Dr. Yes

by Colin Bateman

  'No. What?'

  'A head. A head in the box. My man, he scream, and he get outta there, and he tell no one, no one but me, and not till he drunk.'

  'Why didn't he inform the ...?’

  "Cos he scared. He tell the police, maybe he get to be hero for half an hour, and then they send him back cross the border or worse, plus he scared shitless Buddy Wailer come lookin' for him, and next thing, his head in a box. Me? I curious. I talk to people, I ask the questions, this guy with a head in the box, and I find out he does whacks, that's what he does, he does whacks and he thinks it funny to keep their heads in a gift box. That sick? Or that scary? Buddy Wailer, tall, thin, head in a box Buddy Wailer, he creep me out. He does whacks, that's what he do, his job, he whacks people and that scares the crap outta me.'

  Manuel Gerardo Ramiro Alfonzo Aurelio Enrique Zapata Quetzalcoatl hung up.

  I looked at Alison, and she looked at me, and in a rare moment of unity we said, 'Fuck!' together.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  'Well,' I said, 'that's the end of that case.'

  'Absolutely,' said Alison.

  'I'm never even thinking about Augustine Wogan again.'

  'And I don't give a ripe fig if Arabella is pushing up daisies or taking it up the arse from some toyboy in Rio.'

  'I don't care if I never see Pearl Knecklass's ample bosoms again.'

  'Sugar tits can bugger off.'

  'I'm quite happy selling my books. There's not a big living in it, but there's enough for me and my family.'

  'And I'll still bring in a little extra from the jewellery, though I do intend to be a full-time mum. I can work from home, I can do like costume jewellery parties. It doesn't have to be jewellery either. It can be Avon or Kleeneze or sex aids. On the whole I prefer sex aids. Metaphorically speaking.'

  We leant on the counter, facing each other.

  'Whacks,' I said.

  'Whacks,' she said.

  'Soon as he said whacks, I knew it was over, we don't need that.'

  'Not with little Orinoco on the way.'

  'Not with little Bulgaria on the way.'

  'Not with little Tobermory on the way.'

  'Not with little Bungo on the way.'

  'Not with little Wellington on the way.'

  Alison's eyes narrowed. So did mine.

  She said, 'Are you done?'

  'Nope.'

  'You are done. You're bluffing.'

  'You forget, I have total recall.'

  'Why are we talking Wombles when we should be talking whacks?'

  'Because I'd rather talk Wombles than whacks. No one was ever killed by a Womble, though they did murder a few songs.'

  'Madame Cholet,' said Alison, raising her fist triumphantly.

  'Madame Cholet,' I agreed. 'And also?'

  'There is no other.'

  'Tomsk,' I said.

  'Damn, you're good. When civilisation crumbles and anarchy prevails, your knowledge of 1970s children's television programmes will surely see us through.'

  'Was there a television version? I was talking about the books by Elisabeth Beresford. The first one appeared in 1968 and subsequently—'

  'Let's get back to the whacks, and what we're going to do. This is serious.'

  'Of course it's serious. But I thought we'd decided what we were going to do.'

  'No, we discussed it, we didn't decide. I'm not sure if we can just drop it. I don't know why anyone would ever need a can of worms - maybe it has something to do with fishing - but we seem to have opened it. They, whoever they are, must know that we've been looking into this, which would appear to me to make us fair game if they're still in the market for whacks. And maybe we should stop saying whacks.'

  'What would you prefer? Execute? Assassinate? Just plain murder is as good as any. We need to walk away. We don't need this. We need to let them know that we've dropped it.'

  'So how do we do that, an advert in Whack Weekly?'

  'We let it be known. I slip it to Pearl.'

  'Metaphorically speaking.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Never mind. What if it's not Pearl?'

  'Then we tell Dr Yes himself.'

  'And how do you do that without getting us deeper in the shit? He'll be worried that we know something and are just holding off, intending to blackmail him later. He might still say, let's play safe and whack them. He'll phone up Buddy Wailer in Vegas and say, I have another job for you, those pesky amateur detectives need whacked.'

  'I wouldn't say we were amateur.'

