The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Just Trevor.”

  “Then use J. T., not bloody R. V. when R. V.’s mine. And you didn’t stop there, did you? Did you come up with the surname Bold so you’d sit next to me on the shelf? R. V. Bold, R. V. Bolton, it’s like a sick merger.”

  “It’s a compliment. We thought you’d be flattered.”

  “Getting your shitty reviews posted against my name’s no compliment. And who is ‘we’?”

  “Monica and I …”

  “Monica? Our editor? It’s bad enough that we’re with the same bloody publisher without her handing my identity over to some deranged stalker.”

  R.V. 1, that’s Trevor R. V., took a step closer to the table. I could see both of his shoes now and the tablecloth swayed as he backed up. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Sorry? You’ll both be sorry. Between the two of you you’ve murdered my reputation. She planned this; why else would she have published your pitiful excuse for a novel?”

  I had a pen in my skirt pocket. I took it out and began scribbling notes on the back of the programme.

  I knew of Monica Daws, of course – everyone who’s anyone did. Even I hadn’t managed to escape her sharp words. Monica was the dynamic and charismatic crime editor from Page Force Publishers. I should have guessed it was her when I heard her husky voice. She was forty-something, a ripe-busted brunette with long legs and a ruthless streak. She sounded like Honor Blackman and in her day had probably looked like a Bond girl too.

  One of her most celebrated rejects was Tom Monroe, author of Cut and Shut. After finding success with a rival publisher Tom Monroe had commented, “A face-to-face rejection from Monica was like being whipped by a beautiful woman; painful but not totally unpleasant.”

  She had countered with “I’m delighted that Tom has had some success at last, he will be able to pay for the kind of attention that he hoped to receive from me.”

  And so the public spat continued until Tom’s book hit number 1 in the bestseller list and Page Force’s books filled the rest of the top five. As they say, no such thing as bad publicity …

  With a crick in my neck and numbness creeping up my legs I was just about to abandon my position when I heard Monica’s voice again. “Neil, Scarlet …”

  Neil Wilson and Scarlet Barton.

  I ignored the numbness and prepared to take more notes.

  I wrote more in those two and a half hours than in any other writing day I’ve had. If I’m honest a full writing day for me includes making sure my desk and chair are ergonomically efficient, eating a nutritious and unrushed breakfast, choosing “mood” clothing for inspiration, dealing with any pressing emails, post and phone calls and having a mid-morning drink and snack to keep me going until lunch.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to the bookstall the next morning – this was a perfect working environment; I’d be tucked away, making notes and being paid by the bookshop at the same time.

  It was heading towards elevenses before Chloe and Dan stopped fiddling with the displays on the top of the desk. I had a fresh pad ready and two new Biros; perhaps they sensed I was up to something.

  Dan went to the gents and Chloe finally spoke to me. She scowled and said, “What’s up with you this morning?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You keep fidgeting.”

  “I do not,” I argued but realized I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

  “Suit yourself,” Chloe muttered. She sneered, shrugged and turned away in one deft move.

  I lifted the hem of the table cloth, bobbed under then pulled the pad and pens in after me. For one moment I thought the move had been too slow and clumsy, that Chloe would drag me straight back out again. In the next moment I didn’t care.

  I wasn’t alone under there. Monica Daws sat at the other end of the crawlspace. Her wrists were tied to each table leg and she was gagged with a scarf. She was leaning against a couple of boxes of books, wide-eyed and staring straight at me.

  Her lips were purple and a polished ballpoint pen protruded from her heart. I’m no medical expert but she didn’t look well.

  I scuttled back out, dragging on the table cloth and knocking a pile of first editions on to the carpet. Shit, things were getting bad.

  Dan was back and Chloe just stared at me. Customers stared at me too. I felt strangely calm, oddly aware that all hell was about to break loose the second I spoke. I looked at the table then back at the faces staring at me and in that moment I was lost for words. And really inappropriately I thought I’ve got writers’ block.

  So I screamed then screamed some more.

  Chapter 44

  I’d first seen DCI Wilde about an hour after I’d found Monica’s body; I think he may have spoken to me but I don’t remember. We’d all been kept at the hotel and now two days later he’d gathered everyone together in the main conference room. I looked around; there were authors, their agents, publishers, hotel staff and me, Dan and Chloe.

  DCI Wilde started with an introduction for those that hadn’t met him. The fact that he looked like Brad Pitt c. 1995 helped everyone pay attention.

  “Obviously I seem very senior to be involved in every mundane facet of this investigation, however I have delegated all the boring elements in the knowledge that whatever I look into will ultimately be relevant to the conclusion. It’s a talent I have.” He surveyed the audience. He was about six four with a rich voice and an American accent. He seemed to read my mind. “Sure I sound like a native New Yorker but my parents were English and I only followed them back to the UK after I’d served three years in the Bronx. It gives me this kinda Transatlantic perspective, my boss calls it my unique selling point.”

  By this time the assembled authors were riveted.

  “My intention today is to bring you up to date with the investigation and to unmask the culprit. But firstly, and only because you are crime writers and I’m a fan, I’m going to reveal the suspects. At the risk of using a cliché, ‘The killer of Monica Daws is in this room.’”

