The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man)

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘So get off the pot or fucking shit in it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  They were still outraged by my decision to stand up and confront them with my suspicions, but I had at least managed to suck them in. They wanted to know. Even the decorators were enthralled, like they were watching the Saturday afternoon matinée. I had always planned to throw accusations out willy-nilly to see what stuck or if any of the suspects cracked under public scrutiny, and the fact that none of them had was neither a condemnation of my approach nor the death knell for my ultimate objective, the unmasking of the killer. There is a joy in making people dance to my tune, even if they don’t recognise that tune.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you didn’t do it, and you didn’t do it, and you didn’t do it, then who does that leave?’

  I studied my audience. Several stared back defiantly. Others looked away. Even the decorators, innocent to a man, looked shifty under the intense spotlight of my two albino eyes. But finally my tractor beams settled where they were always going to settle. The show was over, the last dance performed, the bouncers moving in and shouting at everyone to clear out.

  ‘Pat? It wasn’t you, was it? Working class, you have paramilitary genes, and you’re pregnantly hormonal; isn’t that just the lethal combination? Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you nothing less than a crime of passion!’ I pointed straight at her. ‘J’accuse!’

  40

  It took Pat a while to get all of the swearing out of her system. It took the decorators a while longer. They seemed to think it was a step too far, what with her being near enough a widow and definitely an expect ant mother. Yet you cannot fail to expose a murderer just to spare her feelings, although you mightn’t have thought that if you’d looked at Alison’s face, and then her feet, moving down the aisle, prepared to lead me back to my seat or out of the building by the ear to save me from a lynching. She was stopped in her tracks by DI Robinson, beating her and the lynch mob to the front and shouting out, ‘We’ve come this far, let him finish!’

  He had authority, DI Robinson.

  It was a good thing.

  Although they were not kindly disposed to me, it did not alter the nature of the truth or my need to reveal it. Sometimes the truth is unpalatable. I do not sugar almonds.

  Having quelled the crowd, Robinson glanced back at me. ‘This had better be better than good, it better be better than good.’

  I was confident.

  ‘I believe . . .’

  ‘You believe?’

  ‘I believe I can prove that Pat murdered Jimbo.’ I raised my voice again and addressed my audience. ‘She killed him in a fit of temper brought on by his and Ronny’s failure to be paid for the work on the Chief Constable’s house and their subsequent theft of the Jack Russell.’

  Pat was standing, her eyeliner all run, both hands on her pregnant stomach. ‘Will . . . someone . . . get this . . . monster . . . out of here?!’

  ‘Pat, I’m sorry, you told me that you wanted to remember Jimbo the way he was, so you had a closed coffin. Yet our decorator chum here has just told us that he looked down at Jimbo’s face. Can you explain that?’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It’s part of it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ she exploded. ‘I did have the coffin closed because I didn’t want to look at him. But I didn’t have it nailed shut. Anyone who wanted to look could take a look and some of them did! Is that really fucking it?’

  ‘No – no. It’s only about forty per cent of it.’

  Robinson, still with his back to me, glanced around. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No, look, bear with me, this works, it fits, I’ve investigated dozens of crimes, I’ve read thousands of novels. I’m convinced. It all comes back to the dog.’

  ‘This bloody dog.’

  ‘Bear with me. Please. Everyone. Apart from the murderer, the dead dog is the only witness to these killings. It’s also important as a surveillance plant from MI5. Right from the off they knew Jimbo and Ronny had it and were very quick to try and get it back, but for whatever reason – badness or money – they wouldn’t hand it over; then when they were murdered, MI5 came to Pat, wanting to know where it was, even burgling her house trying to get it. She claims burglars stole it; maybe she confided in her brother there, Smally, and maybe he even sent the burglars to get it.’

  ‘That’s a fucking lie!’ Smally yelled. ‘You’re a dead man!’

  ‘You go near him, I’ll kill you, you bastard!’

  That was Alison.

  ‘Please,’ said the Revd Delargey, ‘this is still a funeral. Could we not leave this until after the cremation?’

