of the pots they sold. He said they did. I asked him to read out the serial number of the pot sold to Dessie Martin and Son. Before he did, he asked me why I wanted it. I told him I collected serial numbers of paint pots. It was the first thing that came to mind. He gave me a rather long 'Okaaaaaay,' and, perhaps with one eye on the Titanic contract, proceeded to read out the number. I had turned my pot over by this point, and repeated each number as I matched it to my own.
'Bingo,' I said just as he finished.
'Excuse me?'
'Nothing – I ah, I think I'll call this Dessie Martin and see just how wonderful the finish is before submitting my order. Thank you very much for your—'
But before I could finish, he cut in with, 'Dessie Martin is dead.'
That really threw me.
'Nice bloke,' he said kindly, 'asbestosis, just a few weeks back. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid.'
The trail had gone from red hot to stone-cold dead in an instant. Still, at least I would be able to tell Albert McIntosh that his troubles were over. I thanked Taylor again and was about to put the phone down when he said, 'Listen, mate, is that true enough about the Titanic, are they really building another one?'
'Don't be such a moron,' I said and cut the line.
The phone rang a couple of minutes later and I said, 'Good afternoon, No Alibis, Murder Is Our Business,' and a familiar voice said: 'Is that Walter Mosley?'
'No,' I replied automatically.
'I just hit 1471 and this number came up. Is this not his phone?'
'Ah – yes,' I said. 'But he's gone. Just this moment.'
'When will he be back?'
'He won't. He's gone for good. He's accepted a job in Jerusalem.'
'So who the hell are you?'
'We share a house. But he's moved out. Just right now. He won't be back. He called me an idiot.'
'He called me a moron,' said Taylor.
'He's a bad egg.'
'If I ever see him,' said Taylor, 'I'm going to beat the head off him.'
'He'll deserve it,' I said. 'I heard every word.'
'What's that place called again?'
'What place?'
'You said hello, Noahbylies or something? And you definitely said murder is our business .'
I cleared my throat. 'Noahbylies – yes, indeed. It's an . . . Elvish word. Elvish for bookshop. We specialise in science fiction and fantasy novels. You know, Lord of the Rings. Mordor is our business.'
There was a long pause, during which my heart beat perhaps as hard as it ever has, harder even than the day I first set eyes on the girl in the jewellery shop across the road, the girl I hadn't yet had the courage to approach but with whom I was deeply in love.
'Right. Okay, mate. If you see him again, tell him he's a cheeky bugger.' He put the phone down and so did I. I immediately clapped my hands together. Once again I had outsmarted an enemy by deftly switching character and twisting circumstance to my advantage. However, to be absolutely certain I called BT and requested a change of telephone number. It would cost me several hundreds of pounds and countless man hours to change all of my stationery and inform my customers and suppliers, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I was already dealing with one insane tradesman, I didn't need another one on my tail.
That evening's event in Serial Killer Week was a competition for the most fiendish idea for a serial killer novel. Although one might think that all possible themes have already been exploited, I believe it bears comparison to the composition of love songs – every time you think the subject is exhausted, something fresh and original from Chris de Burgh comes along. However, it soon became clear that the majority of those in the audience were not treating the subject with the seriousness it deserved. I had spent a lot of time and effort organising the event, I didn't need idiots suggesting that the next big serial killer twist might be to have a character who doesn't actually kill his victims, but just gives them dead legs. Or that a great name for a serial killer might be the Coco Pop
'Bingo,' I said just as he finished.
'Excuse me?'
'Nothing – I ah, I think I'll call this Dessie Martin and see just how wonderful the finish is before submitting my order. Thank you very much for your—'
But before I could finish, he cut in with, 'Dessie Martin is dead.'
That really threw me.
'Nice bloke,' he said kindly, 'asbestosis, just a few weeks back. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid.'
The trail had gone from red hot to stone-cold dead in an instant. Still, at least I would be able to tell Albert McIntosh that his troubles were over. I thanked Taylor again and was about to put the phone down when he said, 'Listen, mate, is that true enough about the Titanic, are they really building another one?'
'Don't be such a moron,' I said and cut the line.
The phone rang a couple of minutes later and I said, 'Good afternoon, No Alibis, Murder Is Our Business,' and a familiar voice said: 'Is that Walter Mosley?'
'No,' I replied automatically.
'I just hit 1471 and this number came up. Is this not his phone?'
'Ah – yes,' I said. 'But he's gone. Just this moment.'
'When will he be back?'
'He won't. He's gone for good. He's accepted a job in Jerusalem.'
'So who the hell are you?'
'We share a house. But he's moved out. Just right now. He won't be back. He called me an idiot.'
'He called me a moron,' said Taylor.
'He's a bad egg.'
'If I ever see him,' said Taylor, 'I'm going to beat the head off him.'
'He'll deserve it,' I said. 'I heard every word.'
'What's that place called again?'
'What place?'
'You said hello, Noahbylies or something? And you definitely said murder is our business .'
I cleared my throat. 'Noahbylies – yes, indeed. It's an . . . Elvish word. Elvish for bookshop. We specialise in science fiction and fantasy novels. You know, Lord of the Rings. Mordor is our business.'
There was a long pause, during which my heart beat perhaps as hard as it ever has, harder even than the day I first set eyes on the girl in the jewellery shop across the road, the girl I hadn't yet had the courage to approach but with whom I was deeply in love.
'Right. Okay, mate. If you see him again, tell him he's a cheeky bugger.' He put the phone down and so did I. I immediately clapped my hands together. Once again I had outsmarted an enemy by deftly switching character and twisting circumstance to my advantage. However, to be absolutely certain I called BT and requested a change of telephone number. It would cost me several hundreds of pounds and countless man hours to change all of my stationery and inform my customers and suppliers, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I was already dealing with one insane tradesman, I didn't need another one on my tail.
That evening's event in Serial Killer Week was a competition for the most fiendish idea for a serial killer novel. Although one might think that all possible themes have already been exploited, I believe it bears comparison to the composition of love songs – every time you think the subject is exhausted, something fresh and original from Chris de Burgh comes along. However, it soon became clear that the majority of those in the audience were not treating the subject with the seriousness it deserved. I had spent a lot of time and effort organising the event, I didn't need idiots suggesting that the next big serial killer twist might be to have a character who doesn't actually kill his victims, but just gives them dead legs. Or that a great name for a serial killer might be the Coco Pop
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