Dr. Yes (18 page)

    The
unit and surrounding business park was busy enough that we could sit in the car
park and keep an eye on the comings and goings from his office without being
noticed, except there wasn't much in the way of comings, or goings. We saw Liam
Benson - his picture was right there on his website - returning from lunch,
unlocking the door and going in. Over the next hour we saw him passing a window
a couple of times, but mostly he was out of sight. He didn't appear to have any
staff.

    Alison
asked three times what we were doing besides watching a building, and I told
her truthfully that we were there to talk to Liam. But my loins needed to be
girded. And I had to catch my medication at the right time. Too soon after
cramming it all into my mouth and washing it down with Vitolink and I'd be
buzzing; too long after swallowing and I'd be dozing. That's not to mention the
suppositories. They're difficult to take at the best of times, let alone while
sitting in a tiny car with a pregnant woman watching you. They're roughly the
same size as artillery shells. And quite often they have the same effect.

    Alison
said, 'I'm going to get you off all that shit, and soon.'

    'Good
luck with that,' I said.

    She
didn't know the
half
of it.

    Then
we saw her. Pearl Knecklass, going into his office, and Liam Benson at the
door, letting her in. Her heels alone would have gotten her to base camp on
Everest. Her tartan skirt rode just north of decent.

    'Walks
like a hooker,' said Alison.

    'Walks
like an Egyptian,' I said.

    We
both hummed it for a bit, and did the hand movements. We were still dancing
when Pearl emerged five minutes later. She climbed into a Porsche on the far
side of the car park and reversed out of her space at speed. Her tyres squealed
as she took off. When she hit the road, she also hit a speed bump, at speed.
She was in a hurry, or a bad mood, or both. It was time to speak to Liam.

    We
tried to open the door to his office, but it was locked. We rang the bell. His
face appeared. He had a goatee beard and small brown eyes. His hair was
receding and he'd a ponytail at the back. Men with ponytails should be shot. He
wore a black suit with a white shirt, open at the neck.

    He
said, 'Sorry, I'm closed for lunch.'

    He
was nervous, sweaty.

    Alison
said, 'We were looking at your website, think we need some PR, some good
photos; we were up at our wholesalers - we're in jewellery - realised you were
just around the corner, thought we'd call on the off chance.'

    'Well,
really, you need an appointment.'

    I
nodded and turned away.

    Alison
said, 'Excuse me?' to him.

    He
said, 'Excuse me, what?'

    'Is
this how you treat potential clients? Are you so fabulously wealthy in this
time of recession that you can turn valuable business away just so that you can
eat your lunch? Here we are on your very doorstep, no hard selling to be done,
ready to be impressed, money to spend and you're just giving us the brush- off?
Well if you ask me, you don't deserve to—'

    He
jerked the door open fully and cut in with:

    'You're
absolutely right, it was unbelievably rude of me, I don't know what I was
thinking of . . . Please, please come in

    Before
I could move forward, Alison said, 'I'm not sure I want to now.'

    'Really,
I do apologise . . . Let me show you what I can do, please . . .'

    'I
don't think I'm in the mood any more.'

    'And
it goes without saying I can offer you a discount for your inconvenience. Right
away. Ten per cent.'

    'Try
twenty.'

    He
smiled. So did Alison.

    'Fifteen.'

    'Okay.
You have a deal. Now all you have to do is impress us.'

    Alison
winked at me as she stepped through the door. She thought she was very clever.
But she wasn't half as clever as I was. I hadn't even opened my mouth, and I
was already on the inside. One hundred per cent less effort, for the same
result. Who's clever now, you tubby cow?

    The
offices were modern, spacious and minimalist. There were framed black and white
photographs, one on each wall: sports stars caught in action, yachts battling
massive waves, an injured civilian in rubble.

    'Take
these?' Alison asked.

    'Sure
did.'

    'They're
very good. But they're news photographs. We're looking for something more
commercial, something that sells a product.' 'Not a problem. I have a number of
business and corporate clients who demand exactly that. You're in the jewellery
business? Whereabouts?'

    'Botanic
Avenue,' said Alison. I sighed. 'We're part of a group. You do group discount
as well?'

    'I'm
sure we can work something out. Botanic? Whereabouts? I'm up and down there all
the time.'

    'Up
near the top. Or the bottom, depending on which way you're coming.'

    'Think
I know where you mean. There's a bookshop just across the road? No . . .
something . . . ?'

    'Alibis,'
said Alison, helpfully.

    'Yeah.
Funnily enough, I'd a wrong number for there earlier on. Small world, eh? Ever
been in there? Wandered in one day a few months back, there's this old bag
behind the counter scared the life out of me.'

    'She's
gone,' said Alison.

    'She
was one horrible-looking individual.'

    'Retired,'
said Alison.

    'She'd
had like a stroke or something and was all drooly out of her mouth and she
could barely speak. Frightening.'

    I
hated the old gorgon, but she was
my
old gorgon. One more word from him,
and he'd be in my ledger.

    'Accused
me of shoplifting. And then said I flashed her. One mad old bitch.' He turned
suddenly to look at me. 'And what have you got to do with it?'

    'The
bookshop?'

    He
looked at me. Funny.

