Authors: Colin Bateman
At that precise moment I happened to glance out of the window and across the road to Alison's jewellery store. She has one of those old-fashioned display windows, which instead of going straight down to the pavement, is about three-quarter length, with brickwork below and a windowsill sticking out in front. Inevitably people sit on this, and she spends half her life shooing tramps, drunks, kids and old people off it. A gang of steeks had proved particularly obstinate, and despite having been moved on by the police several times, had taken to sitting there at every opportunity. Alison was convinced that they were planning to smash the glass and steal the jewellery, but I doubted they would be so obvious – more likely they were there for one of two reasons. The first was because it was directly opposite the Wine Mark off-licence they were barred from, so it was a good vantage point from which to observe muggable customers. The second was because they wanted to look at Alison, because she was so pretty.
In escorting Alison back to her shop I had had to walk their gauntlet of fear several times. They had said nothing to
us,
but as soon as I left her inside it was a different matter. Several times I was subjected to severe verbal abuse while I waited to cross back to No Alibis. They called me knob head, and prick face, and Pinocchio, peg leg, gimp, dummy, retard, spaz, queer, faggot, dyke, carpet-muncher, fudge-packer, smack head, crack head, meth head, slut, slag, scrubber, bitch, schizo and Catholic. But it was water off a duck's back. I heard worse at home.
On this occasion, however, I thought that their very
steekness,
their street nous, might allow them to blend in and follow my nemesis without arousing suspicion, either on foot or in one of the cars they routinely stole for joy-riding escapades.
Today there was just the two of them, so the prospect of putting my proposition to them wasn't quite as daunting as it would have been with the whole gang present. Anyone else attempting this might have opened with a 'Wassup, bro?', but that is not only demeaning but quite ridiculous to someone of my background and education. Instead I ushered them into the shop, took up position behind the counter, one hand on my cleaver, and asked them if they had ever heard of the Baker Street Irregulars.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' was their considered response.
I explained that Sherlock Holmes employed a group of street urchins to help him out from time to time.
'What the fuck are you talking about?' was their considered response.
'You calling us fucking urchins, Holmes?' one asked.
I explained that I was willing to pay them money if they would do something for me.
'Fuck off, you fucking pedo,' was their considered response.
It was a game, a verbal jousting, we were establishing boundaries. It was like a mating ritual, without the mating, or cats pissing out their territory. As part of this one of them lifted
The Criminal
by Jim Thompson and licked it. It was necessarily a slow process, but gradually they came to understand what I wanted of them, if not why, and lacking money for drink or drugs, they became quite amenable to the idea. There was some good-natured joshing over their fee – my first suggestion that payment be made in book tokens redeemable only in these premises was greeted with much humour – but eventually we settled on straight cash, half now, half later. They were to hang about in their usual spot outside Alison's, and as my nemesis was leaving I would give them a thumbs-up through the window and they would follow him to the Eagle's Nest.
Everything was falling into place nicely.
The clock was ticking, and all but one of the players were in place. I was behind the counter, one hand on the cleaver. DI Robinson was towards the rear of the shop, looking through three shelves of signed first editions, Jeff was kneeling on the floor beside a box of books, giving the impression of recording newly arrived stock, and Alison was in the kitchen, with the door open, washing dishes, but with one submerged hand gripping a steak knife. Across the road my Botanic Avenue Irregulars loitered outside the jewellery store, apparently sniffing glue.
Seven o'clock came, seven o'clock went. By 7.15 p.m. DI Robinson had two books in his hands and looked about ready to approach the counter. I made eyes at Jeff and he confounded the critics by understanding: he quickly produced a dozen more signed first editions for DI Robinson to peruse; he knew they were valuable because I kept them in transparent plastic envelopes so tight that they discouraged examination; I knew they weren't because they were signed by Jehovah's Vengeance Grisham.
Across the road one of my trackers suddenly lay down on the footpath.
Alison appeared in the doorway and said, 'Why don't I make us all a cup of—'
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
She stopped. DI Robinson glanced up. Jeff
stared.
