Mystery Man by Colin Bateman

worthy of the bestseller list or literary acclaim, and even more infrequently, both. Ian 'Rebus' Rankin famously wrote a dozen novels before becoming an overnight sensation. So, given that they often have to scrape by on a pittance, it is particularly galling to them when someone like Brendan Coyle comes along and chalks up the kind of sales they would kill for. And yet might. Galling because Brendan was already a much-garlanded author of literary fiction when he decided to write crime under a pseudonym before being 'accidentally' unmasked. He gives the impression that it is just something he dashes off while waiting for divine inspiration to strike his real work. In reality he contributes nothing new to the genre and instead merely rehashes some of its worst clichés. Yet he sells and sells and the critics adore him. He is a vain, boorish snob, and sometimes I wonder why I ever bothered inviting him to teach a monthly creative writing class in No Alibis.
    Then I remember that it's because he does it for nothing and that I also sell a lot of books off the back of his visits. The only reason he does it for free is that I convinced him that he should be giving something back to 'his' people, and he was sucker enough to fall for it. I like to think that every minute he spends talking twaddle in No Alibis is one minute fewer spent trying to write crime, which is a blessing for us all.
    His creative writing classes are artfully constructed exercises in the massaging of his own ego. When he chooses examples of fine writing with which to illustrate his thoughts, he chooses his own. When his students hesitantly read from their work, he yawns and fidgets. When he does deign to offer advice, it is usually either irrelevant or impenetrable, or both. It is therefore rather surprising to observe how much his students love him, and staggering to have to admit that his class is oversubscribed. One day I will certainly stab him with a letter-opener. But in the meantime I must acknowledge a debt of gratitude – his name was enough to finally entice my jewellery girl into the store.

    It happened on the Saturday morning after the lunchtime when I agreed to take on what would become known as The Case of the Dancing Jews and the interminable afternoon when I decided that what would become known as The Case of the Dancing Jews would actually be too much trouble. Of course I would give it a few weeks before I let him know. I might even cash a very small blank cheque to cover the stress of deciding not to investigate what would become known as The Case of the Dancing Jews ; one must put one's mental health first. Leather trousers and graffiti, yes. Damaged pottery and wayward dogs, yes. Missing persons and Interpol, no.
    During Brendan Coyle's creative writing class I sit on a stool behind the cash desk. When he mentions a book, I pick it up and show it around to try to encourage a sale. I feel a little like a game-show hostess. I was doing this before some fifteen eager students when the door opened and an elfin figure entered. I did not recognise her at first because she was wearing the woollen equivalent of a leather flying cap, pulled down low on her brow and with the equivalent of its leather side straps shadowing most of her face. But then when she pulled it off, and smiled apologetically at Brendan, I realised with a sudden flush to my cheeks, and chest, and arms, and feet, that it was her, my love from the jewellery store.
    'Sorry I'm late,' she said. 'Watch stopped.'
    Not an awfully good advertisement for the jewellery store, but a splendid opportunity for me, because Brendan shook his head and told her he was sorry too, because the class was already full and perhaps she could put her name down on the waiting list; even before the disappointment could register on her face I was able to saddle up and ride over the brow of the hill.
    'No, no, no, not at all,' I said. 'As it happens, we have one place left.'
    'No we don't,' said