Crime Writers and Other Animals

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And he’s far from happy about the situation.’ There was a crackle on the line, or it could have been the clearing of a terminally dry throat. ‘My employer’s name is Harry Day.’ This time the crackle was definitely human. ‘Now,’ I lied, ‘Mr Day’s not a vindictive man . . .’

  ‘Really?’ Stuart McCullough didn’t sound convinced by that either.

  ‘No. And he also is not the sort of man to want a fuss made about something like this . . . I mean, we don’t want the police brought in, do we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All Mr Day does want is the return of his property . . .’

  ‘Is that really all he wants?’ the dry voice croaked. ‘He doesn’t want any . . . reprisals?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mr McCullough, everyone makes mistakes, don’t they? And it’s not as if we aren’t all in the same business, is it?’

  He sounded encouraged by this. A trickle of saliva lubricated his voice. ‘Exactly. Right. Look, I regret it as much as . . . you know, I mean . . . but got to stick together, haven’t we?’

  ‘Sure,’ I soothed, and bit my lip to stop myself saying, ‘Honour among thieves.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘So . . . Mr McCullough, if we can make some arrangement whereby the property is returned intact, can I assume you would not be averse to that?’

  ‘Certainly. No, you tell Mr Day it was just a silly mistake on my part and . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ I purred.

  ‘Look, er, could I ask who I’m talking to? Or where I can give you a bell if—?’

  ‘I’ll contact you,’ I said, and put the phone down.

  That was the easy bit. I didn’t approach the next phone call with quite the same relish.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Day, please?’

  ‘Mr Day doesn’t take calls. If he wants to speak to people, he rings them.’

  ‘Well, could I give him a number and could he call me?’ It wouldn’t be my own number. I’ve got various public phones round Brighton I use for that kind of thing. On this part of the job I was going to keep strictly incognito.

  ‘I should think that’s very unlikely,’ the voice replied, silkily insolent. ‘Why should Mr Day want to speak to you?’

  ‘I have some information about some property of his. Property that was stolen from his house last Tuesday.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The tone was still cool, but I could hear an edge of interest.

  ‘Yes, and in fact the person responsible for taking the property does regret what he did very much.’

  ‘You don’t surprise me.’

  ‘In fact, all he wants to do is get the property back to its rightful owner.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you think Mr Day would be agreeable to that kind of deal?’

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘I mean, he does want the property back, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice made a decision. ‘Call again in an hour.’ The line went dead.

  When Stephanie rang in for her daily report, I’d got the meeting set up. ‘Crown and Anchor on the seafront. Neutral ground. I’ve told Stuart. He sounded relieved.’

  ‘Yes. The sooner he can offload that gear, the sooner he can start breathing again.’

  ‘Hm. I know some of the stuff’s already been fenced, but Stuart said he could raise cash to cover it, and Day’s man’s happy with that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said ruefully. ‘He came and asked for my Rolex back. And he’s cancelled the order on the BMW.’

  ‘So, Stephanie, in a couple of days – with a bit of luck – your husband’ll be off the hook . . .’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And,’ I went on, not knowing why I was saying it, ‘you can settle back into being a nice cosy little domestic couple again.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ she said. ‘I thought I made it clear that our marriage is over.’

  ‘Then why’re you going to all this trouble to save him?’

  ‘The fact that you’ve stopped loving someone doesn’t mean you want to see him beaten to pulp.’

  ‘No. True.’

  ‘But once this is sorted out, I’m leaving him. There’s nothing happening there. I want to get out, find a real man.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, meaning a lot more than ‘Ah’. I could picture the pupils swelling to block out the blue in her eyes. It wasn’t a picture I wanted in my mind’s private gallery.

  But it stayed, damn it.

  She phoned me again a couple of hours before the meeting. ‘Stuart’s just gone out. I need to see you.’

  Not for the first time, I knew the words should have been ‘Sorry, can’t make it’ and I heard my voice saying, ‘OK. Where?’

