'I want another.'
I smiled.
'My wife couldn't believe it. She'd never seen me even pick up a book, let alone read it straight through, one sitting. I was up till all hours. It was just . . . that Spenser, man, he's good. Is he in all the others?'
'Not all.'
'Oh.'
'Just thirty-five of them.'
'Really . . . ? That's . . . fuckin' brilliant! Are they all as good as this?'
'Some are better.'
'I want them all, I really want them all.'
'And you can get them all, but not all at once. Maybe one a week.'
'I don't think I can wait that long.'
'If you want to find another dealer, that's fine, but I can only let you have one a week. I've had too many clients who tried too many too soon, and it burned them out. One a week, max. The Godwulf was a gift from me, an introductory offer, but I don't give credit. So don't ask. I have Looking for Rachel Wallace here, you want?'
'You know I do!'
'It's an American edition, he's never really taken off over here; it's expensive. But I can do you a deal.'
'Fine, mate, absolutely fine. Gimme.'
'Not so fast, Rolo. Gimme the skinny.'
'The what?'
'Who wanted me warned off, who wanted me beaten up?'
'I did my best, honest to God, but he didn't know.'
'Your agent? How could he not know?'
'It was done by phone; cash arrived in an envelope.'
'That's convenient.'
'I swear. Look at my knuckles. See, they're skinned? I don't normally do the bashin', but this time me mate held him down and I beat the livin' daylights out of him, and that's the best I got. He's telling the truth.'
'You're sure?'
I'm certain. He swallowed three of his own teeth.'
I hesitated. I drummed my fingers on the counter. Then I turned to the shelves behind me and pulled out Looking for Rachel Wallace. I set it down and said, 'That's a fiver.'
He handed it over before I could draw breath. I gave him the book. He was delighted.
'Thank you so much,' he said. 'I can't wait . . .'
'Take your time. Savour it.'
He nodded. He looked up at me, and then around the shelves. 'These are all . . . like this?'
'Rolo, you have no idea what's waiting for you. It will rock your world.'
'Do you think . . .' He hesitated. He even looked quite bashful. 'I don't like to . . . like . . .'
'Just ask, Rolo.'
'Do you think you could ... y'know ... show me ... or guide me ... just I never ... went to school much ... This is just like ... being blind ... and then suddenly you can see, but there's too many colours
'You're dazzled.'
'Yeah. God, like, imagine . . . you get to work in somewhere like this all day.'
'It's my dream job.'
'I never had a proper job. Just doing stuff. Thieving and beating and threatening. I thought that was all there was, but there's more, so much more. Now I get to read about thieving and beating and threatening, it's so much more satisfying.'
'Any time you want to come and look through the books, Rolo, you just come ahead.'
'Really?'
'You want to read a few pages, I'll make you a cup of coffee and you sit there at the back, put your feet up and enjoy. More than a few pages, you're going to have to pay, you understand?'
'Yes, of course
'Odd time, you want to help me shift some boxes, do some rearranging, maybe you could lend a hand.'
'Love to!'
'Can't pay you anything
'Man, I would pay you, place like this, all these books.'
'Well,' I said.
The door opened and Jeff came in. He looked Rolo up and down, clocked the beatific look on his face and mine, and said, 'All right?'
'We're fine, yes,' I said.
He took his jacket off, hung it up, then joined me behind the counter.
'You work here?' Rolo asked.
I snorted.
Jeff said, 'Clearly. Do you want me to take for that?' He indicated Rolo's book.
'I got it already,' I said.
Rolo smiled. He held the book up. 'Can't wait,' he said. 'I'll be back.'
'Leave it for a week, Rolo, you'll appreciate it in the long run.'
'Sure thing. And, uh, you want a hand shifting those books, you know where I am.'
He gave me the thumbs-up. His gaze lingered on Jeff for a moment. Then he left. Jeff watched him closely as he passed in front of the window.
'You see, Jeff,' I said, 'no one is indispensable.'