  'You wouldn't? I don't mean amateur as in crap, I mean amateur as in it isn't our primary way of making a living. We're like Nick and Nora Charles.'

  I looked at her. I beamed. 'You know Nick and Nora?'

  'Doesn't everyone?'

  'No, my dear, everyone doesn't.'

  'We are meant for each other. We could call him Asta.'

  'A dog name rather than a Womble name? I think you might have stumbled on to something. Ah, The Thin Man. When crime was crime, and the killer just killed people; he didn't worry about making a suit out of their skin.'

  'Simpler times,' agreed Alison.

  'Except who said Buddy was in Vegas? Who says he's not down the road bunked up in a hotel, waiting for orders? It's only a couple of days since Augustine was offed. Maybe Vegas is too hot for him anyway; maybe he's moved over to this side of the Atlantic. Maybe the exchange rate is better. Certainly the exchange rate is better. There's no VAT on books, and there's certainly none on murder.'

  I sighed. I rubbed at my head. I had the beginnings of a migraine. I'd had the beginnings of a migraine since 1973. Sometimes it developed. Sometimes it didn't. It could go one way. Or it could go the other. Stress didn't help, but I lived in a perpetual state of it. Mostly it was caused by the state of the independent bookshop business. Then it was the internet. Lately it had been downloads. Buddy Wailer was added stress. I didn't need it. I couldn't do anything about piratical downloads, but I could do something about Buddy Wailer.

  We drummed our respective fingers.

  Alison said, 'You know what we're coming to?'

  'Pretty much.'

  'Far from walking away from this, we need to walk towards it, and quicker.'

  'We need to solve it before it solves us.'

  'We need to find Buddy Wailer, connect him to Dr Yes, and connect Dr Yes to Augustine, and all before Buddy Wailer whacks us.'

  'We don't know that he's looking for us.'

  'We don't know that he isn't.'

  We nodded.

  'No time to waste,' I said.

  'I'm on flexi. I'm all yours. You have a plan?'

  'I have a plan.'

  'Do you want to put it up before the committee?'

  'Nope.'

  'Good. I like a man who knows what he's doing.'

  'Uhuh.'

  'Uhuh what?'

  'I'm waiting for something sarcastic. Or caustic. Like, I like a man who knows what he's doing, and when I meet him I'll let you know.'

  'You have a very low opinion of me.' 'And vice versa.'

  We sneered. But there was a hidden smile behind them.

  'We're a perfect match,' said Alison. 'Lead on, Nick.'

  'After you, Nora.'

  'Where are we going?' she asked.

  'Starbucks is as good a place to start as any.'

  'Thought so.'

  Halfway up the road I said, 'I'm not naming our baby after a dog.'

  'Damn right,' said Alison.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  The plan wasn't a hugely complicated one. The Mystery Machine, the No Alibis van, with its chalk outline of a body on the side and Murder is Our Business to go with it, was hardly appropriate for staking out the premises of Liam Benson, freelance photographer - news, corporate and public relations. We were instead settled in Alison's red Volkswagon Beetle. Liam had a smallish office on the corner of a newly built unit in a business park in the Titanic Quarter. Belfast had about sixteen
of these quarters, which was good for the city but bad for anyone still grappling with the fundamental basics of maths.

  The unit and surrounding business park was busy enough that we could sit in the car park and keep an eye on the comings and goings from his office without being noticed, except there wasn't much in the way of comings, or goings. We saw Liam Benson - his picture was right there on his website - returning from lunch, unlocking the door and going in. Over the next hour we saw him passing a window a couple of times, but mostly he was out of sight. He didn't appear to have any staff.

  Alison asked three times what we were doing besides watching a building, and I told her truthfully that we were there to talk to Liam. But my loins needed to be girded. And I had to catch my medication at the right time. Too soon after cramming it all into my mouth and washing it down with Vitolink and I'd be buzzing; too long after swallowing and I'd be dozing. That's not to mention the suppositories. They're difficult to take at the best of times, let alone while sitting in a tiny car with a pregnant woman watching you. They're roughly the same size as artillery shells. And quite often they have the same effect.

