‘No, I’ll do that, just in case you have something more lethal than money hidden in there. Stand over to the side. Don’t be foolish and try anything. You haven’t died in a nice way, yet.’

  With one hand, Rasharkin kept the gun aimed at Brian, while the other searched inside the alcove. A quick rummage, and a large Batman gripbag was pulled out. Rasharkin threw it at Brian’s feet.

  ‘Open it.’

  Brian complied, allowing the remaining money to spill open. ‘I’ve spent quite a bit of it.’

  ‘As one does with other people’s money. Hope it was worth it? It’ll be the last you ever spend.’ Rasharkin pushed the button, and Homer’s legs returned to their original position. ‘Park yourself.’

  ‘Can I put some clothes on first?’

  ‘Do you realise how ridiculous that sounds? Sit the hell down!’

  ‘You’re going to shoot me anyway, so I’d rather stand like a man.’

  ‘Sit down, Don’t make me shoot your dick off, then you’ll not be so concerned about being a man.’

  Brian walked towards the chair, and was just about to sit down.

  ‘Stop …’ Rasharkin’s voice had a slight hesitancy in it. ‘Turn … turn around.’

  Brian turned.

  ‘Sit down …’ Rasharkin said, suddenly looking very weary. He waited until Brian sat before continuing. ‘I want you to tell me everything there is to know about that tattoo on your back. Leave nothing out, if you value your life.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  This is what you know about someone you have to hate: he charges you with his crime and castigates himself in you.

  Philip Roth, The Anatomy Lesson

  ‘Tell me all you know about the winged horse.’ Rasharkin sat opposite Brian, who was no longer naked, having been given a large towel. Rasharkin still held the gun, but not directly at Brian.

  ‘His name is Mercury. He was created by a man called Harmenszoon – a genius, to me the greatest artist of all time. He saved my life.’

  Rasharkin leaned forward, voice almost an undertone. ‘Saved your life? How?’

  ‘When I was thirteen, my parents were murdered. I was with them, when it happened. The gunman tried to shoot me too, but his gun jammed …’ Brian’s eyes seem to glaze over. ‘Afterwards, had I not been able to escape into the wonderful worlds created by Harmenszoon, I would have gone insane, perhaps even committed suicide.’

  ‘Who murdered your parents?’

  ‘We were on a bus, returning home from the movies. It was my birthday. As a treat, my parents had brought me to watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks. On the way home, the bus went past Saint Patrick’s chapel on Donegall Street. Being Catholics, my parents made a sign of the cross. The sectarian killer, who had been on the bus from the beginning of its journey, had been waiting for someone, anyone, to do this, indicating their religion.’

  ‘Did they ever find him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you had him, now, captured, would you kill him?’

  ‘I couldn’t kill.’

  ‘Even to avenge your parents?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘It’s just not in me.’

  ‘What if you had had a gun, that day on the bus? If it meant saving your parents, would you have shot the killer?’

  ‘I can’t answer a hypothetical question.’

  ‘You won’t, you mean. Don’t want to portray yourself as something less than human, something like me.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. Do what you’re going to do. Just get it over with.’

  ‘You’re in a terrible hurry to die. Tell me all you know about Harmenszoon.’

  Brian sighed. ‘He was an American. Born in New York. He met a woman in London, when he was doing a European signing tour of his works. They married and had one kid, a wee boy. A few years later, Harmenszoon was dead, his body discovered in a car, at his garage, carbon monoxide fumes the culprit. They said he committed suicide, but I’ve never believed that.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  ‘I think it was an accident, that he was exhausted and fell asleep in the car, the engine running. He had too much to give to the world to commit suicide – too many people loved him. I was devastated.’

  Seemingly hypnotised by Brian’s explanation, Rasharkin hadn’t moved. Only his eyes seemed to be alive, renewed.

