The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “This is better than having your tame puppy along,” said Grant as the plane neared the US coastline and he opened his third little bottle of whisky.

  “He’s a very nice puppy,” said Annette, who was herself slightly squiffy from white wine.

  “Tell me again what relation he is.”

  “He’s my cousin Caroline’s son.”

  “Legitimate is he? All fair and square? Not wrong side of the blanket, or adopted, or babynapped from some unsuspecting couple?”

  “Of course he’s legitimate. What kind of daft idea are you getting?”

  “Only when you’ve mentioned your cousin Caroline earlier, you’ve never mentioned any husband.”

  “Can’t we give Malcolm a rest? You’ve gone on about him quite enough in the last few weeks. We’re off on holiday.”

  “Right. And it’s going to be a cracker. I’m mainly going to watch. That’s how you become a winner in casinos. You keep your eyes open. I’ve got all the background now, from A to Z – or zee as those Yanks say. Just watch me!”

  Strangely enough, his exultation did not make Annette feel happy.

  But in the next few days she did what he’d ordered: she watched him. They played the tables a little, made a few friends among the English contingent in the hotel, and Grant kept his eyes open. By the second day he was concentrating on one of the croupiers, occasionally playing at his wheel, more often watching from a distance. It was slow work. They only had ten days, but it was the seventh day before Grant said to Annette, whose uneasiness had been growing.

  “That croupier is bent.”

  “Oh Grant! I’m sure he’s not. It’s the best-run casino in Vegas – everyone says so.”

  “Makes no difference. He’s bent. And I know what he’s been doing.”

  “But Grant – be careful! Please, please be careful. It could be dangerous. There could be large sums involved.”

  “You’re mental, woman. Of course there are large sums involved. There better be. Why do you think I’m interested? Just do exactly – and I mean exactly – what I tell you. That, and nothing more.”

  The following evening, when Annette was dressing for dinner, Grant said:

  “Don’t bother to dress. You’re staying in this room tonight. I need you to be here.”

  “But Grant, I—”

  “Ring room service if you’re hungry. And make sure everything is packed. Yours and mine. Everything.”

  “But Grant, it’s only Tuesday. We don’t go until—”

  “DO WHAT I SAY! Can I be clearer than that? Do what I say and we’re made.”

  And he left the room.

  It was inevitable, only a matter of time, that she would follow him and find out what he was up to. If he had understood her better he would have known this, but he had known her mainly in bed, when he came home until she went to work, and on her occasional visits to the casino. She was already dressed, so she used half an hour to pack as he had ordered her to do, then thought it was safe to go out. She knew the table he would be watching, or playing at, and she stood in the shadow of a plastic marble pillar to watch. He was playing and he was losing. But he was not getting bad-tempered, aggressive, as he usually did. He was watching carefully, especially when the croupier’s eyes were turned away from him. He exuded, to Annette’s experienced eye, an air of enormous satisfaction.

  The croupier changed at ten, and true to habit he went off to one of the many bars. Annette watched from a distance, and saw Grant nonchalantly follow him – casually, as if he could have chosen any other of the bars to go to. Annette went closer, and Grant, holding a glass of lager – he despised cocktails, and thought spirits dangerous when he was on a job – was apparently just having a breather between sessions. But in fact he was watching the croupier exchanging low words with a thickset man who seemed to talk with both his hands – an Italian, Annette felt sure. When he had said goodbye the croupier looked at his glass, seemed about to down it, but found a man by his left shoulder.

  It was Grant. Annette, who had taken her eyes off him, was as surprised by his move as the croupier. Grant’s mouth went towards the man’s ear and he began talking. Annette saw the man swallow (his Adam’s apple did a high-jump), then she saw fear in his eyes, saw him clutching a brief-case, protectively, clearly fighting back but on a losing wicket.

  That was the danger signal. Ten minutes later she was back in the hotel room, languidly seeming to read a book. Then minutes after that Grant was back, clutching a briefcase very like the croupier’s.