  The decorators began to applaud.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Absolutely not. This is my entire point. Pat claimed that the Jack Russell was stolen. Yet she was at my girlfriend’s house this morning. That’s her over there. Isn’t she pretty? We’re having a baby too. But anyway, Pat was over with us this morning, and she got upset and she gave me a hug, and I sneezed in her face, and the reason I sneezed in her face is that I’m allergic to dogs, even the lingering traces of dogs, even dogs in the same house. She had essence of Patch on her, his hairs, and they set me off.’

  ‘Is that it?’ DI Robinson asked.

  ‘That’s just mental!’ Pat was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I petted the neighbour’s dog on the way out this morning! Christ, if you’re standing there because—’

  ‘Because I also sneezed when I stood by Jimbo’s coffin.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Pat demanded.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ DI Robinson seconded.

  ‘I’m talking about Patch and the fact that Pat knew everyone was looking for him and she had to know why, so she opened him up and found electronics inside him.’ She shook her head. I persevered. ‘You might not have known exactly what it was, but I think you had a pretty good guess that it was something to do with surveillance, and you knew that if that’s what it was, then it might have recorded you killing your boyfriend and then Ronny when he stumbled in on you. You’re not stupid, you’ve seen enough movies, enough cop shows on the telly to know that if they can pinpoint a mobile phone or a heat source via helicopter or satellite, then there’s a fair chance they could track down whatever you found in Patch, so you couldn’t just get rid of it in the trash or throw it in a lake or bury it in the back garden; you had to make sure it was totally destroyed and Patch along with it. What’s better than an industrial furnace capable of generating temperatures of nine hundred and eighty degrees centigrade?’ I nodded at her, and then around my now mesmerised audience, before turning to look at Jimbo’s coffin. ‘What about putting Patch in the coffin along with your loved one, disintegrating the father of your child and the evidence that you killed him with one push of a button? Is that not what happened? Is it not? Eh? Eh?’

  The ‘Eh? Eh?’ might have seemed over the top, but you must understand, I was trying to goad the suspect into an outburst that might condemn her further. I wasn’t myself excited. I was calm. I have to be. Any excitement might unduly affect my blood pressure, which constantly hovers on the verge of stroke. My manner remains serene at all times. Some people mistake it for vacancy. They have learned, often to their cost, that I am anything but vacant.

  Under these circumstances, however, it was rather difficult to remain completely serene. It was not only my accusation that seemed to upset everyone further; it was my demand that the coffin be immediately opened. It was, after all, the only way to prove or disprove my theory. They must have been able to see the logic in this, but humans are not often logical creatures; they are ruled by their hearts and their emotions, and they seemed to find it reprehensible that I wished to delay the final journey of their loved one even further. It is exactly these types of people who get hot under the collar when a train is delayed or traffic is in a jam, when really they need to relax and realise that in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter if
a bus, or a train, or a coffin, does not adhere to some ultimately meaningless timetable.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ I demanded of DI Robinson as he pulled me off to one side of the crematorium. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I know he’s dead, you halfwit. And so will you be if you don’t stop your yammering.’

  ‘I’m only trying to—’

  ‘I know what you’re trying to do.’

  ‘I’m not wrong.’

  He took a deep breath and glanced back at Jimbo. Smally Biggs, several other relatives and most of the decorators had taken up defensive positions around the coffin. The Revd Delargey was saying a prayer over it. The crematorium manager, name of McManus, had arrived and was now bearing the brunt of a verbal assault from Pat. He did a lot of nodding, and then came over to us. He was a rotund man with an in appropriate number of laughter lines. He said, ‘The cremation of a human body is a highly emotional occasion for those taking part. Our job here is to create and maintain an atmosphere of reverence and respect throughout the proceedings – and you, sir . . .’ he nodded at me, ‘have made a mockery of this day. You should be ashamed of yourself. And you . . .’ he glared at DI Robinson, ‘are scarcely any better.’

