theory, I pulled this one as well. I called the Irish Times and asked to be put through to their photographic department. I
asked for Liam Benson, but was told there was no one of that name on staff. I
used the Dan Starkey cover story again, but this time said I wanted a copy of
the Xianth photo to use in our next issue. A hassled- sounding manager called
Donny said that wouldn't be possible because Liam was a freelance photographer
and the copyright belonged to him. I asked where I could contact Liam and he
said, 'He's from your neck of the woods, not mine, but I'm not his fucking
agent.'
He
hung up. I was not unduly miffed. I had met Irish people before. Many of them
spoke like this.
I
typed Liam Benson's name into Google and was rewarded with a link to his
website. He was Liam Benson, freelance photographer - news, corporate and
public relations.
Under
his list of satisfied public relations clients:
The
Yeschenkov Clinic.
----
Chapter 14
I was
mulling over the significance of this, and trying to decide if there was any,
when Jeff cycled past the window. When I say he cycled, he was actually miming
cycling, much in the manner of the Knights of the Round Table pretending to
ride horses in Monty Python and the Holy Grail and using coconuts to
replicate the sound of hooves. They were quite funny. Jeff just looked
like a prick. He lacked coconuts. I was thinking about what he could have used
to achieve the desired sound effect but the only satisfactory answer I could
come up with was a bike.
Jeff
came in and I said, 'Any problems?'
He
grinned. 'None whatsoever.' He put an envelope on the counter and I took out
Augustine's phone records. 'I asked them if he'd had any visitors they were
aware of, anything suspicious.'
'Did
I ask you to ask them that?'
'No.
I was using my initiative.'
'I've
warned you about that. You think of it as initiative; I think of it as you
blundering into what is none of your business.' He looked at me, and I looked
at him. After a while I said, 'Well?'
'Well
what?'
'Did
he have any visitors?'
'Not
telling.'
I
sighed. I studied the list of calls.
Jeff
said, 'No.'
He'd
made six calls. They were all to the same number. I called it. It was the Forum
International Hotel on Bedford Street. It isn't far from No Alibis. Not much in
central Belfast is. You could skim a stone to it. You could; I couldn't,
what with my wasting muscles and arthritic wrists. The Forum is a converted
linen mill. Five stars. Not cheap. The calls lasted for between seven and
thirty-five minutes. I'd a fair idea whom he was calling. I asked for the
manager and did my executor-of-the-will routine and confirmed that yes indeed,
Mrs Arabella Wogan had been a guest for four weeks and that there was no need
to worry about the bill as the hotel had an arrangement with Yeschenkov and all
accounts were settled directly with the clinic. I explained that we were having
trouble tracking the lovely Arabella down and asked if he or his staff had
spoken to her about her future plans. He said he hadn't, but asked for a moment
so that he could speak to his staff. He was very efficient. Five stars will sometimes
get you that. He came back on and said that her departure was via their express
check-out service, which was really just dropping the keys in a box, so nobody
had actually seen her leave, but it was understood that she was catching an
early flight and had travelled to Dublin in the late evening. He wasn't sure how it was understood. I said it would be helpful if I could get Arabella's
itemised phone records and he said absolutely, where should I send them, and I
said I needed them quite quickly, is it okay if I have them biked round? He was
most accommodating. I told Jeff to get back on his imaginary bike and warned
him about using his initiative.
I
glanced across the road and
asked for Liam Benson, but was told there was no one of that name on staff. I
used the Dan Starkey cover story again, but this time said I wanted a copy of
the Xianth photo to use in our next issue. A hassled- sounding manager called
Donny said that wouldn't be possible because Liam was a freelance photographer
and the copyright belonged to him. I asked where I could contact Liam and he
said, 'He's from your neck of the woods, not mine, but I'm not his fucking
agent.'
He
hung up. I was not unduly miffed. I had met Irish people before. Many of them
spoke like this.
I
typed Liam Benson's name into Google and was rewarded with a link to his
website. He was Liam Benson, freelance photographer - news, corporate and
public relations.
Under
his list of satisfied public relations clients:
The
Yeschenkov Clinic.
----
Chapter 14
I was
mulling over the significance of this, and trying to decide if there was any,
when Jeff cycled past the window. When I say he cycled, he was actually miming
cycling, much in the manner of the Knights of the Round Table pretending to
ride horses in Monty Python and the Holy Grail and using coconuts to
replicate the sound of hooves. They were quite funny. Jeff just looked
like a prick. He lacked coconuts. I was thinking about what he could have used
to achieve the desired sound effect but the only satisfactory answer I could
come up with was a bike.
Jeff
came in and I said, 'Any problems?'
He
grinned. 'None whatsoever.' He put an envelope on the counter and I took out
Augustine's phone records. 'I asked them if he'd had any visitors they were
aware of, anything suspicious.'
'Did
I ask you to ask them that?'
'No.
I was using my initiative.'
'I've
warned you about that. You think of it as initiative; I think of it as you
blundering into what is none of your business.' He looked at me, and I looked
at him. After a while I said, 'Well?'
'Well
what?'
'Did
he have any visitors?'
'Not
telling.'
I
sighed. I studied the list of calls.
Jeff
said, 'No.'
He'd
made six calls. They were all to the same number. I called it. It was the Forum
International Hotel on Bedford Street. It isn't far from No Alibis. Not much in
central Belfast is. You could skim a stone to it. You could; I couldn't,
what with my wasting muscles and arthritic wrists. The Forum is a converted
linen mill. Five stars. Not cheap. The calls lasted for between seven and
thirty-five minutes. I'd a fair idea whom he was calling. I asked for the
manager and did my executor-of-the-will routine and confirmed that yes indeed,
Mrs Arabella Wogan had been a guest for four weeks and that there was no need
to worry about the bill as the hotel had an arrangement with Yeschenkov and all
accounts were settled directly with the clinic. I explained that we were having
trouble tracking the lovely Arabella down and asked if he or his staff had
spoken to her about her future plans. He said he hadn't, but asked for a moment
so that he could speak to his staff. He was very efficient. Five stars will sometimes
get you that. He came back on and said that her departure was via their express
check-out service, which was really just dropping the keys in a box, so nobody
had actually seen her leave, but it was understood that she was catching an
early flight and had travelled to Dublin in the late evening. He wasn't sure how it was understood. I said it would be helpful if I could get Arabella's
itemised phone records and he said absolutely, where should I send them, and I
said I needed them quite quickly, is it okay if I have them biked round? He was
most accommodating. I told Jeff to get back on his imaginary bike and warned
him about using his initiative.
I
glanced across the road and
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