Mystery Man 04 - The Prisoner of Brenda

by Bateman

  Jeff shook his head. ‘I get what you’re saying, but I don’t get why anyone would be arsed doing it. If they wanted to kill Fat Sam, why not just do it instead of going through all this palaver?’

  ‘Well, who knows? Crazy people will find a reason to do things in a particular way.’

  We looked at the screen for a little bit without saying anything.

  Eventually Jeff cleared his throat and said, ‘This isn’t just about finding out who The Man in the White Suit is any more, is it?’ When I did not immediately respond he folded his arms across his chest and said with some considerable resignation: ‘It always starts like this, with something small and uncomplicated, but pretty soon there are bodies all over the place and I get beaten up. Does Alison know you’re pursuing this?’

  ‘Up to a point,’ I said.

  Jeff blew air out of his cheeks. ‘I only ever wanted to be a poet,’ he said. ‘Not to be involved in murder and mayhem.’

  ‘You chose to work in the book business, Jeff,’ I said. ‘Murder and mayhem go with the territory.’

  He nodded, because he knew it was the truth.

  12

  I had decided that in future the man we had come to know as The Man in the White Suit would be rechristened as Gabriel. It was too cumbersome to refer to him as The Man in the White Suit, and his new name was more appropriate, I thought, what with Nurse Brenda considering him to be such an angel.

  While he, Gabriel, remained out of bounds, and the mystery book business remained flaccid, I had little else to do with my time but to contemplate the business of murder, and in so doing acknowledge what Jeff had already correctly surmised, that solving the mystery of Gabriel’s identity would be a mere footnote to proving who was responsible for Fat Sam’s murder. That would be the real challenge. The murder of Francis Delaney did not interest me so much. I was pretty sure Gabriel was guilty of that. It was the puzzle that was important, always the puzzle, and there was no real puzzle with Delaney. Fat Sam’s death was the mystery. It wasn’t particularly about proving whether Gabriel was innocent or guilty of it, more about showing the world once again how talented I was.

  ‘I know how talented you are,’ said Alison, from the doorway.

  ‘Did I say that out loud?’

  ‘Yes, you did. You were a million miles away. I could have given you a hand job under the counter and you wouldn’t have noticed.’

  I did not much like her talking dirty, particularly with Page in a sling on her chest. I said as much.

  ‘He’s too young to understand.’

  ‘Well, Jeff isn’t,’ and I nodded down at Jeff, sitting cross-legged beneath the counter, sorting through a box of receipts.

  Alison peered over the counter at him. ‘Hi Jeff,’ she said.

  ‘Hello Alison,’ said Jeff.

  ‘You’d notice me giving you a hand job, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  They both should have been red-faced, but it was only me, and Page, who was teething.

  By way of deflecting their focus from my coloured cheeks I said to Alison: ‘Perfect timing, I need your help.’

  ‘There’s a first,’ she said.

  ‘No really,’ I said.

  I explained what I had in mind: that she, and Page, should accompany me to Fat Sam Mahood’s home, so that I could interview his widow. She was, according to the newspaper accounts, a formidable, fiercely loyal woman who, via the judicious use of an elbow, had broken the nose of a reporter who had been hassling her following Sam’s murder.

  ‘You mean you want us to hang around and say nothing.’

  ‘No, I value your—’

  ‘And you think she won’t abuse you because you’re with your wife and child.’

  ‘You’re not my wife,’ I said.

  ‘Yet,’ said Alison.

  It was a statement, and a challenge. Obviously, I ignored it.

  I said, ‘Are you coming or not?’

  She said, ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ and sniggered, and Jeff sniggered too, and my cheeks got redder. ‘I suppose I will come with you then, just out of curiosity. I’ll just sit around and smile – I’ll be your little bit of eye-candy.’

  ‘If you really don’t want to go,’ said Jeff, ‘I can be your eye-candy.’ He said this with the pus leaking out of his eye and drying in a yellow streak down one side of his face.

