Mystery Man (27 page)

I double-clicked.

'Well?'

'It's from his son, Kyle.'

'Oh. Anticlimax.'

'He says the funeral's today and he hopes I can attend, and he's discussed it with his sister, and he intends to continue the publishing business and wants to go ahead with the launch of the dancing book. What do you think?'

'Fine, but for the funeral being today. Isn't that indecently quick?'

'I don't think so. Hindus do it as soon as they possibly can.'

'Was he a Hindu?'

'No, but if he was a Catholic, they do pretty much the same.'

'Hindus do it because they're generally in a hot climate, to stop the body going off. Why do Catholics do it so fast?'

'Gets them to the drink quicker, I suppose. Does it matter? It's today. You have to come.'

'I've had too much time off as it is.'

'I can't go alone.'

'Why not?'

What could I say? I have a morbid fear of graveyards, and funeral parlours, and the smell of formaldehyde, and shaking hands, and wreaths, and ministers, and pews, and coffins, and hearses, and undertakers, and people who show too much emotion, and people who don't show enough, and cortèges, and walking behind a coffin, and being asked to lift a coffin, and wood, and dead bodies, and death, and soil, and inscriptions, and worms.

'I would appreciate the company,' I said.

Johnny Carson used to say that the annual Oscar show was two incredible hours wrapped up in a four-hour package. Much the same could be said of Daniel Trevor's funeral, except there were no trophies given out, unless you counted the urn after the cremation. It went on, and it went on, and it went on, with tedious musical interludes.

The Church of the Holy Redeemer off the Antrim Road was filled to overflowing. Because of Alison's insistence that she could only get off work at lunchtime, we were late arriving and forced to listen to most of it over loudspeakers outside. Another late arrival, but a little ahead of us in the crowd, with his back to us, was DI Robinson. There was a breeze, but it wasn't cold; there were clouds, but they weren't grey. The business of Belfast went on undisturbed while Daniel Trevor, after a career of publishing between hard covers, was dispatched between them himself.

They sang, 'Tell Me the Old, Old Story'.

Many references were made to the untimely nature of Daniel's demise, but there was no suggestion of suicide or murder. It was a tragic accident. He was described as devoted to his wife, but otherwise she was hardly mentioned. Occasionally there were heartfelt little gems amongst the eulogies, but it was mostly the poets who dominated and exploited the proceedings. Half a dozen felt sufficiently moved by the occasion to pen and perform pale knock-offs of W. H. Auden's 'Funeral Blues' and all that palaver about stopping the clocks, which did, almost, they were so insipid. While I knew that Daniel was a leading mover in the Northern Irish arts world, and a respected publisher, it seemed to me that most of those present were treating it as an opportunity to network. I would not have been surprised if deals were signed.

When the service came to its finale, the removal of the coffin for the drive to the crematorium at Roselawn, we watched with heads only slightly bowed. Kyle was amongst the pallbearers. So was Brendan Coyle. I was not intending to join the other men in walking for a short distance behind the coffin, but Alison pushed me forward. I moved uncomfortably amongst the black suits. There was a smell that fell halfway between cologne and embalming fluid. I wondered if one of the mourners crowding in around me was his killer. I wondered if he was behind me, beside me, ahead of me, if he was aware of me, if he was shocked or startled by my presence, or if he knew all along and was just waiting his opportunity to strike me dead.

As the mourners began to disperse, some to return to work, others to follow for a second short service at the crematorium, Alison slipped her hand into mine and said, That was sad.'

'Pointless,' I said.

'We were paying our respects.'

'We were exposing ourselves. It isn't safe, we should be more . . .'

And as if in answer to my fears a car pulled to a stop beside us, just a little bit along from the church gates. It was a blue Jaguar with blacked-out glass. A rear window peeled down. Alison had already taken a fearful step closer to me, and I had taken one back and across so that I was behind her. At least if there was a gunshot I would be shielded from the full force of it.

'Mr Mayerova,' said Alison. 'Wasn't sure who it was, blacked out windows 'n'all.'

I moved to her side, flushed with relief.

'Dreadful business,' he said, 'young man like that.'

'Mr Mayerova,' I said. 'I didn't realise you were at the service.'

He gave a short smile. His front teeth were capped, but his gums had receded off them, revealing the yellowed roots of the originals. 'Old age and creeping infirmity have their advantages, I got led to the front. Nearer thy God to thee,
ja
?'

