Dr. Yes

by Colin Bateman

  'Yes.'

  It was time for me to step up to the plate, take control, be imposing. I could do that, at the end of a phone.

  I know you killed Rolo.'

  'Excuse . . . ? You must have a wrong—'

  'You shot him in the woods and now you're fleeing the country.'

  'I don't know who you are or what you're talking about. Now if you don't mind I'm trying to get some work ...'

  He was interrupted by an amplified announcement: 'Will the last remaining passengers travelling to Alicante please report to Gate 12, which is now closing.'

  '. . . and also I'm just picking someone up from the airport.'

  'Buddy, I know who you are, and I know what you do and what you've done, so quit the act.'

  'You don't know anything.' Pause. 'Who are you?'

  'The name's Block, Lawrence Block,' I said, for I have a business and its reputation to protect.

  'If you were on to me and had the power to do so, you'd be able to stop me going through security, and marching up to the gate the way I am now; you'd be able to stop me getting on my plane and getting the hell out of this shit-hole.'

  'You're wrong,' I said. 'This isn't a shit-hole. It's just full of shitty people. I think you want a quiet life, you like to slip in, do your thing, and slip out, but you've been caught up in something here, and it has gotten out of hand, and it has to be sorted out. But you're also right. I can't stop you getting on that plane; only you and your conscience can do that. I'm asking you to do the right thing.'

  There was a pause.

  Then he started laughing and cut the line.

  I was not unduly surprised. He didn't know who the hell I was, or who he could trust, so he was getting out. He'd probably heard all about Belfast justice. We have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions thirty years later at a public enquiry.

  My next call was to Dr Yeschenkov. He had given me his mobile number on his business card at the Black- heath Driving Range. I didn't expect it to actually be his mobile, but some kind of service that vetted his calls, or at the very least a machine, but it was a chirpy Dr Yes himself who answered on the third ring.

  'Hello there,' he said. 'Who's this?'

  It was pleasantly informal and welcoming. He was probably used to cranky but rich patients calling him late into the evening.

  'Hey,' I said, 'sorry to call so late

  'Not a problem.'

  'You won't remember me, but we met at Blackheath ...'

  'Yes, of course I do, the guy with the nose, and the van, and the bookshop, sure I remember you. Glad you called. You been giving it some thought?'

  'Kind of,' I said.

  'Yeah, well, it's a big decision. Why don't you drop by, let me take a proper look at . . . ?'

  'Well I was rather hoping you might come and see me.'

  'That ... well, it's not really how I work. Lovely as I'm sure that would be, I have all the equipment right—'

  'It's not about the nose.'

  'Oh. Right. I understand. It's the ears, then. I can certainly sort those

  'I'm having a little get-together tomorrow here in the shop; it's kind of a celebration of the life of Augustine Wogan. You remember Augustine?'

  'Yes, of course I . . . but why would I possibly want to . .. ?'

  'As part of my presentation I will be unveiling who was responsible for his murder.'

  'His murder? But I understood he committed ...'

  'No, sir, he was murdered. In fact, he is one of four murder victims I can trace directly to the Yeschenkov Clinic.'

  The ... what are you . .. ? The Yes ... my clinic?'

  'The very same.'

  'But that's just . . . nuts .. .'

  'Well you would say that.'

  'But what possible ... how can you . .. why ... do the police .. . Sorry, but you have totally floored me. Is this some kind of a joke? Is this your zany British sense of humour?'

  I had to give him some credit for recognising that we were forever British, not Irish.

  'No, Dr Yeschenkov. I'm inviting you to come down

  to the shop tomorrow, twelve noon, to listen to what I have to say about Augustine and what happened to him, and the others. I think it would be in your interests to be there.'

  'Well, sir, I don't quite know what drugs you've been taking, but I'd appreciate it if you annoyed someone else with these . . . wild accusations. Now I've a busy day at the surgery tomorrow, and the very last place I intend to be is anywhere near your establishment. I'm warning you now that if the good name of the clinic or my own name is sullied in any way, I will not hesitate to instigate legal action.'

