Mystery Man

by Bateman, Colin

  As a compromise, we sat in the grounds of City Hall. She'd made sandwiches. I picked through the ones my stomach could handle while she showed me several of the comics she'd drawn. I thought they were fantastic. I am not biased. I know what I'm talking about. I asked where I could buy them and she said, don't be silly, you can have them. I said, no, I mean, to sell in the shop and she said she only had a few copies she ran off from her computer printer.

  'And you're giving them to me?' She nodded and smiled. 'There is no such thing as a free picnic,' I observed.

  She lay back on the blanket, shades on, enjoying the sun. 'Well,' she said, 'I may want a kiss later.'

  'You'll be lucky.'

  I laughed. She laughed. She laughed because she thought I was joking. I laughed because I knew I'd be home long before that, broken hearted and embarrassed and full of anger because I'd done something wrong or stupid.

  But before the hour was out she rolled over beside me and screwed her face up and said, 'What's wrong with your eyes?'

  'I'm myopic.'

  'No, I don't mean . . .'

  Then there were the cataracts and diabetes and . . .

  She was leaning over me. 'No . . . I think there's . . . close them a moment.'

  I closed them.

  She kissed me on the lips.

  Then she lay back.

  It is a mark of how shocked and yet comfortable I was that I did not even think of reaching for an antiseptic wipe.

  With the country virtually closed down for the next two weeks – one day of official holiday the rest to recover – DI Robinson returned from somewhere doubtless cheap and nasty sporting his Ulster tan, red faced, peeling and with his freckles standing out like liver spots, and somewhat sheepishly revealed that he no longer needed to talk to us about the murder of Malcolm Carlyle, because they were no longer certain that it was in fact a murder. The body had been so decomposed that it had been impossible to establish a cause of death, and in the absence of any evidence to the contrary – no bullets or fractures found during the autopsy and no obvious signs of a struggle (the files on the floor might easily have tipped over when he collapsed, perhaps from a heart attack) – they did not intend to pursue the matter unless new evidence emerged. I pointed out that he had been decorated with several dozen Pine Fresh trees, which wasn't something he was likely to do to himself, unless it was some new and extreme perversion that hadn't yet come to public attention, though it might well have its own premium rate website, and DI Robinson said, well, all we can guess is that it's someone's idea of a joke. Maybe kids broke in not long after he died, and decorated him for a laugh. Kids these days – they're like that. They're so inured to death that it doesn't faze them at all. Every day they're killing people.

  'What's that game . . . Grand Theft Auto? Shooting pregnant women in drive-bys, the mind boggles. Have you played it?'

  I shook my head. I don't play console games. The bright flickering lights can induce my epilepsy.

  He said, 'I heard on the grapevine that you do a bit of detecting in your spare time.'

  'Not really,' I said.

  He nodded around my shelves. 'That's what I'd like to do, good old-fashioned detective work, without all the bloody paperwork, without the need for back-up, or forensics, or to have to prove everything in a bloody court. Just to use your brain to work it out, invite all the suspects to a meeting, and explain how you solved the case and then point out the guilty party who then conveniently takes the gentleman's way out. Isn't that how it should be?'

  Every once in a while you meet an idiot who fantasises about living in an Agatha Christie world, but it's rarely an actual detective. It displayed, however, a softer side to DI Robinson, which was, I suppose, welcome. Still, I remained on my guard, aware of the dangers of entrapment – he might well have been trying to lull me into a false sense of security so that I would reveal what my involvement really was, or indeed he might have somehow stumbled on my secret night-time activity and been after my nail for the scratching of vehicles with personalised number plates, which was still nestling in a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter in the fridge.

  As it turned out, he was surprisingly knowledgeable about crime fiction and confessed to being an admirer of Georges Simenon, unusual these days, and to have once attended a performance by the musician and detective novelist Kinky Friedman. Although I'm not a great admirer of Mr Friedman, I do stock him, and thought it would be an interesting experiment to offer DI Robinson one of his books.

