'Yes – okay, Jeff, I think I get your point.' I had to cut him off because that rare breed of human being known as a customer had entered the store.
Jeff, however, was not easily deterred. 'She may not only be a metaphorical . . .'
'No "c" words,' I said, indicating the new arrival.
'. . . but also literally. And now that I think about it, maybe even figuratively as well. So actually, what I'd have to spray next to Albert McIntosh is still a fruit is Whoever wrote that is a cunt, literally, metaphorically and figuratively. And I suppose I'd also have to spray, By the way, no he isn't.'
We were going to need a bigger flyover.
Having wasted half of my life discussing the affair with Jeff, it was time to get down to business. With Jeff's cavalier approach to using my phone, and his lackadaisical approach to apprehending shoplifters, and his habit of giving his friends free books, and selling his own secret supplies of ethical coffee to the customers and pocketing the proceeds – thus making it unethical, I suppose – closing the shop over lunchtime and bringing him with me actually saved me money. Besides, he works out once a month, which is once more than I do, and when he's thinking about something intensely his brow furrows up and his eyes cross slightly, which makes him look quite threatening, so it was good to have him along to offer me at least some semblance of protection as I crossed from the oasis of south Belfast into the Wild West.
We drove directly to the flyover and found a parking spot just a few yards short of it. The No Alibis van is a black Volkswagen with the chalk outline of a corpse on both sides and the words Murder Is Our Business below. Given our location, I was rather worried about a rush of volunteers. However, much to my relief, we were left alone, possibly because of Jeff's furrowed brow and crossed eyes, which perhaps allowed him to be mistaken for a local. I jest, of course, because since they came to power their brows have been smooth as silk and their eyes straight and triumphant.
Albert McIntosh is still a fruit was written in red paint, at least a metre high, right across the flyover. The letters were well formed, which suggested that they hadn't been sprayed or painted in a rush, which surely would have been the case if it had been done from below, as the height of the flyover would have certainly required an extended ladder to be placed on the road, and then moved from left to right across it. Even late at night there would be too much traffic to make this practical. Also, the 'r' in Albert was reversed – an imperfection that didn't so much suggest dyslexia as the probability that the painting had been done from above, with the artist hanging over the edge of the flyover and, in effect, painting upside down.
We repaired to the top of the flyover and in studying the footpath there were rewarded with a trail of red paint drops leading away across the bridge and stopping abruptly just short of a small triangle of fenced-off waste ground. By pressing our faces against the wire we could clearly see, nestling amongst torn bin liners, a red-splashed pot of discarded paint. I immediately directed Jeff to climb the fence to retrieve it. I would have done it myself, but my back had not been good for several days, mostly through shifting unsold copies of Hannibal Rising from the front of the shop to the rear. Also, I have a morbid fear of rats, and mice, and nettles and wasps and jagged cans and rotting food and damp newspapers and the unemployed.
Obviously our budget does not stretch to fingerprints or DNA testing, so if we were to track down the culprit our clues would have to come from the information on the pot itself. Fortunately for us the man – or woman – we were seeking, perhaps never dreaming that one day he or she would have one and a half of the finest detectives in the city on his or her trail, had neglected to remove the price sticker from the pot of Dulux Red Devil Matt Finish, which not only revealed that it had been purchased from a wholesale paint supply company called, with typical Northern Irish resistance to excessive verbiage, The Wholesale Paint Supply Company, but at a brushstroke reduced our field of suspects from the entire population of the city down to just its many thousands of painters and decorators. And working on the premise that women give the orders and men do the painting, it was also hugely likely that we were looking for a man rather than a woman. We were barely twenty minutes into the case and we were already closing in for the kill. However, we were unable to immediately pursue our evidence further due to our pressing need to get back to the shop and open up after lunch. It was, in effect, a commercial break.
7
Or would have been, if there had been any customers waiting on our return. However, one must be open to the possibility of customers, so I flipped the Closed sign, paid Jeff for his assistance and sent him on his way back to college.
I took my place behind the counter and stared for a while at the empty paint pot on it. The question was, had he bought it as part of a job lot for a client or this single pot purely for use as a phantom graffiti artist? If it was the latter, then the fact that the pot was empty suggested that it may have been used elsewhere for possibly similar nefarious purposes. I don't have that many customers, but the ones I do have, that is, the ones who actually buy books as opposed to those who merely browse for three minutes so that they won't feel guilty about asking to use my toilet, represent such a broad cross-section of our society, ranging across all class, political, religious and intellectual boundaries, that I was confident that they could help me establish if the serial painter had struck previously or indeed since. The simplest and most direct route was via the No Alibis internet newsletter, through which I more usually bombard them with once-in-a-lifetime offers for books they could easily purchase on Amazon for much less money and actually receive through the post the very next day, as opposed to my own more idiosyncratic service, which might take several weeks, or months, or, in one case, a year and a half. But I think they appreciate the human touch; instead of receiving some corrugated, machine-stamped package plucked from a mile-high shelf by a bibliographic robot, they receive a crumpled, torn and reused envelope personally licked closed by a fading member of Amnesty International. So it was that I sent out an appeal to my customers asking that they keep an eye out for other possible instances of name-and-shame graffiti painted in Dulux Red Devil Matt Finish.
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.
8
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.'
'L
ike 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?'
Mystery Man Page 3