  He paused, as if waiting for an audible intake of breath, but let’s face it, we’d all heard that one before.

  He cleared his throat to fill the silence.

  “Some of the most warped and devious minds belong to crime writers and there are a few here who have particular reasons for wanting Monica Daws dead.”

  He turned suddenly, pointing to a frosty-looking blonde in the front row. “Scarlet Barton, witnesses have heard you complaining that Monica failed to provide publicity for your book and you felt humiliated when there were none of your readers at this event.” That drew a sharp intake of breath but Wilde barely paused, switching his attention to the man next to her. “Neil Wilson, your advance was so small that you begged Monica for more money, saying you couldn’t afford to eat properly.”

  I saw several other authors nod in agreement.

  “And” he continued “you, R. V. Bolton, feel that Monica Daws encouraged R. V. Bold to change his name, stealing your identity. You’ve lost your race to stand out from the crowd now, haven’t you? But then let’s look at the other R. V., R. V. Bold aka Trevor Stout. You’ve battled for years to see your first book in print only to discover that no one’s ever going to hear of it, or you. You’re as anonymous as ever and you lay the blame for that at Monica’s door, don’t you?”

  A few people looked at one another in shock, but most of us knew how tough it was to get into print.

  “And finally, bestseller Tom Monroe. Why would you want to see Monica harmed? Your public sparring has helped you both, you have given each other great commercial success and yet …” DCI Wilde paused and everyone held their breath. Here was Tom Monroe, bestselling author, the man we all wanted to be. Why would he want to jeopardize it all to kill Monica? “You have writer’s block,” Wilde announced. “You complained that you’d run out of ideas and Monica ridiculed you, laughed in your face, didn’t she?”

  As one we looked at Tom Monroe. He nodded.

  The atmosphere was taut
with shock and I knew that everyone’s thoughts were with Monica.

  What kind of evil person doesn’t sympathize with writers’s block, for God’s sake?

  With a flourish of notes Wilde went for his closing speech. “Monica Daws is dead, and at least one of you can identify the killer. This person is wicked, a twisted individual who deserves to have their civilized façade taken down in the full glare of the media, who will stand in court and be found guilty of murder, the worst of all crimes. Then it will be life in prison.

  “Prison.”

  DCI Wilde took a step backwards and ran his gaze around the room. “Not the prison in your books but real prison, full of real criminals, all the first-hand research you can dream of, and an abundance of time in which to write it. You’ll lose your independence, your social life, you’ll have a routine of eating and sleeping and earning a fiver a day with nothing to spend it on but the next ream of paper. And anything you publish will cause outrage, every newspaper in the country will eat you for breakfast. Do not protect this person, they deserve the full weight of the law and …”

  He never completed the sentence. There was a flurry in the front row as Scarlet Barton tried to stand. Neil Wilson was grabbing her arm, trying to pull her back into her seat. She was shrieking something I couldn’t make out at first, then from the other side of the room Tom Monroe yelled, “I did it, it was me.”

  Scarlet and Neil replied as one, “No, I did it.”

  But they were outdone by the two R. V.s. R. V. Bolton shouted “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” and held out his hands to be cuffed while R. V. Trevor went for the more theatrical sobbing of “I never meant to do it. It was an accident.”

  Research, publicity, the excitement of publishers and paid time to write: DCI Wilde had painted a very rosy picture. I was tempted to confess myself, but as I really had done it I just slipped away through the back door. I had a book to finish.

  THE GIFT

  Phil Lovesey

  * * *

  EVERYONE ALWAYS TOLD Mary she had “the gift”; family, friends, even astonished strangers. And in the face of such relentless, overwhelming pressure, who was she to doubt it? Right from the start, in those first few moments when she’d picked up crayons and pencils and began scribbling on just about any surface that would take an infantile image, the shocked praise and quiet admiration had begun. But only “infantile” in terms of Mary’s age – the pictures themselves, whether rendered on paper, walls, old envelopes, even white household appliances, were really quite something; special, accomplished, far in advance of her tender years.

  Mary’s parents, quick to recognize such an early blossoming talent, encouraged their daughter as best they could, making frequent trips to the local art shop to buy paint sets, felt-tip pens, pads and boards for the youngster to use. As an only child, they could afford to spend a little extra on her, and besides, as Mary’s father often said, the art materials were an investment. Who knew how famous she might be in the future? Paintings sold for thousands of pounds. If Mary continued to excel artistically, she could keep all of them very nicely indeed. Already they were saving a fortune on Christmas and birthday cards, Mary’s handmade efforts easily better than the shop-bought options.

  Plus, word was getting round. One or two neighbours already had framed Mary Collins pictures in their houses, and her art teacher was quick to recognize and encourage Mary’s talent in secondary school, resulting in a series of first prizes in local and regional art competitions.

  Art college followed, together – unfortunately – with Mary’s first rejection. The Slade and the RCA didn’t want to know. This was the mid-nineties, and pop stars, East End barrow boys and drunks from seaside towns were being propped up and supported by the media as the blossoming new face of Brit Art. Mary Collins just didn’t fit the bill, didn’t have the necessary depressing childhood, the wild and experimental adolescence deemed necessary at the time. Mary Collins, it was decided, although a talented artist in herself, was just too boring, dull and suburban for a world increasingly peopled by the bizarre, ridiculous and outrageous.

