The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Her sister?”

  The warden nodded. “Annie came back from work and caught the two of them at it in bed. Her bed. Caved their heads in, then covered them in petrol and burnt the bodies right there. House went up in flames.”

  “My god.”

  “Then she went straight to the police and confessed. Famous case at the time. Early seventies, it was.”

  “Before my time,” Mary apologized, feeling slightly nauseous. The room felt too hot now, the thought of that monster woman sitting in the corner, just silently painting, the revelation of what she’d done … just dreadful.

  “Got two life sentences, she did,” the warden continued. “Served the first fifteen years in a maximum-security psychiatric unit. Then another ten years as Category A in Hull, before finally, they sent her down here to us. Didn’t think she was a risk any more. They wanted to let her serve out the last of her time in a more productive environment.”

  “What do you mean, not a risk any more?” Mary asked.

  “The shrinks in Hull assessed her, took her previous conduct into account – she’s been the model prisoner, has Annie. Never caused any trouble, just likes to paint, that’s all.” The warden walked to the door, then stopped, turned, paused. “Only weird thing about Annie,” she said, “is that bloody picture of hers.”

  “What about it? She wouldn’t let me get close enough to even see it.”

  “She needs to trust you,” the warden explained. “She’s nearly seventy, spent the last twenty-five years inside. She’s not going to suddenly let you see her closest possession. They reckon she’s had that painting with her ever since she was on remand awaiting trial. Part of Annie, it is now. But give it time, Miss Collins, and who knows, maybe one day she’ll let you see it.”

  Steve was watching the match on Sky when Mary got home. She cooked, and over supper told him about Annie Morgan. To her surprise, he didn’t go and watch the finish of the game afterwards, instead booting up the computer and spending up to an hour on the Internet, as Mary dutifully tidied the small house.

  “Gotcha!” he finally exclaimed, as she set down a cup of tea beside the keyboard. “Annie Morgan.”

  Mary looked at the screen, saw the news article from the archive website, a younger, slimmer Annie Morgan being led in handcuffs from the Old Bailey into a waiting police car after sentencing. A crowd of photographers and jeering passersby filled the background of the grainy news photo. “That’s her, yeah?” Steve asked. “Your murdering pyromaniac?”

  “I think so,” Mary replied. “I mean, she’s much younger. But, sure, I think that’s her.”

  Steve was scrolling down, busy reading the text. He gave a low whistle, then turned to Mary. “Oh my love,” he said, smiling. “We could have really hit gold here. Big-time.”

  Mary pulled up a chair, sat beside him.

  “Says here,” he went on enthusiastically, “that Annie Morgan was one of the coldest-hearted killers the judge had ever met. Says that in all the people he tried, he’d never come across a defendant who was so calculating or vicious.” Steve pointed to a paragraph. “Seems that she had this job cleaning up at this big country house in Derbyshire somewhere. Been doing it for years. Well thought of, she was. The owner of the place couldn’t praise her highly enough.”

  “Only when she was up there …”

  Steve sniggered. “Her husband was doing a bit of French polishing of his own.”

  “With her own sister,” Mary quietly added.

  He turned to her, gave her the “look” again. “What, you feel sorry for this woman? God’s sake, Mary, thousands, millions of folk have affairs. Point is, most people don’t murder them and burn the bloody house down, do they? Woman’s a nutcase. Says here she bludgeoned them both to death with a hammer, then set fire to the place. Psycho, she is.”

  “Not any more. She just paints,” Mary replied, lost as to why she felt it even remotely necessary to defend the woman. After all, Annie Morgan had hardly been the perfect student with her hostile attitude, and no one could deny that she’d done the most heinous thing. Maybe Mary did it simply to annoy Steve, his cocksure bloody know-it-all attitude, the way he was practically salivating over the monitor screen. She’d seen him like this before, most often when he had another one of his “schemes” in mind.

  She watched as he scrolled down further.

  “But here’s the kicker, Mary,” he said. “Seems her old man was a right mean type. Known for it in the area. And guess where he kept all his money?”

  “Under the bed?”