  “OK. The hotel bill’s been settled up. We’re out of here. Taxi to the airport. Right?”

  “Oh yes, Grant. But I don’t see why—”

  “You don’t have to. No time for questions. We’ll get any plane going to Britain. Or to Europe if we have to. Right. Away.”

  Two hours later they were on a KLM plane going to Amsterdam. Annette had not asked any more questions and Grant certainly had not explained unprompted. But once the plane took off he was in high good humour, drinking in moderation (a good sign) and chaffing the hostesses.

  “We’re made,” he said, as once more they flew over the East Coast and out to the Atlantic. “Well, not made. But we will be. It worked!”

  She still didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t need to.

  “We were just settling down again, modestly enjoying our little windfall, and back at our dear old home – because we’re both home-birds at heart, in spite of demanding jobs – when Grant was selected for the sort of job that you can’t refuse, if you’re ever going to get ahead in the organization you work for. It was opening a new branch in Peking, which has a new name I can’t spell. We talked it over, back and forth, but in the end there was no choice: he had to go. It was upsetting, but I knew our love would survive a period of separation. I sobbed and I kissed him goodbye in a little patch of woodland off the A15, which meant a good deal to us. Malcolm drove me back home, sobbing my heart out.”

  “Malcolm, it’s awful. I don’t know what to do. He’s so changed. It’s all this money. I keep warning him. What if they don’t accept what’s happened? What if they send someone after him? A – what do you call it – a hit man? He just shrugs and says it wasn’t that much money. But I’ve seen it in his briefcase. It’s thousands and thousands. I’m so afraid.”

  “Would it be so dreadful if he did take off for a bit? Let things cool down?”

  “Leaving me here if the hit man arrives. You hear of things happening – people being tied up and tortured for what they know.”

  “You could insist he takes you with him.”

  “Well . . . no. No, I couldn’t.” Ringing in her ears was Grant’s response to that suggestion: “Time I had a change. Swapped you for a newer model. Well past that time, if the truth were known.”

  “Right. So the scenario is: you’re here terrified while he swans off to places unknown. He probably won’t even tell you where he’s gone. Safer . . . . I did warn you about him, Mum.”

  Annette’s mouth had dropped.

  “But that would be awful. If they were torturing me to find out where he’d gone, and I didn’t even know,” wailed Annette.

  “Better for him, though. When’s he thinking of going?”

  “End of the week. He wants to stay in with the casino people. He says that they’re the basis of his future prosperity.”

  “Just leave it to me, Mum. Leave it to me.”

  The next day Malcolm rang the front doorbell at two o’clock, just about the time, he knew, when Grant woke up to a new day.

  “What do you want, squirt?” Grant asked, with elephantine jocularity.

  “I’ve got a bit of a proposition for you,” said Malcolm.

  “Oh yes? What kind of proposition would interest me, coming from you? But I suppose you’d better come in.” Once Malcolm was in the lounge Grant reluctantly asked: “Want a drink?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  “Oh? Too early in the day for a Scotch?” But he went into
the kitchen and gave Malcolm the time to do what he had to do with the half-empty bottle of whisky on the shiny new bar in the corner.

  “It’s instant. I can’t do with fucking percolators,” said Grant, coming back. “Now what’s this proposition?”

  “Look, I’m only in this for my mother. I want to spare her heartbreak.”

  Grant, pouring himself a Scotch, turned round with a sneer on his face.

  “Heartbreak? Spare me the sobbing violins. I could ask you what dear cousin Caroline has to do with this, but I’ve always suspected. I’m not as dim as people think.”

  “I knew you would have guessed. You’re very good at jumping to obvious conclusions I would think. Now, I imagine you’re going to slink out of here on Thursday or Friday, while Mum is at work, and I guess you have plans to take anything in the house that will fetch a bit of money. It would be against your nature to leave anything of value behind.”

  Grant had downed his neat Scotch, and now poured himself another.