  ‘You mind the till,’ I said, ‘there’s a good boy.’

  We took the Mystery Machine. There was a child seat in the back. Alison strapped Page in, and then sat beside him. As we pulled out I said, ‘I feel like your chauffeur.’

  In the mirror, Alison nodded.

  After a while she said, ‘Do you not want to get married?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

  ‘I mean to me.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  ‘What kind of an answer is maybe?’

  I shrugged.

  She said, ‘Do not shrug. I’m serious.’

  ‘I’m just trying to concentrate on the driving.’ I was, as well. You have to be careful. Page was asleep. Alison stared out of the window. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘how are you? How’s your mental state generally?’

  Our eyes met in the mirror.

  She said, ‘You’re asking me how my mental state is?’

  I said, ‘I was thinking that maybe you have a wee touch of post-traumatic stress disorder?’

  ‘Do you mean post-natal depression?’

  ‘No, I was there. There was blood everywhere.’ We stopped at lights. There was an old woman crossing the road. I had an urge to crush her. She smiled at me and mouthed thank you. ‘How’s the painting coming on? I haven’t been in the studio in a while.’

  ‘It’s hardly a studio. It’s a luggage room.’

  ‘Well, how’s it going?’

  ‘It’s going fine.’

  ‘Are you working on anything in particular?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you find it therapeutic?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not the one with the problem,’ she said.

  Gloria Mahood lived in a large detached house off the Holywood Road in East Belfast. There was a Porsche and a Lexus in the driveway. There were two trees in the garden, bare for autumn but boasting fairy-lights, waiting for a Christmas turn-on which was still three months away. As we walked towards the front door, Alison said, ‘I do believe you’re getting more human. Normally you prefer to use the phone.’

  ‘She’s ex-directory,’ I said.

  Alison had managed to get Page out of his chair and into her sling without waking him. Now she stroked his brow. ‘If he wakes up, he’ll want fed, and I’ve no bottles.’

  ‘You’re not breastfeeding him while I interrogate someone,’ I said.

  Alison snorted. ‘The very notion of you interrogating someone.’

  The inner door opened, and Mrs Mahood, whom I recognised from her photo in the paper which appeared after the nose-breaking incident, stood before the sliding outer door, which she did not slide. She was a thin woman, with an angular face; she had on a lot of eyeliner and a black dress – lots of jewellery.

  ‘Yes?’ she barked.

  I explained that my name was Stan Dalone, and that I was a private investigator working for the man accused of murdering her husband, and that I would like to ask her some questions. She slid the outer door open and snapped, ‘And why the fuck would I want to answer your questions?’

  ‘Because I don’t believe my client is guilty, and I do believe it is in both of our interests to find out who really is. I’m sure you wouldn’t want an innocent man to go to prison, any more than you would like your husband’s killer to be out there walking the streets.’

  Her eyes had been flitting back and forth from me to Alison. Now they fixed on her.

  ‘And who are you with a baby in a sling?’

  ‘I’m his sidekick, and this,’ she said, patting Page’s head, ‘is my sidekick.’

  ‘Are youse a
pair of jokers or what?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘we’re deadly serious.’

  ‘I’m slightly less serious,’ said Alison, ‘and he,’ she added, patting Page’s head again, ‘doesn’t contribute much.’

  Gloria’s eyes narrowed. She pointed at me. ‘You, I don’t like much. But you,’ she said to Alison, ‘I have more time for. And this one,’ she reached out and touched Page’s cheek, ‘I could just cuddle all day. You may as well come in. My life couldn’t be any more fucked up than it is already. I’ll help you if I can.’

  She turned back into the house. Alison smirked at me and stepped in after her.

  Her lounge was large, neat, modern, with a massive TV and a glass-fronted cabinet with several shelves full of small trophies. She saw me looking at them as she brought in a tray with three mugs of tea on it. She hadn’t asked if I wanted tea. I despise tea. But I said nothing. I was being professional.