  Brain continued. ‘After his death, tragedy seem to follow his family. His wife remarried. To a cop. Tragically, they were both shot dead by the son, using the cop’s gun. He was only about eleven or twelve at the time. He ended up in an orphanage, after being found not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter. Most people believed the boy was just fooling around with the gun when it went off accidently. He was never heard from again, after being given a new identity to shield him from public scrutiny.’

  ‘You got it right. Almost.’

  ‘Almost? I doubt that. I’ve read everything there is to read on Harmenszoon.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident when the boy shot them. It was deliberate. Want to know why he shot them?’

  ‘If you have another version, then go ahead. I’d like to hear it before you shoot me.’

  ‘You were right when you said Harmenszoon didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.’

  ‘Well … I have heard that over the years, but usually from conspiracy buffs. I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth.’

  ‘The cop, assisted by Harmenszoon’s wife, murdered him. They were having an affair.’ Rasharkin’s calm voice suddenly filled with anger. ‘They overdosed him with sleeping pills, the same pills she used to swallow every night to take her “damn headaches” away, the ones she washed down with rum, Havana Club, her favourite.’

  ‘How … how would you know something like that?’

  ‘Just pay attention!’ Rasharkin pointed the gun at Brian’s face.

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘Just … pay attention … please.’ The last word was a whisper. The gun rested back in Rasharkin’s lap. ‘They placed him in the car, like he was a piece of garbage, an afterthought, then turned the engine on, and watched the exhaust fumes consume him in a fog of death. The perfect crime. Almost. They would have got away with it … if not for the boy … the boy. He saw everything. Knew everything. All their dirty little secrets.’

  Outside, the night sounds were settling down to a faint nothing, a nocturnal hush finally spent like a dying star. Inside, not a word, yet a million questions. Brian was aware of his own breathing, slightly laboured. Rasharkin hadn’t moved. He sat, lifeless, staring into nothingness.

  Then Rasharkin stood, disturbing the bizarre vignette. He reached down and took the gripbag. Walked towards the door. Turned and stared at Brian for the longest time, then at the gun in his hand, as if contemplating a reluctant decision. He pointed the gun at Brian.

  ‘The boy wasn’t placed in an orphanage. He was imprisoned in high-security Broadmoor, a psychiatric so-called hospital, for ten years. Try to imagine what that would do to a young boy.’

  He tucked the gun away. Opened the door, closing it gently behind him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The criminal is the creative artist; the detective only the critic.

  GK Chesterton, The Blue Cross: A Father Brown Mystery

  As one door closed, another was opening, this time in the north of town. Two other characters on opposite sides of life were about to become a little better acquainted than either would have anticipated, or sought.

  Harry entered the premises of the Old Dander Inn on the Antrim Road, like a sheriff searching for the town’s last outlaw. Moseying up to the dimly lit bar, his eyes scrutinised the motley crew of evening patrons drinking and drooling over dodgy deadman’s droplets.

  ‘You!’ Harry pointed at a crouching figure at the end of the bar. The man was semi-balancing on a metal stool, and appeared to be trying to will himself into invisibility. ‘Flanagan, outside – now!’

  Frankie slumped down from the counter, and walked obediently towards Harry.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Oh …’ Frankie walked back to his stool, retrieving his bag of tricks from beneath it.

  Outside, Harry took the bag, and placed it in the back of his car. ‘Evidence.’

  ‘Evidence? I swear, Mr Thompson, I had nothing to do with it. I swear!’ Frankie looked on the verge of crying. ‘I’ve an alibi.’

  ‘So had OJ Simpson. Just get in the bloody car.’

  Inside, Harry started the engine, but not before addressing Frankie’s protestations.

  ‘I’ll check out your so-called alibi when we get to the station, and your nocturnal shenanigans.’

  * * *

  From his office window, Harry watched Purvis get into the Jag. He waited until it had completely vanished into the night’s darkness before making his way down to the cells.

  ‘How’s our guest, Bill?’

  ‘Looking very guilty.’ McCauseland smiled.

  Harry looked in through the security flap. Frankie was pacing up and down, mumbling to himself.

