Jeff said, 'What's villanelle?'
'Jeff, I'd really rather not
'Just tell me.'
'Okay. But don't try to take it all in at once, all right? The villanelle has nineteen lines, five triplets with a closing quatrain. Two refrains, used in the first and third lines of the first stanza, and then alternately at the close of each stanza until the final quatrain, which ends with the two refrains. There's also an a-b alternating rhyme to think about in the closing lines.'
Jeff was silent for a long time. Then he blew air out of his cheeks and said, 'Fuck.'
I nodded sympathetically. 'I think the reason I chose string instead of rope was that subconsciously I wanted to have another go at the villanelle. It's a real mind- fucker, Jeff.'
'I didn't figure you for a poet.'
'I'm not. I wasn't. I just don't like being defeated by things.'
Eventually he said, 'Thanks, I appreciate the advice. They're not bad people.'
'Most of them are gay,' I said.
He nodded along, but it was as if he wasn't really listening, lost in his own thoughts, at least until his head suddenly jerked towards me. 'Gay?'
'Kind of goes with the territory.'
'Oh. I hadn't really ...'
'But you're comfortable enough with . . . gay.'
'Yes, of course.'
'You mix quite freely with them.'
'Them?'
'I don't mean it in a derogatory way. I mean as a social group.'
'Yes, of course.'
'But you're not yourself.'
'I'm not myself? I'm not myself gay? No, I'm not, although it shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter.'
'Absolutely not. Where I grew up, Catholics were treated the way Jews were treated in Nazi Germany. Times have changed. It's a good thing. But human nature doesn't change, and the lower orders always need someone to blame and hate, and as we don't hate Catholics any longer, gays are the new Jews, as Jews were the local Catholics.'
'You lost me somewhere around Germany.'
'Belfast is not a forgiving place. We have tidied it up with bells and whistles, but it's still as hard as nails. Gay men congregate on the Lagan towpath at night for sexual congress.'
'They do?'
'They do. Now, there are two of us in the van, watching a building. It should, technically speaking, only take one of us. So although I appreciate the company, you're not helping in the slightest.'
'Oh. I thought I was. I went and got Starbursts.'
'Opal Fruits,' I said.
'Starbursts.'
'Opal Fruits. They were created as Opal Fruits; just because some marketeer changes their name, it doesn't mean that they aren't still Opal Fruits. Same with Marathon and Snickers.'
'I went and queued in Starbucks, and that's about half a mile away. And I went back for your muffin.'
'You forgot the muffin, that's why you went back.'
'I went back is the point.'
'And it's appreciated. But do you want to know how you could really help? You could really help by popping along the towpath and talking to some of the men you'll find there.'
'You mean where Liam was found?'
'Where Liam was murdered. There are questions that need to be asked.'
'You want me to go along there in the dark, and start talking to complete strangers, about a murder, when one of them could quite easily be the murderer, and I myself might get murdered.'
'Nobody said crime-fighting was easy.'
'It's easy enough sitting in a van.'
'Jeff, we all have our jobs to do. I'm watching the building, I'm watching for Dr Yeschenkov; you should be happy to be off pursuing other lines of enquiry, fresh leads, part of the team again, but all you can do is complain about your eye and try to hide your homophobia.'
'What?'
'It's quite clear to me, Jeff, that despite all your protestations, despite your claiming to be open-minded by working for Amnesty International and hanging around with poets, you are actually rampantly homophobic
'That's just ridic—'
'Soon as I mentioned the towpath, you just bristled
'Because a murderer . . .'
'. . . with disgust, and now you're saying that they're all potential murderers
'I never...'
'. . . tarring them all with the same brush, just because the murder happened in a notorious cruising spot. Where does Amnesty International stand on the persecution of gays, Jeff? What would they think of you going around daubing unclean, unclean on their houses, or deriding their life-style choice as corrupt and dysfunctional and nauseating
'I didn't...'
'I need you to go down, Jeff, down along the river bank, and ask the questions that need to be asked.'
'I didn't say I wouldn't go, I just said it's dark, and dangerous . . .'
'It's dark and dangerous for them too, Jeff. Yet they're there every night. Don't you think it's hard for them? A murder has been committed, and yet they can't help themselves, slaves to their abhorrent compulsions.'
'Abhorrent?'
'Isn't that what you're thinking? You have to conquer this, Jeff. Get down there. They are perfect witnesses; what they do, and where they choose to do it, means they do it with their eyes open. They are watchful, fearful of discovery, their eyes are accustomed to the dark; they are bats, Jeff, they have radar, they are homosexual bats with radar. Gaydar.'
'But I don't even know what I'm asking them.'
'Them?'
'I didn't mean . . .'
'You know what to ask . . . did anyone there see anything unusual? Did they see or know Liam Benson? Was he a regular? If he was, did they also know or see Buddy Wailer? He's a harder call. All we know about him is that Manuel Gerardo Ramiro Alfonzo Aurelio Enrique Zapata Quetzalcoatl says he's thin, real thin, and tall, real tall. He smokes cigars.'
