Mystery Man 04 - The Prisoner of Brenda

by Bateman

  ‘Please stop saying widow.’

  ‘Absolutely. I apologise.’

  ‘I really need to get back to my family, Sergeant Cuff.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ I said. ‘I fully understand. But just one more thing. Your husband, did he go voluntarily to the hospital, or was he sectioned?’

  ‘He was . . . persuaded to go.’

  ‘By his doctor?’

  She sighed. ‘By his family, by me. But through his doctor.’

  ‘Okay, and just one more thing, as Columbo would—’

  ‘You said the last thing was—’

  ‘What medication was your husband on, Mrs Delaney?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she snapped. ‘He was depressed. He was on anti-depressants. Okay? All right? Jesus!’

  And with that she hung up.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter. I didn’t know what the widow was getting so het up about. It was a perfectly reasonable question. Different medications can affect you in different ways. Some can make you aggressive or violent, they can increase your libido or put you into a vegetative state or bring you out in boils or inflate your testicles to the size of balloons. God knows, I’d tried them all. It wasn’t important to know exactly what had set The Man in the White Suit to murder, because my focus was still mainly on identifying him, but all information is relevant and stored away. It might be required the next day, or thirty years down the line – although, of course, the very notion of me being alive thirty years down the line was ludicrous.

  I examined the second leg of Twix, which I had courageously resisted during my interrogation of the widow. I found it to be exactly as a leg of Twix should be. Satisfied, I then tried to slip it into my left nostril.

  I knew from past experience that it should not fit, but if my nose cartilage really was continuing to grow then it might indeed have widened sufficiently to admit the Twix. It was a pleasant relief, therefore, to find that it was still too large. Content, I returned to the business of Twix consumption and the pondering of The Case of the Man in the White Suit.

  9

  Jeff turned up for work the following morning looking ragged, depressed and sporting an eye-patch.

  ‘Take off that eye-patch,’ I said. ‘You look like a spoon.’

  He said, ‘My exam today did not go well. I am a disaster and a failure.’

  ‘Take off that eye-patch,’ I repeated. ‘You look like a spoon.’

  ‘I have no future. Or my future is here. Working alongside you. Partners in the solving of crimes.’

  ‘You don’t work alongside me, you’re my employee,’ I said, ‘and we are not partners in the solving of crimes. You occasionally give me a hand, though you’re as much of a hindrance as a help. And take off that eye-patch. You look like a spoon.’

  He sighed and took off the eye-patch.

  ‘Put it back on again,’ I said. ‘I can’t have you facing customers like that.’

  His wound was infected and weeping; his eye was still puffed up and half-closed over. It would have been perfect for discouraging charity collectors or people seeking directions, but as I was already in the midst of surfing for more information on my case, I needed him to be at least partially presentable so that in the unlikely event of someone actually wanting to spend some money, he wouldn’t frighten them away to hell or Waterstones.

  Jeff replaced the patch and slipped off his jacket. He leaned his elbows on the counter and supported his head on his bunched fists. He looked down, down, deeper than down, but that wasn’t my problem.

  I turned back to the computer. DI Robinson had told me that the ‘other’ murder had not taken place in the hospital, therefore it had to have taken place before The Man in the White Suit was admitted; it seemed reasonable to assume that he wasn’t talking about something that had happened in the distant past, but much more recently. In days gone by, it might have been difficult for a mere mortal to track down a particular murder in Belfast, because there were so many of them, but we live in a post-Troubles society, and although Ordinary Decent Criminals have emerged en masse since the ceasefires, we are still relatively free of major crimes. Murders, in particular, are rare. The Man in the White Suit had been a guest of Purdysburn for three months; his date of admission was 28 July; it had taken me just a few clicks to discover that on 27 July, barely eleven hours before he entered the hospital, the gangster known as Fat Sam Mahood was stabbed to death at a health club in East Belfast. Instinctively, and also because it was bloody obvious, I knew that this was not a coincidence.