  “You got it, love. In an old suitcase, apparently. Like a bloody cliché, isn’t it? But yeah, he stashed his cash under the bloody bed. Thousands of it. Your demented friend Annie Morgan even admitted as much in court.” He read on. “Now according to her confession, she comes back from the cleaning job early, catches her old man and her sister in the bedroom, does the deed, then calmly walks away from the blaze and goes back to the big old country house to confess to some copper that was always hanging around up there.” He turned to her. “’Sweird, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe she knew she’d get caught,” Mary suggested, trying to picture the bizarre scene. “Perhaps she wanted to make a clean break of it. Couldn’t bear to go on the run.”

  “But guess what the forensics people discovered when they went through the ruins of the fire?”

  Mary shrugged.

  “Underneath the burnt-out bed, they found the charred remains of the suitcase. And inside and surrounding it? Newspaper. Little bits of neatly cut and bundled newspaper. The same size as the old ten-pound notes.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  Steve rubbed his forehead, exasperated. “God’s sake Mary, how dense are you? Think about it. Annie Morgan comes home early, kills her husband and sister in an insane jealous rage – then gets the cash from under the bed and replaces it with cut-up newspaper, hoping it would be destroyed in the blaze. But the fire brigade put the fire out too early, so the suitcase and some of the newspaper still remained.” He turned to her, looked her intently in the eyes. “She nicked the money. Don’t you see? Killed them, then up and offed to the manor house to hide it somewhere before turning herself in to this copper that used to hang round there. It’s flamin’ obvious, isn’t it?”

  Mary tried to think. “But in her trial – they must have mentioned the missing money? I mean you said she told everyone about it. She confessed to killing them, setting the fire. How did she explain the money turning to newspaper?”

  Steve scrolled back up, reread the relevant section. “She told them that her husband must have found a new hiding place for it, worried someone would find it. She told the court he must have been giving a fair whack of it to her sister during their affair.”

  “That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Steve gave up, “God, Mary, you’re just so … bloody naive, woman! Think about it! Why bother setting fire to the bodies if she was going to confess to killing them anyway? The reason she torched the place was to try and burn the suitcase, make it look like the cash had gone up in flames, too.” He took a large, loud slug of tea. “I reckon she thought she’d only get ten years max by confessing, playing the spurned wife. Then when she’s released, she nips back to the manor house and retrieves the loot. Simple as that.”

  Mary turned, walked away from the computer, muttering, “Maybe it’s not me that’s the naive one round here.”

  He was up from the seat and on her in an instant, whirling her round to face him. “Listen, love. Do you see how big this is? Just say I’m right, and she stashed all that cash – what a story, eh? All you have to do is find out.”

  She was aghast. “What?”

  “You know, get the old girl’s confidence through that arty stuff you do. Get her to tell you where she hid it.”

  “If she hid it in the first place.”

  “It’s the only explanation that makes sense,” Steve insisted. “Why go back to the manor house after setting the fire? I rec
kon she buried it in the grounds or something. Then she goes looking for this copper to turn herself in, thinking the evidence back at her house is destroyed. But the fire brigade get there quicker than she expected, so she makes up this cock-and-bull story about her husband giving money to her sister.” His grip tightened on her forearms. “But if he’s really done that, why bother putting bits of cut-up newspaper in the suitcase? From the sound of it, he was a right git – he wouldn’t have given a stuff if his own wife had discovered there was money missing. See what I’m saying – it had to be Annie Morgan who switched the money.”

  “And you want me to find out?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it? You’re the woman’s therapist, for God’s sake.”

  Mary’s head began to swim. The whole thing was bloody ridiculous! “Steve,” she insisted, “I’ve only met the woman once. And I really didn’t think she took that much of a shine to me. Besides, it’s all wrong. Morally and professionally wrong. Can’t you see that? God’s sake, I can’t use my job to discover inmates’ secrets. It’s unethical. I’d be fired.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps. But say she tells you where she stashed it. I mean, we’re made, aren’t we?”

  Mary laughed at this. “Oh, I see. Annie Morgan tells me she buried the lot underneath the bloody croquet lawn, and we pop round later that night and dig it all up? Christ’s sake Steve, this is really lame, even for you. That money’s got to be nearly twenty-five years old. Even if it was there, the notes have all changed. How the hell do you think we’d spend it?’