  McCauseland opened the cell door. Harry entered.

  ‘Mr Thompson!’ Frankie practically threw himself at Harry. ‘Please, you’ve got to help me. I can’t stand being locked up in such a small room. I can hardly breathe. I suffer from claustrophobia. I take medicine for it.’

  ‘A burglar suffering from claustrophobia? A bit like a surgeon suffering from hemophobia.’

  ‘Hemo-what?’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with what it means. What you should be concerned about is that I’ve checked out the retired judge whose house you burgled, and it’s not looking good for you.’

  ‘But I keep telling you, I had nothing to do with that. Check out my alibi. You’ll see.’

  ‘I just did. Paul the barman says he never saw you in the Inn last night.’

  ‘Paul? Did I tell you it was Paul? I meant his brother, the other one, with the glass eye. I can’t remember his name at the moment. I’m still in a state of shock at being wrongfully arrested.’

  ‘The only name you should be concerned about is the retired judge’s. Wilfred Braithwaite the Third. Once gave a man five years for stealing coal from the business of one of his friends, also a judge.’

  ‘I know all about the bastard – I mean his honour.’

  ‘They stick together, these judges. Can you imagine being up in court in front of Braithwaite’s mates? You’ll be made an example of, a warning to anyone foolish enough to contemplate burgling another judge’s home. The keys to your cell will be dropped down the Well Of No Return.’

  Frankie seemed to collapse into himself, sinking onto the concrete seat attached to the wall, head in hands. His pallor became as grey as the seat itself.

  ‘I’m finished, Mr Thompson. I’ll die in prison.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  Frankie slowly raised his head, and looked up at Harry. ‘You mean you’d give me a second chance, Mr Thompson? Me, a nobody, but a bloody menace to society?’

  ‘Depends.’

  A ray of hope seemed to suddenly shine in Frankie’s eyes. He stood.

  ‘Anything, Mr Thompson. You name it, it’s done. Just name it. Please, I beg you.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Harry left the cell, quickly followed by Frankie. He was almost tripping over himself, now looking like a condemned man granted a miraculous lifesaving stay of execution. McCauseland lurked silently behind.

  Harry and Frankie took the back stairs normally used by contractors, or civilians on propaganda tours. However, due to lack of funds, dust and cobwebs were all that now occupied the stairways. McCauseland departed in the opposite direction, not saying a word.

  ‘Listen carefully, Frankie. Screw this up, and it’s back to the Well Of No Return. You got that?’ Harry was squeezing a pair of disposable gloves on.

  ‘Thank you Mr Thompson, for giving me this chance. I won’t screw up. That’s a promise.’

  ‘You’re going to be needing that.’ Harry pointed to a barely visible lump in a darkened corner.

  Frankie looked more confused than ever. It was his bag of tricks. He quickly picked the bag up. Hugged it like a first-born. ‘What’s my bag doing here?’

  Harry didn’t answer, but led the way through a formidable-looking red door, out to the fifth-floor corridor. An office to the left became the focus of his attention.

  ‘I need this opened as quickly as possible. We don’t have a lot of time.’

  Frankie looked confused. ‘You want me to break in?’

  ‘Let’s just say I forgot my keys. I want no damage done, or signs showing it’s been opened. Here, put these on. No prints.’ Harry handed Frankie a pair of the disposable gloves.

  Frankie put them on. Opened his bag. Produced a small, metal device, shaped like a drill bit. Inserted it in the lock. Three minutes later, with a bit of manoeuvring and twists of the wrist, the door popped open. Frankie smiled triumphantly. ‘Easy peasy.’

  Harry pushed Frankie into the room. ‘Don’t get too cocky. That’s only the start. I need that door opened.’ Harry pointed at an inner door. ‘Inside, there’s a safe. I need that opened too. If you can do that, you’re on your way home, with a few extra quid in your pocket.’

  ‘There’s not a safe built I can’t open.’