  She said, ‘I used to play a lot of darts. That’s where I met Sam, in the Harland and Wolff Welders Club. I was captain of the ladies’ team. He was captain of the men’s. It was quite romantic.’

  ‘Aw,’ said Alison.

  Gloria smiled at the memory of it. ‘Yeah, Sam – he had his moments. Though he wasn’t beyond a knee-trembler up the back alley either. And by back alley, I mean behind the club.’ She cackled suddenly. ‘Oh, we had a laugh, Sam and I. He could be such a sweetheart. Oh, he could put the fear of God into people as well. But I like that in a man.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Alison.

  I said, ‘How aware were you of your husband’s . . . activities?’

  ‘The illegal ones?’

  ‘Were there legitimate ones?’

  ‘Of course. Listen, he was always a scallywag, but in recent years, not so much. He kept his hand in, but we had property too – rental mostly. He was pretty good at it. That’s where our money came from.’

  ‘I imagine he didn’t have a problem with overdue rent.’

  ‘He had his business, and he saw to it. He looked after his family, and when he came home at night, he left the business behind him. We were not blessed with children, but we had a good life together. Marrying him was the best thing that ever happened to me.’

  Alison said, ‘Good for you. My man, over there, is trying to avoid marrying me. He has a commitment phobia, amongst other things.’

  ‘And you with a bairn?’

  ‘And me with a bairn.’

  Gloria studied me. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘There’s no problem,’ I said.

  Alison raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘is alleged to have been involved not only in protection, but in drugs as well.’

  ‘Alleged? No. He absolutely was involved, though God knows he wasn’t very good at it. Seriously. I’ve seen all those articles about what a big dealer he was, but really, he was out of his depth. Honestly? He did some coke in his time, some dope, but once all those new designer drugs hit the market, he didn’t really get them – understand them, you know? I mean, seriously, one day he came home and told me he’d scored a shipment of MBNA and I had to explain to him that MBNA was a credit card, and that he probably meant MDMA. And I only knew that because I read the Daily Mail.’

  ‘What about steroids?’ I asked.

  ‘What about them? Oh – because he was murdered in a gym? I get you. But no. I don’t think so. They weren’t his thing.’ She picked up her mug for the first time and took a sip and then cradled it in her hands. She let out a long sigh. ‘I miss him. I really do. I know what people thought of him, and they weren’t always wrong, but he was different with me, different when that front door closed. He was just a normal bloke then. And sensitive. I know he did things, but that doesn’t mean he deserved to die the way he did. This man they have for it – you really don’t think it was him? When I spoke to the police, they seemed absolutely certain.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s quite possible that he is guilty. The problem is that since the day and hour he was arrested he hasn’t spoken, he hasn’t been identified and nobody knows anything about him. Because of his mental condition he may not ever stand trial for your husband’s death, which means we might never get to see or hear the evidence against him. So the chances are we will never know for sure, and that has to be worrying for you, because it means your husband’s killer could still be out there walking around. I mean, Sam is bound to have made a few enemies over the years.’

  Gloria set her mug down. Instead of directly answering the question, she nodded at the coffee table. ‘Do you see that telephone directory? You could open that at random, and whatever page you’re on you could probably find the names of half a dozen people who would happily have done Sam in. He wasn’t in a business where you made friends. So if you don’t think it was this nut job in the loony bin, then I’m afraid you may be looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  I nodded gravely at her. But inside I was smiling, for they were exactly the kind of odds I loved.

  13

  I stopped outside the house to drop Alison and Page off. I did not get out of the Mystery Machine, or cut the engine. I had work to go to. It wasn’t good to leave Jeff alone in the shop for longer than strictly necessary. He might start offering advice or worse, discounts. But Alison showed no inclination to get out. She looked at the house, at the steps leading up to it, at the split and splintered wooden barrel that had once, many years ago, hosted flowers, at the front door with the light bulb above it that only occasionally worked, the lock that rattled in a slight breeze, and the floors above, the windows where columns of books were clearly visible and the attic where Mother now dwelled, and she shivered.

