Dr. Yes (35 page)

    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...

    . . .
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.'

    Students
of my methods will know that when it comes to the denouement, I favour the
scattergun approach. It is the crime-solving equivalent of letting the fox
loose in the chicken coop. There will be attempts at flight, and somewhere
along the line eggs will be laid in blind panic. I wouldn't start at the
beginning; I would start near the end and work backwards, forwards, sideways
and into different dimensions, and after everything had been examined and
dissected I would be left with the answers.

    I
thanked DI Robinson for his intervention. Then: 'And as we're already with you,
maybe you could tell us where you have just spent the night?'

    'I
think you have a pretty good idea.'

    'Why
do you think that?'

    'Because
there aren't many tip-offs that come direct to my personal mobile phone. And
also, this was found at the scene.' He reached into his inside jacket pocket
and produced a paperback book. It was Rolo's copy of
Looking for Rachel
Wallace.
'He had it in his back pocket. You didn't find it when you
searched him?'

    'No,'
I said, before quickly adding, 'We didn't search him. We weren't even there.
And that isn't the point.

    Tell
us what you found at the murder scene, Detective Inspector.'

    'We
found the body of Raymond Buchannon, aka Rolo, a semi-notorious east Belfast
bouncer and muscle for hire. He had been shot to death and partially buried.'

    'And
the other body?'

    'Other
body?'

    I
smiled knowingly. 'Come, Detective Inspector, we're not holding anything back
here. Tell us about the other body.'

    'There
was no other body.'

    'If
you want to be pedantic, then, the
remains
of the other body.'

    'Nope.'

    'In
the fire, the remains of Arabella Wogan!'

    My
audience murmured.

    'Nope.'

    'Detective
Inspector, are you telling me that a man of your experience did not think to
have the ashes of the fire examined?'

    'Nope.'

    'Nope
you didn't?'

    'Nope
I did. And I'll tell you what was found. Ash from the wood that was burned and
certain chemical residues that have yet to be analysed but that will probably
turn out to be petrol or some other fuel used to ignite the fire.'

    'No
bones? No skull?'

    'Nope.'

    'You're
certain?'

    'Yes.
No evidence of human remains whatsoever. In the vicinity of the fire, however,
I did find evidence that marijuana had been smoked. I also found a bag of
Ecstasy tablets. I found footprints that I believe I can trace directly to
footwear belonging to you, to your sidekick and your sidekick's sidekick. And
of course the aforementioned book, which again ties the deceased to you and to
this shop, in particular the sticker featuring your logo that you affixed over
the actual price, increasing it by two pounds.'

    'It's
a collector's item,' I said. 'And you deduce from this evidence?'

    'One
might easily deduce that a drug-fuelled party was taking place in the woods, an
argument broke out, Rolo Buchannon was shot, and in your panic to get away, you
failed to properly hide the body or remove the evidence of your presence at the
scene or indeed of your use of illegal drugs.'

    All
eyes turned to me.

    'And
is that what
you
think?'

    'I
think there's a fair chance that I could get as far as a trial based on
circumstantial evidence alone, and in days gone by I might have, but having
dealt with you before, I know that things are rarely as they first appear and
that you will most likely have some unlikely explanation up your sleeve. I will
listen with interest.'

    I
regarded my audience. 'Do you hear that? Some
unlikely explanation.
That
is what you are going to hear today, ladies and gentlemen, an unlikely,
surreal, complex tale of deceit and fabrication that starts with the death of
Arabella Wogan.'

    Dr
Yes was immediately on his feet. 'Arabella Wogan is not dead! She was alive
when she left my clinic and there is nothing to suggest that she has since
passed away!'

    'She's
in Brazil!' Pearl shouted. 'Or Portugal!'

    'We
have no evidence of that,' I said.

    'You
have no evidence she isn't!'

    I
shook my head. 'Well that's just where you're wrong. Ladies and gentlemen, for
your information, this is Pearl, Pearl Knecklass . . .' Immediately there were
sniggers from the back row. 'Pearl works with Dr Yeschenkov and is a director
of his clinic. Pearl, I have very good contacts in the travel industry.' There
was no need to tell anyone that it was one of my customers, Derek who worked in
Co-op Travel. 'I am assured that no Arabella Wogan has travelled to Portugal or
Brazil in the past six months.'

    'That's
because they weren't married.'

    '
What
?'