'Tall, thin, smokes cigars.'
'Yep.'
'Tall, thin, smokes cigars.'
'Yes.'
'Tall, thin, smokes cigars.'
'Jeff, for Jesus' . . .'
'Tall ...' Jeff nodded forward. 'Thin.' He nodded again. 'Smokes cigars.' I was about to snap at him again, but he snapped first. 'Will you fucking look over there?'
I looked, at the really tall, really thin man carrying a large circular box just approaching the Yeschenkov Clinic. He hesitated by the door and took a final puff on his cigar, before throwing it down and grinding it out with his foot.
* * *
Chapter 27
There are a lot of very tall, very thin men about. Otherwise there probably wouldn't be a need for a shop in downtown Belfast called Very Tall, Very Thin Men. The market for very tall, very thin men who smoked cigars was somewhat smaller. The market for very tall, very thin men who smoked cigars and carried boxes like the one this very tall, very thin cigar- smoking man carried, round like a hatbox with a ribbon on top, was probably minuscule.
Buddy Wailer, for it was almost certainly he, entered the Yeschenkov Clinic, and the moment he was through the door I had Jeff scampering across the road to retrieve the remains of his cigar. I would have done it myself, but my scampering days are long gone.
He had it bagged and back to the van in less than a minute. I do not routinely carry evidence bags with me. I had tried to order them over the internet, and the internet had tried to overcharge me. Yes, proper bags come with tamper seals, sequential numbering, security stitching and usage logs, but they are £75 for two hundred, plus VAT, whereas freezer bags from Asda cost only £1.65 for eighty plus 93p for a magic marker. And people wonder why the police are always whining about being over budget.
Jeff closed the door, secured his seat belt as I prefer him to do, even when stationary, and handed me the bag. I squinted around the bold Asda lettering to examine the cigar, and more importantly the tip of it. Yes, indeed. Somewhat squashed, but definitely a V- cut, and with the DNA of a killer attached. I didn't need an expert to tell me it would be a match for that found on the cigar rammed into
Augustine Wogan's mouth after he had been murdered.
Well, yes, I did need an expert to tell me that, but really, he would just be confirming what I already knew. He might have his degrees and his banks of sophisticated scientific equipment, but I had my incredible powers of deduction, all based on the knowledge gleaned from reading ten thousand volumes of crime fiction. Agatha didn't need DNA to tell her who the killer was in Ten Little Niggers. I had a copy of the book under lock and key. A Collins Crime Club first edition from 1939. She had been forced to change the title to Ten Little Indians because of political correctness. And then the next PC wave had forced her to change that to And Then There Were None. It was and is a crazy, mixed-up world.
I hadn't told Jeff about the hatbox in my summation of the case to date, but now I did, and the colour drained from his face.
'A head? A human head?'
'No, Jeff, a giraffe's head. Yes. Of course.'
'But why?'
'Giraffes are harder to come by. I don't know. But serial killers quite often take souvenirs from their victims. Usually it's a piece of clothing, or maybe a lock of hair. A whole head is a bit extreme, but not unheard of.'
'Is that what he is, a serial killer? I thought he was like a hit man?'
'Well what's a hit man but a serial killer with an agenda?'
'But what's he doing going in there with his hatbox thingy?'
'Because his killing spree isn't over.'
'But ...'
'There's always a but with you, Jeff.'
'Yes, but ... he didn't take Augustine's head, or Liam's head.'
'Perhaps he didn't have the time or opportunity. Maybe he only takes heads he finds aesthetically pleasing. Maybe the head thing is a red herring, or an urban myth. It might just be a hatbox with a hat in it. Perhaps we should ask him.'
'He creeps me out.'
'He's just a man.'
I was only saying that to keep Jeff's spirits up. Fact was, Buddy Wailer scared the Shinola out of me too.
What kind of a sick individual would carry his victim's head about in a hatbox? Was he collecting, or delivering? And after ignoring the warning to keep our noses out of Yeschenkov business, were we next on his hit list? Was he going to need extra boxes, one of them slightly larger than average? Would he preserve our heads in formaldehyde or pickle them in vinegar? Would he suck the brains out of the nostrils or remove the crown and eat them? A shiver ran through me. And at that exact moment there was a sudden hammering on my window.
I yelled.
If Jeff hadn't been restrained by his seat belt, he would have jumped clean through the window in his attempt to escape.
Behind me the back door was flung open.
I yelled, 'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO .. .!'
And Alison's face beamed in. 'Guess what! Passed my MOT!'
Jeff buried his head in his hands. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking hell! Don't do that!'
Alison climbed in. 'Don't do what?'
'THAT!' I shouted.
She laughed. 'Jesus, man, take a chill pill.'
