Peacock's Alibi

by Stuart David

  ‘You’re all heart,’ I told him.

  ‘So I checked the bookies. Then the Horseshoe. Nothing doing, so I knew you had to be in one of these places.’

  ‘I take it that means you’ll not be buying the jerkin,’ I said. ‘I knew that was a lot of shite.’

  He leaned into the cubicle and took a good look at himself in the mirror. ‘I think I’ll go for it anyway,’ he said. ‘The police social’s for real. Normally I’d go to Slater’s, but this’ll do me as well as anything else. Come on, let’s go.’

  I left the suits hanging in there for the boy to collect, and out on the shop floor McFadgen asked him to bag up the life jacket, and pulled his manky flasher’s mac back on again.

  ‘How about you, sir?’ the boy asked me. ‘Do you want me to order that suit in your own size? It should only take a couple of days.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ I told him. For the time being, it had served its purpose in taking my mind off the bombshell the wife had dropped, back at lunch. And McFadgen’s nonsense had continued to absorb me enough to make the bride-to-be’s jitters seem like small potatoes. ‘I’ll drop back in before the week’s end and let you know.’

  And when McFadgen had paid up, we wandered out onto the street like a couple of pals.

  ‘So how do you want to play this?’ he asked me. ‘Do I give you a lift to your flat and you give me easy access, or do we do it the hard way, with the battering rams?’

  ‘Lead on, Sherlock,’ I said. ‘Here’s the keys right here. And give me a proper look at that warrant just so’s I can make sure we’re all legal and above board.’ 84

  6

  I left my flat the next morning with a real spring in my step. I was on my way to get the lowdown from John Jack, the sun was shining, and to top it all off, things had gone well for the wife the previous evening regarding her meeting with the nervous bride.

  Or maybe that’s not quite the right way of putting it. What I mean is, things had gone well for me the previous evening regarding the wife’s meeting with the nervous bride. If I’m being perfectly honest about it, the wife had been none too chuffed with the outcome, or let’s just say her reaction had been ambivalent at best.

  ‘Well, that’s me stuck looking like a mangled cupcake in public,’ she said, when she clattered back into the flat about ten minutes past midnight, a touch the worse for wear.

  ‘You managed to talk her into going through with it?’ I said, trying my level best to keep my excitement under control.

  ‘More fool me,’ she said. ‘Pour me a gin, Peacock. It’s true what they say – no good deed goes unpunished. I can’t believe I blew my chance to avoid wearing that monstrosity.’

  She didn’t have to ask me twice to pour her that drink. And I poured myself a good-sized one into the bargain. I was over the moon.

  ‘What the hell happened here?’ she said as she sat down and looked round about herself. ‘Jesus Christ, Peacock, the place looks as if a bomb’s hit it. Is this what happens when I go out for five minutes? What the hell have you been playing at?’

  I handed her her drink with a paper umbrella in it, just the way she likes it.

  ‘I’m in the process of tidying the place up,’ I said. ‘We’ve had another visit from Duncan McFadgen and a few of his pals. They claimed they’d find some kind of contraband goods if they tore the place apart, so that’s exactly what they did. Big style.’

  ‘In the name of God,’ Bev said. ‘How can they just go and leave the place like this? It’s a total pigsty.’

  Then the full import of what I’d just said began to sink in, and she started eyeing me up suspiciously. ‘What have you been up to, Peacock? What were they looking for? I’m warning you – I told you if you started into anything dodgy again that would be it between you and me. And I meant it. Come on, what were they looking for?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Christ alone knows, hen. McFadgen refused to tell me. It’s a stitch-up. I’m clean as a whistle. Honest, Bev. It’s still fallout from this Rankin book. I’m starting to think I should have sued the bastard for defamation when I had the chance.’

  She looked at me and screwed her face up, then she started fiddling with her paper umbrella – disaster averted.

