The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man)

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘For the greater good.’

  Alison shook her head at him. And then at me.

  ‘I should send the both of you round to apologise. This isn’t a bloody game.’

  She was right, it wasn’t.

  Games have more rules.

  The Chief Constable was leaving. He had his memory stick. I suppose I should have been grateful that he had come round to explain that Pat, who was perfectly nice, but common, wasn’t guilty, and that my client, Billy Randall, was no longer a person of interest, and would never have been if the CC had bothered to share downwards some of his underhand tactics. Darren Biggs would surely shortly be charged with the murder of Jimbo and Ronny. The role of MI5 in it all might never be publicly revealed, apart obviously from on the plethora of conspiracy theory websites Jeff would direct me to. I would never be sure if Greg really was just an agent trying to help out his dunderheaded pupils, or if he was from higher up, working to an agenda. I don’t suppose it matters too much. The games would continue. Just like in the Olympics, a few deaths weren’t going to derail them.

  The CC paused with the door half open. He looked back. I think he was expecting our thanks.

  Instead I said, ‘You never got your book.’

  ‘It’s okay. I was only joking.’

  ‘Joking?’

  ‘I mean, it was just an in. I don’t read fiction. God knows there’s enough fact out there for me to be worrying about.’

  ‘Well sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Maybe you should give it a try.’

  He laughed.

  He actually laughed.

  I felt sorry for him. He would never know the pleasures of Ellroy or Parker or Leonard, of Hammett or Chandler or Bentley or Spillane or Caine or Allingham or Goodis or Ambler or Greene or Sapper or Rohmer or Wallace or Conrad or Buchan or Childers or Thompson or Janson or Sayers or Doyle or Poe or Highsmith or Hall or Bagley or Simons or Tey. On the plus side, he would miss out on Brendan Coyle.

  Nevertheless, as he moved through the doorway I said, ‘Philistine.’

  He glanced back, unsure of what he’d actually heard. He hesitated for just a moment and gave a short nod, before stepping out on to the footpath. As he passed across the front window, Alison gave him the international sign for wanking.

  He kept walking. He may not have seen it. He definitely didn’t see Jeff’s Black Power salute.

  Alison said, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’

  ‘He’s not that bad,’ I said.

  ‘I’m glad you think so. Now get on the phone to Interflora and send Pat some flowers.’

  I smiled.

  She did not.

  ‘No way,’ I said.

  ‘Yes way. Or else you take them round yourself. I’m serious, you owe her. Just do it. Make me even prouder of you.’

  She had a way of saying things. I sighed. She took that as affirmative.

  ‘Good. I’m going to Starbucks. Where are you on the menu?’

  I told her precisely. She said she’d be back in ten minutes, and she expected the flowers to have been ordered by then.

  When she’d gone, Jeff said he was going to get a burger from Springsteens next door and did I want anything. I shook my head. I had Vitolink. Besides, I was too busy watching Alison walk away. She was beautiful and she was carrying my baby, or at least someone’s. But she was mine. And always would be.

  Jeff went out, leaving me alone in No Alibis.

  I love it here. It’s where I feel most at home, with my books and their patterns. I will fight tooth and nail to keep it open. Books are important. Books are not beans. We stand against the tide, and pray.

  I was happy, after a fashion. Although for the first time I had not correctly unmasked the killer, I had no doubt that I would have eventually. I had allowed myself to get hung up on one particular piece of evidence and its destruction, instead of taking it in my stride and approaching the case from a different angle. It was an important lesson to learn, and it would serve me well on future investigations, if I lived long enough.

  I mixed up the Vitolink, opened a Twix, and sat behind my precious counter. When I felt suitably refreshed, I called Interflora and ordered a cheap bunch of flowers. I paid by credit card and gave them the address and the woman asked me if I had anything to say, and I said, ‘Thank you?’

  ‘I mean, on the card. With the flowers.’

  ‘Oh, right. Ahm. Okay. Write: SORRY YOUR BOYFRIEND’S DEAD.’

  I could already see Alison coming back, coffees in hand. She wasn’t really fat. I loved her. She was smiling to herself.

  ‘Is that it?’

  It is important to retain one’s sense of humour at times of stress and sadness.

  ‘No. Add: LOOKS LIKE YOU GOT AWAY WITH IT.’

  The woman sighed. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, could you add one of those winky faces?’

  So she did.