  ‘Under the pier. By the rock stall.’

  The rock stall was boarded up that time of year. The sea sucked through the shingle like an old man drawing in his breath against the cold. The weather seemed to have frightened off the junkies – or maybe it was too early in the evening for them – but it couldn’t freeze the lust of the few couples twined against the encrusted steel pillars, their hands finding inevitable ways through swags of clothing.

  They didn’t help my concentration. Nor did the fact that, as soon as Stephanie saw me, she rushed straight up and nestled into my arms. She wore leather again, a black thigh-length coat, quilted, but not so quilted that I couldn’t feel her outline pressing against mine. She stayed there longer than the strict protocol of a casual greeting demanded. The top of her head fitted neatly into the hollow of my shoulder. I had forgotten the sheer softness of women, and felt a pang when she drew back and trained those huge black pupils on me.

  ‘I had to see you, Bram. This meeting . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Stuart had a gun with him when he left.’

  ‘Stupid idiot! I told him not to.’

  ‘He’s not going to meet someone like Day unarmed.’

  ‘He’s not meeting Day. Only a sidekick.’

  ‘Doesn’t make a lot of difference, so far as the danger’s concerned.’

  ‘Look, if he carries a gun, he’s only going to—’

  Something hard and cold was thrust into my hand. ‘Bram, I want you to take this.’

  I looked down at it. Watery moonlight pencilled a pale line along the barrel.

  ‘I don’t like carrying guns. I can usually deal with anything that—’

  ‘Stuart’s got a gun. I’ll lay any money Day’s man’s got one too. You’re meant to be refereeing this contest. You’ve got to be at least as well-armed as they are.’

  Maybe she had a point. I shoved the gun into my coat pocket.

  ‘I must go, Bram. I’ve got things to do.’

  But the way she came back into my arms to say goodbye, and the length of time she stayed there, suggested that the ‘things’ weren’t that urgent.

  It’s remarkable how civilized three people carrying guns can be. The meeting in the Crown and Anchor was conducted with all the decorum of a Buckingham Palace garden party. Day’s man was thin, balding, tweed-jacketed, wouldn’t have looked out of place behind the counter of a bank; only the deadness in his eyes suggested that his interest rates might be prohibitive. Stuart McCullough was big, fit gone to fat, his features almost babyishly small as the face around them had spread. He wore a leather jacket like a chesterfield, pale grey trousers, poncy little white leather shoes with tassels, heavy gold rings and bracelets – too like a stage villain to be taken seriously as a real one. With my bleached hair and draped black coat, our table must’ve looked like something from a television series whose casting director was having a nervous breakdown.

  But, as I say, the conversation was extremely decorous. Day’s man, who incidentally never mentioned Harry Day by name, confirmed that all his boss wanted was the return of his property and cash to make up for any of it that had been irreclaimably sold. Stuart said he was happy with this arrangement (and I could see from his face just how happy he was). All that remained was the tr
ansfer of the goods. Day’s man said he had a van outside. Sooner it was done, the better.

  The deal had only taken one round of drinks. I should have had Perrier but had gone straight for the vodka because I was cold and twitchy. After the easy conclusion of the agreement, I felt like a second one to celebrate, but the others wanted to sort out the handover as soon as possible.

  So we left the pub. The sea was dull and flat in the darkness, no light twinkling on its surface, only the half-heard growl over pebbles reminding of its presence. I was to drive with Stuart. Day’s man would follow us to the stash.

  We went in my old yellow 2CV. Neither of the others wanted McCullough’s car spotted by the police. Seemed reasonable enough. He was on their lists for any number of robberies, proved and suspected; my one lapse had been in a different area altogether. His car had been parked outside a lot of places where it shouldn’t have been; mine had never done worse than double-yellow lines.

  The smell of aftershave in the car suggested that he’d marinated himself in the stuff overnight.

