Mystery Man (17 page)

The meat cleaver belonged to my father.

He wasn't a butcher.

He just had an interest in cleaving meat.

Leaving affairs of the heart to one side, it was around this time that Alison showed that she was more than just a pretty face by proving her worth as a sidekick through her contribution to the solving of a mystery I have called
The Case of the Missing FA Cup.
This case was not quite as glamorous as it sounds, but it does illustrate that sometimes the fairer sex can provide something unique: a woman's
intuition.
You don't learn that at detective school. Although I would undoubtedly have solved the case entirely by myself, Alison's involvement certainly speeded it to its conclusion.

It began, as these things do, with me buzzing another unlikely-looking customer into No Alibis. I had taken to keeping the door locked when I was alone in the shop; it just allowed me a few seconds to take a good look at whoever wanted in, in case they were of an unsavoury type: an obvious drunk, a begging Romanian or anyone in Nazi regalia. I am a good judge of character (perhaps that is one reason why I despise myself) and on this occasion the man pressing the buzzer appeared harmless enough. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, in a banker's suit and carrying a considerable amount of weight. His cheeks were flushed from walking and his black hair sat damp against his forehead. He nodded thanks when he came in and immediately began to examine the shelves opposite the counter. I knew he wasn't really interested in the books because he was looking straight ahead instead of inverting his head to one side to read the spines.

I said, 'Can I help you with anything?'

Normally I hate people who approach me in shops like this, because if I wanted help I'd bloody well ask, and because invariably those who do approach aren't really the slightest bit interested in what
you
want, but are pushing something or other that they've been instructed to push, or are on commission or know nothing about the product itself but everything about the insurance policy they insist you have to have because the item in question is bound to blow up in your face. I'm different, obviously, in that I offer what might once have been called a bibliographical bespoke service, because if you don't
know
mystery it can be a minefield.
You can't judge a book by its cover
isn't a cliché for no reason. Every book
claims
to be the greatest thing since sliced bread because no publisher is going to put 'distinctly mediocre' on the cover even if it's a fact; I have to provide some kind of quality control, because a returning customer is a happy customer, and a happy customer is a returning customer.

'Actually, it's not really a book I'm looking for.'

'Oh, okay,' I said, and then knowingly added, 'I also sell mugs with reproductions of classic Penguin covers. A tenner each, or five for the chipped ones.'

'No, I . . .'

I was only jesting, obviously. They're all chipped. Jeff dropped the whole box. Some of the chips you wouldn't notice, and others have hairline fractures you'd only notice when you got home and boiling coffee began to drip on to your bare legs.

But this man, this Garth Corrigan, was actually the first of my clients not to come to me via the dead detective next door, but had arrived at my store purely on the strength of my growing reputation as a solver of mysteries and a stopper of crimes. He was very apologetic about bothering me, and he said he understood if it was far too insignificant a case for me to take on, but he just didn't know where to turn. Even before he described it to me, I had a fairly good idea that I would agree to investigate, because my first impression was that he was an honest, unassuming type struggling to cope in difficult circumstances that did not immediately smack of danger.

I said, 'I'm sure it isn't insignificant.'

'In the grand scheme of things . . .' he said mournfully.

'In the grand scheme of things, a butterfly beats its wings in New Delhi, and in New York a building falls down.'

'I'm not sure . . .'

'If Lee Harvey Oswald had been turned down for a part-time job in the Texas Book Depository, then maybe President Kennedy would still be alive. Little things affect the bigger picture, usually you just don't know it at the time.'

'Well, anyway, I've split up with my girlfriend and she's disappeared and I need you to find her.'

The last thing I needed was another dame on the run, but I could at least do him the courtesy of hearing him out.

'Look, Mr . . .'

'Childers, Erskine Childers,' I said, assuming the identity of the author of the classic spy thriller
The Riddle of the Sands,
for I have a business and its reputation to protect.