  'Well you would have to be here to hear if it is,' I said.

  I hung up before he could reply.

  My third call wasn't a call at all, but a text. I hunted out DI Robinson's number and sent him a message on Rolo's phone detailing roughly where his body and the fire where Arabella had been cremated could be found in Tollymore Forest Park.

  Everything had been set satisfactorily in motion.

  All I had to do now was discover who really was responsible for the deaths of Augustine and Arabella Wogan, Liam Benson and Rolo. I had Opal Fruits, I had Coke, I had the brain of an alien super-being, and I had right on my side.

  Easy-peasy.

  * * *

  Chapter 36

  Revelations are not half as interesting if they are delivered with only the accused and accusers present. Also I like to perform before an audience, and bask in the glory that comes with unmasking a killer. To this end I sent e-mail invitations to my vast database of crime- fiction fanatics, apologising for the late notice but hoping against hope that they could attend the next day's very special tribute to Augustine Wogan. In case they had never heard of him, because that's how much of a secret he was, I explained that he was Belfast born and bred, and an unsung hero responsible for some of the finest mystery novels ever written. I had no doubt that my customers would come out to support the event, but just in case, I added two considerable incentives - I promised two per cent off any purchase, and that there would be a mystery guest.

  Alison and I were in the kitchen. I was taking off my shirt and black tie and changing into something less formal; Alison was removing her smart suit and donning something a little roomier around the waist.

  I said, 'You look lovely.'

  She said, 'What do you want?'

  'Nothing. Can't I pay you a compliment?'

  'It would be a first. Ah - you're being nicey-nicey because you've solved the case.'

  'Absolutely not,' I said. 'I haven't solved it yet.'

  'But ...' And she looked towards the door, and the shop floor beyond.

  'Confidence, my love.'

  She snorted. 'My love. You must have solved it.'

  I hadn't, but I firmly believed in Malcolm Glad- well's hypothesis that few people are born with genius, but many can attain it through practice, with ten thousand hours being the minimum required. I had put many more hours than that into my reading, and there was nothing about crime, or indeed human nature, that I did not know. I had every confidence that this high noon of mine would have a satisfactory outcome. The guilty would be unmasked, and if he, she or they tried to escape, Mother was in position by the door with a machete in her handbag. My only concern was that she would grow bored and begin to randomly butcher anyone she didn't like the look of.

  Alison opened the kitchen door a fraction and pressed her eye to the crack. 'Starting to arrive now.

  Dr Yeschenkov is looking at the books; there's a small, dumpy older woman pretending to look at them too, but she's really making big eyes at him. He is gorgeous. About half the seats are filled. Are they all really your customers?'

  I moved her gently to one side and peered out. 'Most. The others ... I sent Jeff out to the towpath last night to invite some of the regulars down. Thought they might like to see who tried to frame them for murder.'

  'Are you sure you're not just going for the pink pound?'

/>   'Show me something you can get in here for a pound and I might agree with you.'

  As I watched, the shop door opened again and Pearl entered. She was in black leather boots with heels that could spike a thousand tabloid stories. She wore a tartan skirt short enough to corrupt shortbread, sheer black tights that did everything sheer black tights should do and a buttoned-up white blouse that was somehow more suggestive than buttoned down. Her hair was mussed. If she was surprised to see so many people, it didn't show. The only slight reaction was when she saw Dr Yeschenkov. 'Oh! I didn't know you were a fan!' she cried, before enveloping him in a hug that had every man in the place scowling with jealousy, including the gay contingent, who hadn't shifted their eyes from Dr Yes since he had arrived. The rotund woman beside him looked ready to clout Pearl with the book in her hands. Everyone was so busy watching the beautiful people embrace that hardly anyone noticed the door open again and Spider-web slip in. He had probably come with Dr Yes, or with Pearl, and just hung back.

  'Ready to roll?' Alison asked.

  'Not quite ... Ah, here he comes ...'