  ‘They should at least be obliged to clean up after themselves,’ she said. ‘Coming into folks’ homes. Is that not terrible?’

  I managed to get the full story about Wilma’s jitters out of her before we called it a night. It was your classic case of pre-match nerves, nothing more. Wilma had got it into her head that she hadn’t known Vince long enough to fully get to grips with exactly who he was and what he was all about.

  ‘I’m starting to think I might be rushing into this too quickly,’ she’d told the wife. That seemed to be the general gist of it anyway. Apparently she’d started focusing on the details of Vince’s backstory that were still a mystery to her, and imagining the worst to fill in the blanks.

  The wife had hit her with a killer blow in the end.

  ‘If everybody knew everything about their fiancé before the wedding took place,’ she said, ‘nobody would ever get married, Wilma. The human race would’ve died out before it even got started.’

  Then she’d apparently spent some time drawing a comparison between the obvious attractions of the groom and my own particular shortcomings.

  ‘That certainly put things in perspective for her,’ Bev said. ‘And I told her the best bit about marriage is the adventure of filling in all those blanks. God, I just about made myself boak. And now I’m consigned to wearing that bloody dress for my sins. I don’t suppose McFadgen and his pals tore the dress apart, did they? Looking for drugs in the lining or something?’

  But I had to tell her she’d had no such luck. They’d left it lying on the bed in more or less perfect order.

  I suppose I have to give McFadgen credit for some of the spring in my step as I headed to J.J.’s as well, though. Just thinking about his mounting frustration the previous afternoon fair cheered me up.

  He’d radioed ahead as he drove us to the flat, and there were a few of his goons waiting outside the door when we got there, just itching to get in about things.

  McFadgen himself steered me straight through the hall and sat me down at the kitchen table, stationing one goon beside me with orders to keep me under strict surveillance, while the rest of them – McFadgen included – set about destroying the place in their hunt for Dougie Dowds’ phone.

  It was a good three hours they were at it. By the time McFadgen admitted defeat I’d just finished getting my guardian angel to heat up the eggless pizza in the oven for me, and the two of us were sitting wiring into it with a bottle of beer each.

  ‘Help yourself,’ I told McFadgen. ‘You must be knackered, pal. Pull up a chair and join us.’

  I suppose you’d have to use the word livid to describe his overriding emotional state. Or maybe fucking raging would be the more accurate term. Either way, he initially took it out on my bodyguard, telling him to piss off back to the station – where he’d already sent the other two empty-handed marauders. The boy at the table didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed the slice of pizza he was in the process of demolishing and legged it, and McFadgen just stood there with his back against the fridge, giving me the evil eye.

  ‘That was a tad rude, Duncan,’ I told him. ‘Me and Scott there were on the verge of forming a beautiful new friendship. He seems like a good sort.’

  ‘Shut up, Johnson,’ he said. ‘I’m at my limit. I’m this close to charging you with wasting police time.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Cause you’ve wasted my whole afternoon. Three hours, and we’ve come up with nothing.’

  ‘That’s the customary result when you go chasing after rainbows, Duncan,’ I said. ‘You need to give yourself a break, pal. You’ll end up demented.’

  He pushed himself away from the fridge and lumbered his way towards the table, bending down to look into my face. ‘I know you had that pho
ne. And you know you had that phone. Whatever you did with it, I’ll find out. And what’s more, it’ll be you that tells me – in the end. I’m going to grind you down, Johnson. All the way. I know it was you that did this, and I’ll get you for it. You’ve got my word on that.’

  I stood up. I’d had just about enough of him for the one day. ‘Listen, McFadgen, I told you back in the shop, and I’m telling you again now, get your diary out. We’re meeting up tomorrow afternoon, and I’m telling you who it was that stole that painting. And when I do, you’re getting off my case. On top of ripping my house apart you’ve already seen me in my Y-fronts, and this is where the invasion of privacy ends. You’re meeting me at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, in the Horseshoe, and once you’ve got your information you’re leaving me alone for the foreseeable future, or I start proceedings for harassment. Right?’

