The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man)

by Bateman, Colin

  I looked up from my computer.

  ‘Jeff,’ I said, ‘I have a mission for you.’

  34

  All the way there, Jeff rumbled and grumbled, but he really had no choice. He owed me big style, and what I was asking of him wasn’t that much of a gamble, although, it has to be admitted, enough of one for me to choose not to attempt it myself. All that was required of my young friend was that he kept a steady head and spoke confidently. He wouldn’t even have to remember anything; I would be listening to it all via the open line on his mobile. The gambling bit of it was that I was relying on Chief Constable Wilson McCabe being out at work. Jeff would speak to his wife, Claire, and find out what there was to find out without making anyone unduly suspicious.

  Finding the house on the Comber Road in Hillsborough wasn’t a problem, it having featured so prominently in the QIP article I had downloaded from the internet. We cruised past once, saw the high wall, the sturdy-looking metal gates, the intercom, before turning the corner and parking in the shadow of its rear wall. We were now facing three other recently built large bungalows in what was still billed on a wind-battered poster board as an exciting and exclusive new development. McCabe’s looked the pick of the bunch, apparently worth the extra risk to man and particularly beast that came with having it closer to the main road.

  I went back over with Jeff what he needed to do. He nodded, but made no attempt to move.

  I said, ‘I know it’s hard, but it’s not easy for me either.’

  ‘How exactly do you work that out?’

  It should have been blindingly obvious. We were in the country, for God’s sake. There were cows and goats and sheep and mice and rats and crows and geese and ducks somewhere in the vicinity. There were nettles and gorse and trees and dry-stone walls within feet of where we were parked. He knew about my allergies and fears, yet he was still deliberately putting off going up to the front door of the Chief Constable’s house and claiming to be a member of the fictitious Northern Ireland Decorating Standards Council.

  ‘Maybe if we went and got a bit of lunch first,’ he whined. ‘I’m useless on an empty stomach.’

  ‘You’re useless generally. Now get out of my car and do what you said you would do.’

  ‘You’re not very inspiring. If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you—’

  ‘Just fucking go!’

  ‘Okay, keep your hair on!’

  It was a dig, but I let it go. I had used reverse psychology to fire him up, and now he had slammed the door and was marching back around the corner towards the Chief Constable’s house. I raised my mobile. I could hear the swish-swish of Jeff’s anorak as he walked. It was mine, obviously, somewhat small on him but preferable to his combat jacket. A suit would have been more appropriate, but there wasn’t time. I wanted answers before I attended Jimbo’s funeral, because I was quite certain that many of the major players in our little case would be there or represented there in less than two hours.

  There was method in my, uhm, madness. This was, after all, the home of the Chief Constable. Sure, the Troubles were over, but it wasn’t just going to be unprotected, so that any crim with a grievance could walk up and visit grim vengeance on his family. There would be sophisticated alarms, security cameras, possibly even a security team on standby somewhere close at hand. So all in all, it was much better that Jeff made the approach, and got immortalised on camera or jumped upon or interrogated. He was used to it. And at the first sign of trouble, I would, obviously, be out of there.

  Jeff had evidently reached the front gates. I heard him push the button in the intercom. As he waited for a response, he whispered for my benefit: ‘I’m not even insured.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, hi, hello. Is that Mrs McCabe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Excellent. The first part of my gamble had paid off.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs McCabe, and for calling directly on you, but we don’t seem to have a record of your home phone number. Tell you what it is. My name is Cain, James Cain, I’m the standards and procedures rep for the Northern Ireland Decorating Standards Council. You recently had some work done by two of our members, a Ronald Clegg and James Collins?’

  ‘Yes, I . . .’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, we do random follow-up checks to make sure the work comes up to the exacting standards the council demands of its members. I just have a couple of questions, won’t take more than a few minutes of your time . . .’

  ‘Excuse me . . . but aren’t they . . . weren’t they . . . are they not dead?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .?’

  ‘Jimbo and Ronnie, weren’t they . . . murdered?’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Just a few days ago . . .’ There was a pause as she waited for Jeff to respond, but when it didn’t come, she said: ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . I just felt a little . . . weak at the knees . . . Jimbo and Ronnie, I was only talking to them the other week . . . I had absolutely no idea . . . Murdered?’