  Finally DI Robinson entered the shop. He looked more musty than mussed. His eyes were tea-bag droopy and there was more than one pine needle in his hair. He leant back against the door and surveyed the audience.

  It was time.

  'Will you put Jeff on alert?'

  'Calling him now,' said Alison. 'Man dear, you really like to turn these things into events, don't you?'

  'It's lulling them into a false sense of security, and then I strike.'

  Alison snorted. 'The very notion of you striking anything

  'Just you watch,' I said, and pulled the kitchen door fully open.

  It was another signal. Mother pressed a button on the CD player behind the counter, and immediately the sounds of pan pipes filled the air. They were from a pirated copy of the Muzak version of the title track from The Mission. I was avoiding paying for two separate music licences. I believe all music should be free to all people. Unlike books, which ought to be difficult to obtain and expensive. As the rich, hypnotic sounds of South America - albeit recorded in a garage in Swindon by some itinerant jobbing musicians - filled the air, all eyes turned towards Mother. Which was not the intention. I cleared my throat loudly. The eyes swung back. I was very happy, there and then, about to take the stage and solve the case, and could have milked that sense of expectation, but I knew I had to get a move on because the next track on the CD was 'Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines', and that wouldn't have set the right tone at all.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' I began, 'I would like to thank you all for coming here this afternoon to help celebrate the life and work of the finest crime novelist ever to come from these shores, the great Augustine Wogan. Though he never achieved best-seller status, or ever became particularly well known, he was, to students and aficionados of crime fiction, a master of the genre who will forever be remembered for his very wonderful Barbed-Wire Love trilogy. I think it is only fitting, therefore, that our celebration should be joined by a very special guest indeed . . . Please put your hands together for Augustine Wogan himself!'

  There were gasps of disbelief from all around the shop floor. I nodded at Alison and she whispered into her phone. A moment later the front door opened and Jeff, in black suit and tie, entered, carrying against his chest like an FA Cup about to be raised a handsomely decorated urn.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, Augustine Wogan was cremated this morning at Roselawn. The brief, moving service was attended by myself, my sidekick Alison, my sidekick's sidekick Jeff and Augustine's solicitor.' I placed my hand on my heart and looked ceiling- ward. 'We were the only people present as Augustine passed from our world to the next.'

  I nodded gravely.

  A voice from my audience said, 'If we'd known it was happening, we would have gone.'

  Several others nodded and grunted in agreement.

  'Well that's not my—'

  'And technically speaking,' said another, 'when he died, that was when he really passed from one world to the next. You were just cremating a husk.'

  I fixed him with a look.

  He said, 'I'm just making a point. In fact, I'm not convinced there is an afterlife.'

  'Please, if you don't mind - whether he departed this mortal coil at the moment of his death or that of his cremation, it is indisputable that this is Augustine; his ashes are contained in this beautifully decorated urn ...'

  'You call it cloisonne, the design of the urn,' said one of the gay contingent. 'Cloisonne.'

  'Clossa what?' asked Spider-web, who was the closest to the urn, apart from Jeff.

  The gay man said, 'It's an ancient technique for decorating metalwork. You solder silver or gold wires on to the outside, dividing it up into compartments, which are then filled in with different colours of enamel, and fire it in a kiln.'

  'It looks like tat to me,' said Spider-web. 'Like something you'd pick up in the market for a fiver.'

  I wasn't going to let that lie. 'It cost one hundred and twenty-five pounds,' I announced, 'and I'm hoping that at the end of our celebration you will each contribute a little something towards it. Say five pounds.'

  There was some disgruntled murmuring as I signalled to Jeff to continue. He moved between two rows of chairs until he was facing one of our bookcases. I had cleared a space at just above head height, and it was here that he carefully placed Augustine's urn.

  'This,' I announced, 'is going to be Augustine Wogan's final resting place, a place where he will forever be honoured, surrounded by the books he loved so much, and, in due course, by his own books, which, subject to an agreement with his solicitor, who seems like a very nice man, will appear in strictly limited lavishly illustrated special editions to be published by No Alibis Books next year.'