I took several moments to examine my computer screen, to at least make it appear like I was fairly nonchalant, then looked to the door.
There he was.
An old man in a good suit. Silver hair cut close.
The Valium was useless.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
I pressed the door release. As he entered I said, 'Sorry, I was miles away there.'
'No matter.' He waved the apology away, as if he was swatting a fly. He stepped towards the counter with his hand extended. I was unprepared for this sudden familiarity and had to quietly let go of the meat cleaver in order to offer my own hand. I managed to set it down, but my nerves were such that in reaching across the counter my knuckles caught the top of a stapler and knocked it over the edge. My nemesis quickly diverted his hand and caught it before it had travelled more than a few inches.
He might have been an old man, but he had the reflexes of a juggler.
He set it on the counter, smiled and then offered his hand again.
We shook. His grip was strong, his skin cold.
'Thank you so much for seeing me,' he said.
'My pleasure,' I replied.
Neither of us volunteered our names. That itself was no indication of anything: bookselling could be a secretive business.
He looked around the store. 'This is a nice shop,' he said, his accent thick. 'I thought we would be alone.'
'Stock-taking,' I said, 'unavoidable, I'm afraid.' His eye lingered on DI Robinson. 'Another collector. Once he heard I was opening late, there was no stopping him. You guys are very persuasive.'
He nodded. I became aware for the first time that there was a bulge in his jacket, his left inside pocket. My immediate conviction was that it was not a wallet. Knowing what I thought I knew about him, I thought I knew what it was.
'No matter,' he said.
If he made even the slightest move for his gun I would have the cleaver out and plunged into his chest. Attack is the best form of defence. If it turned out to be a wallet I wouldn't get many marks for customer service, but at least I would be alive.
I had dismissed the possibility of him carrying out a massacre – but I suddenly thought . . .
why
? Three people were dead already. Another four wouldn't make much difference. You may as well be shot for a whole flock of sheep as a lamb.
'I wanted to show you something,' he said.
He began to reach inside his jacket.
Everything went into slow motion.
My hand was back on the cleaver, but I just couldn't move it. Instead I heard myself saying: 'Is there anything else I can help
you
with,
Detective Inspector
?'
There was no reaction from the old man at all other than to delve deeper into his jacket pocket, all the time his eyes boring into me.
'No, fine here thanks,' said DI Robinson.
The old man
didn't care
who he killed.
I had to do it. I had to do it
now.
Now!
Stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab . . . !
But I still could not move. Alison, Jeff, DI Robinson, none of them were any use, none of them realised what was happening, none of them were close enough to stop this old man producing his weapon.
His . . . small, crumpled, leatherbound book.
'Oh my,' I said, 'oh my oh my.'
He nodded. He thought it was an expression of appreciation instead of one of utter relief.
Unless he was going to poke me in the eye with it, I was safe.
I quietly set down the cleaver.
'I was wondering if there might be any value to this?'
I took the volume from him and gingerly opened it. It was a Bible. In German. But written inside the cover, in pencil, was:
Auschwitz 1944
Christ! He was playing with me. There was a cold sweat on my back, but not as cold as this guy: a Nazi, profiteering sixty-plus years down the line, the Bible's true owner mangled in a mass grave. I had both hands on the book, a thousand miles from my cleaver.
'Very nice,' I managed to whisper. 'How did you come by it?'
He gave a little shrug. 'I do not like to talk about it.'
There was complete and utter silence in No Alibis. Even the clock on the wall above Columbo seemed to have stopped.
From his position on the floor, bending over a box of books, Jeff said quietly, 'We have ways of making you talk.'
The Nazi turned. He put a hand to his ear. 'I am sorry . . . my hearing is not so good . . . what did you say . . . ?'
I did not wish Jeff to be shot through the head merely for being an idiot. I stepped in, the distraction somehow enabling my voice to recover. 'He said, we sometimes need to talk about a rare book, how you came by it, establish its provenance – it helps with the valuation. This obviously has some historical significance . . .'