  From behind, Jeff said: ‘The life of a poet is not an easy one.’

  ‘Do you know any poets, Jeff?’ I asked.

  ‘Just because you don’t understand something, you don’t have to belittle it.’

  ‘I’m not belittling it, Jeff. I’m belittling you.’

  ‘You have the disadvantage of not having read my poems.’

  ‘I would not consider it as such. Jeff, poetry is not the answer, not for you. We know poets. They are shits.’

  ‘As opposed to crime writers?’

  ‘Crime writers reflect our society, and they pay their own way. Poets are blood-sucking leeches.’

  Jeff sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘But at the moment, poetry is all I have.’

  ‘Don’t forget where you are, Jeff,’ I said. ‘You have work here. You have Alison, you have me. We’re your family.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ I glanced back at his hopeful, bloated face. He saw the look on mine and his jaw sagged. He looked beyond me to the computer screen. ‘Is that The Case of the Man in the White Suit? Can I help?’

  Normally I would have told him to get on with some book stacking or box openings, but his gob was miserable enough without me adding to it, and so, finally recalling Alison’s advice on empathy, I reluctantly nodded and told him precisely where I was with the case, and what I had discovered.

  ‘Fat Sam Mahood? Who’s he?’

  ‘Fat Sam Mahood is – was – a loan shark who ran protection rackets. He was an enforcer for the paramilitaries, a dealer, a gangster, he was—’

  ‘Fat?’ Jeff ventured.

  ‘Fat, and he was murdered here.’ I had Google Maps up on screen, and indicated the location of the All Star Health Club on the Newtownards Road. ‘While our Man in a White Suit was discovered here, on Seaforde Street, which is just off the Newtownards Road, but about a mile away from the health club.’

  ‘Discovered?’

  ‘The family that lives there were away for the night. They came home in the morning and discovered him asleep in their bed. He’d climbed in through an open window. They called the police, who immediately put two and two together.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘Exactly. Based on a man who can’t say who he is, who has no history, who can’t defend himself. The word “convenient” springs to mind.’

  ‘As in “scapegoat”,’ said Jeff.

  ‘Or “patsy”,’ I said. ‘Or “chump, fall guy, soft touch, sucker, mug, mark, dupe” . . . yes, indeed. We don’t have access to the police, so we don’t know if they have anything else on him. But we have to presume it doesn’t amount to much or they would have charged him. He’s been in Purdysburn for three months.’

  ‘Maybe they’re waiting until he emerges from whatever funk he’s in so that they can question him properly.’

  ‘Funk, Jeff?’

  Jeff shrugged. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘That may be. But our concern, Jeff, is not whether he murdered Fat Sam Mahood or indeed his fellow patient, Francis Delaney, but who exactly he is. That is what we – and when I say we, I mean I – have been engaged to discover.’

  ‘But if he’s innocent and—’

  ‘That is not our brief.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Jeff?’

  ‘Okay. I understand.’ He nodded ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing.’ I clasped my hands. ‘So, where do we go now? Denied immediate access to our man, and
without police cooperation, how do we find out more about him? What would you do if you were in my orthopaedic shoes?’ I gave him the eye.

  ‘Is this some sort of a test?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve just failed my exams. I don’t need another test.’

  ‘Jeff. Jeff. Please. Try and excel at something. Just think.’

  He sighed. He moved a little closer to the screen and studied it. His eyes flitted up to me. I gave him an encouraging nod.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘First off – he’s not from here. I mean, from Belfast, Northern Ireland, is he?’ I raised an eyebrow, meaning for him to continue. ‘Because . . . we are a very small country, and people don’t stay unidentified for very long. If the police are right, and he did murder this Fat Sam, then you would think normally that it must be related to the business Fat Sam was in – something ganglandy, right? But the police here would know most everyone involved in those kinds of shenanigans, wouldn’t they, because either they’ve been arrested or questioned or observed before. So I don’t think he’s involved in local criminal circles. He might have had some kind of personal grudge against Fat Sam, but then we’re back to how come nobody else knows about it or recognises him.’

  ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘So?’

  ‘So he’s from outside of Northern Ireland, and most probably the rest of the United Kingdom, or Dublin or anywhere in the south because he’d be on the radar. Fat Sam was a drug dealer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, for instance, The Man in the White Suit could easily be someone from, say, somewhere in Europe, who came here to do a deal, got involved in a row, and Fat Sam was murdered.’

  ‘Possibly. So how then did he end up in Purdysburn?’

  ‘The trauma of the murder caused some kind of a breakdown.’

  ‘Or . . .?’

  ‘It’s all an act. Is that what you think too?’

  ‘It’s a definite possibility.’ I smiled at Jeff. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. I might make something of you yet.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  It was almost pathetic, his need for approval. Obviously, I ignored his question. Instead I stood up and began to pull on my coat.

  ‘If we cannot speak to The Man in the White Suit,’ I said, ‘and the police in general and DI Robinson in particular do not want us involved and are denying us access to their files, how might we further advance our case?’

  ‘We would go somewhere that involves wearing a coat?’

  ‘Exactly. The All Star Health Club is the one crime scene we do have access to. Agreed?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Jeff reached for his own coat. It was like having a seeing-out-of-one-eye dog, enthusiastic but mostly useless. I said, ‘I appreciate your help in this, Jeff. And the best way for you to help, is to stay here and man the till.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Stay,’ I commanded.

  10

  Obviously, I had never previously darkened the doors of a health club. The very idea of exercising for pleasure literally brought me out in a rash, which, luckily for the young woman showing me around the All Star gym on the Newtownards Road, was largely confined to my nether regions. Jackie was petite, but trim and toned and tanned, with gleaming white teeth. She somehow managed to smile widely as she spoke. She was giving me a tour of the equipment and the pool, and several times asked if I wanted to try out the elliptical trainers, the exercise bikes, the treadmill, the rowing machines, the weights or if I was interested in the range of supplements they had on sale. This latter was the only offer that piqued my interest. I have an interest in pills of all kinds.

  I said, ‘You mean like those steroids that body-builders take and they get huge but psychotic?’

  I nodded across the floor of the gym. The weights were in one corner. There was also a punch bag, which was being punched. There were a lot of big men pumping iron. They were good evidence of the new poverty gripping our nation – unemployed and unemployable, but with enough money to enjoy the benefits of a gym. They were sleek with sweat and oozing testosterone.

  ‘No, I mean vitamins,’ said Jackie. She studied me. ‘Are you okay? You’re . . .’ And she indicated my brow, which was streaming with sweat.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I have the flu.’

  She starting talking about spin classes. The gym was busy enough, there were housewives with ponytails on the treadmills and bespectacled men with big earphones whose physiques were not hugely different from my own pushing up bars set at the lowest possible resistance, but my eyes kept being drawn back to the guys in the corner. It was almost as if they were members of a different club, standing posing and swapping jokes. I did not envy them at all. They were huge, but prisoners of their regime. A few weeks off the weights and they would all droop into fat and flab.

  Jackie said, ‘I’ve loved my time here, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it. I don’t think I could sell something I didn’t believe in one hundred per cent.’

  I said, ‘You sound like you’re leaving.’

  She said, ‘It’s my last day. And I’m really going to miss it.’

  I said, ‘It’s not a very good advertisement, trying to get me to join, when you’re leaving.’

  She laughed. It was a very attractive laugh. ‘I know – but I swear to God, you’ll love it here. The only reason I’m leaving is my health hasn’t been the best, and I’ve gotten another job that isn’t quite so physical. I’m really annoyed about it.’