I nodded. He nodded. The Jaguar revved suddenly. I glanced at the driver: short back and sides, and one side of an angular profile.

'Patience, Karl, patience,' said Mr Mayerova, reaching forward to gently pat the man's shoulder. Karl did not look round, or react. 'I am sorry. My son is always in a hurry. Even at a funeral.'

Karl's eyes flitted towards me in the mirror.

And my blood froze.

'I called at your No Alibis yesterday,' said the old man, 'but it was closed.'

'Yes,' I said, my voice suddenly a dry croak, 'family illness.'

Alison's hand found mine again. She squeezed and it was as if we had formed a circuit of tension, flowing from me to her and back.

'I am sorry to hear that. Well, no matter, it was unimportant. I understand that the launch of my wife's book is to go ahead at your premises?'

I nodded.

'I was not sure of the . . .
appropriateness
? My wife is unwell, and with the passing of Daniel Trevor . . .' He waved a hand. 'Well, no matter. We shall be there.' He nodded at me, he nodded at Alison, then he reached forward to tap his son on the shoulder again. The window zipped up, the car revved once more, then smoothly turned back out into the traffic.

I stood looking at the personalised number plate.

Alison pulled at my hand. 'Did you see . . .?' she asked.

I nodded.

'It's too much of a coincidence,' she said.

I nodded again.

'He looks more like the mother than the father.'

I half turned to her. 'I'm sorry, what?'

'What did he call him,
Karl
? He's the dead spit of his mother, I should have recognised him.''

My brow furrowed. 'What are you talking about?'

'What are
you
talking about? It's
Karl.
You notice he wouldn't turn towards me at all? But I recognised him straight off, very distinctive. Karl is the fella I told you about. The lovely and handsome customer who asked me out. He came into the store and invited me to dinner.' Her eyes were full and wide and still focused on the Jaguar, which was already just a distant speck. Her cheeks had coloured. 'Of all the jeweller's in the city, Mark Mayerova's son walks into mine, charms the pants off me and asks me out. What are the chances of that? Is that not odd? Is that not creepy? And not long after I turn him down, your van goes up in smoke with you inside it, for all he knows. Does that not turn your blood a little cold?'

'It does.' It had. 'But that's not what I was talking about. Did you not see the mirror, the rear-view mirror?'

'
What?
'

'Hanging from it, a Pine Fresh tree. Same make, same size, same colour as the ones on Malcolm Carlyle. And the Mayerova's family business is car dealing, no doubt with access to vast forests of Pine Fresh trees.'

We looked at each other.

'Fuck,' she said.

'Fuck,' I seconded.

In the trade, it's what we call a breakthrough. The private eye trade, that is. In the book trade, customers who don't whine about the weather would be considered a breakthrough. Needless to say, even though our new chief suspects had already disappeared from sight, we quickly made ourselves scarce. I was for returning to the panic room and not emerging until the next millennium; but Alison drove us to the NCP car park on Great Victoria Street and from there we walked to a Holiday Inn Express. I sort of hoped we might get a room, but instead she steered me into the lounge area to the left of reception and ordered coffee and sandwiches from a Pole.

While we sat and waited for lunch to arrive we said, 'Fucking hell,' quite a lot.

When the sandwiches were consumed, and my coffee ignored – it
certainly wasn't Starbucks
– we finally addressed the herd of elephants in the room.

'Mark Mayerova,' I said.

'And his son Karl.'

'The Pine Fresh tree.'

'If I'd gone out on that date, I may not have returned.'

'If you'd gone out on that date, we wouldn't be sitting here.'

'He would have murdered me.'

'I
would have murdered you.'

'That's sweet. But I'm not sure you're capable of it.'

'You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.'

'I'm not sure I even like you when you're placid.'

'You love me.'

'Love is a funny business. He seems like such a pleasant old man.'

'A pleasant old man with a German accent, it's a bad combination.'

'There's nothing to say he's involved. It could just be the son.'

'You think about it, whoever is doing the killing has shown tenacity, and cunning, and ruthlessness. If Fritz wanted to protect the secret, he should have gone to the source first. Anne Mayerova. Security at Purdysburn isn't much more than some fat ex-lollipop men, he could have been in and out no problem. But not if it's his wife . . .'

'Or his mother.'

'Or them working in tandem.'