'
Ja, ja
,' he said. 'I do not wish to sell. For insurance purposes, no?'
I nodded. I turned the book over in my hand. Despite being small, it was surprisingly weighty. The edges of the pages were flecked with gold. All I knew about gold in the camps was that fillings had been ripped from the mouths of both the living and the dead.
'Well,' I said, 'we specialise in mystery fiction, our rare editions are really all in that genre, but if you give me a few minutes I could check its value on the web.'
He studied me. 'That would be very helpful, thank you. The web, I do not understand!'
He smiled. False teeth. False
smile.
I indicated the shelves behind him and said, 'Perhaps you might find something that appeals, while I do this . . . ?'
The Nazi surveyed me for a long moment before nodding and turning to study my books. I glanced at Alison, now standing in the kitchen doorway. She raised her eyebrows. I gave her a helpless gesture. Jeff was also looking at me. He showed me his fist and gave a slight nod.
Do you want me to give him a dig?
What to do?
What did his giving me the Auschwitz Bible mean? Was it a warning? A precursor to extreme violence, or was he saying, I know who you are and what you've been doing; if you continue you will end up just like the others? Why give a warning at all? Was it because we weren't alone? No – he had brought the Bible with him, so perhaps the warning was preplanned. Or was it his cover story, to get into the shop, to buy him time to work out how he was going to kill me and make his escape undetected?
As all this pinballed through my brain he reached up to a high shelf to lift down a book. In stretching, his bare arm emerged from both his jacket sleeve and shirt cuff and for the briefest moment I saw, tattooed on the inside of his forearm, a series of half-faded numbers.
My mouth dropped open.
Oh . . . my . . . God . . .
'Excuse me,' I said. The man turned. His face was grey and his eyes baggy. 'Were . . . were you actually
in
Auschwitz? I, uh, couldn't help notice your . . .'
I tapped my own arm. He looked puzzled for just a moment, and then laughed suddenly. 'Ah!' he said, coming back to the counter. 'My true identity is exposed!'
It didn't mean that he
wasn't
the killer, but suddenly everything seemed different, lighter. I relaxed the grip I had renewed on the meat cleaver.
He stood before me and pulled his sleeve up again, studied the number briefly, before allowing it to fall back into place. 'It was a long time ago. In that place, we were not allowed books. We were not allowed
anything.
But somehow, there
were
books. They were our escape. Ever since I have loved books. This Bible, I brought out with me. To remind me.' He nodded at me for several moments. I didn't know what to say. Alison crossed to the counter and stood beside me. 'This is your wife, no?' he asked.
'No,' I agreed.
'Not yet,' said Alison. She put her hand out. 'I'm Alison.'
As they shook, his eyes moved to me. 'I am sorry, I should have introduced myself properly, earlier. But I wanted to see what type of a man you were, this bookseller who would do my wife such a kindness.'
'Your . . .'
'My wife is Anne Smith. Anne
Mayerova.
I understand you may have saved her life.'
As soon as Mark Smith – Mark
Mayerova
– left No Alibis, I stood in the front window and waved frantically across the road, trying to catch the attention of the steeks in order to stop them following the old man. They were both clearly the worse for wear. Each had a plastic bag clamped to his face. They moved round in hazy circles, giggling. One of them spotted Mr Mayerova, and prodded the other, who prodded back. One of them looked towards the shop and saw me, and I made a cutting motion across my throat and immediately regretted it as he began to check his pockets for his favourite knife. I moved to the door and looked along the footpath to my left, just in time to see Mr Mayerova climb into the back seat of a Jaguar about twenty yards away. As it began to pull out it braked suddenly as the two steeks threw themselves across its bonnet.
Then they rolled off the other side and lay on the ground laughing.
The Jaguar blasted its horn once, then slid smoothly away.
My Botanic Avenue Irregulars were completely useless. In the morning they would remember nothing about the incident, apart from having a vague recollection that I owed them money.