  I even managed to persuade him to take a wee slice of pizza before he left, and I decided in the end that it was probably worth having the flat pillaged to within an inch of its life just to see him so properly wound up about having found sweet fuck all.

  So, as I climbed up the stairs to John Jack’s office, I doubt if I could have been feeling better – not without a drink in me anyway. Within a couple of hours I’d have the word on who had swiped that painting, and I’d have passed the intelligence on to the detective inspector, and on top of that, it was all systems go for Wilma’s wedding. McFadgen would be off my tail, and I’d be entirely at liberty to lay the groundwork for my infallible money-making enterprise, in plenty of time to have it up and running the minute the minister had told Vince Cowie he may now kiss the bride.

  Magnificent.

  I gave J.J.’s door a good hard knock, and admired the sun shining in through the window at the end of the corridor – all set.

  Whenever there’s a darts tournament in progress, and you’re obliged to have any kind of dealings with John Jack, you only ever end up thinking one thing: ‘I wish to Christ there was a snooker tournament on instead.’

  I mean, give him his due, he can still be a right grumpy bastard when the snooker’s on as well. Especially if you interrupt his viewing at a crucial moment, or if the boy he’s been touting for the match takes a beating. But it’s a different thing with the darts – the outcome of the individual game is irrelevant, as is the stage of play you interrupt him at. The telly doesn’t even need to be on when you visit him – he just gets himself into this mood for the duration of the competition. Het up, I suppose you’d call it. All aggro.

  When it’s the snooker that’s on, barring the occasional upset, the game itself seems to have a calming effect on him. It’ll oftentimes put him into a kind of meditative state while he’s watching it, something almost trance-like. And that relaxed vibe’ll be the underlying mode of his being for as long as the tournament lasts.

  Relatively speaking, of course.

  Granted, if you stood him next to your average yoga instructor or man of the cloth he’d still appear to be a raging volcano of unadulterated bile, but in comparison to his everyday self, there’s a difference.

  With the darts it goes the other way. I’m not even convinced that a man with his blood pressure should be indulging in watching the arrows. But be that as it may, he’s a right nippy bastard from the opening throw to the lifting of the trophy at the end. And as soon as I stepped into his private domain, I was on the receiving end of it.

  Or to be more specific, my latest money-making idea was on the receiving end of it.

  ‘I’ll tell you the main problem with this pie in the sky shite of yours,’ he said, ‘if you’re looking for my advice.’

  Note that this was before we’d even exchanged pleasantries. I was barely in the door. He was sitting at his desk, his wee telly broadcasting the opinions of a couple of pundits on the darts match that had just wound up, and he started unpeeling the wrapper from the body of a sausage-sized cigar.

  ‘And a good morning to you too, John,’ I said. ‘How are you keeping?’

  ‘DNA,’ he said. ‘That’s your problem, right there.’

  ‘DNA?’

  ‘Exactly. Everything’s DNA these days. That’s the first-stop shop. The immediate go-to. They totally bypass fingerprinting in the majority of cases nowadays. Go straight for the DNA. So if you’re looking for the answer to the problem with your latest idea, that’s it right there – DNA.’

  I walked up to his desk and leant myself against it. ‘What gave you the notion I was looking for an answer to any problems with my idea?’ I asked him. ‘The thing’s a belter, John. Ironclad. This is the big one. Guaranteed.’

  ‘You’re living in the nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘What the fuck do you think this is, Peacock? Victorian London? Some clown with a pipe and a magnifying glass? You’re doomed to an embarrassing failure. Yet again.’

  ‘Tell me this, John,’ I said. ‘When does the next snooker championship kick off? Anytime soon?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When do the darts finish? When’s the next battle of the green baize?’