  'As it happens,' I said, 'I have a copy of The Love Song of J Edgar Hoover here, signed by Kinky himself. Going for thirty quid.'

  I fetched it down for him.

  'Do you know,' he said, turning it over in his hands, 'I just might.'

  'Tell you what,' I said, 'I'll do it for twenty-seven.'

  'Deal,' he said.

  He handed over the cash and I put it in the till and said, 'Would you like a receipt?'

  Now if you give someone a receipt automatically, that's fair enough; but unless you think there's a chance you might want your money back or want to exchange something you would surely automatically say no, especially if it has to be written out by hand. I mean, you can understand wanting a receipt for a pair of trousers that might not fit or a shirt that your wife might not approve of, but who ever takes a book back to a shop, particularly a shop that has a sign taped to the wall that says No Refunds Under ANY Circumstances? So I thought, if he asks for a receipt, then that's a sure indication that the cash he's paid me is from police funds, that he's using it to butter me up so that I'll spill the beans about Malcolm Carlyle, but he needs a receipt to satisfy the number-crunchers at CID, to claim the money back from them. Obviously if he was going undercover doing drug deals with Belfast gangsters he wasn't going to ask for a receipt, but under these circumstances he probably thought it wouldn't raise the slightest whiff of suspicion.

  'No thanks,' he said.

  It was the classic double bluff.

  I put the book in a No Alibis bag and he thanked me. He took another look around the shop. 'Nice spot,' he said. 'I'm sure I'll be back.'

  I nodded. I was sure he would. And it would have been sooner rather than later if he'd known that I'd spent 90 per cent of our conversation with one hand beneath the counter, curled around the handle of a meat cleaver, because it had suddenly struck me that he might not just be an innocent book-collector or a nosy cop, he might also have been hired by the Odessa to murder me now that two weeks had passed and the heat was off The Case of the Dancing Jews.

  The meat cleaver belonged to my father.

  He wasn't a butcher.

  He just had an interest in cleaving meat.

  26

  Leaving affairs of the heart to one side, it was around this time that Alison showed that she was more than just a pretty face by proving her worth as a sidekick through her contribution to the solving of a mystery I have called The Case of the Missing FA Cup. This case was not quite as glamorous as it sounds, but it does illustrate that sometimes the fairer sex can provide something unique: a woman's intuition. You don't learn that at detective school. Although I would undoubtedly have solved the case entirely by myself, Alison's involvement certainly speeded it to its conclusion.

  It began, as these things do, with me buzzing another unlikely-looking customer into No Alibis. I had taken to keeping the door locked when I was alone in the shop; it just allowed me a few seconds to take a good look at whoever wanted in, in case they were of an unsavoury type: an obvious drunk, a begging Romanian or anyone in Nazi regalia. I am a good judge of character (perhaps that is one reason why I despise myself) and on this occasion the man pressing the buzzer appeared harmless enough. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, in a banker's suit and carrying a considerable amount of weight. His cheeks were flushed from walking and his black hair sat damp against his forehead. He nodded thanks when he came in and immediately began to examine the shelves opposite the counter. I knew he wasn't really interested i
n the books because he was looking straight ahead instead of inverting his head to one side to read the spines.

  I said, 'Can I help you with anything?'

  Normally I hate people who approach me in shops like this, because if I wanted help I'd bloody well ask, and because invariably those who do approach aren't really the slightest bit interested in what you want, but are pushing something or other that they've been instructed to push, or are on commission or know nothing about the product itself but everything about the insurance policy they insist you have to have because the item in question is bound to blow up in your face. I'm different, obviously, in that I offer what might once have been called a bibliographical bespoke service, because if you don't know mystery it can be a minefield. You can't judge a book by its cover isn't a cliché for no reason. Every book claims to be the greatest thing since sliced bread because no publisher is going to put 'distinctly mediocre' on the cover even if it's a fact; I have to provide some kind of quality control, because a returning customer is a happy customer, and a happy customer is a returning customer.

  'Actually, it's not really a book I'm looking for.'