It's good to keep the staff on their toes, even though I did not, in fact, know how to contact Rolo.
Jeff was staring at me. I said, 'What?'
'I've spent most of the night standing soaked on the river bank letting damp men feel my arse just so I could ask them questions about your shitty case, and you pull that on me?'
He was quite serious. I said, 'Would you ever wise up? I was only raking you.'
'Who is he?' 'Rolo? He's my latest project. Did you ever see Pygmalion?'
'No.'
'Did you ever see My Fair Lady?'
'No.'
'Educating Rita?'
'No.'
'Ever heard of Henry Higgins?'
'No.'
'Eliza Dolittle?'
'No.'
'Okay. Let me explain. He'd never read a book until last night. Now I'm going to turn him into a crime- fiction aficionado, and I'm going to do it in six weeks.'
'Why six weeks?'
'Because I have a short attention span. But never mind him; how did it go? Was it awful?'
'Yes, it was. So I don't need this shit.'
'Hey, relax. C'mon. Spill them, spill them beans. Did you have to kiss a few frogs before you found a stool pigeon?'
'It isn't funny. There were hundreds of them! Their hands were everywhere!'
'It's a little bit funny,' I said.
The tiniest smile appeared. 'No it wasn't... Next time, screw your moss allergy, you're going ...' He sighed. 'The short answer is, and bearing in mind the whole point of them going down there in the dark is the anonymity thing, both Buddy Wailer and Liam Benson stood out sufficiently for several of them to say they were regulars. But nobody admitted hooking up with them or recalled seeing them with anyone else or on the night Liam died.'
'So either they're a couple who fancied a bit of strange or they're using the cruising spot as cover for clandestine meetings.'
'That's about it. So?'
'So?'
Jeff cupped his hand to his ear. 'Do I hear anything?'
'Do you . . . ? Oh. Well. Cheers. Much appreciated.'
'Huh,' he said.
'You weren't, you know . . . tempted?'
'No.'
'Not even a wee bit?'
'No.'
'Is that a love bite . . . ?'
His hand shot to his neck. 'Where?'
We were enjoying Starbucks in the shop. We were talking about a newly delivered box of books. Amongst the highlights were a repackaged Chandler collection and a children's book by Patricia Cornwell called Slice & Dice. Jeff was talking his usual crap, eulogising The Wire, but every once in a while he would break off, and he would look perplexed for a bit and kind of far away, and then he would shake himself and pick up where he'd left off.
Jeff had done a brave thing, putting himself out there, and I would probably never know what part of his soul he had sacrificed to gain what was, it was generally agreed, completely useless information. Nobody had witnessed Liam's murder, nor recalled seeing anything suspicious. It was just too dark. That was the attraction of the towpath.
There was something nagging at me as well, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I stared into my Starbucks. The books needed to be shelved. I was desperate to dip into the Chandler, but some of my customers were particular about their books; they could tell if the pages had been turned, and did not ap
preciate even casual perusal. If I, the owner, read a book first, before putting it out on display, did that render it second-hand? A car surely did not become second-hand if test-driven by a showroom owner. Licking a plum and then putting it back up for sale was a whole different kettle of fish. But if you bought a mackerel and the fishmonger removed the bones for you, and he went on to make a fish soup from the bones, were you within your rights to claim ownership of the soup? And who kept fish in a kettle? And who would drink tea from water boiled in a kettle that had held fish?
Jeff said, 'So how did Alison get on?'
'FUCK!'
'What?'
'I knew I'd forgotten something! Alison! Christ!'
I grabbed my phone. No messages. I stood and pressed my face to the window. Across the road the jeweller's looked as busy as ever. But no sign of Alison.
'You spoke to her this morning, right?'
'I didn't see her this morning!'
'She left for work early, you mean?'
'No! We all split up outside the clinic last night, remember?'
'I thought you guys were more or less living to—'
'Yes! No! Sometimes! I spent half the night watching Yeschenkov's house, I was knackered, I just went on home. She sent a text at about ten saying she was outside Buddy's house, but I presumed if there was anything else to report she'd call. She didn't; I thought she must have gone on home.'
