The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) (23 page)

‘You more than I.’

‘You got your picture in the paper, you sold a few books, people come to you with their problems.’

‘People annoy me.’

I was going to expand on that statement, then I thought, no, it pretty much said it all.

It was only at this point, being preoccupied by Greg’s drive-by fingering, Alison’s betrayal, and scrambling to construct a cock-and-bull story for the detective inspector, that I realised he was wearing a black tie, and why.

‘You’re going to the funerals?’

‘Jimbo’s. Ronny’s is being delayed for about a week. Something about most of his family being in Canada. You going?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Thought you might. Thought as seeing I’m here I could offer you a lift, you know, reduce our carbon footprint. It’s not for a couple of hours; maybe we could catch some lunch and we could talk about the meaning of life.’

To which the obvious response was: there is no meaning, and it’s pointless. But perhaps that wasn’t quite what he meant.

‘Appreciate the offer, but I’ve things to do first.’

Robinson nodded at Jeff, who was on his knees unpacking books. ‘What about the boy wonder? Maybe I should take him for lunch, see what he knows?’

Jeff swallowed. He looked up at me for support.

‘Sure,’ I said.

Robinson smiled. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. I’ll give you a hundred for it, and nothing more.’

‘One twenty.’

‘Which part of nothing more do you not understand?’

‘One twenty.’

‘One ten.’

‘One twenty.’

‘One ten.’

‘One twenty.’

‘One fifteen, and not a penny more.’

‘One eighteen.’

‘I knew I could break you.’

‘Plus VAT.’

‘There is no VAT on books.’

‘There is on rare books.’

‘You’re bullshitting.’

‘One eighteen.’

‘Deal.’

‘Will you be wanting a receipt?’

His eyes narrowed.

He knew what I was saying. If the book really was for him, then there would be no need of a receipt, but if it was something he felt he had to buy, to keep up his cover story, then he would be claiming it back on expenses.

‘You tell me,’ he said.

‘How would I know?’

‘How
would
you know?’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘Okay. No receipt then.’

‘Okay.’

He counted out the cash.

I put the book in a No Alibis bag with
Murder Is Our
Business
on the side, with the familiar chalk outline logo. I took his change out of the till and passed it and the bag across. He took the bag and nodded. I nodded back. He turned for the door. He exited the shop. He walked past the window, out of view. I looked at Jeff. He looked at me. The shop door opened again. I had expected a sheepish Alison, but it was DI Robinson again.

‘Second thoughts,’ he said, ‘I will have that receipt.’

Alison tried to buy her way back into my affections with a dolce cinnamon frappuccino. But I couldn’t be bought that easily, although obviously I took the beverage from her. I told her I had work to do, on the case, and I needed to focus. She looked a little hurt, and then nodded at Jeff.

‘What about him?’

‘He will man the barricades while I focus.’

‘I could do that.’

‘You would distract me.’

‘And he wouldn’t?’

‘He’s too busy grovelling.’

‘You want me to grovel? Because you can kiss my arse.’

‘No, I just want you to leave me in peace so I can get on with the case.’

‘Okay. Fine. I’ll just go and grow your baby.’

‘Okay.’

‘If it is yours.’ She smiled. One of those cruel ones that pushes up the corners of the mouth. ‘Catch you later.’

She went on out.

Jeff said, ‘Told you she was a bitch.’

‘So’s your face,’ I said.

I wasn’t that upset with her, and she knew it. Jeff didn’t really know how we got on. And that stuff about the baby. She was joking. Of course she was. If it were true, she wouldn’t just have blurted it out like that, she would have held it in reserve until she could really do some damage with it.

I gave Jeff a series of pointless tasks to keep him busy while waiting between customers, then settled in behind the counter with my Starbucks to think some more about
The Case of the Cock-Headed Man
. With the Jack Russell and the threats from Greg, I’d allowed my attention to wander, but DI Robinson’s reminder about the funeral had refocused it on Jimbo and RonnyCrabs and what could possibly have led to their murder.

