The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) Read online

  ‘Nobody will ever replace her.’

  ‘As your crime-fighting partner.’

  ‘I don’t need a crime-fighting partner.’

  He snorted, and took off his jacket. This year’s fashion for the young and politically aware student was a bottle-green combat jacket, ragged jeans and Lennon glasses. This year’s fashion hadn’t changed much in forty years. He stashed the jacket behind the counter and rolled up the sleeves of his cheesecloth shirt in what had become a regular charade by implication that he was actually going to do some work.

  ‘So what did the Dick-Headed Man want?’

  ‘The Cock-Headed Man.’

  ‘Dick,’ said Jeff.

  ‘Cock.’

  ‘He’s known all over as the Dick-Headed Man.’

  ‘Cock.’

  ‘Dick.’

  ‘Cock.’

  ‘Dick.’

  ‘Cock.’

  ‘Dick.’

  ‘Cock.’

  There was something oddly hypnotic about our exchange, and it might have gone on for ever if I had not broken the rhythm by suggesting that Jeff would shortly be out of a job if he didn’t agree with me, at which point he conceded that in future we would refer to Billy Randall as the Cock-Headed Man, although not to his face.

  I did not expect the solving of The Case of the Cock-Headed Man to present me with too many difficulties. I had been down a similar path before while investigating The Case of the Fruit on the Flyover, which also involved a graffiti artist making life miserable for those he chose to pick on. The main difference here was that the stakes were higher; it had gone global. It also seemed to me that it was too late to do anything about it. The video was out there and always would be; what Billy Randall wanted was retribution.

  But that was no concern of mine. I was being paid handsomely to track down the culprits, that was all.

  I watched the video through several more times. Simple observation led me to conclude that it had been shot at a billboard on the Annadale Embankment. I very quickly deduced that the actual graffiti artist, Jimbo, was a tradesman. It was the ladders. Everyone has ladders, but usually they’re only big enough to get you up to change a light bulb. These were fully extendable. They could take you right up the side of a large house and on to the roof. It seemed to me therefore that they were professional ladders. There was always the possibility that Jimbo and his accomplice might have borrowed them, but in re-examining the video, I noticed that Jimbo flicked the lever to allow the extension and then switched it back to secure it in its extended position without apparently looking down, suggesting an easy familiarity with their operation, which again suggested that he might do this for a living. So he could be a roofer, a decorator, a satellite installer or perhaps a window-cleaner. And one who very probably lived in the area of the Annadale Embankment, because it seemed to me that they weren’t going to take the trouble of driving or even carrying the ladders across town to carry out their attack. They were going to do it close to where they lived. First of all, because it was easier. Second, if as it seemed they were doing it for a laugh, then they would want their friends to see it – they weren’t going to say, hey, we did this crazy thing, and then expect their friends to travel across town to see it. They’d want to do it right on their doorstep. The fact that they’d deliberately filmed their action and put it on something as international as YouTube didn’t negate the idea that they lived locally. They wanted to be admired by their pals, but also, in this networking era, further afield. According to the site info, the video had been posted by someone with the moniker RonnyCrabs. I presumed this was the cameraman and Jimbo’s partner in crime. Ronny was quite possibly his Christian name, Crabs perhaps his nickname. I was looking for Jimbo and RonnyCrabs. Forgive me tarring everyone with the same brush, but if they were painters or roofers or window-cleaners, then I was looking for a working-class area that abutted the Annadale Embankment. I’d barely been on the case for five minutes and I was already close to cracking it.

  Easy money.

  3

  Jeff made himself scarce as soon as he saw Alison crossing the road to No Alibis. It was dark outside and I was on the point of closing up. If I’d been a trifle quicker I might have managed to bolt the door and pull the shutters down, but she was right in front of me before I could do anything other than open the door and allow her to enter. I gave her the look she deserved.

  She looked around the inside of the shop as if she hadn’t seen it before, then snapped: ‘I’ve come to collect the money for my comics.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I said.

  ‘You owe me money.’

  ‘I haven’t sold any. They clearly weren’t very good.’

  ‘That’s not what you said before.’

  ‘I was just being nice.’

  ‘Well there’s a first. So where are they?’

  ‘I threw them out.’

  ‘You threw them out?’

  ‘I threw them out. You insisted on putting them in the window, even though I’m not a comics shop, and they turned yellow in the sun, so I threw them out.’

  ‘You insisted on putting them in the window because you said they were fantastic.’

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘You’re a miserable little shit.’

  ‘So’s your face.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Neither does your face.’

  ‘You’re a big baby.’

  ‘So’s your face.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Shut up your face.’

  She laughed involuntarily. Then shook her head vigorously. ‘I was laughing at you. You think you’re so funny.’

  ‘Not as funny as your face.’

  ‘You used to love my face.’