'Without checking in?'
'You know what she's like, she's a law unto herself, she has mood swings!'
'So let me get this straight. You left your pregnant girlfriend outside a suspected serial killer's house, fourteen hours ago, and you haven't heard from her since, knowing full well that she's the sort to go and find things out by herself, no matter how many times you warn her, and the guy she was following has a habit of killing people and keeping their heads in a hatbox?'
I cleared my throat.
'She's not my girlfriend,' I said.
* * *
Chapter 31
I had warned her about going into caves or a haunted houses or the lair of a beast, knowing full well that given the opportunity she would ignore me. I almost expected her to do it. And better her than me. This is exactly why I don't form attachments. You give people advice and the benefit of your experience, yet they almost always let you down. People are a disaster. I should have just stayed in the shop and let her, perhaps literally, stew. God knows I had plenty of other things to be doing rather than racing across the city to rescue her. I had a new project now. Rolo. A blank canvas. When I retired, he could take over. Jeff was an idiot. Rolo I could shape.
'Just coming into Tennyson,' said Jeff. 'You can open your eyes.'
'I have a migraine coming on.'
'We haven't time for a migraine!'
Who did he think he was? He wasn't even insured for the Mystery Machine. If they pulled him in, it would serve him right. Amnesty International would deny knowing him.
Tennyson. East Belfast. Edwardian semis. Showing their age.
'There's her car.'
No trouble parking behind. Most people were at work, or parked in their drives.
'Check her car,' I said.
Jeff went. I studied the gardens. Untidy. Early daffodils. Doorbells. Sellotape, a legacy of Christmas lights. Shrink-wrapped Yellow Pages leaning against doors. Stone cladding. Leaf-stuffed drains. Jeff came back. Got in.
'Locked, no sign of her, her mobile's sitting on the passenger seat.' I could feel his eyes on me. He said, 'You okay?'
I nodded. And then I asked quietly: 'What have I done?'
'What?'
'Nothing.'
I knew she never listened, I knew she was impetuous, I knew she would poke her nose in, I knew everything, and yet I had quite happily sent her on her way. Well. There was nothing I could do about it now. What was done was done. Now all I could do was find out where she was, if she was still living, and if somehow the bookseller and the idiot could pool their talents and work out how to save her.
Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay: THINK.
I scanned the houses on both sides of the road. I pointed. 'It's that one.'
Three doors up from where we were, opposite side of the street.
'How . . . ?'
'She's not going to park right outside, but somewhere that gives her a good view. That narrows it down to three on either side. Whacking is not a full- time job, he doesn't rush out to work in the morning. The Yellow Pages against every door but one. They must have been delivered after people go to work. That house is the only one of the six where the directory has already been lifted in.'
'Is that it?'
I nodded.
'So what do we ...?’
'We wait.'
'Wait for what? We call the police, we raid, we rescue!'
'No. If she's dead already, then we're too late.'
'And what if he's caught her, and he's torturing her or worse?'
I stared at the house. It was unremarkable. As opposed to having a flashing neon sign on the roof advertising the fact that Buddy Wailer, International Assassin and Serial Killer, lives here. There was a car in the driveway. A Vauxhall estate. I made a mental note of the number. It wasn't personalised. A gravel driveway. Crunchy. Difficult to approach quietly.
Curtains closed downstairs and up. Small garden at the rear, another house immediately behind and overlooking.
'We wait.'
'That's all you have to say? Well I'm not sitting here. I'm going to find out.'
He clawed at the door handle.
'No!' He hesitated. 'Okay. Listen. Go next door, lift their Yellow Pages, then knock on his. If he answers just say you're delivering and wanted to check if he has one already.'
'And then what?'
'Then you walk away. We know he's in there.'
'I can't just walk away. If he answers, I'm going in. If he doesn't answer, I'm going in. The short and tall of it is, I'm going in. Man, don't you care?'
There was no simple answer.