'Mr Childers, I'm just an ordinary bloke, work in a bank, not particularly high up, not a very exciting life. Never really been in love, was married once, didn't work out. So I was single for two or three years, really not much interested in meeting anyone, not much of a social life either. Most of my friends are married, you know how it is . . .' I cleared my throat. 'Only real interest is football. I'm a big United man, live and breathe them. Anyway, once a week, a Friday, I treat myself to a Chinese meal in this restaurant not far from here, The Blue Panda, on the Ormeau Road?' I shrugged. I don't venture
that
far out of downtown. 'I go early, just after it opens, so it's pretty empty – don't like it later, sitting with all the couples or the stag nights, it looks a bit odd, right?' I nodded stiffly. He just needed to get on with it and stop enquiring about my personal life, which, incidentally, was on the up. 'So I go early, and over the weeks and months, I got kind of friendly with one of the girls working there. Just a kind word and a joke here and there. Her name is May, obviously Chinese background but born and bred in Belfast, perfect local accent, and I have to tell you, I thought she was the prettiest woman I ever saw. But I know my limitations when it comes to women, and she was way out of my league. And yet every time I went back it was always May that served me, and I kept noticing that when she brought my meal, there was always
more
on it than last time. Every week the servings just got bigger and bigger. I thought it would be impolite
not
to clear the plate, because she was obviously doing this to be kind, but at the same time if they kept growing like this I was going to suffer a coronary. Anyway, one day I just had to say something. It was kind of embarrassing, but I explained that I loved the food here, and I appreciated the lovely big portions, but I just couldn't eat that much, and I hoped she didn't take it as a mark of disrespect if I left some on the plate. Well, she was embarrassed as well, and she didn't know where to look, apart from at the floor. But then she said, very quietly, 'It's only because I like you.' And I could just have melted. This great beauty liked
me.
I couldn't believe it. Well, we got talking after that, and it turns out that she's almost as big a United fan as I am. So I tell her the pub around the corner is showing tomorrow's game if she fancies having a drink and she jumps at the chance. And more than that, she actually turns up, and more than that again, we have a fantastic time and we begin
dating.
Result! Are you with me?'

'I'm with you so far,' I said. It wasn't rocket science, but it was time-consuming. He was lucky there were no other customers queuing to be buzzed in.

'Anyway . . . oh God, this is the embarrassing bit, I've never told anyone . . .' He took a deep breath. 'Anyway, anyway, we're soon going steady . . . but I'm kind of rusty, a bit backward about coming forward on the um, er, sexual front, if you know what I mean?' I just looked at him. 'And she's kind of reticent as well because as it turns out she's not what you would call . . . experienced.' He nodded to himself then, for several moments, his eyes fixed on the counter. 'A real beauty, yes she is. A real beauty.'

He fell silent.

'But . . . ?'

'But . . .' He sighed. 'She
is
a real beauty. I wouldn't change her for the world. But . . . I don't quite know how to put this . . .'

'I'm not a police officer, Mr Corrigan, I don't judge people. Just saying it is the simplest way.'

He nodded gratefully. 'Thanks, Mr Childers. You see – she has these ears. They're – large. They're large and they bend outwards. They're large and they bend outwards from the side of her head – I mean, where else would they bend out from? But that's how they are. Not huge. But large. And obviously I noticed them. I noticed them in a good way, because they're absolutely fine. Look at me, I'm no oil painting. But she
is
an oil painting, she's beautiful, every part of her. I don't have a problem with her ears. Honestly.'

'Okay.'

'Thing is. We were getting along brilliantly, my life is suddenly superb, and we're both leading up to that moment when we . . . well, when we . . .' He cleared his throat. '. . .
consummate
the relationship. We wanted everything to be perfect. We're at my place. She cooks me a lovely meal, we have a few glasses of wine, we light candles, soft music . . . it
was
perfect . . .'

'But . . .'

'Well –
God!
– it was the best night of my life, Mr Childers, we were making love, and I knew I was absolutely
in
love, and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, and I believe she felt exactly the same way . . .'

'Except . . .'

'When I was coming to the . . . coming to the moment of climax . . . and I was on the greatest high any man can experience . . . when I surrendered all control and gave my very soul to her . . . at that precise moment . . . I grabbed her by the ears and shouted,
I've won the FA Cup . . .'

He was staring at me, bug-eyed with horror, and I was staring right back.