  I glared at her, then was thankful for the distraction of the door opening and a woman coming in with a small fat dog on a short lead. She wore a red knee-length coat with a fake fur collar. It had buttons like a duffle coat. It was undoubtedly expensive, but looked cheap. She said, without any introduction at all, ‘You have to help me. Every night when I’m going to bed there’s this man standing at the bottom of my front garden staring up at me.’

  This, as it turned out, was The Case of the Dog-Walking Man, and I was grateful for the distraction of a potential client but also rigid with fear. I’m allergic to dogs. I sneeze and I sneeze. One only has to look me in the eye to set me off. I immediately held my nose. My eyes began to water. I gagged. Alison rolled her eyes.

  ‘What on earth is wrong with you?’ the woman asked.

  I pointed at the dog, and then at the footpath.

  The woman said, ‘He goes where I go.’

  I nodded, and pointed at the footpath again.

  Her lip curled up, but she was in a bind; she needed my expert help. She turned wordlessly and escorted the rat creature outside and tied him up. He looked at me through the glass. He had mean eyes.

  The woman came back in. It wasn’t much relief. Even people who have been around dogs set me off. She should have gone home for a shower and a change of clothes. I sniffed up and rubbed at my eyes. I didn’t like her, instinctively. I don’t like most people, instinctively. There’s a basic difference between clients and customers. Customers buy books because they want to read them. Clients put their smudgy fingers on books and bend the covers and crack the spines while they work up the courage to approach the counter and spill the details of the sordid little cases they want me to solve. This woman was also the second potential client in one day not to even bother with the formality of pretending to peruse the books.

  Alison turned away, as if to study the shelves behind her, but not before I saw, or thought I saw, a tear on her cheek.

  I nodded at the woman. ‘This man?’

  ‘Every night at the same time.’

  I nodded. ‘Would you like to join our Christmas Club?’ I asked. ‘It’s not a prerequisite of me taking your case.’

  Said in such a way that she could have no doubt tha
t it was a prerequisite. This stopped her in her tracks. ‘What are the benefits?’

  Which stopped me in mine. The Christmas Club wasn’t exactly constructed to benefit anyone but me, which might account for the slow uptake in membership. There weren’t even enough members yet to call it a club. I shrugged and said rather vaguely, ‘Money off ?’

  She studied me. ‘Are you in charge here?’

  Behind her, Alison snorted.

  ‘I’m the owner.’

  ‘You’re the private eye?’

  Behind her, Alison snorted.

  ‘Yes. One hundred per cent success guaranteed.’

  ‘That’s impressive.’

  Behind her . . .

  I quickly asked, ‘This man, what does he do?’

  ‘He just looks. His hands are hidden by the hedge. God knows what he’s doing. I just see his head and shoulders. He stares up at me, then he moves along the hedge a wee bit and looks up again. He goes the whole length of the hedge. I don’t know what to do. I told the police but they say there’s nothing they can do until he actually does something, which is like, yeah, useless. But when he looks up, I feel like I’m being molested.’

  ‘Are you naked?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Are your curtains not closed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you peek out?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And he’s still there?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘He’s looking directly at you.’

  ‘Yes. I think so. I can’t really see his eyes. It could be me he’s looking at or just the house. But I don’t like it. He gives me the creeps.’

  ‘Well that’s not right,’ I said.

  ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She was, I suppose, an attractive woman. Late thirties maybe, black hair, shoulder length, her eyes pale blue. ‘It must be driving you mad. Pervert staring through your window like that.’

  Alison had pretty much perfected the art of snorting, but it was less effective now. It just sounded odd.

  ‘So what would you do, and how much would it cost?’

  ‘Well don’t worry about the money, I’ll see you right.’

  Alison . . .

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘No, not at all, I understand completely. It’s very frustrating when nobody takes your concerns seriously. This is what we’ll do. We’ll put him under surveillance, get some shots of the guy in action. Then we’ll track him down to his lair. We’ll find out everything there is to know about him – if he has a family, what he does for a living, if he’s doing this to anyone else, if he has a prison record, if he’s on the sex offenders register. Maybe he’s not a pervert at all; maybe he has it in for your family or bears a grudge; maybe he’s just staking out the property late at night so that he can come back and rob it during the day. He could be up to anything. We could have a quick word, warn him off, most likely you’ll never see him again. But that’s not really getting to the root of the problem. And if he is planning something else, that might just drive him underground. What we need to do is observe, build up a profile, work out what he’s really up to and then we’ll decide the best course of action. There aren’t many quick fixes in this business, I’m afraid, it’s going to take time. But he will be dealt with.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just beat him up?’

  Alison gave it a double snort.

  ‘That’s not what we do. But I can assure you, once we deal with him, he’ll stay dealt with.’

  I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded permanent.

  ‘Alternatively . . .’

  It was Alison, turning from the shelf with a book in her hand. It was The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers, one of the first and certainly one of the greatest spy novels. The author later suffered the most severe literary criticism imaginable.

  My potential client turned to her, a little surprised. I gave her a devastating look. But not so devastating that she noticed.

  ‘Alternatively?’ the potential client asked.