'I thought Karl was warm and charismatic, but did you see how cold he was in the car? He didn't even
look.
And me so pretty.'

'And his dad is so confident we haven't a clue what he's up to that he thinks nothing of cruising up to us for idle chit-chat, and all the time he has us marked for death.'

'He doesn't know who he's dealing with.'

'Neither do we. But we will.'

'You're sure about that?'

I nodded. I was sure. I could do facts. I could do internet. I could call on my database of loyal customers. Even, if all else failed, the Botanic Avenue Irregulars. The fear and alarm I'd felt on seeing the Pine Fresh tree hanging from the rear-view mirror had slowly evaporated and was now being replaced by a growing thirst for knowledge and a confident awareness that for the first time there was a realistic prospect of
The Case of the Dancing Jews
actually being solved, and on
my
terms.

'But now,' Alison said, 'I have to get back to work.'

'You can't. Not now.'

'I can. Right now.'

'But what if . . .'

'He won't.
They
won't. Not so soon after the funeral. We have a period of grace.'

Perhaps I had not explained
escalation
properly to her. But then I remembered that Fritz had so far attempted nothing in broad daylight. If he now chose to alter his modus operandi he would more likely come for Alison before me – she had recognised Karl, and he was quite probably aware of it.

'Okay,' I said, 'go back to work. But be careful.'

'And what about you, are you going to open the shop?'

I looked at her for a long time before nodding. It was hiding in plain sight. And I would also be able to keep an eye on her across the road. If they came to kill my Alison, it would at least give me time to make a run for it before they decided to cross the road for me too.

Jeff rode shotgun. Or rather, he idled on a chair by the door. He knew exactly who he was watching out for, because I'd given him printouts from the net. A few clicks had led me to Smith Motors, one of the largest car showrooms in the North, and they had several pages devoted to
meeting the staff.
There was a fairly recent photo of their retired founder, Mark Mayerova, one of a grinning managing director, Karl Mayerova, and one of his brother Max, chief sales executive.

I called Alison, and watched her come to the phone. 'I don't think it was Karl who asked you out,' I said. 'I think it was his brother. They're not twins, but they're virtually identical. That's why he didn't seem to recognise you.'

'Are you sure?'

'No, but it's a distinct possibility. And listen to this:
Every year Max travels to all of the great motor shows so that you don't have to, including London, Paris and Frankfurt, ensuring that you are the first to know about the latest innovations in the world of . . .
Did you get that?'

'Frankfurt. Do the dates match?'

'No. Not really. Frankfurt Motor Show is the biggest in the world, it runs until the end of September; the book fair starts two weeks later. But it establishes a familiarity with the area. If he was wanting to get rid of Rosemary, and he heard through his mother that she was going to Frankfurt, then what a perfect opportunity. Follow her there, get her alone, knock her off, slip out of the country.'

'Oh God,' said Alison, 'I'm all out in goose bumps.'

'Goose bumps is a misnomer. They only occur in mammals,' I said, 'so geese can't get them.'

'Shut up,' said Alison, 'and call me back when you find out more.'

She hung up. I could see that a customer had entered her shop, and at the same time Alison was disappearing into the strong room at the back, leaving another member of staff to deal with him. A few moments later I saw her peeking out before emerging back into the body of the shop. Despite her supposed period of grace, she was as nervous as I was.

Max Mayerova was the killer, then. Possibly in tandem with Karl. And perhaps under the command of their father Mark. Or individually, or any combination of the above. It still remained circumstantial, and coincidental, but many patriots have been put away for less.

The temptation once again was to call DI Robinson, but what if that only got me into even deeper trouble? I had no evidence. And I hadn't completely ruled out the possibility that he himself might be in with them. All you ever heard from detectives were complaints about the mountains of paperwork they had to do, yet DI Robinson apparently had the freedom to saunter around pretending to be a book-collector and having cosy chats with me in the middle of the night when all he really had to do was haul me down to the station for a grilling. He didn't seem particularly stupid, but with Malcolm Carlyle dead, the body in the No Alibis van and me sporting all sorts of bruises and lacking an adequate alibi, he still hadn't given me the third degree. What if the real reason he hadn't taken me in was that he was working for any combination of the Mayerovas and he didn't want there to be a record of the police investigating me? Who was liable to know more about killing people, a cop hardened on the streets of once troubled Belfast, or the owners of a car showroom?