certain pedigree in this line
of work, and when women don't get in my way, I am usually very quick and
efficient at bringing a case to a satisfactory conclusion. I have been aided in
this by my obsession with and addiction to crime fiction. Those tens of
thousands of novels have been my education, in a way that my very short
attendance at the nearby Queen's University was not. Being asked to leave that
seat of learning might have held someone else back, but not I. Being accused of
what I was accused of might have driven others into hiding, but not I. I hasten
to add that nothing was ever proven, in a court of law. In a way it was a
blessing in disguise - I might easily have followed a different career path,
perhaps into academia, or joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police or become a
mercenary, but no, my immediate removal in handcuffs from halls of residence
was fortuitous in that it caused me to focus on what I really wanted to do, and
that was to open my own mystery bookshop, and the tenacity with which I pursued
that dream has been the making of me. Not only do I now operate the finest
mystery bookstore in Belfast, but my investigative talents are second to none.
I am practically the fourth emergency service.
The
depressing detail of Augustine's last days was here in the shop: the receipts,
the business and credit cards, the invoices and ticket stubs. They were a story
in themselves, and all I was looking for was the plot. I started with the bill
from the Europa Hotel. He had stayed there for the two nights preceding his
appearance outside No Alibis. The great thing about the phone or e-mails is
that you don't have to appear in person. You can be as impressive as your word
power allows, you can give yourself whatever fancy title you want and nobody
questions you, whereas if I turned up at the front desk of the Europa and said
I wanted to know what they had on Augustine Wogan they'd tell me to take a run
and jump. On the phone my wonderful facility for creating believable characters
and personas served me well. I became Donald West- lake, the executor of
Augustine Wogan's estate. I had a bill the hotel had issued; I wanted to know
if his account had been settled and if not whom I should send the cheque to,
and incidentally, did he leave anything behind, because anything he left
belonged to said estate. I had a notion that Augustine had fled from the hotel
without settling, and I was entirely correct. He had indeed left items behind, but
the hotel manager assured me that they were only articles of clothing,
toiletries and the suitcase they had once fitted into. I then explained that we
were having some difficulty tracking his movements prior to his unfortunate
demise, and asked if an itemised record of his phone calls could be made
available. The manager said yes, of course, and where should he send it, and I
told him I wanted it in a hurry so if he didn't mind I would arrange to have it
biked round. On hanging up, I immediately dispatched Jeff to retrieve it. He
said, 'But I don't have a bike.'
This
is the calibre of my staff.
While
he was gone, I turned to my occasionally loyal database of customers. They had
become more communicative in recent weeks, now that my annual bombardment of
e-mails beseeching them to join the No Alibis Christmas Club had lessened
somewhat - a breather, really, before the campaign started anew in July - and
had been sharing with me their piss-poor insights and opinions on recent crime
fiction and boring me rigid with the sad facts of their personal lives. I had
been doing my best to act the genial host, but it is such a chore. Sometimes
when I just can't handle their cheeriness any more I tell them all to f-off,
and they laugh as if I'm having a joke, but I'm really not. However, at that
moment my relations with them were relatively good, so it was precisely the
right time to ask for a favour, and as an added incentive I offered a signed
copy of Eric Ambler's The Mask
of work, and when women don't get in my way, I am usually very quick and
efficient at bringing a case to a satisfactory conclusion. I have been aided in
this by my obsession with and addiction to crime fiction. Those tens of
thousands of novels have been my education, in a way that my very short
attendance at the nearby Queen's University was not. Being asked to leave that
seat of learning might have held someone else back, but not I. Being accused of
what I was accused of might have driven others into hiding, but not I. I hasten
to add that nothing was ever proven, in a court of law. In a way it was a
blessing in disguise - I might easily have followed a different career path,
perhaps into academia, or joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police or become a
mercenary, but no, my immediate removal in handcuffs from halls of residence
was fortuitous in that it caused me to focus on what I really wanted to do, and
that was to open my own mystery bookshop, and the tenacity with which I pursued
that dream has been the making of me. Not only do I now operate the finest
mystery bookstore in Belfast, but my investigative talents are second to none.
I am practically the fourth emergency service.
The
depressing detail of Augustine's last days was here in the shop: the receipts,
the business and credit cards, the invoices and ticket stubs. They were a story
in themselves, and all I was looking for was the plot. I started with the bill
from the Europa Hotel. He had stayed there for the two nights preceding his
appearance outside No Alibis. The great thing about the phone or e-mails is
that you don't have to appear in person. You can be as impressive as your word
power allows, you can give yourself whatever fancy title you want and nobody
questions you, whereas if I turned up at the front desk of the Europa and said
I wanted to know what they had on Augustine Wogan they'd tell me to take a run
and jump. On the phone my wonderful facility for creating believable characters
and personas served me well. I became Donald West- lake, the executor of
Augustine Wogan's estate. I had a bill the hotel had issued; I wanted to know
if his account had been settled and if not whom I should send the cheque to,
and incidentally, did he leave anything behind, because anything he left
belonged to said estate. I had a notion that Augustine had fled from the hotel
without settling, and I was entirely correct. He had indeed left items behind, but
the hotel manager assured me that they were only articles of clothing,
toiletries and the suitcase they had once fitted into. I then explained that we
were having some difficulty tracking his movements prior to his unfortunate
demise, and asked if an itemised record of his phone calls could be made
available. The manager said yes, of course, and where should he send it, and I
told him I wanted it in a hurry so if he didn't mind I would arrange to have it
biked round. On hanging up, I immediately dispatched Jeff to retrieve it. He
said, 'But I don't have a bike.'
This
is the calibre of my staff.
While
he was gone, I turned to my occasionally loyal database of customers. They had
become more communicative in recent weeks, now that my annual bombardment of
e-mails beseeching them to join the No Alibis Christmas Club had lessened
somewhat - a breather, really, before the campaign started anew in July - and
had been sharing with me their piss-poor insights and opinions on recent crime
fiction and boring me rigid with the sad facts of their personal lives. I had
been doing my best to act the genial host, but it is such a chore. Sometimes
when I just can't handle their cheeriness any more I tell them all to f-off,
and they laugh as if I'm having a joke, but I'm really not. However, at that
moment my relations with them were relatively good, so it was precisely the
right time to ask for a favour, and as an added incentive I offered a signed
copy of Eric Ambler's The Mask
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