  ‘Well I couldn’t help but overhear. The man at your hedge . . .’

  ‘Excuse me, but I believe I’m dealing with this?’

  She ignored me completely.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘We’re very competitive over these cases, but we do work well together. So let me get this straight. This guy, he stands at your hedge. He looks up at you or the house. He moves along a little bit. He looks up again. Then he leaves.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this is every night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About the same time.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. About eleven.’

  Alison looked at me and shook her head. She smiled again at the potential client. ‘Did you ever consider the possibility that this man might have a dog you can’t see because of the hedge? And the dog stops for a sniff or a pee every few yards, and the man has no alternative but to stand there with him? That he’s not really looking up at your house, he’s just waiting for the dog to finish his business?’

  The woman in the red coat stared at Alison. Her mouth dropped open a little bit. ‘Good God,’ she said, ‘I never even thought of that.’ She looked at me, then back to Alison. ‘You’re good,’ she said, ‘you’re really good. You’re quite a team. That’s exactly what he’s been doing, and I’ve taken it the wrong way. I’ve told half the neighbourhood he’s a perv. I’m going to have to sort that out. How much do I owe you?’

  Alison shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s on the house.’

  ‘But . . .’ I began. Alison raised an eyebrow. The woman looked confused. ‘Would you like to buy a book?’ I asked. It was only slightly less pathetic than shaking a tin at her, but it could mean the difference between three slices of curled-up cooked ham for Christmas dinner and a big fat factory-stuffed turkey. I waved an encouraging hand around the shelves.

  The woman laughed. ‘No, sorry, I don’t read that shit.’

  And then she was gone, out the door, and crouching down by her dog, clapping her hands and talking to him like he had a clue.

  We both stared at the door.

  ‘What a bitch,’ said Alison.

  ‘So’s your face,’ I said.

  4

  Against my better judgement, and tempted beyond reason by Alison’s invitation to Starbucks, I found myself seated in said heaven less than an hour later, sipping a frappuccino – she paid – while attempting to maintain my frown. I have frown lines you could plant potatoes in, though since Alison’s flight they had lain largely fallow. Life was good without her. I had my books. I had my business. I had my customer. And I had my mother. Three out of four ain’t bad.

  I like Starbucks not only because of the wonderful coffee and buns, but also because it is what it is. It does not offer insurance. There is no deal on mobile phones. It does not mix and match, but stays pure, like its coffee. I detest places that try to be all things to all men. In No Alibis you might on a very rare occasion be offered a cup of coffee, but you certainly won’t come in and order one. You come in to buy a book. The clue is in the title: bookshop. A further clue is in the sign above the till that says, This is not a fucking library. Certainly you can browse. Certainly you can read the back cover. But you will be discouraged from actually opening the book and reading. That is like attempting to have sex on a first date. You have to build a relationship with a book. You can’t just plough in. You have to admire it first, you have to nuzzle it and pet it and slowly get to know it. You have to drive it home with that ecstatic sense of anticipation, but not rush it. You have to get rid of your problem children and narking wife and turn off the television and sit in a comfortable chair and then slowly draw it into the night air and carefully, carefully peel back its cover. You must read about the author, you must look at his back list, you must focus with extraordinary concentration on the very first paragraph, because you know, you know very soon if this i
s the one for you. Sometimes authors can be quite deceiving – you read that first paragraph, that first page, and think this writer has nothing to say for himself, there is no personality, there is no vim or vigour, no humour, and you want to give up. Sometimes you are completely right to do so. Other times, if you stick with it, the personality slowly begins to emerge, you realise that this author is no Flash Harry, because anyone can concoct an explosive opening paragraph, but sometimes there is nowhere to go after that. Books are like women. They can be hard on the outside, or they can be soft. They can be fat, they can be thin. They can be funny, they can be serious. They can be utterly demented. There can be lots of sex, there can be no sex at all. Some books might tease you along with the promise of sex but ultimately chicken out. Trying to read more than one at a time can be dangerous. And when you’re finished with a book, you can put it in a box in the attic.

  I am, I suppose, like a literary dating agency. I match people up with the right books. People who have spent years trying to find their author, but are lost, or bitter, scarred by numerous unfortunate encounters, or spinstered off after one early disaster, come to me in desperation, one last attempt before they give up for good. They tell me what they need in a book, and a little bit about themselves. Quite often they inflate their own CVs to make them sound more interesting, better educated. They might say that they are looking for something literary, something laden with numerous broadsheet recommendations, something, God forbid, translated, but it is my job to see through these little acts of foolish bravado, to make them understand that what they think they should be reading is not necessarily what they need. Even within the ghetto we call crime, there have been numerous occasions when I’ve had a customer in the shop saying they want a James Ellroy when I can tell just by looking at them that they will be much happier with a Robert B. Parker. I’m a doctor of crime fiction, and what I’m giving them is a literary prescription. Take one Parker a week, madam, but beware, there is a very real danger of overdosing; under no circumstances attempt to read more than this without first consulting your bookseller.