Dr. Yes (28 page)

    There
was something nagging at me as well, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
I stared into my Starbucks. The books needed to be shelved. I was desperate to
dip into the Chandler, but some of my customers were particular about their
books; they could tell if the pages had been turned, and did not appreciate
even casual perusal. If I, the owner, read a book first, before putting it out
on display, did that render it second-hand? A car surely did not become
second-hand if test-driven by a showroom owner. Licking a plum and then putting
it back up for sale was a whole different kettle of fish. But if you bought a
mackerel and the fishmonger removed the bones for you, and he went on to make a
fish soup from the bones, were you within your rights to claim ownership of the
soup? And who kept fish in a kettle? And who would drink tea from water boiled
in a kettle that had held fish?

    Jeff
said, 'So how did Alison get on?'

    'FUCK!'

    'What?'

    'I knew
I'd forgotten something! Alison! Christ!'

    I
grabbed my phone. No messages. I stood and pressed my face to the window.
Across the road the jeweller's looked as busy as ever. But no sign of Alison.

    'You
spoke to her this morning, right?'

    'I didn't
see her this morning!'

    'She
left for work early, you mean?'

    'No!
We all split up outside the clinic last night, remember?'

    'I
thought you guys were more or less living to—'

    'Yes!
No! Sometimes! I spent half the night watching Yeschenkov's house, I was
knackered, I just went on home. She sent a text at about ten saying she was
outside Buddy's house, but I presumed if there was anything else to report
she'd call. She didn't; I thought she must have gone on home.'

    'Without
checking in?'

    'You
know what she's like, she's a law unto herself, she has mood swings!'

    'So
let me get this straight. You left your pregnant girlfriend outside a suspected
serial killer's house, fourteen hours ago, and you haven't heard from her
since, knowing full well that she's the sort to go and find things out by
herself, no matter how many times you warn her, and the guy she was following
has a habit of killing people and keeping their heads in a hatbox?'

    I
cleared my throat.

    'She's
not my girlfriend,' I said.

    I had
warned her about going into caves or a haunted houses or the lair of a beast,
knowing full well that given the opportunity she would ignore me. I almost
expected her to do it. And better her than me. This is exactly why I don't form
attachments. You give people advice and the benefit of your experience, yet
they almost always let you down. People are a disaster. I should have just
stayed in the shop and let her, perhaps literally, stew. God knows I had plenty
of other things to be doing rather than racing across the city to rescue her. I
had a new project now. Rolo. A blank canvas. When I retired, he could take
over. Jeff was an idiot. Rolo I could shape.

    'Just
coming into Tennyson,' said Jeff. 'You can open your eyes.'

    'I
have a migraine coming on.'

    'We
haven't time for a migraine!'

    Who
did he think he was? He wasn't even insured for the Mystery Machine. If they
pulled him in, it would serve him right. Amnesty International would deny
knowing him.

    Tennyson.
East Belfast. Edwardian semis. Showing their age.

    'There's
her car.'

    No
trouble parking behind. Most people were at work, or parked in their drives.

    'Check
her car,' I said.

    Jeff
went. I studied the gardens. Untidy. Early daffodils. Doorbells. Sellotape, a
legacy of Christmas lights. Shrink-wrapped Yellow Pages leaning against doors.
Stone cladding. Leaf-stuffed drains. Jeff came back. Got in.

    'Locked,
no sign of her, her mobile's sitting on the passenger seat.' I could feel his
eyes on me. He said, 'You okay?'

    I
nodded. And then I asked quietly: 'What have I done?'

    'What?'

    'Nothing.'

    I
knew she never listened, I knew she was impetuous, I knew she would poke her
nose in, I knew everything, and yet I had quite happily sent her on her way.
Well. There was nothing I could do about it now. What was done was done. Now
all I could do was find out where she was, if she was still living, and if
somehow the bookseller and the idiot could pool their talents and work out how
to save her.

    Okay,
okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay: THINK.

    I
scanned the houses on both sides of the road. I pointed. 'It's that one.'

    Three
doors up from where we were, opposite side of the street.

    'How
. . . ?'

    'She's
not going to park right outside, but somewhere that gives her a good view. That
narrows it down to three on either side. Whacking is not a full- time job, he
doesn't rush out to work in the morning. The Yellow Pages against every door
but one. They must have been delivered after people go to work. That house is
the only one of the six where the directory has already been lifted in.'

    'Is
that it?'

    I
nodded.

    'So
what do we ...?’

    'We
wait.'

    'Wait
for what? We call the police, we raid, we rescue!'

    'No.
If she's dead already, then we're too late.'

    'And
what if he's caught her, and he's torturing her or worse?'

    I
stared at the house. It was unremarkable. As opposed to having a flashing neon
sign on the roof advertising the fact that
Buddy Wailer, International
Assassin and Serial Killer, lives here.
There was a car in the driveway. A
Vauxhall estate. I made a mental note of the number. It wasn't personalised. A
gravel driveway. Crunchy. Difficult to approach quietly.

    Curtains
closed downstairs and up. Small garden at the rear, another house immediately
behind and overlooking.

    'We
wait.'