  She appeared to be the picture of health. If I’d been on a mission from my home planet to take a well-nigh perfect specimen of womanly humanity back for experimentation, she is exactly whom I would have taken. Luckily for her, that was not currently my mission.

  I said, ‘I’m not even a member, and I’m missing you already.’

  ‘Aw,’ she said, ‘that’s really nice. Well, what do you think?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Membership!’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I’m definitely interested. But I’m a little concerned.’

  ‘Concerned?’

  ‘Well, you know – about what happened. I mean, this area, I live here, it’s rough enough, but you want to feel safe when you’re in your shorts, you want to feel relaxed when you’re trying to give it everything . . .’

  ‘Well, I can assure you—’

  ‘He was stabbed, wasn’t he? Fat Sam. Were you here? Did you see the body? What was it like? Was there blood everywhere?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘It must have been bad for business. Did you know him? What was he like? Did he have any enemies? Did he ever threaten anyone?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘You understand my concerns? I’d like to join, I’d really like to join, but not if there’s a possibility I’m going to be in danger, not if someone is going to burst through the doors with a machine gun and start shooting. You never know these days, you just never know. There’s a different gym I could join on the Lisburn Road. It’s further away, but no one has ever been murdered there or stabbed repeatedly.’

  Jackie was working hard to maintain her smile. I had not meant to suddenly assail her with questions, but it had all come flowing out. It was amateurish in the extreme. The only mitigating circumstances were that I had swallowed thirty-six ProPlus in the car park outside. They were only caffeine pills, but I had definitely exceeded the recommended intake by thirty-four. I was in the midst of an experiment. I wanted to know how many I could take before they killed me. It’s always good to know your limits. There was probably some caffeine in the Starbucks coffee as well. I was enjoying my own private spin classes. I was, as they say, fucking flying.

  Jackie said, ‘It was an unfortunate incident, but it was three months ago now, and there’s been nothing since.’

  ‘But I’m just not sure that I’d want to be a member of any club that would have Fat Sam Mahood as a member.’

  The smile assumed the dynamics of resignation.

  ‘We are offeri
ng a significant discount on our membership,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that might help. I’m sorry to go on about the murder, but I presume everyone’s the same. It is fascinating.’

  ‘Yes, they are – and yes, it is fascinating,’ she said. ‘But there’s really nothing I can do but reassure you. It was three months ago. So – c’mon: let me introduce you to Gary, our manager. He’s in charge of dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. If you’ll just follow me.’

  She led me down the stairs. I had to grip the handrail. My eyes felt like they were out on stalks. The pool was visible through glass. There were half a dozen people swimming. I shuddered. It was mostly the caffeine and partly my allergy to chlorine. I do not like swimming pools at the best of times, not to mention the worst of times. The single worst worst of times occurred when I was nine. For a joke, I put inflated armbands onto the feet of my best friend, and then encouraged him to jump into our local pool. Obviously, as soon as he entered the water, his feet rose to the surface but his head sank towards the bottom, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was very funny right up to the point where he drowned. He should have known better. He was a fool. When I say drowned, I do mean drowned. He was clinically dead for eight minutes. He was, eventually, resuscitated, but had to attend remedial classes, although really, seriously, he wasn’t that bright to start with. I have avoided swimming pools ever since. They bring back bad memories of me being blamed for something I did.

  Jackie showed me into a tidy office, with certificates on the wall and a buff man in a shirt and tie behind a desk. There were shelves with various trophies on them. Gary stood up and extended his hand and introduced himself and I hesitantly took it, because with my brittle bones I have to be wary of big manly handshakes. His grasp, however, was surprisingly light. His teeth were very bright. He said, ‘Hello, how are you? Welcome to All Star. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘No!’ I said with a little too much passion, and he glanced at Jackie who probably would have rolled her eyes if I hadn’t been staring at her, unblinking. She backed out of the room.

  I smiled at Gary, who indicated for me to take a seat and said, ‘So, you’re interested in joining our little family here at All Star?’