'I know . . . I
know . . .
where did it even come from? I was mortified,
she
was mortified . . . I mean, I mean . . . I tried to argue it was a compliment, that finally making love to her was . . . was like winning the FA Cup . . . but she was kind of quiet, and then later we just lay there and I fell asleep . . . and when I woke up she was gone. I tried to call her, but there was no reply, and I went to the restaurant and they were very frosty and told me she had gone away . . . and I've been calling ever since and watching the place but she really isn't there . . . and I don't know what to do. I've been very, very stupid, and I love her, and I just want her back . . .' There were now tears rolling down his squirrel cheeks, and mine, although for a different reason. 'Please, Mr Childers, I have to make things right . . . you have to help me get her back . . .'

Just because I have not travelled, it does not mean that I am
unworldly.
My books have educated me about this planet of ours, and fine writing has shown me places richer in colour and sound than any complicated train journey or intrepid adventure on the back of a yak could. You do not have to listen to jazz to appreciate it. I could talk for months about the mercurial talents of Dizzy Gillespie, yet I wouldn't recognise a note of his if it came at me unexpectedly in an elevator. Similarly, I have read enough about Chinese culture –
The Mystery of Dr Fu Manchu
by Sax Rohmer was the first of many novels featuring that master criminal that I devoured in my childhood – to understand that the elusive May had fled from the arms of her lover not to some mysterious retreat, but into the bosom of her people. And I don't mean China itself. That vast, overpopulated country would be as foreign to her, born and bred here in Belfast, as the freezing South Atlantic would be to a trained circus seal. While
they
were catching fish and frolicking on ice floes, she would be clapping her flippers together and balancing a beach ball on her nose. No, I was pretty sure that May was still in Belfast, being jealously guarded by our own not insignificant community of Chinamen. And as she was a waitress by trade, it seemed pretty obvious that the key to tracking her down lay in visiting as many of their eating establishments as I and my girlfriend could possibly manage.

This would be tricky enough, because my stomach reacts badly to Chinese food. And Indian food. And Italian food. I could quite happily survive on Irish stew, jelly and anything that might come in either a Cadbury's or Mars Selection Box, but I do have to sometimes take chances by ordering food in restaurants that I know will not agree with me. It is exactly the kind of sacrifice I am prepared to make to solve a case.

Garth Corrigan left me a picture of his girl. As I studied it he peered over my shoulder and said, 'Look – I should have realised how sensitive she was, her hair is covering her ears.'

'It's unfortunate,' I agreed. 'If they'd been out, it would have made her easier to recognise. Chinese people all look the same to me.'

Mr Corrigan gave me a look. 'Don't you think that's a bit . . . ?'

'No. Not at all. I believe in calling a spade a spade.'

'Don't you think
that's
a bit . . . ?'

'Mr Corrigan, when it comes to justice, I'm colour-blind.'

'Yes, of course.'

'But they do all look alike, at least until you get to know them. It's like puppies, you think they're all exactly the same, but gradually you get to tell them apart, the one with the wet nose, the one with the waggily tail . . . and I'm sure they say exactly the same about us. But by the time I'm finished with this case I'll be able to tell a Ching from a Chong at fifty paces.'

He looked at me some more.

'And incidentally,' I added, 'I
am
actually colourblind. Every time I go through traffic lights it's like playing Russian roulette.'

He wasn't sure what to make of me, but he was sure that I was his last best hope of getting his girl back. To help me I had the lovely Alison, whose first task was to pop across the road at lunchtime so that Mr Corrigan could describe to her his missing girlfriend's ears. Alison was able to draw what we know in the trade as an artist's impression of the said appendages, to approximate scale, detailing the shape and size of the lobe, the position and number of piercings and type of earrings worn, the layout of the tiny bones within the ear itself, and some indication, albeit in just two dimensions, of the ears' curvature from the skull. Some of this information was necessarily hazy. He had not made a particular study of May's ears, and in fact the inner bone structure was pure conjecture. But at least we had something to go on. We had one good clear photo of May, and two A4 sheets of white paper, each bearing a drawing of an ear. They were like mirror images of each other.