With the co-operation of the banker who had come to me for help tracking down his Chinese girlfriend in
The Case of the Missing FA Cup
, I was fairly quickly able to gain access to both the business and private financial records of Jimbo and RonnyCrabs – a different bank, but they’re all connected, and he
really
appreciated what I had done for him – and although some of the patterns of numbers deflected me from my purpose for a while, I relatively quickly ascertained that there was nothing startling there. But in a way, it was more about what wasn’t there. Most tradesmen play fast and loose with the taxman, preferring cash rather than putting payments through the books. But if J & R had actually been employed by the new Chief Constable to decorate his house, that was one payment that would almost certainly have had to be made with a cheque or credit card. Someone in his position would keep everything above board. Admittedly, he had shown himself to be rather a rash individual by attacking the mysterious Michael Gordon, but that was surely a one-off. He would do everything else by the book. But there was no record of any payment. It didn’t compute.

I looked at my watch.

There was still time before I, or we, depending on whether I deigned to take Alison with me, would have to leave for Jimbo’s funeral. I needed to know more about what had gone on between the decorators and the police chief, and for all the wonders of the internet, some things still have to be done face to face by a brave man not afraid to look a potential killer in the eye and ask difficult questions.

I looked up from my computer.

‘Jeff,’ I said, ‘I have a mission for you.’

All the way there, Jeff rumbled and grumbled, but he really had no choice. He owed me big style, and what I was asking of him wasn’t that much of a gamble, although, it has to be admitted, enough of one for me to choose not to attempt it myself. All that was required of my young friend was that he kept a steady head and spoke confidently. He wouldn’t even have to remember anything; I would be listening to it all via the open line on his mobile. The gambling bit of it was that I was relying on Chief Constable Wilson McCabe being out at work. Jeff would speak to his wife, Claire, and find out what there was to find out without making anyone unduly suspicious.

Finding the house on the Comber Road in Hillsborough wasn’t a problem, it having featured so prominently in the
QIP
article I had downloaded from the internet. We cruised past once, saw the high wall, the sturdy-looking metal gates, the intercom, before turning the corner and parking in the shadow of its rear wall. We were now facing three other recently built large bungalows in what was still billed on a wind-battered poster board as an exciting and exclusive new development. McCabe’s looked the pick of the bunch, apparently worth the extra risk to man and particularly beast that came with having it closer to the main road.

I went back over with Jeff what he needed to do. He nodded, but made no attempt to move.

I said, ‘I know it’s hard, but it’s not easy for me either.’

‘How exactly do you work that out?’

It should have been blindingly obvious. We were in the country, for God’s sake. There were cows and goats and sheep and mice and rats and crows and geese and ducks
somewhere
in the vicinity. There were nettles and gorse and trees and dry-stone walls within
feet
of where we were parked. He knew about my allergies and fears, yet he was still deliberately putting off going up to the front door of the Chief Constable’s house and claiming to be a member of the fictitious Northern Ireland Decorating Standards Council.

‘Maybe if we went and got a bit of lunch first,’ he whined. ‘I’m useless on an empty stomach.’

‘You’re useless generally. Now get out of my car and do what you said you would do.’

‘You’re not very inspiring. If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you—’

‘Just fucking go!’

‘Okay, keep your hair on!’

It was a dig, but I let it go. I had used reverse psychology to fire him up, and now he had slammed the door and was marching back around the corner towards the Chief Constable’s house. I raised my mobile. I could hear the swish-swish of Jeff’s anorak as he walked. It was mine, obviously, somewhat small on him but preferable to his combat jacket. A suit would have been more appropriate, but there wasn’t time. I wanted answers before I attended Jimbo’s funeral, because I was quite certain that many of the major players in our little case would be there or represented there in less than two hours.

There was method in my, uhm, madness. This was, after all, the home of the Chief Constable. Sure, the Troubles were over, but it wasn’t just going to be unprotected, so that any crim with a grievance could walk up and visit grim vengeance on his family. There would be sophisticated alarms, security cameras, possibly even a security team on standby somewhere close at hand. So all in all, it was much better that Jeff made the approach, and got immortalised on camera or jumped upon or interrogated. He was used to it. And at the first sign of trouble, I would, obviously, be out of there.