Instead I said, 'He's a killer. If you try anything, he will kill you. Even if you had your nunchucks, he would still kill you, and disappear. That's what he does. Storming in there will not help Alison. If she's not already dead, it will speed her demise.'
'Well what, then?'
'One step at a time. Baby steps. Keep your line open and your earpiece in.'
Jeff took a deep breath. Then he got out of the car. He gave a surreptitious glance around before hurrying down the drive of the house right beside us. He lifted their Yellow Pages, stuffed it inside his jacket and retraced his steps. He nodded at me as he passed the van, then continued three doors up, crossed the road and approached the front door of the house I had identified as the lair of the Wailer.
He rang the bell. I slipped further down in my seat. I was determined to preserve the integrity of the crime- fighting service I provide. Sometimes I have to be like an army general, organising, planning and inspiring, rather than actually leading the charge. As attractive as the front line must be, there is not much sense in recklessly exposing yourself to danger or ridicule, because if you are injured or somehow incapacitated it is not merely you that suffers, but the troops, who find themselves rudderless and confused, dejected and demoralised. This is why it was important that I didn't confront Buddy Wailer myself. I didn't yet know if he was merely my enemy, or would become my lifelong nemesis. It would have been foolhardy indeed to have revealed my hand or identity so soon.
When he got no response, Jeff looked back at me and shrugged. I pushed myself up in the seat in order to shrug back.
'Okay then,' he said down the line.
'Jeff, don't do anything rash. Just . . .'
He kicked the door in. One blow. After a pause, I heard, 'Aow.'
Then: 'Going in.'
Then: 'Hall. Nothing. Lounge. Nothing. Kitchen. Table set for three. Stairs. Bedroom, double, unmade. Dresser, make-up, women's clothes, pants, scattered around. Bathroom. Bath. Mirror pa
rtially steamed up.
Second bedroom. Bed made, cold, radiator off, guest room.'
I could see him now, looking across at me from the bedroom.
'It's the wrong house, Sherlock,' he said.
Alison was in the habit of calling me Sherlock. I didn't mind her doing it. I objected to Jeff. It didn't set the right tone for an employer-employee relationship.
'It can't be,' I said. 'Check under the beds.'
He tutted. He disappeared from view. 'Nope, nothing. No . . . wait a minute. I've found them.'
'You've . . .'
'Slippers.'
'Jeff, I don't think
'FUCK!'
He had just reappeared at the window, but he suddenly threw himself down.
'What . . . what?'
'I saw him! The house opposite! He just passed the upstairs window . . . He's gone . . . he's in the hall. He's coming out, man, he's coming out!'
'Okay, Jeff . . . stay calm ... I can't see . . . there's a hedge in the way . . . Do you see Alison?'
'No, just him, zipping up his jacket. He has car keys, going to his garage . . . he's leaving . . . what do we do, what do we do?'
'I'm thinking
'THINK! The garage doors are opening!'
'Okay . . . okay . . . get back here, get back here and you take the van and follow him
'Me? But you're . . .'
'Listen to me! You have to do it! You can drive fast, you have eyesight, it needs to be you. I'll search his house. If Alison's alive, we'll follow in her car; if she's dead, we'll bring in the cops and we'll know where he is.'
'And if she's in the van?'
'Jeff, for fuck's sake, use your initiative!'
'You're always telling me not to
'This is different! Now get out here!'
Buddy Wailer drove past. He was focused on the road. His white van had plenty of room in the back for furniture, bricks, wood, tyres, concrete, vases, books, agricultural machinery, livestock, mirrors, telescopes, water features, national costumes, irrigation equipment, curtains, legal documents, photocopiers, computers, lentils, lintels, lemons, lubricants and lepers. Or Alison and my baby. Two for the price of one.
Jeff was across the road. I jumped out, he jumped in, he took off, I stood there. I was a leader, not a follower. I gave commands. I wasn't being a coward. My instinct told me she was in the house. My instinct is never wrong.
Dr. Yes Page 17
