by Bateman
‘But the police . . .’
‘The police are idiots. The inquest was a nonsense.’
‘And you suspected it wasn’t a suicide immediately?’
‘Yes. And no. When these things happen, even if you have doubts, you tend to listen to the experts. As it turns out, my brother Sean had similar misgivings, but we didn’t realise we were all thinking the same thing until someone else was killed.’
‘Francis Delaney.’
He blinked at me for a moment. ‘No – I mean yes. Francis Delaney worked for us on and off as a casual labourer. I was just at his funeral yesterday, in fact.’
‘I know you were.’
‘But I’m talking about Sam Mahood.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Yes. He was working for us. I understand you’re investigating his murder already.’
‘Not really – but it’s connected to a case I’m working on.’
‘The mental case in Purdysburn.’
Jeff emerged from the kitchen with the coffee for Bernard. He knew better than to make one for me. He handed the mug to him and he took it, turning it slightly so as to better examine the No Alibis logo and Murder is Our Business legend on the side.
‘You have been doing your homework,’ I said. ‘Although I would hesitate to call him a mental case.’
He took a sip of his coffee, but did not look impressed. He set the mug on the floor. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘who are you working for then? Who’s paying you? It can’t be him, because as far as I understand, he doesn’t speak or can’t speak or communicate.’
‘Nobody is paying me,’ I said.
‘Then why would you do it?’
‘Curiosity. I heard about the case and found it interesting.’
‘But you’re really not being paid?’
‘It has its own rewards.’
‘Well, I’m going to pay you to find out what happened to Fergus.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Fat Sam was . . . necessary,’ said Bernard O’Dromodery. ‘He did things we . . . could not.’
‘Muscle,’ said Jeff.
‘We’re in the property business – millions of pounds are involved. People always want a cut of millions. Sometimes you need to deter them. Fat Sam did that. But he was not unnecessarily crude with it. Sometimes a hard stare was all he needed to deliver his message.’
‘Well, he seems to have lost the staring match.’
‘Yes. Indeed.’ Bernard O’Dromodery was in late middle age. His face was saggy and his complexion grey. He took a second sip from the No Alibis mug, and immediately his lip curled up. ‘This coffee is disgusting,’ he said.
‘We’re in the disgusting business,’ said Jeff.
We both looked at him, and Jeff decided it was time for him to return to the counter.
Bernard nodded at me. ‘You know, you don’t do your business any favours by hiring idiots. We discovered that a long time ago.’
‘He’s not an idiot,’ I said loyally, ‘he’s a poet.’ Though in truth, they were one and the same thing. ‘You built the All Star Health Club on the Newtownards Road.’
‘Yes, several years ago.’
‘Did you maintain a financial interest in it?’
‘Yes, but we sold up when the recession hit.’
‘Fat Sam was hitting them for protection.’
‘I didn’t know that till after.’
‘You know about their defixio?’
‘I do, although only recently, which has prompted this. They were looking for an extension to the building, and we were pitching for it. Not something we would normally do, but times are hard. Went there myself, and spotted it, and it spooked me, and I’m not one who spooks easily. We only found our own one by accident. One of our lorries backed into the flower boxes and it crumbled. Driver spotted it and it was brought to me. I kind of laughed it off till the other one turned up at the All Star.’
‘They didn’t appear to know what it was.’
He shook his head. He raised his mug again, and then thought better of it and set it back down, possibly for the final time. ‘Defixio. A curse tablet. It’s just . . . bizarre. All of it is. I know Fat Sam was murdered and that Francis Delaney followed not that long after, but I don’t know if the two are connected by anything other than coincidence. If this was London – I’d say the chances were ten million to one. But Belfast is an incredibly small city – God knows, we built half of it – and you bump into people all the time. So Francis Delaney could just have ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fat Sam was not on staff, he was freelance, maybe one or two days a month; he had no shares in our company, was not privy to our plans nor had he access to our financial information. He was, as your one-eyed friend so eloquently put it, the muscle. As for my brother Fergus, I would be very surprised if he’d even met Fat Sam. Fergus was creative, had a great eye for detail, but he wasn’t exactly hands on. He would have been aware of Fat Sam, and would have realised the necessity of there having to be a Fat Sam, but he would have kept his distance. I honestly cannot think of anything that they had in common, apart from the fact of Fat Sam’s occasional employment.’
‘Murderers,’ I said, ‘can make links that aren’t always apparent. What’s interesting to me, and I suspect it’s the reason you’re here, is that the curse on the defixio isn’t specifically against Fergus. It’s a family curse. That’s what’s keeping you awake nights.’
Bernard O’Dromodery swallowed. ‘That’s exactly it. I am, frankly, terrified and have been ever since this turned up. And also . . . I believe I’m being watched. There’s no evidence of this, no specific instances or places where I can say definitely that there was someone there, I just . . . know it. It’s like that feeling your mother would say was someone walking over your grave.’
He did not know my mother, but he had her desires down pat.
I said, ‘We can all feel a little paranoid.’
From the counter, Jeff snorted.
