‘You just want a couple of gofers,’ Alison said sullenly.
‘No, I want you to be my assistant. And Jeff to be the gofer.’
‘Cheers,’ said Jeff.
‘I don’t mind being your assistant,’ said Alison, ‘if you listen to me, if you take me seriously, if you don’t dismiss everything I say, if you’re not sarcastic, if you don’t belittle me.’
‘Absolutely. Now be a good girl and pop down and get me another mint mocha.’
‘And one for me too,’ added Jeff.
‘You’re funny.’ And before I could say anything, she immediately followed it with, ‘So’s your face.’ She shook her head. ‘This isn’t going to work.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, ‘as long as we agree on the ground rules, and I think you just hit the nail on the head, or lots of nails on the head, or their heads. We listen, we’re not sarcastic, we don’t belittle.’
‘Unless,’ said Jeff, ‘it’s, like, really, really stupid.’
Silence descended.
Alison raised an eyebrow. Jeff yawned.
‘Well,’ said Alison, ‘lead.’
So I did.
For the moment, and until the facts suggested otherwise, I was going with the theory that Billy Randall was not physically responsible for the murders. He liked to depict himself as the nice guy going round to charm Jimbo and Ronny, and then, when he got nowhere, politely excusing himself. But the first time I’d met him, in the shop, he’d been spitting marbles, and even in general conversation he was quite combustible. So he had a temper on him, and definitely a big ego, but these defects didn’t make him a killer. And just because Charlie looked like one, it didn’t mean he was either. But I needed to find out more about both of them, because even though they might be innocent of the murders, it seemed to me that there had to be some kind of a link, that Billy’s paranoia about his business rivals might not be completely without foundation. It also just seemed too pat, too simple, to say that Jimbo and Ronny had targeted Billy just because he was there. I understood that young people liked taking the piss out of ‘the man’, that the YouTube generation loved these kinds of viral annihilations, but in a World Wide Web sense, Billy Randall was very small fry indeed. A campaign against McDonald’s, something that would have resonance from Istanbul to Quebec, I could understand. Picking on a small fish like Billy Randall once might be understandable, but to take it to such a huge audience, to keep reposting the video every time it was taken down, felt like more than just a practical joke. Billy Randall had crossed them in some way and they were out for revenge. Or, there was no previous connection and they had hatched this scheme to extort money from him; they had calculated that Billy Randall’s fortune was intrinsically tied to his image, and that he might pay up to protect it. Perhaps the cock-headed publicity had grown much more quickly than they had imagined and they were now themselves powerless to stop it. Another possibility was that Billy Randall was a red herring. Both Billy and Alison had mentioned that Jimbo and Ronny were into dope; that meant dealers. Or they were dealers themselves. In that part of the city the drugs trade was usually controlled by paramilitary gangs. And the painted-over mural on the gable end of the house suggested at the very least sympathy for or a connection to such paramilitaries. So inter-gang strife. Unpaid debts. A drug deal gone wrong. Or, more mundanely, they worked as painters and decorators – could their day job have brought them into contact with their future killers? Had they discovered something that somebody didn’t want them to know? Was there an argument over a bill that got out of hand, a dispute over a pastel shade or a second coat?
Alison said, ‘Are you finished?’
‘What?’ I blinked at her. ‘Did I say all that out loud?’
‘Duh. Yes.’
I glanced at Jeff. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was . . .’
‘No, I agree with everything you say,’ said Alison. ‘But we still don’t actually know anything. It’s all ifs and—’
‘Conjecture.’
‘So we need to find out. Not sit on our arses.’
‘But it’s what I do.’
‘Yes, I know that. You’re like a cross between Stephen Hawking and Ironside.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it kindly.’
We both looked at Jeff. He was now snoring gently.
Alison took my hand. ‘We have to get on better, for the sake of Rory.’
I laughed and tried to take my hand back. She held firm. She has a good grip, although I do have arthritic joints and wasting muscles.
‘Okay,’ she said, letting go. ‘Plenty of time for that. Let’s concentrate on the case. An action plan. We need to find out more about Ronny and Jimbo. We should go to their funerals. It’s a well-known fact that murderers usually turn up at their victims’ funerals; it’s a kind of compulsion, isn’t it?’
‘In bad movies, yes.’
‘Is this the way it’s going to be: you shoot down every idea I have and yet expect us to champion your own?’
‘No. Not necessarily. Likewise, I don’t see why I should have to support every bad idea you have just to give the impression that I’m being impartial and unselfish. Besides, if we were to go to the funerals, Marple is going to be there, and if he sees us, that will only reinforce his conviction that we’re somehow involved.’
‘Well that’s his worry, surely? We’re trying to crack this case ourselves.’ Alison smiled slyly. ‘If you didn’t like that one, you’re going to hate this one.’
I sighed. ‘What.’
‘We need to take a look at the murder scene. Their house.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Just no, not even a why?’
‘No, Alison, because last time we got into all kinds of trouble.’
‘And it helped us solve the case.’