I took a deep breath. When I had recovered sufficiently, I explained to her why we were so upset. She said, 'Oh. Well, I still think your reaction was a bit extreme. You screamed like a couple of schoolgirls.'
Jeff and I fumed, united.
Up ahead, Dr Yeschenkov emerged from the clinic. He paused on the top step while he answered his mobile phone. Even from a distance, he had a lot of bright teeth. Passing cars were flashing at him to turn them down a bit.
'Okay,' I said, 'here's where it gets interesting.' It was time to take command, show them exactly why I was the boss and they the munchkins. 'Jeff, head for the towpath; it's dark enough now for incognito fumbling. Alison, back to your car, wait for Buddy to emerge, then follow him back to his lair. I'm going after Dr Yes. Understood?'
'Swell,' said Alison, 'leave me to the murderer why don't you?'
'I don't want you to rugby-tackle him, I just want you to tail him. You can do that, can't you?'
'I suppose.'
'And when I say tail, I don't mean right into his house. Agreed?'
'Agreed.'
'Alison, I'm serious. We've all watched the same movies, and we've all groaned at the same point when she sees him leave his digs and decides to break in and nose around. Everyone but the stupid cow knows he's just gone round the corner for a pint of milk and a Topic, and that he'll be on his way back in a minute and then she's going to get trapped in there with him. So do me a favour, just follow. You're three months pregnant; don't do anything you'll regret later.'
'Like sleeping with you?'
'Just go.'
Dr Yeschenkov was in his car now, and reversing out of his space.
'You all know the drill. If there's anything interesting going down
'Be wary of that on the towpath, Jeff,' said Alison.
'. . . call me, keep the line open, wear your earpiece. Stay safe.'
Jeff got out, grumbling. 'It's a long walk from here to the towpath.'
'Then run.'
Alison leant forward. She put a hand on my shoulder. I stiffened. I don't like human contact at the best of times.
Her mouth moved to my ear. She whispered: 'Honey?'
'What?'
I don't like anyone whispering in my ear. The ear is like an express tunnel into the brain. And the mouth contains more bacteria than any other part of the body. Whispering is tantamount to spitting a disease into the cerebral cortex.
But I was prepared to make an exception for sweet nothings.
Her voice was husky. She said, 'I don't mind you treating Jeff like an idiot, but if you keep it up with me, I'll fucking brain ye.'
She smiled pleasantly and exited the vehicle.
* * *
Chapter 28
You're probably thinking, Dr Yeschenkov in his sleek Porsche, capable of nought to sixty in five seconds, or six seconds, or seven seconds, or eight seconds, or nine seconds, and me in the Mystery Machine, capable of very little; how was I ever going to keep pace with him? But I had several things in my favour that allowed me to follow at a respectable distance and not once lose sight of him. One was the fact that he drove dead slowly. Another was that he was still on the call he'd started on the steps of the clinic. A third was the common knowledge, even to an American interloper, that post-Troubles Belfast cops have little to do with their time and are always on the lookout for boys and their fast toys.
There was a light spring rain. Neon reflected off the tarmac on Great Victoria Street. The Grand Opera House gleamed. The National Trust's Crown Bar invited in the gullible. Dr Yeschenkov turned down a side street and emerged on to Bedford Street, opposite the Ulster Hall. Three doors up, the glass-fronted Forum International. He pulled into the set-down-only area and got out. He smiled at a doorman in a top hat and beige livery and breezed into the foyer. He was carrying what looked like a medical bag.
I parked a little further down Bedford. I checked in with Alison. No sign of Buddy. I called Jeff. He was out of breath. He complained about the rain. I locked the car and walked towards the hotel. The doorman gave me a look and I said, 'Wet night.' He grunted. I walked into the foyer. No sign of Dr Yeschenkov. Plush carpets. Muzak. Reception straight ahead, elevators to the right, restaurant also to the right, plush sofas and chairs on the left, a twirlygig stuffed with leaflets promoting shows and tours, concierge at a desk beside it.
I walked over and sat down opposite him. He looked to be about thirty, black suit, black poloneck, and goatee beard. He said good evening and how could he help me, Belfast accent, working class but on the make. It was a big hotel. He had no way of knowing if I was a resident or not, short of asking.
I said, 'Is it true what they say about concierges?'
'Sir?'
'You want something, anything, twenty-four hours a day, you're the man to see.'
'Within reason, sir.'
'What kind of reason?'
He had been sitting back; now he leant forward, elbow
s on his desk, hands clasped. 'Why don't you tell me what you're looking for and I'll see what I can do?'
'You can be discreet?' 'The soul of.'
'The soul of discreet?'
'Of discretion.'
'Concert tickets?' 'Absolutely.'
'At a premium?'
'At a discount.'
'Dodgy seats behind the mixing desk?'
'Front row.'
'VIP party afterwards?'
'If humanly possible.'
'At a premium?'
'At your discretion. Who do you want to see?'
Dr. Yes Page 15
