Dr. Yes (34 page)

    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.

    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.'