  He was surprisingly incurious as we drove along. I don’t know whether Stephanie had said anything to him or not, but he didn’t ask any questions about my rôle in the proceedings. Maybe he thought I was just more of Day’s hired help. Or maybe the lack of imagination she had mentioned was so total that it never occurred to him to ask anything.

  He didn’t say much at all, just gave me directions. The stuff was stowed in a beach-hut at Lancing. Pretty risky hiding place, I’d have thought, but he didn’t seem worried. Only temporary, he said, and no one was likely to break in that time of year. I wasn’t sure whether his confidence demonstrated canniness or incompetence.

  He seemed a lot more relaxed now the deal was on. Yes, he’d made a mistake tangling with Day, but now that mistake was being rectified, there would be no reprisals, and in future he’d check his information a bit more carefully. To Stuart McCullough, it seemed, that was all there was to it.

  Me, I wasn’t so sure. I’ve said I hate guns, but, driving along, I was reassured by the heaviness on my thigh.

  I glanced across at him as a streetlight outlined his pudgy face in sudden gold, and asked myself once again how something as fragile and delicate as Stephanie could end up with this slab of corned beef. Fruitless speculation, of course. Which could only lead to painful follow-up questions.

  To get my mind off those, I tried to draw him out on the Ditchling job, but didn’t get far. ‘How come you didn’t know you were doing over “Flag” Day’s place?’ I asked.

  ‘I was given the wrong info, wasn’t I?’ he replied grumpily. ‘I always get the places checked out. Usually the detail’s spoton. Only do houses when I know they’re empty and know they don’t belong to anyone who’s going to cause aggravation. This is the first time the info’s been wonky.’

  That didn’t tie in with what Stephanie had said, but I let it pass. ‘Do you always use the same person to check the houses out for you?’

  ‘No point in changing a winning team, is there?’ As he calmed down, I could hear the cockiness his wife had mentioned coming back into his voice.

  ‘Can I ask who you get your information from?’

  He was sufficiently relaxed now to chuckle. ‘You can ask. You won’t get no answer. Some things better just kept in the family.’

  ‘OK. One thing I did want to—’

  ‘Here. Pull over by the kerb. There – between the streetlights.’

  I brought the 2CV to a halt. The following van indicated punctiliously and drew in behind us, dousing its lights as soon as it came to a standstill. The beach-huts, regular as crenellations, backed on to the road. Between them came the odd dull flash of the tarnished sea. Once again we could hear it grudging against the pebbles. I looked cautiously up and down the road. A few uninterested cars went past, but there was no sign of any pedestrians.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said McCullough. ‘Only people you get along here are pensioners with their pooches, and they’ll all be safely back in their baskets by now.’

  We heard the door of the van behind open. Day’s man emerged, pulling on leather gloves, casual as a weekend driver looking for a picnic spot.

  ‘Right, let’s get this sorted.’ Stuart McCullough got out of the car. I switched off the headlights and, patting the heavy lump against my thigh, followed him.

  ‘Which one is it?’ asked Day’s man.

  McCullough pointed, reaching into his pocket for keys.

  We moved down on to the beach, our shoes rasping on the shingle. Day’s man brought out a pencil torch, which scanned the hut. It was small, little more than a garden shed, and had been painted a colour that might once have been dark blue. Didn’t look a very secure hiding place for fifty thousand pounds’ worth of stolen goods, though maybe, as McCullough had implied, any hiding place is safe so long as no one’s looking there.

  ‘Shall I open it?’ he asked.

  The balding head shook. ‘No. He can.’

  ‘Big one for the Yale, little for the padlock.’

  I took the proffered keys. The Yale clicked home easily, but I couldn’t get the smaller key into the padlock. ‘Could you shine the torch over here, please?’

  I heard the crunch of shoes behind me, but no light came. Instead, I was aware of a sudden, shattering impact across the back of my neck, before the plugs were pulled on me and all my circuits went dead.

  It was the splash of rain that woke me. I felt the cold and damp before I felt the pain. Icy wet pebbles pressing into my face. It was when I tried to raise my head that the pain struck. I think I screamed and lay as still as I could.