  “Why would I bother? I’ve got the Vegas money.”

  “Very nice, I’m sure. But when did having money stop people like you from wanting a bit more, if it was easy pickings? . . . . Are you all right?”

  Grant sat down heavily.

  “I don’t know . . . I’ve never—”

  “No, I don’t suppose you have,” said Malcolm. He sat still and waited. There were coughs, heaving stomach, dribbles from the mouth, and Grant never regained anything that could be called consciousness. When he was at last undeniably dead Malcolm began the difficult business of dragging the body through the house then through the connecting door that led to the garage – making his task blessedly easier – then stuffing Grant on the floor of the back seat of the car, Grant’s own BMW. Everything was nice and tidy by the time Annette came home.

  “Malcolm – what are you doing here?”

  “Solving your problem.” He smiled, with the satisfaction of a young achiever. “He was never any good for you, was he, Mum? You got involved, and then you found you were up to your ears, and with no means of escape.”

  “Well, I—”

  “He used you and abused you. It’s been a nightmare for you. It’s over now, Mum. Now all we have to do is get rid of him.”

  Annette swallowed.

  “You mean the body, don’t you?”

  “Of course I mean the body. It’s not going to be easy, digging the grave. The ground’s still hard. I shall need your help. Know any piece of land where we could be private?”

  “There’s a bit of woodland, just off the A15. It has . . . associations. It was where—”

  “Don’t go into that, Mum. It’ll be dark by half past five. We’d better leave it a bit later, though. It’ll be a piece of cake, you’ll see.”

  And it was. They put on old clothes (cast-offs from the separated husband for Malcolm) and brought spades from the garden shed. Annette knew the way to the little wood by heart, and they had the grave ready after an hour’s digging. She kissed the lips of the corpse (an unnecessary touch, Malcolm thought), and they rolled him in and covered him over. Then Malcolm trailed brambles and ivy over the earth he had stamped flat, and they set off for home. Malcolm stayed the night, in one of the spare bedrooms.

  “I thought I was going to be lonely, and of course I do miss Grant so very much, but, by coincidence, my nephew Malcolm has been doing work experience in Peterborough, in the dispensary of Boots the Chemist’s, and he has moved in, at least until Christmas, when he will have to make a decision about his future. He’s a lovely boy, and he’s invaluable about the house. He keeps saying he’s going to take care of me, and it’s lovely that he wants to!

  It only remains to wish you all—”

  Annette, as she wrote the last words, was conscious of a presence behind her, and she looked round to see a smiling Malcolm. He had just come down from counting, for the umpteenth time, the dollar notes in the late Grant’s briefcase. There were plenty of them, in fifties, but with the exchange rate having plummeted of late he wondered if there was enough to finance his plans, whether something else substantial, say property, might not be needed.

  “That’s lovely, Mum,” he said when he had read through the letter. “We’d better cut out that bit about the A15, but you’ve got the tone just right. Everyone will be happy to receive that. And the last words are spot on. You’ve got me now, and I’m really going to take care of you.”

  She felt his young hand caressing her shoulders and arms, and felt wonderfully, deliciously, safe.

  TIME OF THE GREEN

  Ken Bruen

  FAKE CITY

  Yeah, trot ’em out

  A phony

  A con man

  Grifter

  Flim-flam guy

  I know ’em all

  Been ’em all

  To

  Varying degrees of success

  Currently, I’m washed up in the West Of Ireland

  Time on my hands

  But not on my wrist

  That I’m gonna fix

  Bring that sucker to the bank

  Shooting craps

  And

  Dude, I can sure shoot the shit

  You’ll have noticed . . . my accent . . . see, I’m . . . talking real slow so you can keep up

  Accents

  More changes than a Brixton hooker on one of them wet November evenings, I’ve been there, Brixton too.

  I flit from accent like an alky on down gear

  And you’re thinking

  “Why?”

  ’Cos I can.