  He sounded like he was fighting to catch his breath. There was another pause, and then a buzzer sounded.

  ‘If you faint out there, someone will run over you. Come on up to the house.’

  ‘Oh, thank you . . . if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’

  The gate clanked open and Jeff crossed gravel. By the time he got to the end of the drive the front door must already have been open. I heard her say, ‘Come on in. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘If . . . that would be . . . this is really a . . . dreadful shock.’

  ‘I don’t know how you missed it. It was all over the news.’

  ‘I was . . . out of the country . . . over with my brother in Scotland . . . didn’t really see much telly . . . and my work with the council . . . I’m kind of freelance, they just send me a list of clients I need to visit, I’m barely ever in the office . . . Oh my goodness. Dead, you say? What happened?’

  There were various kitcheny noises. Mrs McCabe went over what she knew of the murders while Jeff tutted. Eventually he said: ‘This is very kind of you, Mrs McCabe. I know it sounds daft, but would you mind at all if I asked you a few questions about the work they did for you? It’s just, I get paid according to the paperwork I submit . . . and technically . . .’

  ‘That’s fine, I understand. It was nothing very earth-shattering, really. This room, the front lounge, and one of the bedrooms upstairs. It’s a new house, so it was in pretty good shape when we moved in, I just like to . . .’

  ‘Make your mark.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘And did they work well? Turn up on time? Furnish you with a quotation?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and yes.’

  ‘And did the final bill tally with the quotation?’

  ‘Ahm, yes, it did.’ ‘And you settled that bill . . . satisfaction on both sides?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware. My husband deals with all of that.’

  ‘Is that him? He’s in the police?’

  ‘Yes. It’s an old photo. You don’t watch the news very much, do you?’

  ‘It’s so depressing. Ah . . . and a lovely wee Jack Russell. I’m very partial to Jack Russells, they’re so intelligent.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. Bad-tempered, I say. Scampi, we called him. My husband doted on him.’

  ‘He’s . . .’

  ‘He was knocked down in the summer.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m very sorry.’

  Jeff was performing well, surprisingly well, yet he was learning nothing we hadn’t already guessed. And with his mobile line already open, there was nothing I could do but hope that he would actually realise himself that he was falling short.

  ‘Well it’s nice to have a reminder of him.’

  ‘Yes. A photo is one thing. We also . . .’

  It was, however, at this point that fate lent a hand. I heard a door open and shut, and then Mrs McCabe say, ‘Honey, I wasn’t expecting you till . . .’

  The C
hief Constable, home from protecting Ulster.

  ‘Finished early. Who the hell are you?’

  It didn’t sound threatening, quite friendly really. But Jeff must have been spooked, because I could hear the confidence draining from his voice.

  ‘I’m . . . Cain . . . James Cain from the . . . Painters Guild . . . I mean . . . it used to be the . . . now it’s the Decorating . . . Council . . . We’re just . . . survey . . . customer relations . . . You had some work done . . .’

  ‘I trust you’re carrying some kind of accreditation?’

  ‘I . . . well, no, actually. Usually, but I left it in . . . the car . . .’

  ‘I didn’t see a car.’

  ‘Bottom of the hill. I walked . . . wasn’t sure which house . . . I think I’ve probably got everything I need . . .’

  ‘Just hold your horses. Claire, how many times have I told you not to let anyone into the house without making sure who they are?’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, he was just upset.’

  ‘Upset?’

  ‘Our decorators . . .’

  ‘Those thieving . . .?’

  ‘We don’t know that, Wilson . . .’

  ‘You think they stole . . .?’ Jeff asked. ‘Mrs McCabe, you didn’t mention . . .’

  ‘I don’t like to get anyone in trouble . . . or speak ill of the dead . . . and we really don’t know . . .’

  ‘Who else could it have been? Honey, this place is like Fort Knox, except of course when you leave the front gates open or let any eejit who presents himself through the front door. Where’s your head office?’

  ‘Botanic Avenue.’

  Christ.

  ‘Phone number?’

  Jeff began to repeat my mobile number.

  ‘That’s a mobile.’