  ‘You better be able to stand by that boast. And remember: no sign of a break in. Understand?’

  ‘Loud and clear.’ Frankie smiled. The smile quickly faded, as he scrutinised the lock on the door.

  ‘Holy … shit …’

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘A Diamond Cylinder King.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘This isn’t your average lock. It’s one of the best on the market, if not the best. It’s like a miniature computer, containing a defensive device to fend off attacks. Very smart. Very cunning. Very –’

  ‘I don’t want to buy the bloody thing!’ Harry was becoming agitated, glancing around him. It was all irritating his irritable bowel syndrome. ‘Can you open the damn door or not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then bloody do it! Just get a move on. We haven’t got all night.’

  Frankie kneeled down, chose two tools from the bag, and set about making Harry’s command a reality. It took all of three minutes.

  ‘There you go.’ Frankie stood back, a proud smile on his face.

  ‘Very good. Now, one last task, and you go home.’ Harry opened the door, and pointed at the safe.

  Frankie whistled. ‘A Bulldog Redden. That’s heavy-duty shit. Government issue. I’ve only ever come across one before. Most safes have a combination-style spinning tumbler – you have to make the correct clockwise and counter-clockwise turns to disengage the lock. But the Bulldog operates on individual niches on each rod.’

  ‘I don’t want its history. Can you open it?’

  ‘I couldn’t open the one I tried a few years back. It was the first time in my career I had to give up on a safe.’

  Harry looked as if he had just been punched in the irritable bowels.

  ‘What happened to “there’s not a safe built I can’t open”?’

  ‘That was a slight exaggeration. Jesus, it’s haunted me ever since, that safe, laughing at me every time I shut my eyes. It damaged my reputation amongst the burglary fraternity too.’

  ‘Tell your sob story some other time. All right, pack up and let’s get the hell out of here.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, Mr Thompson.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This night was meant to be, don’t you see?’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’

  Frankie’s face lit up in rapture, like a pilgrim finally arriving at his holy destination. ‘I think you’ve just given me a chance of redemption, to get my reputation back. Hand me my bag of tricks.’

  * * *

  Purvis arrived home in Hazlebank, almost five miles from the station. He was exhausted, trudging up the path to his heavily fortified house, briefcase in hand.

  Four spotlights automatically lit up the entire area, and a family of motion-detector security cameras clicked and whirred smoothly. A metal door opened, allowing him into the front of the house. No sooner had he hit the combo on the front door, than he released a silent curse.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ His hand went into the briefcase. Mobile missing.

  He returned to the car, and headed back in the direction of the station.

  * * *

  Frankie made himself comfy on the floor, arranging an impressive array of tools, all shapes and sizes, around him. He looked like a medieval medic, about to perform major surgery on a fallen knight.

  ‘Take your bloody time, won’t you?’ Harry said sarcastically, looking at his watch. ‘Want me to get you a sandwich and a cup of coffee, while you’re sitting on your arse? Some cake, perhaps?’

  ‘Worrying and trying to put me under pressure won’t help, Mr Thompson. Breaking into a safe of this calibre is very delicate. It has to be treated with respect.’ Frankie picked a slender instrument, and began worrying the safe’s dial.

  Harry continually glanced at his watch, though he knew Purvis wouldn’t be back until morning. His stomach kept making strange bubbling sounds, testing what little nerve he had left.

  Ten minutes slipped by. To Harry, they stretched like hours. He watched, fascinated by Frankie’s surprisingly delicate fingers manoeuvring small metal rods into the lock’s now hollowed-out dial.

  Soaked in sweat, Frankie stood.

  ‘Well?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I beat the devil. The privilege is all yours.’

  Relief flooded over Harry’s face as he pulled open the safe’s door. Inside, neat little rows of papers were indexed and segregated in colour-codes and metal spines. Thank God Purvis is a dinosaur like me. No USB sticks or discs.

  He reached in, and began scrutinising the pages, uncertain what exactly he was looking for, but believing the moment he saw it, he would know.

 

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