thanks for telling me you were pregnant,’ said Jeff.

‘It’s not
yours
,’ said Alison.

‘How do you know?’ asked Jeff.

Alison made a face.

I had to admit, if only to myself, that there was something vaguely comforting about the three of us sitting there in Starbucks. I loathed Alison because she was trying to blackmail me and also because of how she tickled Jeff when she knew how pathologic ally jealous I was; and I despised Jeff, really just for being Jeff. But there, in heaven, and about to order something fresh in my eternal menu quest, it was all surprisingly . . . nice. Yes, I felt a little feverish; of course my tinnitus continued to resound like a permanent air-raid warning in a neighbouring town, and of course the aches of rheumatoid arthritis continued to plague me, but there was a definite feeling of excitement coming upon me, which could only partially be put down to my growing addiction to caffeine. Despite my preference for soft cases that offered no threat, there was a tiny part of me that loved the challenge of taking on something meatier, and
The Case of the Cock-Headed Man
had certainly developed into that. I
wanted
to solve it. Alison had already proved how my DNA had come to be in the victims’ house, which was really my only connection to the actual murders, and there had been no indication that I was in any danger at all. The only person in danger
here
was Billy Randall, and really that was more of a threat to his business than to his actual person. So what was there to lose? I had my team assembled, I had my customers on standby, I had the internet, I had Starbucks and this time around I had virtually unlimited supplies of Vitolink.

Suddenly I was all fired up. Damn it, I
was
going to solve this!

And blood money be damned!

I held up the twenty Alison had removed from the envelope and which Jeff and I had both touched: impregnated with all of our fingerprints and DNA, it was now a symbol of our unity. We would become Avengers! We would become Champions! And together, though led by me, we would track down the killers of Jimbo Carson and Ronny Clegg!

‘Jeff,’ I cried, reaching the note out to him, ‘go down and get three mint mocha chip frappuccinos!’

He looked truly startled. He stood, hesitantly took the twenty from my grasp, then began to nervously back away, convinced he was being set up.

‘Christ,’ said Alison, ‘you’re living on the edge a bit.’

‘Jeff!’

He froze at the top of the stairs and turned slowly.

‘What?’

‘Get a receipt.’

‘Okay,’ Alison said, ‘before we start, I think it’s import ant that we have some ground rules, like not interr—’

‘Just let me interrupt for a moment,’ I said, ‘because while yes I agree that we should have ground rules, I think it’s important that it comes from me the fact that I think we should have ground rules, rather than you saying that you think we should have ground rules. Because much as I like the idea of us being a team, in reality that doesn’t work. You need someone to be in charge, and I’m the one with the track record in investigating, I’m the expert, I’m the one getting paid, and at the end of the day I’m the one who’ll carry the can if it all goes wrong, so I think we should agree that I’m in charge and that I get to say that I think it’s important that we have ground rules.’

‘You just want a couple of gofers,’ Alison said sullenly.

‘No, I want you to be my assistant. And Jeff to be the gofer.’

‘Cheers,’ said Jeff.

‘I don’t mind being your assistant,’ said Alison, ‘if you listen to me, if you take me seriously, if you don’t dismiss everything I say, if you’re not sarcastic, if you don’t belittle me.’

‘Absolutely. Now be a good girl and pop down and get me another mint mocha.’

‘And one for me too,’ added Jeff.

‘You’re funny.’ And before I could say anything, she immediately followed it with, ‘
So’s your face
.’ She shook her head. ‘This isn’t going to work.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, ‘as long as we agree on the ground rules, and I think you just hit the nail on the head, or lots of nails on the head, or their heads. We listen, we’re not sarcastic, we don’t belittle.’

‘Unless,’ said Jeff, ‘it’s, like, really,
really
stupid.’

Silence descended.

Alison raised an eyebrow. Jeff yawned.

‘Well,’ said Alison, ‘
lead
.’

So I did.

For the moment, and until the facts suggested otherwise, I was going with the theory that Billy Randall was not physically responsible for the murders. He liked to depict himself as the nice guy going round to charm Jimbo and Ronny, and then, when he got nowhere, politely excusing himself. But the first time I’d met him, in the shop, he’d been spitting marbles, and even in general conversation he was quite combustible. So he had a temper on him, and definitely a big ego, but these defects didn’t make him a killer. And just because Charlie looked like one, it didn’t mean he was either. But I needed to find out more about both of them, because even though they might be innocent of the murders, it seemed to me that there had to be some kind of a link, that Billy’s paranoia about his business rivals might not be completely without foundation. It also just seemed too pat, too simple, to say that Jimbo and Ronny had targeted Billy just
because he was there
. I understood that young people liked taking the piss out of ‘the man’, that the YouTube generation loved these kinds of viral annihilations, but in a World Wide Web sense, Billy Randall was very small fry indeed. A campaign against McDonald’s, something that would have resonance from Istanbul to Quebec, I could understand. Picking on a small fish like Billy Randall once might be understandable, but to take it to such a huge audience, to keep reposting the video every time it was taken down, felt like more than just a practical joke. Billy Randall had crossed them in some way and they were out for revenge.
Or
, there was no previous connection and they had hatched this scheme to extort money from him; they had calculated that Billy Randall’s fortune was intrinsically tied to his image, and that he might pay up to protect it. Perhaps the cock-headed publicity had grown much more quickly than they had imagined and they were now themselves powerless to stop it. Another possibility was that Billy Randall was a red herring. Both Billy and Alison had mentioned that Jimbo and Ronny were into dope; that meant dealers. Or they were dealers themselves. In that part of the city the drugs trade was usually controlled by paramilitary gangs. And the painted-over mural on the gable end of the house suggested at the very least sympathy for or a connection to such paramilitaries. So inter-gang strife. Unpaid debts. A drug deal gone wrong. Or, more mundanely, they worked as painters and decorators – could their day job have brought them into contact with their future killers? Had they discovered something that somebody didn’t want them to know? Was there an argument over a bill that got out of hand, a dispute over a pastel shade or a second coat?