  ‘It’s a small organisation, it only has a part-time staff; that’s the boss’s number.’

  ‘Well let’s see . . .’

  ‘Wilson, there’s no need, the fella is only doing his job.’

  ‘Claire, there’s every need.’

  I couldn’t tell if he was dialling. But the line suddenly went dead. I could only guess or hope that Jeff had reached into his pocket to cut it. Within two seconds my phone began to ring. I stared at the Unknown Caller message knowing exactly who it was.

  It was time to step up to the plate.

  However, I was then distracted by a cow on the opposite side of the road, in a field. There was a fence that would stop her from attacking me. But our eyes met. She knew, and I knew she knew I knew she knew, that I was lactose intolerant.

  The phone continued to ring.

  It would be a tactical mistake to engage in conversation with someone who could turn out to be my nemesis. I wasn’t prepared. I was in a car near a field with cows, far out of my comfort zone.

  The phone rang on.

  Until it stopped.

  I stared at the screen until it faded to black.

  Thirty seconds.

  Sixty seconds.

  Then I jumped as it sprang back into life.

  He had left me a message.

  No – a text.

  But it wasn’t from Chief Constable Wilson McCabe, or even the hapless Jeff.

  It was from Alison.

  It said simply:

  HELP.

  35

  I am not the type of man who jumps to conclusions. I do not get on like a bull in a china shop. There was no reason to presume that Alison was really in danger, save for the fact that we were up to our necks in a murder case and that Greg had recently given her a drive-by fingering. She could just as easily have been texting, HELP, I shouldn’t be moving these heavy boxes in my condition. There was a reasonable possibility. How much danger could she be in if she actually had time to text? If she was in trouble, it left me in something of a quandary. Jeff was in there, probably already exposed as a charlatan, but at least close at hand, whereas Alison was way back there, out of easy reach.

  I could have answered the Chief Constable’s call, but had chosen not to. There was method in my, uhm, madness. I now had his mobile phone number and could call and confront him at a time of my choosing, when I was sufficiently armed with evidence or vague innuendo. On my terms. Yes, it left Jeff exposed, but I felt that the gains outweighed the loss. He worked in the shop, for sure, and he was cheap, but even Mother knew more about mystery fiction than he did, and he had proved himself to be flaky. Under questioning he would give us up, again, but that was inevitable. However, if me, myself or I had spoken to the Chief in my condition, under surveillance by a cow, I would also have let something slip, and that would have turned an unfortunate situation into a desperate one, causing both of us to be hauled in for impersonating decorators. As it was, with Jeff now surely compromised, it was time to leave the scene before he gave up my location.

  Before I pulled out, however, I sent a text to Alison: What seems to be the problem?

  On the drive back into the city, I kept my eye on the mobile as often as I could without breaking any of the valuable and sensible instructions contained within the Highway Code. It was not in fact until I got stuck at the Boucher Road roundabout, and I was satisfied that the traffic around me was stationary and there was no immediate hope of progress, that I was able to check for the third time, and this time there was another, more specific message.

  It said: Meet me for coffee at the food court at Connswater Shopping Centre.

  That, my friends, was a very clearly a trap waiting to be walked into. The very notion that I would drink coffee in a food court, well, it beggared belief, and Alison knew it. She was sending me a warning. Don’t come. Someone had her. Someone was trying to lure me in.

  And yet what could I do?

  It was Alison.

  The love of my life.

  The mother of my child.

  A fantastic comic-book artist.

  Who had also, clearly, sold me out. Just like Jeff. Why did people keep doing that? What was wrong with them? I don’t have a backbone, but there’s a medical explanation for that. These so-called lovers or friends were giving out my name like they were timeshare reps at the annual Gullible Convention. They just wilted when people asked them to do things. I would, very soon, have to consider the whole nature of my private detection business and the wisdom of employing partners or assistants. I was much better working alone, although I would still have to consider hiring someone to help with any heavy lifting work.

  The traffic finally began to move. I was driving, but I still had to think on my poor bunioned feet. Disappointing as she was, I had to help Alison, although in such a way that any danger to my own well-being was rendered negligible. But I had just abandoned my regular gormless idiot to the Chief Constable, and my usually dependable and exploitable customers were not within easy reach. I needed somebody equally pliable and just as expendable, someone willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, even if they weren’t quite aware of it.