  ‘I don’t like this house,’ she said. ‘It’s creepy.’

  ‘It’s just an old house.’

  ‘It creaks, and it never really gets warm, there’s no natural light, and it disturbs me.’

  ‘We can discuss double glazing.’

  ‘And your mother hates me.’

  ‘She is what she is. I can’t help that.’

  ‘She’s never liked me, and she despises Page.’

  ‘She just has a funny way with her. She likes you well enough. If she didn’t, she’d probably slit your throat while you slept.’

  ‘That’s good to know. Now I can relax.’

  ‘And she’s just not good with kids. She has no patience, never has had. None of us are perfect.’

  She chewed on her bottom lip. ‘Do you think she tried to kill herself?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes. Probably.’

  ‘What if I go in there and she’s hanging from the banister?’

  ‘The banister is riddled with woodworm, it wouldn’t support a body.’

  ‘We need a place of our own.’

  ‘We have a place of our own.’

  ‘With your mother.’

  ‘She won’t be around for ever. Maybe you should look into insurance policies yourself.’

  I gave her a theatrical wink. She responded with a thoughtful nod.

  I returned to No Alibis. Jeff looked distinctly uncomfortable as I came through the door. He nodded down the shop. We had a customer. Or, rather, we had DI Robinson. He was a customer insofar as he occasionally bought books from me, but I wasn’t convinced that he had a genuine interest in them. I believed he bought them as a way of paying me for my advice on the cases he found too difficult to solve himself.

  DI Robinson glanced at me, but immediately returned his attention to the books. He was wearing a grey overcoat, with a leather man-bag slung over one shoulder. I raised an eyebrow at Jeff.

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ he whispered, ‘about anything.’

  DI Robinson turned and moved towards the counter, behind which I had taken up a defensive position. He had in his hand, I saw, a mint condition copy of Chandler’s The Big Sleep. It was a paperback edition published by Avon Books in 1943 with a cover price of 25 cents. I kept it in a plastic jacket, and on a high shelf. When I was in the shop, I
rarely let it out of my sight. It was worth a small fortune.

  ‘I’m aware of what cops get paid,’ I said, ‘and that’s out of your league.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.’

  He said, ‘I hope it’s insured then. In case something happens to it.’ He tapped the book on the counter. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘I’m always busy.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about this in front of Cyclops or do you want to go somewhere private?’

  ‘I keep nothing from Jeff,’ I said.

  Jeff glowed. He also seeped, which was less endearing.

  ‘Okay, Clouseau,’ said DI Robinson, ‘I want to nip this one in the bud once and for all. I warned you there was nothing for you in this, but that it could get dangerous. I can’t always be looking out for you. I know you were thrown out of the gym. I know you’ve just been to see Gloria. I know you’re trying to figure out who bumped off Fat Sam Mahood, and who killed his sidekick in the mental ward . . .’

  Jeff started to say something. I kneed him, surreptitiously.

  ‘Did you just kick him?’ DI Robinson asked.

  ‘No,’ Jeff and I said together.

  ‘You two are . . .’ He stopped and shook his head at us. ‘And I’ve had enough of it. You’re representing the man in Purdysburn?’

  ‘Gideon,’ said Jeff.

  ‘Gabriel,’ I corrected.

  DI Robinson studied me.

  ‘It’s a codename,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever the hell you want to call him, he’s as guilty as sin. Here, I brought you something. Stick this in your machine.’

  He opened his bag and took out a DVD and waved towards my computer. He was one of perhaps only three people in the world who still called a computer a machine. I obediently took it and slipped it in.

  ‘Security-camera footage from the All Star Health Club,’ he said.

  We are conditioned to expect CCTV footage to be grainy, indistinct, sometimes only in black and white. This was in HD colour. Perfect. It showed the reception area, it showed well-lit corridors, it showed the car park outside and glimpses of the McDonald’s opposite. After about five minutes of watching it I was about to say it also showed nothing whatsoever of interest. Then DI Robinson said, ‘Slow it down here.’