  At twenty, Mary met Steve, a decorator from Slough, and a little over a year later, the two of them moved into a small starter-home they could just about afford, with his decorating work and her job as a sales assistant in the local art shop. She still painted, but as Steve was sometimes a little too quick to point out, he made far more rolling vinyl-silk on to walls than she ever did painting “poxy little flowers” on canvas.

  As the credit-card debts grew, Steve helpfully suggested Mary get another part-time job. He’d seen an ad in one of the local newspapers, something about “them wanting arty people to help prisoners”.

  That word “arty”. Mary shuddered at it, with the connotations of all things vapid and sensational that she’d come to despise about her talent.

  However, a few days later, intrigued and more than a little bored with simply selling watercolour sets to pensioners, Mary sought out the ad and began thinking that maybe this really was one area in which she could use her skill and earn some extra money, too. The following day, she applied for the post, was accepted, underwent six months’ paid training and became – as her lapel badge now proudly declared – “Mary Collins – Visiting Art Therapist” at the nearby prison.

  Even though HMP Berryfield was a women’s open prison, housing mainly low-risk, category C prisoners at the end of their sentences, for Mary this was a dangerous yet strangely fascinating new world. Often teased by Steve for her “wide-eyed, bloody naiveté”, Mary felt the new job was as much of an education for her as it was to provide therapeutic help for the inmates. Indeed, Mary’s only previous encounter with anything remotely unlawful had been when she’d shoplifted a sable brush as a shamefaced teenager. The shopkeeper at the time, confronted with the crying girl, had let Mary off with a stern warning, making her promise never to break the law again, or the police and her parents would be informed. It was enough for Mary, and ever since she’d led the perfect law-abiding existence.

  But now, approaching her mid-twenties, with little sign of Steve ever going to pop the question, marry her, have kids and settle down, Mary Collins was getting increasingly restless, as her suppressed adolescence pushed its way through the constraining veneer of respectability that had held her prisoner for so long. Now was the time to experiment a little, live a bit, pull the blinkers away, search and use new experiences and – who knows? – maybe even kick-start her art again after so many years.

  Those first few sessions at HMP Berryfield couldn’t be counted as an instant success, by any means. Mary had more yawning prison wardens in her class than inmates, as she struggled to combine the elements of comfortable conversation with artistic expression.

  “The point,” her training instructor told her, “isn’t to create some kind of exhibition of the prisoners’ work. No, it’s to gently lead them to explore their own feelings, emotions and fears through a combination of experimental therapies and artistic interpretation.”

  “But what if,” Mary had countered, “they simply want to paint?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean,” she’d continued, feeling slightly stupid, “suppose they’re really good artists, and they simply want to paint again? Just for the joy of it?”

  The instructor had given Mary the same look Steve so often did, usually as she asked him to explain a particularly disturbing news item to her. “My dear,” she was slowly informed, “it’s vital that you always remember that these people broke the law. They’re inside to pay a debt to society, not to be indulged with whatever creative whims they have.”

  The next session, however, proved more fruitful. Whether word had simply got round the female prisoners that doing art on a Wednesday afternoon was a good doss away from the otherwise mundane prison routines that merged one dull day into the next – or that Annie Morgan was going to attend – is up for debate. The result, however, wasn’t. When Mary arrived in the brightly lit recreation room that par
ticular afternoon, there were eleven new classmates smiling expectantly. Most sat in pairs behind the uninspiring tabletops, either with friends or wardens; all except Annie Morgan herself, a solitary, glowering, imposing figure who sat by herself in the far corner of the room.

  Imposing mostly because of the sheer physical size and condition of the woman. Close on twenty stone, Mary reckoned, lank grey hair hanging like a pair of musty plastic shower curtains on either side of her face. A formidable pair of cold blue “stay well away from me” eyes seemed to stare right through Mary as she introduced herself and the aims of the classes to the others. For the rest of the afternoon, however, as Mary got to know the other inmates, gently guiding them through the rudiments of pencil sketching a tabletop still-life of some seashells, Annie Morgan simply busied herself with her own painting, using her own paints in the far corner of the room. Whenever Mary approached, those steely eyes warned her well away.

  “Well,” the chief warden asked her as she helped put tables and chairs away after the session had finished, “what did you make of our Annie, then?”

  Mary paused, then said, “She’s quite scary, isn’t she?”

  The warden smiled. “What, our Annie? Harmless, she is. Keeps herself to herself, mostly. Won’t talk to the others. Just stays in her cell. Paints most of the time. Guess that was what made it so special this afternoon, having her here with the others. Quite a big step for our Annie, was that.”

  Mary recalled the woman, the scowling glare, and wondered just how “harmless” she was. “What’s she …?”

  “In for?” the warden replied. “Double murder.”

  Mary almost dropped the chair she was carrying. “Murder?”

  “A double. Two of them. Her old man and her sister.”