‘That may be,’ said Bernard O’Dromodery, ‘but I cannot shake it. I once spoke to Fat Sam about how best to protect against attack, and he said if someone wants to get you, they’ll find a way. President Kennedy had all the resources in the world, but nobody thought to check the Book Suppository.’
I decided not to correct him. Life was too short, as his might be and mine definitely would be. The Karamazov stood up, and buttoned his coat.
‘We haven’t discussed a fee,’ I said.
He suggested one. I said that would be fine. ‘Plus VAT,’ I added.
‘I’ll need your VAT number.’ When I did not immediately respond he said, ‘Maybe we can work around that.’
He said he would have the first instalment dropped off. He asked if cash would be okay and I said if he insisted. He nodded and held out his hand. Even though I was loath to do it, what with my brittle bones, we shook. He moved to the door where his bodyguard had stood undisturbed by mystery fans or assassins throughout our meeting. He looked at Jeff, and then at me, and said, ‘Good luck.’
I nodded my thanks, and added, purely to reinforce the paranoia and to keep the pay days coming: ‘Keep your bodyguard close until I sort this out.’
‘He’s not my bodyguard,’ said Bernard O’Dromodery, ‘he’s my husband.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Good one.’
20
Of course, nothing had changed beyond the fact that I was now being paid to do what I was already doing. I would feel no loyalty or allegiance to Bernard O’Dromodery, just a mild appreciation for the manila envelope stuffed with cash which his husband Martin Brady dropped into the shop later that afternoon.
Martin was a large man, confident, rather intense. As I counted the money I subtly interrogated him and learned that he had been married to Bernard O’Dromodery for eighteen months. They lived off the Antrim Road in a large, old house they had lovingly refurbished. They holidayed in Mauritius – ‘Delicious,’ he added. He had dark stubble and a receding hairline, and his h
igh brow was damp with a moisturiser I recognised as Nivea For Men. I do not use moisturiser myself, because of my allergies, but I have made a study of them. He showed no interest at all in our Christmas Club.
I had asked if the marital home had a garden, and he said a small one at the front, larger at the rear. I asked if they employed a gardener, and they did not. I suggested that they do so immediately and that he be instructed to thoroughly dig over every softish surface front or back of their property to determine if a defixio had been buried there. If there wasn’t one, then the available evidence on the modus operandi of the killer or killers suggested that Bernard O’Dromodery would at least remain safe while he was in the marital home.
‘I’ll do it myself,’ said Martin. ‘I’m ex-SAS. I’ve dug for mines before. In Afghanistan. If someone comes for my husband, I will take him down.’
‘I’m ex-Army too,’ I said. He looked at me doubtfully. ‘Salvation,’ I added.
His expression did not change. ‘That’s not a proper army,’ he said.
‘Well, they put the fear of God into most people,’ I said.
Still nothing. He placed his hands on the counter and leaned a little closer. He voice deepened as he said, ‘I’ve killed six people. Two of them with my bare hands.’
I nodded. He nodded. I could never kill anyone with my poor brittle bare hands, but I could do a lot of damage with a tambourine.
His business done and his interrogation over, Martin turned for the door. As he walked past the window, I made sure he wasn’t looking before I gave him a salute. I did not like him. He had no sense of humour, and he was too confident by half. And also, he was a thief.
‘How do you work that out?’ Jeff asked.
‘I counted the money. There’s nine hundred and eighty pounds here in brand new Northern Bank notes.’
‘So?’
‘That means there’s twenty quid missing. Nobody counts out nine hundred and eighty pounds, you would always round it up to a thousand.’
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘Yes. There have been studies done.’
‘Of that?’
‘Of something very much like it.’
‘Maybe he borrowed twenty for car parking or a kebab.’
‘Hardly the point. The fact that he took it suggests he’s untrustworthy. Also, he informed us of how many people he had killed with just a little too much relish. He was warning us as much as whoever’s after his husband.’
‘You read an awful lot into quite a little.’
‘That’s why I’m Belfast’s most successful private detective.’
‘Definitely. And also Belfast’s only private detective.’
I mulled that over. There would probably come a day when there would be another private eye working the sordid back alleys of Ireland’s grandest city. We would vie to be the first to solve whatever heinous crime was outfoxing the police, and when that day came I would prove that I was the best. But for now I had a case to solve, one that was continuing to throw up new and suspicious characters, if not quite suspects.
I did not trust Martin Brady. For that matter I did not trust his husband. I suspected Bernard O’Dromodery’s motives for employing me. He also worried me because he had had no qualms at all about hiring a thug like Fat Sam. He did not strike me as someone who was fearful for his life, but rather as one who could and would throw money at a problem in order to make it go away. For that matter, I did not trust the manager of the All Star Health Club either. He had been paying off Fat Sam and was possibly involved in the supply of steroids. I did not trust Fat Sam’s wife, the dart-throwing Gloria, with her cheap jewellery and casual acceptance of his violent ways. I did not believe what Francis Delaney’s wife had told me about her husband’s depression and admittance into Purdysburn, though I was reasonably sure that she did. And I certainly did not believe Detective Inspector Robinson’s repeated assertions that he already had his man.