  But now I was awake, the pain stayed, whether I moved or not. I tried to reassemble my brain into something that could do more than register how much my head hurt.

  It was still night, but the note of the sea had changed to a swish of water on sand. The tide had gone out some way. I dared to flex my frozen hands and in one felt the icy outline of a gun.

  Slowly, agonizingly, I forced my back to arch and eased myself up on to hands and knees. The pain across the back of my neck winded me, obliterating everything else.

  Clutching at my face, I inched my reluctant body upright.

  Through the network of my fingers, I saw the outline of Stuart McCullough, lying on the shingle beside me. He was still and silent.

  I shambled across to him on hands and knees, then tried to raise myself. My arm gave way under me and I reached forward to save myself from falling. My hand landed on his chest, and slid on the stickiness there.

  Seized with a horror greater than the pain, I rose to my feet. The meagre light from distant streetlamps was enough to identify the dark liquid on my hand. I stumbled away and was violently sick.

  Then, staggering, scuttering on pebbles, I found my way down to the sea’s edge. I was still holding the gun. I dropped it, fell to my knees and grubbed in the sand, scraping off the foul witness from my hands. Then I dug the gun down and rubbed its surfaces with more sand.

  I somehow got to my feet and, finding the strength from God knew where, hurled the weapon out into the sea.

  Then I managed to get back to the 2CV and drive my trembling way home.

  The needling of a hot shower was a necessary agony. I tried to crane round and check the damage in the mirror, but my neck hurt too much, so I rigged up a second mirror behind me. I saw an ugly swollen line, red and getting redder by the minute, but the skin wasn’t broken. I dressed painfully, pulling on a black roll-neck sweater. Didn’t want to advertise my injury. Didn’t want to advertise anything that might connect me with the body on the beach.

  The vodka bottle was calling out plaintively, but virtue triumphed; I made do with black coffee and a handful of Nurofen. I lay on the bed and tried to piece together my situation.

  Didn’t do too well. Vital links in my brain’s reasoning circuitry hadn’t been reconnected yet. All it could cope with was the blindingly obvious.

  And it was blindingly obvious that I had b
een set up. It was also blindingly obvious that, if the rain hadn’t woken me and some pensioner taking his pooch for an early morning stroll had found Bram Cotter with a gun in his hand beside McCullough’s body, the set-up would have looked very ugly indeed.

  That was all the intellectual effort I was capable of. I slipped into a sleep so deep that concussion must have played a part in it.

  The buzzing of the entryphone woke me. I staggered across the room and released the door downstairs before the pain had time to hit me. And before I had time to register that the voice crackling in my ear had said, ‘Police.’

  There were two of them, neat, unassuming men, both in sheepskin jackets. They were hard, efficient and didn’t waste compassion on people with records of drug offences. The smaller one did the talking. The bigger one just watched.

  ‘Bram Cotter?’

  I made the mistake of nodding, and winced.

  ‘You look pretty bad.’

  ‘A few too many drinks last night,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Sure it was just drinks?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t do drugs any more.’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable was poised between scepticism and downright disbelief.

  ‘Search the place if you like. You won’t find anything. But presumably that’s why you’ve come.’

  ‘It isn’t, as it happens. We’ve come about a murder.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Man called Stuart McCullough has been found shot dead on Lancing Beach.’

  Had to be very careful now. Find out how much they knew before I gave them anything. But my brain wasn’t in ideal condition for fine-tuned pussyfooting. I kept quiet and let them do the talking.

  ‘Now you may well ask what reason we have for connecting you with what’s happened . . .’

  I didn’t ask. I could think of too many reasons. But the one they came up with wasn’t on my list.

  ‘Fact is, we had an anonymous call at the station linking you with the killing.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Mm. Could be a crank, of course. Someone’s idea of revenge. You got a lot of enemies, Mr Cotter?’

  I shrugged. Not a good thing to do when you’ve just been slugged across the back of the neck. ‘Some,’ I said.