    'The
jewellery business. You're very quiet.' 'I'm the silent partner.'

    He
studied me.

    'Silent
but deadly,' said Alison. 'I do all the talking, but when it comes to the deal,
he takes no prisoners.'

    'Better
than you? I'll remember that.'

    'Or I
could be bluffing,' said Alison. 'Anyhoo, like I was saying, we were looking at
your website; you list some of your satisfied clients. Would they back you up
if I called them?'

    'Back
me up? You're very suspicious.'

    'These
days you have to be. We've been ripped off before.'

    'By a
photographer?'

    'Jewellery
thieves, but who's to know? So we could call them?'

    'Yes,
of course.'

    'What
about those ones with the foreign name ... ?' She looked at me. 'Which ones
were they?'

    'The
Yessomething Clinic.'

    The
Yessomething Clinic, they were the only ones we'd heard of. What do you do for
them?'

    
'Yeschenkov.
PR work. The other companies are probably more representative of what I—'

    'They
do all that nippy-tucky stuff, don't they? Do you do, like, before and after
shots?'

    Liam
shifted uncomfortably. 'To tell you the truth, I can't really tell you what I
do for them. They're extremely private. Everyone who works for them has to sign
a confidentiality agreement.'

    'Why?'
I asked. 'What have they got to hide?'

    He
studied me anew. 'Hide? Nothing. But they have a lot of famous clients, and
they don't necessarily want that information out there. Privacy is a big thing
in the plastic-surgery business. It's also part of their express makeover
service that they provide before and after shots for their clients, and, also,
between you and me, for insurance purposes in case the clients aren't happy and
they decide to sue.'

    'Does
that happen often?' I asked.

    'Not
that I'm aware of.'

    'Met
anyone really famous?' Alison asked.

    'I'm
sorry, I can't say.'

    'Can't
say or won't say?' I asked.

    'I'm
sorry?'

    'It's
only between us. It might swing the deal your way.'

    'You
haven't even seen my portfolio.'

    'If
you're good enough for Dr Yes,' said Alison, 'you're good enough for us. Go on,
who have you seen? Someone famous who looks like a Martian with her make-up
off?'

    'Look
I'd love to, but I can't. They're really serious about it. In fact, I just had
one of their directors in here about ten minutes ago scooping up my last job.
They don't even let me keep the digital negatives.'

    Pearl.
A
director
of the company. I gave Alison a nod. It was a prearranged
signal. Time to ramp things up.

    'You
ever do any work for Buddy Wailer?'

    Liam's
mouth dropped open slightly, and his cheeks reddened.

    'How
do you know Buddy Wailer?'

    'How
do you think we know him?' Alison asked.

    'How
do I ... ?' He was confused. We had turned the tables. And half a dozen chairs.
'I don't... I mean ... I told you I signed a ... I can't talk about Buddy
Wailer.'

    'Can't
or won't?' I asked.

    'What?
How do you know about him anyway? What's it got to do with jewell…What's with
all these questions anyway? You know something? It is lunchtime, and you don't
have an appointment, and I don't like being quizzed . . .'

    'We
can do it here, or we can do it down at the station,' said Alison.

    Whatever
had caused his cheeks to colour up now made it drain away.

    'You're
...?’

    'No,
but it's where we're headed if we don't get the right answers.' She looked so
soft and malleable, yet she could be as hard as nails. 'If I were you, I'd
spill the beans while you still can.'

    'Yeah,'
I added.

    He
looked at me. He looked at Alison. He said, 'What the fuck are you playing at?'

    'Not
playing,' I said. 'You were at the Xianth gallery in Dublin with Dr Yeschenkov
and Arabella Wogan.'

    'I
... no, that wasn't . ..'

    'We
want to know about Buddy Wailer,' said Alison.

    'And
the whacks,' I said.

    'Who
the fuck
are you?'

    'We
are employed by the estate of Augustine Wogan,' said Alison.

    'And
the late Arabella Wogan,' I added.

    
'Fucking
hell!'
His hand reached back and flicked nervously at his ponytail. 'I . .
. look, okay, I don't know who the hell you are, maybe you're just doing your
job, but there's nothing I can tell you. They've warned me, and frankly they're
scarier than you are. You want to know about Buddy or any of that whack shit,
you have to ask the clinic. It has nothing to do with me, I was only doing my
job . . .'

    'What
job, what were you doing?'

    'I
can't tell you! I just take pictures, that's all I do, anything else is ... I
can't talk, okay? I signed up; they pay me, take it up with them. Now I think
you'd better go. Please.'

    He
strode across to the door. He held it open, his knuckles white, and didn't look
at us as we moved towards it.

    Alison
went through first. I stopped in the doorway. I took out my wallet and selected
a business card. I held it out to him. He showed no inclination to take it. So
I tried to tuck it into the breast pocket of his jacket, but it was one of
those ones with the pocket already stitched closed. Forcing it open ruins the
shape of the jacket. I knew it for a fact. I had half a dozen of them at home.
Every time I cut the stitches I thought the result would be different. It never
was. But I would never give up trying. I thought about pushing the card into
the top of his jumper, or slipping it behind his ear, but they were both a
little overfamiliar, so I just showed it to him and then let it flutter to the
floor.