Jeff had evidently reached the front gates. I heard him push the button in the intercom. As he waited for a response, he whispered for my benefit: ‘I’m not even insured.’

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, hi, hello. Is that Mrs McCabe?’

‘Yes.’

Excellent
. The first part of my gamble had paid off.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs McCabe, and for calling directly on you, but we don’t seem to have a record of your home phone number. Tell you what it is. My name is Cain, James Cain, I’m the standards and procedures rep for the Northern Ireland Decorating Standards Council. You recently had some work done by two of our members, a Ronald Clegg and James Collins?’

‘Yes, I . . .’

‘Nothing to worry about, we do random follow-up checks to make sure the work comes up to the exacting standards the council demands of its members. I just have a couple of questions, won’t take more than a few minutes of your time . . .’

‘Excuse me . . . but aren’t they . . . weren’t they . . . are they not dead?’

‘I’m sorry . . .?’

‘Jimbo and Ronnie, weren’t they . . . murdered?’

‘Murdered?’

‘Just a few days ago . . .’ There was a pause as she waited for Jeff to respond, but when it didn’t come, she said: ‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry . . . I just felt a little . . . weak at the knees . . . Jimbo and Ronnie, I was only talking to them the other week . . . I had absolutely no idea . . . Murdered?’

He sounded like he was fighting to catch his breath. There was another pause, and then a buzzer sounded.

‘If you faint out there, someone will run over you. Come on up to the house.’

‘Oh, thank you . . . if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’

The gate clanked open and Jeff crossed gravel. By the time he got to the end of the drive the front door must already have been open. I heard her say, ‘Come on in. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘If . . . that would be . . . this is really a . . . dreadful shock.’

‘I don’t know how you missed it. It was all over the news.’

‘I was . . . out of the country . . . over with my brother in Scotland . . . didn’t really see much telly . . . and my work with the council . . . I’m kind of freelance, they just send me a list of clients I need to visit, I’m barely ever in the office . . . Oh my goodness. Dead, you say? What happened?’

There were various kitcheny noises. Mrs McCabe went over what she knew of the murders while Jeff tutted. Eventually he said: ‘This is very kind of you, Mrs McCabe. I know it sounds daft, but would you mind at all if I asked you a few questions about the work they did for you? It’s just, I get paid according to the paperwork I submit . . . and technically . . .’

‘That’s fine, I understand. It was nothing very earth-shattering, really. This room, the front lounge, and one of the bedrooms upstairs. It’s a new house, so it was in pretty good shape when we moved in, I just like to . . .’

‘Make your mark.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘And did they work well? Turn up on time? Furnish you with a quotation?’

‘Yes, yes, and yes.’

‘And did the final bill tally with the quotation?’

‘Ahm, yes, it did.’ ‘And you settled that bill . . . satisfaction on both sides?’

‘As far as I’m aware. My husband deals with all of that.’

‘Is that him? He’s in the police?’

‘Yes. It’s an old photo. You don’t watch the news very much, do you?’

‘It’s
so
depressing. Ah . . . and a lovely wee Jack Russell. I’m very partial to Jack Russells, they’re so intelligent.’

‘I’m glad you think so. Bad-tempered, I say. Scampi, we called him. My husband doted on him.’

‘He’s . . .’

‘He was knocked down in the summer.’

‘Oh dear. I’m very sorry.’

Jeff was performing well, surprisingly well, yet he was learning nothing we hadn’t already guessed. And with his mobile line already open, there was nothing I could do but hope that he would actually realise himself that he was falling short.

‘Well it’s nice to have a reminder of him.’

‘Yes. A photo is one thing. We also . . .’

It was, however, at this point that fate lent a hand. I heard a door open and shut, and then Mrs McCabe say, ‘Honey, I wasn’t expecting you till . . .’

The Chief Constable, home from protecting Ulster.

‘Finished early. Who the hell are you?’

It didn’t
sound
threatening, quite friendly really. But Jeff must have been spooked, because I could hear the confidence draining from his voice.