  DI Robinson said, ‘That may be, but this remains a murder investigation, and if there is even a remote possibility that evidence may have been—’

  McManus cut in with, ‘The Code of Cremation Practice forbids the opening of the coffin once it has arrived at the crematorium.’

  ‘The law of the land is more important than—’

  ‘Sir, this crematorium operates on a strict schedule. We are already long past the time when the last cremation of the day should have taken place. Unless you can produce a court order or a search warrant or something that gives you the authority to open that coffin, then I am going to give permission for the service to proceed.’

  ‘I will get the paperwork, and if you even think about trying to start . . .’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ I turned at the deep but restrained voice at my shoulder. It was the Chief Constable. ‘Detective Inspector Robinson, if I could have a word?’

  Robinson nodded immediately and moved off with the Chief Constable to the other side of the crematorium. McManus, not quite knowing what to say to me, but not wishing to endure another tongue-lashing from Pat either, moved away to stand by himself, hands clasped behind his back. Alison, seeing that I was now alone, hurried over.

  ‘What’s going on now? Honestly, I can’t keep up.’

  Robinson and the Chief were having an animated exchange, but a quiet one.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Robinson was in my corner, but the Chief is the Chief. So . . .’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about this? Because if they open it and there’s nothing . . .’

  My brow furrowed involuntarily. Surely she knew that I was always right?

  Robinson came back towards us, but didn’t stop. He stood at the front of the crematorium and called for silence and said that the Police Service of Northern Ireland wished to apologise unreservedly for the delay in proceedings, and that the service could now progress.

  I just said, ‘What?’

  Mourners began to retake their seats. Pat glared across at me. The Revd Delargey, that professional misery, shuffled forward. The Chief moved to the back of the crematorium and stood by the door.

  I said, louder, ‘What are you doing?’ DI Robinson raised his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘You cannot let this happen. There is evidence in that coffin that this woman murdered two men. You cannot just let it all be burned up!’

  ‘It’s out of my hands,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Why don’t you just get the fuck out of here?’ Smally shouted.

  ‘Gentlemen, please!’ cried the Revd Delargey.

  ‘Yeah, go on, piss off!’ shouted one of the decorators.

  ‘Come on,’ said Alison, taking me by the arm.

  ‘This is just madness! She killed them, and you’re letting her get away with it!’

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ Smally’s young henchman, the one who’d failed to properly confront Mother, joined in the yelling.

  ‘Please, we need to begin!’ shouted the Revd Delargey.

  Alison began to push and prod me up the aisle. She is stronger than she looks.

  ‘She’s a murderer!’ I shouted.

  Pat remained in her chair, eyes front, focused on the coffin.

  Halfway up, I pointed at the Chief. ‘It’s a conspiracy! It’s a cover-up! They were bugging you, you halfwit; why would you let this happen if there was even a remote possibility of its being true?’

  The Chief just shook his head.

  Billy Randall averted his eyes.

  Charlie wiped tears from his, but not sad ones, laughter.

  As Alison propelled me towards the doors, insults and boos filled the air. I saw Greg.

  ‘This just suits you fine, doesn’t it?’ I yelled at him. ‘All the evidence going up in smoke!’

  He winked.

  ‘You’re all in it together!’

  I pushed back against Alison just once, just long enough to survey the entire congregation. ‘Why is nobody listening to me? Have you all lost your minds?

  The crematorium manager thrust the doors open ahead of us. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘but you appear to have lost yours.’

  Alison pushed me out into a covered walkway and then along the path and into the car park, where she gave me a final little shove to release me.

  ‘Fuck!’ I shouted.

  I immediately turned back towards the crematorium.

  Alison put her hand out, palm up. ‘Stop! There’s no point.’

  ‘You don’t understand! They’re going to—’

  ‘I know what they’re going to. And there’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘But I solved it! I worked out who the murderer was!’

  ‘Settle, petal,’ she said. ‘You did everything you could.’

  ‘She’s going to get away with it! They’re all wearing blinkers!’

  ‘Yes they are. And you’re right. I know you are. I’m absolutely mostly certain that you’re right.’