  Failed actor

  Yeah, maybe that’s it. Try it on for verification. I hadn’t what it takes, for acting. That zombied sponge ability to soak it up

  And odd to tell, I’m not real good at taking direction. But hang me out to dry, shoot me now, I fess up.

  I wanted the kudos without the graft

  Is that so wrong? Seems to me to be the spirit of the zeitgeist.

  I left London in a hurry, hung some paper and it was coming back to bite me in the ass and hard.

  Got me a cheapo flight outa there, in like, jig time. Just a carry on.

  If I’d a little more of a window, I’d have gone to Prague, they like me there

  But Galway was first up and like I said, speed was of the essence.

  I’d never been to Ireland, swear to God.

  My periods Stateside, I knew lotsa Micks.

  Mad demented bastards

  And like, I mean, do they ever – ever, shut the fuck up?

  A woman asked me

  “Don’t you love their lyricism?”

  She was kidding, right? Wasn’t she?

  The Harps, all the swearing

  Fook this, fook that

  By jaysus

  Yah bollix

  What’s with that?

  You want a crash course in cussin’, get you in the Mick mode, watch Deadwood. The effing and blinding, set you right up.

  Our plane circled over Galway airport, no sign of us landing. A middle-aged woman at the window seat, smelling of Chanel and stale gin, said

  “Seagulls on the runway.”

  I asked

  “And that tells us what?”

  She gave me a cursory glance, then

  “We might be diverted to Knock, now that’d be a hoor.”

  As in whore?

  Then she let out a breath, said

  “Ah, there’s Tommy, he’s shooing them.”

  For a moment I thought he was shooting them. I asked

  “And Tommy, that’s his job?”

  She clucked her tongue, said

  “Don’t be an eejit, he’s the Air Traffic Controller.”

  Right

  With a final look at me she said

  “You must be English.”

  Welcome to Ireland.

  I had two credit cards, good for tops, twenty days, then the flag went up. With about a hundred in sterling.

  Man, I love a challenge.

 
I was wearing my Armani suit, the real job. Not one of those knock-off units. Most times, let the suit do the talking, gets you halfway there. In the lounge, I changed my cash to euros and had to check the time on the airport wall. My one aim, well, first one anyway, was a Rolex Oyster, the whole nine.

  My old man, the original loser, wore a Timex, plastic strap, to accessorize his soul, once, between beatings, said to me

  “A man’s arrived when he wears The Oyster.”

  Stuck with me.

  I’d never quite got it together to attain one. And hey, I didn’t want it to fulfil his dream

  Fuck him

  It was solely to roar

  “This is for you Pops.”

  To stick it up his ass

  We buried him two years ago, cheap box, cheap service. My Mom, glass-eyed on valium, threw a dead rose into the hole, said

  “He was a good man.”

  I looked right in her eyes, said

  “You stupid cunt.”

  Liar too

  Last I heard, she was down in Boca, working on her skin cancer.

  Coming out of Arrivals, I hailed a cab, took a moment and decided to go American. The flag still flew for the Micks. The Brits, now they were always thin ice. The driver, his face a riot of broken veins, purple blotches, asked

  “How’s it going?”

  I never quite worked out the ‘it’. Was it life, the weather, work?

  Most times in Ireland, it was the weather. I was sorely tempted to answer

  “It’s a hoor.”

  Went with

  “Going good buddy, and you, how you doing?”

  Lots of vim in there

  Worked

  He put the cab in gear, no automatic for this guy and he asked

  “Yank, right?”

  “Outa Boston.”

  Why not? The Kennedys owned it and they still had sainthood here. He asked

  “Where to?”

  “A good hotel, in the city centre?”

  “Ah, you’ll be wanting The Great Southern.”

  It would be neither southern nor great but it certainly had notions. The driver lit a cigarette. I asked

  “Don’t you guys, like, have a smoking ban?”

  Blew a cloud of smoke at the Sacred Heart Medallion on the dash, said