  ‘Mother – just sit there, and shut up, and listen.’

  I had caught her at an ideal time. Not drunk enough to be paralytic and not so medicated as to be comatose. She had obviously screamed and sworn at me as I wheeled her into the back of the Mystery Machine and bolted her into place, but it was water off a duck’s back. As I drove, she continued to vent her spleen, which was in better condition than mine, but I was experienced enough and patient enough to know that she would soon give me an opening.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  I met her eyes in the mirror. Her brain was half shut down and her motor functions ludicrously impaired, but the burning hate in her eyes continued to defy age and nature.

  ‘Okay, you miserable old cow. I have looked after you my whole life. You have been a royal pain in the hole. You have been nasty, and vindictive, and evil for as long as I can remember, and I have asked nothing of you. But now Alison is in danger and you are going to help her. Do you understand?’

  She glared back.

  ‘We’re going to have a baby.’
/>   I kept looking for a reaction.

  ‘Which technically makes you a grandmother.’

  I waited, and waited.

  Eventually she said, in her slugger’s voice, ‘Are you sure it’s yours?’

  But there was, I SWEAR TO GOD, a tear on her cheek.

  We parked at Connswater. As I rolled her out of the side of the MM, I went over the technical details. She swore a bit and called me an imbecile, but essentially went along with it. I had a baseball cap that I pulled down low over my face.

  ‘Lower,’ said Mother, though with her twisted mouth it sounded like, ‘Lover.’

  It was only a slight variation of the move I’d pulled with Jeff. Mother would have an open line on her mobile phone so I could listen to what was being said, and an earpiece through which I could give her instructions and tell her what to say.

  Once inside the centre, it was with some relief that I spotted a Shopmobility stand offering little electric vehicles to help the disabled manoeuvre themselves around. This meant that I wouldn’t have to put myself in danger of being recognised by pushing Mother right up to the food court. She made a scene about transferring over and I snapped at her. The woman in charge took me to one side and said, ‘Did you ever hear that song “No Charge”?’, to which the obvious response was, ‘Yes I did, Melba Montgomery sang it; she was born in 1938 and raised in Florence, Alabama; it was her only Billboard Pop Chart top forty hit. Now fuck off and mind your own business,’ which I would have said if I hadn’t been intent on my mission or afraid of her eyebrows.

  I gave Mother her final instructions and a chilling warning about the home I would put her into if she didn’t co-operate, then sent her on her way. I had my camera over my shoulder and an adrenalin buzz shooting through my system. I get that way when I put other people in danger. It’s like reading a book – thrilling, but ultimately no personal sacrifice involved. I skirted the edge of the food court, which boasted a Burger King, a Streat café, a Subway and a Yangtze Chinese carryout in a semicircle around a large and busy seated area. But very quickly my eyes were drawn to a table right in the middle; it was Alison’s white zip-up jacket, and her hair, and her ears, all from behind, but definitely her. And the two spides on either side of her, not much into their twenties for sure, with their skinned heads and white socks, and opposite, the big, big guy I immediately recognised as Girth Biggs, aka Smally Biggs, aka Samson Biggs, aka Willy Biggs, aka Aka because he had so many aka’s. Whatever name you cared to call him by, Biggs was big in stature, and big into drugs and protection. He was also sometimes known as the Market Stall Don because he was like a defective Teflon Don, with charges only occasionally sticking. He had once sent two of his hoods into No Alibis demanding protection money – not just No Alibis, I might add, but every shop along Botanic – but I had befuddled them by pretending to be deaf and they had ended up feeling so sorry for my pathetic state that they made a donation to the charity box I keep by the till and which I dutifully empty into my own pockets every Christmas because the deaf are pampered enough. The fact that Smally was sitting there with Alison, with a huge tray of Burger King fare before him, was both a relief and extremely worrying. On the plus side, he didn’t know me from Adam Adamant, so at least I would be able to observe them unobserved, but equally, he wasn’t Greg, or DI Robinson, or Billy Randall; he was a new player in our game and therefore an unknown quantity, and one with a history of violence to boot, literally.