  He frowned at me and fished out a pocket diary. I’d had the idea that if it was only a couple of days away I might just come back later, rather than stand there soaking up all his snash. I mean, my idea was big enough and bold enough to take the battering, but he was starting to take the edge off the bright mood I’d been luxuriating in ever since I left the flat.

  As it turned out, though, it was another week and a half until the darts came to a halt, and a full fortnight until the snooker got going, so I sucked it up and resigned myself to brazening it out.

  ‘Let’s leave your analysis of the contemporary methods of forensic detection to one side for the minute, John,’ I said. ‘You know what I’m here for. I’m looking for the lowdown on that painting. What’s the story? Any joy?’

  ‘Ha!’ he said. Not a laugh or anything, just a brusque ejaculation of that solitary word. ‘You don’t want to know, Peacock,’ he went on. ‘Forget that. It’s a no go.’

  ‘You got nothing?’

  ‘On the contrary. I know exactly who it was. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you don’t want to know. Forget it. Let it go.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just take my advice. Walk away. Forget you ever asked.’

  ‘You’re refusing to tell me?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. And like I said, it’s in your best interests.’

  Are you starting to see what I mean about the darts here? Just pure contrariness, no two ways about it. And I’ll tell you what else, when he gets into a state like that, there’s no arguing him out of it. It’s just a constant stream of patronising bullshit: ‘This is what’s wrong with your business venture’, ‘This is what it’s best you don’t know’.

  Horse shit.

  But luckily, I’m a man with a plan. I never have to wait long until a zinger comes along to point me in the right direction. And that was as true on this occasion as it is on any other. As soon as my initial rush of frustration eased off, and I’d fought the urge just to kill the big fat bastard, there was a cracking solution already sitting there, right in the front of my brain. The old Johnson synapses very rarely let me down.

  The move involved three stages.

  Stage one.

  ‘Have you heard about the latest development regarding Dougie Dowds?’ I said. ‘The bold McFadgen’s had a bit of a breakthrough.’

  He fair changed his tune at that. The darts adrenaline took a backseat to his information addiction. The eyes popped, and he very near tried to climb his way across the desk.

  ‘Should I take that as a no?’ I said.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked me, and I told him to get his journal out of the desk drawer. He went about the task in something of a fury.

  ‘If I tell you this,’ I said, ‘I want the info on that painting. No ifs or buts. Right? Regardless of whether you think it’s in my best interests or otherwise.’

  He nodded furiously. I knew the
re was no question of me getting the word on the painting before I’d delivered the goods. Right at that minute, he’d have been unable to access the information even if his life depended on it. He was consumed by his need to know what I was about to tell him, switched to input mode only. The rest of his mental apparatus had completely shut down. Clearly, the risk was he’d rescind on his end of the bargain once he’d got what he wanted from me, but that’s where the second and third stages of my plan came in, so I’d no other option but to take the risk and just go for it.

  ‘The estimated time of death’s been extended,’ I said. And then I laid out what McFadgen had told me about the methods that had been used to first fix it, and the fact that they’d overlooked his missing phone.

  ‘This is gold dust,’ the big fella muttered to himself, and he did everything in his power to set the paper in his jotters on fire, writing at the speed of I don’t know what. He was like a man on the first rush of a highly powerful drug, getting his fix of the thing that gripped him to the core of his being.

  ‘Here’s the good bit, though,’ I said, and he stopped abruptly and stared at me with the pupils dilating ever further, unable to believe there was more to come. ‘McFadgen’s got it into his nut that whoever sent that text on Dougie’s behalf is still in possession of the phone, and all he has to do is get his mitts on the phone to prove who the murderer is.’

  A big belly laugh erupted from the far side of the table, and after blackening a couple more pages with copious notes, J.J. threw himself back in his sturdy leather chair – spent, you might say. And he slowly closed his book and relit his cigar.

  ‘So McFadgen reckons you’ve got this phone tucked away somewhere?’ he asked me, and I confirmed the deduction. And I moved my troops into position to commence the launch of stage two.