  Alison said, 'I'm going to get you off all that shit, and soon.'

  'Good luck with that,' I said.

  She didn't know the half of it.

  Then we saw her. Pearl Knecklass, going into his office, and Liam Benson at the door, letting her in. Her heels alone would have gotten her to base camp on Everest. Her tartan skirt rode just north of decent.

  'Walks like a hooker,' said Alison.

  'Walks like an Egyptian,' I said.

  We both hummed it for a bit, and did the hand movements. We were still dancing when Pearl emerged five minutes later. She climbed into a Porsche on the far side of the car park and reversed out of her space at speed. Her tyres squealed as she took off. When she hit the road, she also hit a speed bump, at speed. She was in a hurry, or a bad mood, or both. It was time to speak to Liam.

  We tried to open the door to his office, but it was locked. We rang the bell. His face appeared. He had a goatee beard and small brown eyes. His hair was receding and he'd a ponytail at the back. Men with ponytails should be shot. He wore a black suit with a white shirt, open at the neck.

  He said, 'Sorry, I'm closed for lunch.'

  He was nervous, sweaty.

  Alison said, 'We were looking at your website, think we need some PR, some good photos; we were up at our wholesalers - we're in jewellery - realised you were just around the corner, thought we'd call on the off chance.'

  'Well, really, you need an appointment.'

  I nodded and turned away.

  Alison said, 'Excuse me?' to him.

  He said, 'Excuse me, what?'

  'Is this how you treat potential clients? Are you so fabulously wealthy in this time of recession that you can turn valuable business away just so that you can eat your lunch? Here we are on your very doorstep, no hard selling to be done, ready to be impressed, money to spend and you're just giving us the brush- off? Well if you ask me, you don't deserve to—'

  He jerked the door open fully and cut in with:

  'You're absolutely right, it was unbelievably rude of me, I don't know what I was thinking of . . . Please, please come in

  Before I could move forward, Alison said, 'I'm not sure I want to now.'

  'Really, I do apologise . . . Let me show you what I can do, please . . .'

  'I don't think I'm in the mood any more.'

  'And it goes without saying I can offer you a discount for your inconvenience. Right away. Ten per cent.'

  'Try twenty.'

  He smiled. So did Alison.

  'Fifteen.'

  'Okay. You have a deal. Now all you have to do is impress us.'

  Alison winked at me as she stepped through the door. She thought she was very clever. But she wasn't half as clever as I was. I hadn't even opened my mouth, and I was already on the inside. One hundred per cent less effort, for the same result. Who's clever now, you tubby cow?

  The offices were modern, spacious and minimalist. There were framed black and white photographs, one on each wall: sports stars caught in action, yachts battling massive waves, an injured civilian in rubble.

  'Take these?' Alison asked.

  'Sure did.'

  'They're very good. But they're news photographs. We're looking for something more commercial, something that sells a product.' 'Not a problem. I have a number of business and corporate clients who demand exactly that. You're in the jewellery business? Whereabouts?'

  'Botanic Avenue,' said Alison. I sighed. 'We're part of a group. You do group discount as well?'

  'I'm sure we can work something out. Botanic? Whereabouts? I'm up and down there all the time.'

  'Up near the top. Or the bottom, depending on which way you're coming.'

  'Think I know where you mean. There's a bookshop just across the road? No . . . something . . . ?'

  'Alibis,' said Alison, helpfully.

  'Yeah. Funnily enough, I'd a wrong number for there earlier on. Small world, eh? Ever been in there? Wandered in one day a few months back, there's this old bag behind the counter scared the life out of me.'

  'She's gone,' said Alison.

  'She was one horrible-looking individual.'

  'Retired,' said Alison.

  'She'd had like a stroke or something and was all drooly out of her mouth and she could barely speak. Frightening.'

  I hated the old gorgon, but she was my old gorgon. One more word from him, and he'd be in my ledger.

  'Accused me of shoplifting. And then said I flashed her. One mad old bitch.' He turned suddenly to look at me. 'And what have you got to do with it?'

  'The bookshop?'