‘Last time we just about got away with it because it was right next door to us, there was an odd smell, and that was a quasi-legitimate reason to go hoking about. This would be burglary and contaminating a crime scene. And it’s in a dodgy part of town. It’s all kinds of things.’
‘Makes going to the funeral seem a lot more appealing, eh?’
‘No.’
‘Look, I was there before. They worked out of their home, so all the paperwork relating to their business is going to be there. Think how much fun you can have going through that looking for clues. You’ll be in your element.’
‘No.’
‘One or the other.’
‘Neither.’
‘So it’s your way or the highway.’
‘No. Yes, in this case. And also, I am not calling any child of mine Rory.’
It was out, when I meant it to stay in. Of course she realised the importance of it immediately. She smiled.
‘You saw what I did there,’ I said.
‘You acknowledged that it’s your child.’
‘It was a slip of the tongue.’
She was still beaming. ‘Do you want to see the scan?’
‘No. If you insist.’
She removed the scan from her handbag and held it out to me. Just as I was about to grasp it, she yanked it away.
‘Cemetery or house?’
‘Neither. Don’t be childish.’
‘Okay.’
She held it out. Then pulled it away just as I touched it.
‘Choose one.’
‘No.’
‘Choose one or the other.’
‘I said no.’
She showed me the scan, but facing away from me. ‘Do you not want to hold your son? Rory.’
‘Just give me the scan.’
She sighed. ‘Spoilsport.’ She held it out again. Then whipped it away. ‘Cemetery and house, both of them. Now I’m playing hardball.’ She teased me with it again.
‘I will jump on you and pin you down,’ I warned.
‘In your condition? You’d break.’
; ‘I have one good thrust left in me.’
‘Nope, I think I had that one. So what’s it gonna be?’
She taunted me with it, but this time as I made a grab and she jerked away, Jeff’s arm suddenly shot up and he ripped it out of her hand. ‘Jesus!’ he snapped. ‘Will you two give over? You’re like two kids! Here – does this help?’
He tore the scan in half.
Then again.
And again.
It was only small to start with.
He threw confetti made out of my child into the air and let it rain down over us. ‘Happy now?’
We both just stared at him. For about five seconds.
‘You . . .’ I said.
‘You . . .’ said Alison.
‘You . . .’ I said. ‘You . . .’ said Alison, and then burst into tears.
I took her hand and glared at Jeff. ‘You’ve just . . . torn up . . . the first scan . . . the only scan . . . of our baby . . . you stupid . . . stupid . . . shit.’
‘Oh,’ said Jeff.
‘You’re sacked,’ I said.
‘Now fuck off,’ said Alison.
It was a rare instance of unity in our relationship.
It couldn’t possibly last.
16
Jimbo and Ronny’s bodies having not yet been released to their respective families for burial meant that for the moment breaking into their house was the only one of Alison’s suggestions that I could reluctantly go along with. It was the only way I could think of getting her to stop crying. She appreciated the gesture, and also the fact that I now had to organise the January sale at No Alibis without Jeff to assist me. I told her I wasn’t aware that I was having a January sale and she said I was now. She had ideas for the business, she said. There could easily have been a fight, with slaps and screams, at that point, but I thought it better to let snivelling dogs lie.
Which meant that that very night, with the Mystery Machine being adjudged too stand-outish, we drove back to Marston Court in Alison’s Beetle. It wasn’t exactly blendy-inny either, but at least it didn’t have Murder Is Our Business etched on the side. If it had been up to Billy Randall, he would probably have corrupted my slogan to Murder Is Our Business, So It Is, Mate to better connect with his people.
We parked around the corner from the crime scene and sat in darkness. The street lights were broken. Typical. I don’t mind the dark, it’s a great equaliser. But here at Marston, there was something quite oppressive about it. Perhaps it was the images of dead soldiers staring down at us from the gable wall, or the fact that they were hiding something more sinister, both within and without. It was the area too. In the old days Mother, even if she could hardly afford to eat, would have spent half the day on her hands and knees polishing her front step; around here they expected the Government to polish their steps for them. Poverty these days was not being able to afford all of the premium channels.
‘You’re very cynical and such a snob,’ Alison said.
‘Did I say that out loud?’
‘Of course. Sometimes you need an editing facility.’
‘So does your face.’
‘Please don’t start.’
‘I’m just saying. It used to be that religion was the opiate of the masses. Now it appears to be Sky.’
She sighed.
‘In my day,’ I continued, ‘watching the Christmas lights wink on and off was about all the entertainment we could afford. And they were next door’s lights.’
‘Not your day. Your house. Your weird house with your lunatic mother and mysterious father. Still, at least you emerged unscathed.’
She was, obviously, trying to wind me up, and she was good at it, but I was too nervous to take the bait, although admittedly, it’s sometimes difficult to tell the difference between nerves and my irritable bowel syndrome.