I had previously trusted Nurse Brenda, but now I didn’t quite know what to make of her. She was a strong, independent, opinionated woman, yet she was showing such blind faith in Gabriel that I was beginning to wonder if she had an ulterior motive for wanting his identity established. Indeed, of all the players, the only one I had no negative views about at all was currently being held in the high security wing of a mental hospital, accused of two savage murders.
‘Well, my mother used to say, “if you’ve nothing good to say, say nothing”. Maybe Gabriel is keeping quiet because he knows he’s as guilty as sin.’
Alison was in the bath, covered in bubbles. She was drinking a glass of wine. She had two different devices sitting on the rim – a baby monitor, and an iPhone set into a small amplifier. She was listening to our baby’s snuffles in the next room and Bachman Turner Overdrive from a selection of Hits of the Seventies, while at the same time giving her views on recent developments. She could multi-task. I was updating her on those recent events, while at the same time wondering how badly she would be electrocuted if I pushed both devices into the water at the same time. I could multi-task too.
I said, ‘I’ve been around mental-health facilities all my life. They can pretty much tell if you’re faking it.’
‘Did you fake it?’
‘Fake what?’
‘Is that a trick question?’
‘Is that a trick question?’
She smiled. ‘We’re meant to be discussing the case, but you’re mostly studying my breasts.’
I reddened. I had several times made love to her, but mostly in the dark. I had an excessive amount of freckles and other spiny body issues and didn’t like to parade myself. Although I had seen her naked on other occasions, and played with her favoured left breast, I still found it fascinating to observe her without clothes while she was unaware of it. The bubbles only partially covered her. I could not help but look.
‘You are as odd as begot,’ Alison said. She raised her hand out of the water and casually blew along her fingernails. ‘And so easy. Now tell me when you’re going to go and see Gabriel – that’s what you really need to do, isn’t it? He’s the key.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I don’t know. I’m waiting to hear.’
‘You are keeping me up to scratch on this, aren’t you? Just because I’ve had a baby and I’m feeling a bit under the weather, it doesn’t mean I’m disabled, and you’re still looking at my breasts.’
‘You’re still displaying them.’
‘I’m in the bath, trying to relax.’
‘I thought you wanted to discuss the case?’
‘I wanted to have a chat about it. But you’re being evasive.’
‘I’m not being . . .’
‘If they’re that fascinating, why don’t you climb in here with me and we’ll see what comes up?’
‘I would love to,’ I said, ‘but I’m allergic to dead skin.’
Satisfied with my explanation, I turned and left the bathroom.
Behind me I heard her say, ‘There he goes, the last of the great romantics.’
I was in Page’s bedroom. He was fast asleep. The baby monitor was on and I could hear Alison singing a nursery rhyme. I knelt beside it, and lowering my voice and distorting it through the end of an empty toilet roll, I hissed: ‘The Devil will sacrifice this child for His eternal glory.’
Alison stopped singing. She said: ‘Would you ever wise up? And put the kettle on, I’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
21
I sat in the darkness of the front room and worked on my laptop. Alison was in bed. She always went up early. I like sitting in the darkness and looking out. Mother occasionally joins me. Several times we have frightened Alison half to death when she has breezed into the lounge and put the light on and found the two of us just sitting there, watching. But this night I was not much bothered with what was going on outside. I was engrossed in the Belfast Telegraph on-line archive again, rereading the story about Fat Sam’s murder at the All Star. When
nothing new jumped out at me, I returned to the original advertising feature on the health club. There were three other photographs in addition to the one of the exterior of the club, which showed groups of staff members smiling for the camera in their crisp new uniforms. Jackie was there, beaming, and Gary, showing a client a piece of equipment.
Outside, there was a noise.
Sometimes it is difficult to tell, with the tinnitus, and the voices, what is real, and what is not. But something disturbed my concentration enough to make me glance up at the window, and down at the street, our window being elevated. There was nothing moving. I do not wear a watch, as I do not trust the Swiss. But the time on the laptop showed that it was 3.12 a.m. I returned my attention to the screen, and thought some more; and found myself worrying, so I set the machine down and moved to the window for a closer look. It came to me that this was exactly how Bernard O’Dromodery must have felt when he supposed he was being watched. I could see nothing, but that didn’t mean there was nobody there.
I stood there, stock still, for forty-five minutes. Three cars passed, two cats – and one drunk, sobbing woman.
At 4 a.m., I slipped out of the house, down the steps, and removed a dessert spoon from one trouser pocket and a small torch from the other. I was no longer in possession of the Trowel of Hope. We do not have a garden, but we do have a small enclosed front yard which is haphazardly concreted and which features a neglected wooden barrel, which is rotten and split, with the soil spilling out of it and the dead husk of an unidentified plant sticking up. I flicked on the torch and examined the barrel for signs that it had recently been worked upon. Its degraded state, however, made that impossible. So I began to sift through the damp soil with the Spoon of Hopefulness.
I had been working at it for just a few minutes when I heard a noise above me, and I looked up to see Mother staring down from her attic window. She was leaning out a little too far. Her hair was all over the place and she had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth. She was backlit by her bedroom lamp, and looked like the Gorgon.