  ‘You don’t believe me either!’

  ‘I believe in you.’

  ‘That’s not the same.’

  My attention then was averted by the music emanating from the crematorium. ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams.

  ‘They’ve started,’ Alison said. Her hand sought mine. I withheld that pleasure. Failing to give one hundred per cent support was tantamount to betrayal.

  ‘The fools,’ I said. ‘The bloody fools.’

  A puff of white smoke rose lazily from the crematorium chimney. I cursed again.

  ‘Come on,’ said Alison. ‘You solved it, that’s the important thing.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No it’s not.’

  It was about justice.

  And acclaim.

  There was a low rumble from the crematorium, like someone had suddenly whacked a bass drum, then a much sharper one. Three of the outer windows cracked. The smoke emerging from the chimney turned black, and then flames began to lick out of the top of it. Within seconds the crematorium doors were flung open and the mourners began to stumble out, coughing and spluttering through clouds of smoke.

  ‘Call the fire brigade!’ someone yelled.

  ‘There’s a fire at the crematorium!’ someone shouted into a mobile phone. And a moment later added: ‘He fucking hung up on me!’

  ‘Is it a bomb?’ someone shouted.

  ‘It just went off! Someone could have been killed!’

  They all came rushing out into the gathering darkness, even the crematorium manager, looking lost and mumbling, ‘What have you done, what have you done?’

  Robinson and the Chief and his colleagues or minders went back and forth into the smoke, making sure everyone was out. The beautifully manicured lawn in front was dotted with mourners, some sitting on their coats, others standing stunned, while others still spill
ed over into the car park and sat on bonnets watching while the flames licked up into the roof of the crematorium and more windows cracked and smashed. In the distance a fire engine sounded. Then someone pointed, and there in the double doors stood Pat. She looked me straight in the eye. Alison would say later, no she did not, you imagined that, but I know it to be true. She looked at me, then stepped back into what was now becoming an inferno, and closed the doors after her. Overwrought with guilt, she meant to kill herself and her unborn baby.

  But it was not to be.

  Robinson and the Chief shouldered the doors open between them and dived back into the smoke. It seemed like for ever before they reappeared, dragging her out screaming and crying, saving two lives and a killer in one fell swoop.

  I would have helped them.

  But smoke gets in my eyes.

  41

  Back in 1947, Irving Shulman sold four million copies of The Amboy Dukes, but they are now rarer than hen’s teeth and valuable enough in the right edition. This one was worth sixty pounds, but that didn’t stop me firing his tale of juvenile delinquency on New York’s East Side at the wall opposite my counter in No Alibis, breaking the book’s spine and causing its yellowed, pulpy pages to float to the floor. The Dukes has aged quite badly, its drug references are incredibly tame by today’s standards, but nevertheless, it is a classic of its type, pre-dating Evan Hunter’s much better-known The Blackboard Jungle by seven years.

  But I was mad.

  I had gone into The Case of the Cock-Headed Man to prove that Billy Randall wasn’t responsible for the deaths of Jimbo and RonnyCrabs, and now, though I knew who was responsible, it could never be proved. The evidence had been destroyed in the explosion that had rocked Roselawn Crematorium. Jimbo’s ashes were still up there, mixed in with brick and powdered glass and blackened wood. The papers said it had been caused by a malfunctioning furnace, but I knew better. I always know better. It was too convenient. Something had been planted in the coffin to absolutely make sure the evidence was destroyed if by chance the mighty temperatures of the furnace failed to break it down, or perhaps even set to go off if someone tried to open the box to look for said evidence. I would obviously not have opened it myself – I am allergic to dead people, and pine, and embalming fluid, and suits – but it could easily have been Alison, acting on my behalf, and she might now be dead, taking my baby with her. That, however, remained in the realms of what if, and was not something I dwelt a great deal upon. I was mad that Pat had gotten away with it, mad that everyone had conspired for their own reasons to get rid of the evidence, that I hadn’t been able to remove the shadow of suspicion from Billy Randall.