  'Oh, okay,' I said, and then knowingly added, 'I also sell mugs with reproductions of classic Penguin covers. A tenner each, or five for the chipped ones.'

  'No, I . . .'

  I was only jesting, obviously. They're all chipped. Jeff dropped the whole box. Some of the chips you wouldn't notice, and others have hairline fractures you'd only notice when you got home and boiling coffee began to drip on to your bare legs.

  But this man, this Garth Corrigan, was actually the first of my clients not to come to me via the dead detective next door, but had arrived at my store purely on the strength of my growing reputation as a solver of mysteries and a stopper of crimes. He was very apologetic about bothering me, and he said he understood if it was far too insignificant a case for me to take on, but he just didn't know where to turn. Even before he described it to me, I had a fairly good idea that I would agree to investigate, because my first impression was that he was an honest, unassuming type struggling to cope in difficult circumstances that did not immediately smack of danger.

  I said, 'I'm sure it isn't insignificant.'

  'In the grand scheme of things . . .' he said mournfully.

  'In the grand scheme of things, a butterfly beats its wings in New Delhi, and in New York a building falls down.'

  'I'm not sure . . .'

  'If Lee Harvey Oswald had been turned down for a part-time job in the Texas Book Depository, then maybe President Kennedy would still be alive. Little things affect the bigger picture, usually you just don't know it at the time.'

  'Well, anyway, I've split up with my girlfriend and she's disappeared and I need you to find her.'

  The last thing I needed was another dame on the run, but I could at least do him the courtesy of hearing him out.

  'Look, Mr . . .'

  'Childers, Erskine Childers,' I said, assuming the identity of the author of the classic spy thriller The Riddle of the Sands, for I have a business and its reputation to protect.

  'Mr Childers, I'm just an ordinary bloke, work in a bank, not particularly high up, not a very exciting life. Never really been in love, was married once, didn't work out. So I was single for two or three years, really not much interested in meeting anyone, not much of a social life either. Most of my friends are married, you know how it is . . .' I cleared my throat. 'Only real interest is football. I'm a big United man, live and breathe them. Anyway, once a week, a Friday, I treat myself to a Chinese meal in this restaurant not far from here, The Blue Panda, on the Ormeau Road?' I shrugged. I don't venture that far out of downtown. 'I go early, just after it opens, so it's pretty empty – don't like it later, sitting with all the couples or the stag nights, it looks a bit odd, right?' I nodded stiffly. He just needed to get on with it and stop enquiring about my personal life, which, incidentally, was on the up. 'So I go early, and over the weeks and months, I got kind of friendly with one of the girls working there. Just a kind word and a joke here and there. Her name is May, obviously Chinese background but born and bred in Belfast, perfect local accent, and I have to tell you, I thought she was the prettiest woman I ever saw. But I know my limitations when it comes to women, and she was way out of my league. And yet every time I went back it was always May that served me, and I kept noticing that when she brought my meal, there was always more on it than last time. Every week the servings just got bigger and bigger. I thought it would be impolite not to clear the plate, because she was obviously doing this to be kind, but at the same time if they kept growing like this I was going to suffer a coronary. Anyway, one day I just had to say something. It was kind of embarrassing, but I explained that I loved the food here, and I appreciated the lovely big portions, but I just couldn't eat that much, and I hoped she didn't take it as a mark of disrespect if I left some on the plate. Well, she was embarrassed as well, and she didn't know where to look, apart from at the floor. But then she said, very quietly, 'It's only because I like you.' And I could just have melted. This great beauty liked me. I couldn't believe it. Well, we got talking after that, and it turns out that she's almost as big a United fan as I am. So I tell her the pub around the corner is showing tomorrow's game if she fancies having a drink and she jumps at the chance. And more than that, she actually turns up, and more than that again, we have a fantastic time and we begin dating. Result! Are you with me?'

  'I'm with you so far,' I said. It wasn't rocket science, but it was time-consuming. He was lucky there were no other customers queuing to be buzzed in.