    'That's
all you have to say? Well I'm not sitting here. I'm going to find out.'

    He
clawed at the door handle.

    'No!'
He hesitated. 'Okay. Listen. Go next door, lift their Yellow Pages, then knock
on his. If he answers just say you're delivering and wanted to check if he has
one already.'

    'And
then what?'

    'Then
you walk away. We know he's in there.'

    'I
can't just walk away. If he answers, I'm going in. If he doesn't answer, I'm
going in. The short and tall of it is, I'm going in. Man, don't you care?'

    There
was no simple answer.

    Instead
I said, 'He's a killer. If you try anything, he will kill you. Even if you had
your nunchucks, he would still kill you, and disappear. That's what he does.
Storming in there will not help Alison. If she's not already dead, it will
speed her demise.'

    'Well
what, then?'

    'One
step at a time. Baby steps. Keep your line open and your earpiece in.'

    Jeff
took a deep breath. Then he got out of the car. He gave a surreptitious glance
around before hurrying down the drive of the house right beside us. He lifted
their Yellow Pages, stuffed it inside his jacket and retraced his steps. He
nodded at me as he passed the van, then continued three doors up, crossed the
road and approached the front door of the house I had identified as the lair of
the Wailer.

    He
rang the bell. I slipped further down in my seat. I was determined to preserve
the integrity of the crime- fighting service I provide. Sometimes I have to be
like an army general, organising, planning and inspiring, rather than actually
leading the charge. As attractive as the front line must be, there is not much sense
in recklessly exposing yourself to danger or ridicule, because if you are
injured or somehow incapacitated it is not merely you that suffers, but the
troops, who find themselves rudderless and confused, dejected and demoralised.
This is why it was important that I didn't confront Buddy Wailer myself. I
didn't yet know if he was merely my enemy, or would become my lifelong nemesis.
It would have been foolhardy indeed to have revealed my hand or identity so
soon.

    When he
got no response, Jeff looked back at me and shrugged. I pushed myself up in the
seat in order to shrug back.

    'Okay
then,' he said down the line.

    'Jeff,
don't do anything rash. Just . . .'

    He
kicked the door in. One blow. After a pause, I heard, 'Aow.'

    Then:
'Going in.'

    Then:
'Hall. Nothing. Lounge. Nothing. Kitchen. Table set for three. Stairs. Bedroom,
double, unmade. Dresser, make-up, women's clothes, pants, scattered around.
Bathroom. Bath. Mirror partially steamed up.

    Second
bedroom. Bed made, cold, radiator off, guest room.'

    I
could see him now, looking across at me from the bedroom.

    'It's
the wrong house, Sherlock,' he said.

    Alison
was in the habit of calling me Sherlock. I didn't mind her doing it. I objected
to Jeff. It didn't set the right tone for an employer-employee relationship.

    'It
can't be,' I said. 'Check under the beds.'

    He
tutted. He disappeared from view. 'Nope, nothing. No . . . wait a minute. I've
found them.'

    'You've
. . .'

    'Slippers.'

    'Jeff,
I don't think

    'FUCK!'

    He
had just reappeared at the window, but he suddenly threw himself down.

    'What
. . .
what?'

    'I
saw him! The house opposite! He just passed the upstairs window . . . He's gone
. . . he's in the hall. He's coming out, man, he's coming out!'

    'Okay,
Jeff . . . stay calm ... I can't see . . . there's a hedge in the way . . . Do
you see Alison?'

    'No,
just him, zipping up his jacket. He has car keys, going to his garage . . .
he's leaving . . . what do we do, what do we do?'

    'I'm
thinking

    'THINK!
The garage doors are opening!'

    'Okay
. . . okay . . . get back here, get back here and you take the van and follow
him

    'Me?
But you're . . .'

    'Listen
to me! You have to do it! You can drive fast, you have eyesight, it needs to be
you. I'll search his house. If Alison's alive, we'll follow in her car; if
she's dead, we'll bring in the cops and we'll know where he is.'

    'And
if she's in the van?'

    'Jeff,
for fuck's sake, use your initiative!'

    'You're
always telling me not to

    'This
is different! Now get out here!'

    Buddy
Wailer drove past. He was focused on the road. His white van had plenty of room
in the back for furniture, bricks, wood, tyres, concrete, vases, books,
agricultural machinery, livestock, mirrors, telescopes, water features,
national costumes, irrigation equipment, curtains, legal documents,
photocopiers, computers, lentils, lintels, lemons, lubricants and lepers. Or
Alison and my baby. Two for the price of one.

    Jeff
was across the road. I jumped out, he jumped in, he took off, I stood there. I
was a leader, not a follower. I gave commands. I wasn't being a coward. My
instinct told me she was in the house. My instinct is never wrong.

    Except
when it is.

    Buddy
Wailer had locked the doors. Just because he was a psychotic killer didn't mean
he wasn't security- conscious. People talk a lot about the old days when you
could leave your back door open, as if there weren't mad people roaming the
world back then. The difference then was that people would leave the back door
open, get raped and pillaged, and then just not talk about it, thus propagating
the myth that you really could leave your door open.