It was a little after ten p.m. For a while there had been a gang of teenagers on the opposite corner, but they dispersed without dragging us from our car and taking it for a joyride. Then Rottweilers and boxers got walked by asexual figures in puffa coats and hoods. There was an interesting contradiction here as well, in that each time one of the animals stopped to do its business, their owners very responsibly produced plastic bags to pick up the poo. But of the four we observed, two of them merely walked a little further along, checked to see if anyone was watching, then chucked the plastic bag either into the closest garden or thrust it into a hedge.
Alison was quite outraged by this, and would have been out of the car remonstrating with them about their lack of public responsibility if we hadn’t been about to commit burglary on a slaughterhouse.
There was no ‘right’ time for doing it, or right method. We would try and gain access from the rear. Three things were in our favour. It wasn’t the sort of area where any houses had burglar alarms, the lack of functioning street lights and the fact that locals were quite used to the sound of breaking glass.
‘A snob and patronising,’ said Alison.
There was no crime-scene tape. The experts had done their work and left. The house was in complete darkness as we approached. We moved along the gable wall and into an alley. A brittle-looking wooden fence hid the back yard from prying eyes, but the door in it wasn’t locked. We slipped inside and closed it behind us. We crossed damp and cracked concrete flags. I pulled the sleeve of my jumper down over my hand, and tried the back door.
‘Optimist,’ said Alison.
It was locked. She opened her bag and took out a hammer.
‘Christ,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what’s called going equipped for theft. They could arrest us now. Without the hammer we can just say we’re lost or curious.’
‘Uhuh,’ she said.
She lined the flat end of the hammer up against a small square of glass parallel to the door handle and gave it the gentlest tap. I could tell by the slight cracking sound that she’d broken the pane, but it did not shatter or fall. She was able to gently prise the glass on two sides of an invisible crack apart, and then remove both from their frame.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I observed.
Alison shook her head. ‘I am practised,’ she said, ‘at peeling eggs. It’s the same principle. The less violence the better.’
I put my covered hand through the gap and felt for the lock; a moment later we slipped into the kitchen.
We were a good team, I had always thought that.
Alison switched on the kitchen light.
‘Shouldn’t we just use a torch or . . .’
‘Nope.’
She opened the kitchen door and entered the living room. Seeing that the curtains were already drawn, she switched on the main light.
‘Isn’t . . .’
‘If it looks like we’re sneaking around, we’ll be rumbled; this way it looks like we’re supposed to be here. People will think we’re police.’
‘But the police won’t think we’re police.’
‘Pessimist.’
There was a very strong smell of disinfectant. It reminded me of a hospital. I am allergic to hospitals. I began to gag. Alison gave me a disdainful look and started hoking round. From what we knew of the murders, I had expected there to be bloodstains everywhere, perhaps chalk outlines and dusting powder for fingerprints, but the room appeared much as it had in Alison’s photograph – cluttered, a little untidy, but pretty much as if someone had gone to bed without tidying up, rather than the scene of a savage double murder. It was a relief. Blood makes me faint, as do severely cold temperatures, rotting fruit, tulips and injustice.
Alison tutted as she moved to the corner of the room. There was a desk with a leather swivel chair and beside it a small filing cabinet. The top of the desk was notable for being clear but for a dust-free rectangle in its centre.
‘Is your master plan in tatters because they’ve taken the computer?’ I asked.
‘Shut up.’ She reached for the top drawer of the filing cabinet. She pulled it open. It was empty.
‘Is there a plan B?’ I asked.
‘You’re the big private detective, what’s your frickin’ plan?’
‘Well,’ I said.
‘Thought not,’ said Alison.
‘Well, actually. I’m comparing what I already knew from your photo with what I find here. Apart obviously from the absence of Jimmy and Ronny and the computer.’
As she joined me, I moved off to the kitchen.
‘So?’ she called after me. ‘I don’t see any difference. And what’re you looking for in there and has it anything to do with what you think is missing in here? Mystery Man, are you listening to me?’
I came back into the doorway. ‘I haven’t sneezed.’
‘What?’
‘What am I allergic to?’
‘Everything.’
‘When we were out the back, there was no smell of pee. Usually there is. Damp weather like we have tonight usually makes it more pungent.’
‘What are you . . .?’
‘And then in the kitchen, no bowl on the floor, that’s fair enough, a neighbour might be looking after him, but you’d expect there to be some food in the cupboards. Do you see what I’m driving at?’
Alison gave me a look. ‘The Jack Russell?’
‘Yes, the Jack Russell. I’m allergic to dogs, you know that.’
Alison folded her arms. ‘Oh this will be good, I’m sure. Wait, let me try and second-guess you. The Jack Russell being a witness to the murders is now on the run scared for his life. We have to bring him in so he can identify the murderer by barking once for yes that’s him and twice for he looks a bit like that but not quite, maybe try him with a beard. Or maybe Marple has him banged up in some canine Guantanamo Bay; maybe he’s being denied a doggy lawyer; maybe the late lamented Jeff ought to start a campaign to get him released.’
‘Finished?’
‘Yes. Okay. So how does the bloody dog being missing contribute to our understanding of the case?’
I shrugged. ‘I was only pointing out a difference. I don’t see that it contributes anything to the solving of the case.’
The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) Page 8