  He looked at me. Funny.

  'The jewellery business. You're very quiet.' 'I'm the silent partner.'

  He studied me.

  'Silent but deadly,' said Alison. 'I do all the talking, but when it comes to the deal, he takes no prisoners.'

  'Better than you? I'll remember that.'

  'Or I could be bluffing,' said Alison. 'Anyhoo, like I was saying, we were looking at your website; you list some of your satisfied clients. Would they back you up if I called them?'

  'Back me up? You're very suspicious.'

  'These days you have to be. We've been ripped off before.'

  'By a photographer?'

  'Jewellery thieves, but who's to know? So we could call them?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'What about those ones with the foreign name ... ?' She looked at me. 'Which ones were they?'

  'The Yessomething Clinic.'

  The Yessomething Clinic, they were the only ones we'd heard of. What do you do for them?'

  'Yeschenkov. PR work. The other companies are probably more representative of what I—'

  'They do all that nippy-tucky stuff, don't they? Do you do, like, before and after shots?'

  Liam shifted uncomfortably. 'To tell you the truth, I can't really tell you what I do for them. They're extremely private. Everyone who works for them has to sign a confidentiality agreement.'

  'Why?' I asked. 'What have they got to hide?'

  He studied me anew. 'Hide? Nothing. But they have a lot of famous clients, and they don't necessarily want that information out there. Privacy is a big thing in the plastic-surgery business. It's also part of their express makeover service that they provide before and after shots for their clients, and, also, between you and me, for insurance purposes in case the clients aren't happy and they decide to sue.'

  'Does that happen often?' I asked.

  'Not that I'm aware of.'

  'Met anyone really famous?' Alison asked.

  'I'm sorry, I can't say.'

  'Can't say or won't say?' I asked.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'It's only between us. It might swing the deal your way.'

  'You haven't even seen my portfolio.'

  'If you're good enough for Dr Yes,' said Alison, 'you're good enough for us. Go on, who have y
ou seen? Someone famous who looks like a Martian with her make-up off?'

  'Look I'd love to, but I can't. They're really serious about it. In fact, I just had one of their directors in here about ten minutes ago scooping up my last job. They don't even let me keep the digital negatives.'

  Pearl. A director of the company. I gave Alison a nod. It was a prearranged signal. Time to ramp things up.

  'You ever do any work for Buddy Wailer?'

  Liam's mouth dropped open slightly, and his cheeks reddened.

  'How do you know Buddy Wailer?'

  'How do you think we know him?' Alison asked.

  'How do I ... ?' He was confused. We had turned the tables. And half a dozen chairs. 'I don't... I mean ... I told you I signed a ... I can't talk about Buddy Wailer.'

  'Can't or won't?' I asked.

  'What? How do you know about him anyway? What's it got to do with jewell…What's with all these questions anyway? You know something? It is lunchtime, and you don't have an appointment, and I don't like being quizzed . . .'

  'We can do it here, or we can do it down at the station,' said Alison.

  Whatever had caused his cheeks to colour up now made it drain away.

  'You're ...?’

  'No, but it's where we're headed if we don't get the right answers.' She looked so soft and malleable, yet she could be as hard as nails. 'If I were you, I'd spill the beans while you still can.'

  'Yeah,' I added.

  He looked at me. He looked at Alison. He said, 'What the fuck are you playing at?'

  'Not playing,' I said. 'You were at the Xianth gallery in Dublin with Dr Yeschenkov and Arabella Wogan.'

  'I ... no, that wasn't . ..'

  'We want to know about Buddy Wailer,' said Alison.

  'And the whacks,' I said.

  'Who the fuck are you?'

  'We are employed by the estate of Augustine Wogan,' said Alison.

  'And the late Arabella Wogan,' I added.

  'Fucking hell!' His hand reached back and flicked nervously at his ponytail. 'I . . . look, okay, I don't know who the hell you are, maybe you're just doing your job, but there's nothing I can tell you. They've warned me, and frankly they're scarier than you are. You want to know about Buddy or any of that whack shit, you have to ask the clinic. It has nothing to do with me, I was only doing my job . . .'