  'How much will they be?' someone asked.

  'That has yet to be established.'

  'Will they be cheaper through your Christmas Club?'

  'No,' I said.

  'Is that all this is?' another of my regulars asked. 'One of your bloody sales pitches?'

  Several heads nodded.

  'No,' I said firmly, 'this isn't about me, it isn't about selling you books, and it isn't about cloisonne urns either.'

  'Well what the hell is it about, then?'

  'It's about the murder of Augustine Wogan!'

  And that shut them up...

  * * *

  Chapter 37

  . . . for about five seconds, and then there was a lot of jibber-jabber and finger-pointing, not least from Dr Yeschenkov. Spider-web made a subtle move towards the door, but found his way blocked by DI Robinson. It wasn't necessarily a sign of guilt, more of instinct.

  I nodded around my audience. 'Yes,' I said, 'Augustine was murdered; as sure as I'm standing here today, Augustine was murdered.'

  'I thought it was suicide,' said someone.

  'I heard he blew his head off/ said someone else.

  Several others began to discuss it between themselves. The shop phone rang. For no reason whatsoever Mother pressed play on the CD and 'Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines' began to boom through the speakers.

  I was losing them before I'd properly found them.

  And then, abruptly, the music stopped and Alison was standing with her finger on the stop button and shouting: 'Quiet! Please! Show some respect! Augustine Wogan in the house!'

  It worked. All eyes turned to the urn. I moved to take up a fresh position immediately beside it.

  I winked my thanks to Alison, but just as I started to launch into it again, Dr Yeschenkov stood up. 'This is just ridiculous, I won't be part of this charade; I didn't come here for some cockamamie murder- mystery weekend. I have work to do.'

  He strode towards the door. The rotund woman who had cast loving glances towards him followed suit.

  DI Robinson stopped him in his tracks by holding up a warrant card and saying: 'You're not going anywhere, skinnymalink melodian legs.'

 
Dr Yes looked at the DI as if the DI had taken leave of his senses.

  'What?'

  'Relax, it's a compliment. But I think you should stay. You might find it interesting.'

  Dr Yeschenkov's teeth clouded over.

  The rotund woman said, 'He can leave if he wants to.'

  Dr Yes huffed and puffed, but some part of him could see that it wasn't making him look very good, with everyone staring at him. Image and appearance was everything. He jabbed a finger at Robinson and snapped, 'You, sir, have not heard the last of this!' before retaking his seat. He had backed down, but issued a threat with it, thus saving a little bit of perfectly moisturised face.

  The rotund woman shook her head at Robinson, snarled, and went after Dr Yes.

  DI Robinson nodded around the shop. 'Now, folks, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure Augustine Wogan was murdered either, but I'm prepared to be convinced otherwise. This guy usually knows what he's talking about, even if he generally only gets to his conclusions via Biafra. But I'd appreciate it if you all just remained in your seats and listened to what he has to say. Apart from anything else, it's entertaining, someone usually ends up getting punched, and at the end of it all you might get to see a genuine murderer being arrested. Where else are you going to get all that for nothing? Plus I hear his Christmas Club is enrolling new members, and you wouldn't want to pass up that opportunity, would you?'

  Laughter rippled around the room.

  Even Alison was grinning.

  It wasn't the tone I was looking for at all. This wasn't a joke, it wasn't entertainment; it was deadly serious.

  Maybe they could tell I wasn't happy. Silence fell, smiles faded, laughter lines became disfiguring wrinkles.

  'Augustine Wogan is dead,' I said, 'and somebody in this room murdered him. Liam Benson, a freelance photographer, is dead, and somebody in this room murdered him. Rolo, a thug whose real name I don't know, has been murdered. Even Arabella Wogan, Augustine's wife, whose only crime was wanting to look younger, which isn't a crime, is missing presumed dead. Dead, ladies and gentlemen, and this afternoon we are going to work out who did what to whom and why.'