  'Anyway . . . oh God, this is the embarrassing bit, I've never told anyone . . .' He took a deep breath. 'Anyway, anyway, we're soon going steady . . . but I'm kind of rusty, a bit backward about coming forward on the um, er, sexual front, if you know what I mean?' I just looked at him. 'And she's kind of reticent as well because as it turns out she's not what you would call . . . experienced.' He nodded to himself then, for several moments, his eyes fixed on the counter. 'A real beauty, yes she is. A real beauty.'

  He fell silent.

  'But . . . ?'

  'But . . .' He sighed. 'She is a real beauty. I wouldn't change her for the world. But . . . I don't quite know how to put this . . .'

  'I'm not a police officer, Mr Corrigan, I don't judge people. Just saying it is the simplest way.'

  He nodded gratefully. 'Thanks, Mr Childers. You see – she has these ears. They're – large. They're large and they bend outwards. They're large and they bend outwards from the side of her head – I mean, where else would they bend out from? But that's how they are. Not huge. But large. And obviously I noticed them. I noticed them in a good way, because they're absolutely fine. Look at me, I'm no oil painting. But she is an oil painting, she's beautiful, every part of her. I don't have a problem with her ears. Honestly.'

  'Okay.'

  'Thing is. We were getting along brilliantly, my life is suddenly superb, and we're both leading up to that moment when we . . . well, when we . . .' He cleared his throat. '. . . consummate the relationship. We wanted everything to be perfect. We're at my place. She cooks me a lovely meal, we have a few glasses of wine, we light candles, soft music . . . it was perfect . . .'

  'But . . .'

  'Well – God! – it was the best night of my life, Mr Childers, we were making love, and I knew I was absolutely in love, and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, and I believe she felt exactly the same way . . .'

  'Except . . .'

  'When I was coming to the . . . coming to the moment of climax . . . and I was on the greatest high any man can experience . . . when I surrendered all control and gave my very soul to her . . . at that precise moment . . . I grabbed her by the ears and shouted, I've won the FA Cup . . .'

  He was staring at me, bug-eyed with horror, and I was staring right back.

  'I know . . . I know . . . where did it even come from? I was mortified, she was mortified . . . I mean, I mean .
. . I tried to argue it was a compliment, that finally making love to her was . . . was like winning the FA Cup . . . but she was kind of quiet, and then later we just lay there and I fell asleep . . . and when I woke up she was gone. I tried to call her, but there was no reply, and I went to the restaurant and they were very frosty and told me she had gone away . . . and I've been calling ever since and watching the place but she really isn't there . . . and I don't know what to do. I've been very, very stupid, and I love her, and I just want her back . . .' There were now tears rolling down his squirrel cheeks, and mine, although for a different reason. 'Please, Mr Childers, I have to make things right . . . you have to help me get her back . . .'

  27

  Just because I have not travelled, it does not mean that I am unworldly. My books have educated me about this planet of ours, and fine writing has shown me places richer in colour and sound than any complicated train journey or intrepid adventure on the back of a yak could. You do not have to listen to jazz to appreciate it. I could talk for months about the mercurial talents of Dizzy Gillespie, yet I wouldn't recognise a note of his if it came at me unexpectedly in an elevator. Similarly, I have read enough about Chinese culture – The Mystery of Dr Fu Manchu by Sax Rohmer was the first of many novels featuring that master criminal that I devoured in my childhood – to understand that the elusive May had fled from the arms of her lover not to some mysterious retreat, but into the bosom of her people. And I don't mean China itself. That vast, overpopulated country would be as foreign to her, born and bred here in Belfast, as the freezing South Atlantic would be to a trained circus seal. While they were catching fish and frolicking on ice floes, she would be clapping her flippers together and balancing a beach ball on her nose. No, I was pretty sure that May was still in Belfast, being jealously guarded by our own not insignificant community of Chinamen. And as she was a waitress by trade, it seemed pretty obvious that the key to tracking her down lay in visiting as many of their eating establishments as I and my girlfriend could possibly manage.