  He released his grip, smiled. “We’re not going to spend her money, love. Oh no. We’re going to spend the money we get from selling the story to the papers. Just imagine, they’ll pay thousands for the exclusive. TV cameras will be there to film it being dug up. Christ’s sake, it could even be a bloody movie – Morgan’s Missing Millions.” He gave her a short hug. “Like I say, love, I reckon we’ve hit paydirt here. You simply need to dig around a little bit, then we unearth the big one.”

  Regardless of her own distaste and scepticism, Mary couldn’t deny that Wednesday afternoons took on a curious new significance from that point on. Annie Morgan continued to attend, always sitting solo at the same corner table, always painting the same picture.

  “All her sentence she’s been working on it,” the warden quietly informed Mary. “Paints the thing, then whites it out and starts all over. She’s never used another canvas as far as I know. I think it goes back to her time in the psychiatric unit, the staff only permitting her the one canvas that she had to reuse. Sad. I guess. Just a sort of habitual behaviour, now, endlessly repetitive. Like one of those big old bears you see in a zoo, always pacing over the same sorry circuit.”

  Gradually, however, as weeks progressed, Mary found herself able to get a few steps closer to Annie before being halted by the familiar icy glare, as if the distance was being controlled by the older woman, as if Mary’s progress into her territory was a result of Annie’s tolerance, rather than any of the “therapy” Mary offered other inmates.

  “She’s learning to trust you,” the warden observed one afternoon. “Very few of us have got as close as you have without Annie kicking off. You’ve obviously got the gift, Miss Collins.”

  It’s true that Mary felt empowered by these words, and also honoured to be allowed within six feet of the woman. For, repulsed as she was by the crime, Mary was also drawn to Annie Morgan – the conundrum of her existence, the many unanswered questions that surrounded this huge, unkempt, yet meticulously painting woman. For she did paint continuously, regardless of the noise and commotion in the room. And by the look of it, had indeed been doing so for years, on the small canvas now layered nearly an inch thick with built-up paint. Picture after picture, Mary supposed, laboriously slaved over, then, the moment she considered a piece finished, out would come the chalk-white oil paint, and Annie Morgan would obliterate the work, allow it to dry and begin again on the fresh surface.

  Steve, of course, had his own theories about the painting. To him, the case of Annie Morgan had become something of an obsession, so convinced was he that a fortune lay buried somewhere deep within it.

  “Just think,” he said one night as they lay in bed together. “All those pictures painted on the same bloody canvas by some nut-job. I mean, it’s got to be some sort of confession. Like, maybe, clues as to where to find the money. That’s all she does, is it, just paint?”

  “Yeah,” Mary answered, sick and tired of his speculation. “Because she enjoys it.”

  “But over and over – on the same bloody canvas? That has to be significant, doesn’t it?” He rolled over, thought for a while, then said, “I want you to get it, bring it home.”

  “What?”

  “Tell her you need it for a course or something. She’s nuts, she won’t know the difference. Get it, bring it back here. Then get the mad old crone a new one. Say the old one got spoilt or something. Just get the thing here. I’m willing to bet everything we have that there’s some kind of clue in it.”

  “No way!” Mary protested. “And besides, she takes it everywhere, even back to her cell.”

  “Exactly – which just proves she’s obviously got something to hide, eh? Just be a good girl, Mary, and get that bastard painting. We can sell it to the papers. They’ve got these infrared cameras that can see through paint layers. It’ll make us a fortune.”

  “No. It’s hers. It’s private.”

  “Yeah, and it’s our chance of a ticket to a better life, Mary. Just you remember that.”

  The breakthrough came after eleven weeks. Glorious Wednesday, Mary would later come to call it, the day Annie Morgan finally spoke to her.

  “You enjoy your work, Miss Collins?” were those first six, unexpected words.

  Mary reeled in shock, partly to even be addressed by the woman, but more so at the soft, educated voice.

  “Yes,” she cautiously replied. “I think I do.”

  “And you paint yourself?”

  “When I have the time.”

  Annie Morgan smiled at this. “Time. Well, I’ve had plenty of that, Miss Collins.” And with that, she carefully packed up her paints, brushes and precious, thickly laden canvas and took herself back to her cell.

  Gradually, over the following few weeks, to both inmates’ and prison staff’s amazement, an uneasy friendship grew between the two artists, with Mary even allowed the hallowed privilege of having a cup of tea with Annie in her cell after the Wednesday session had finished. It was, Mary realized, very one-sided, the older woman ceaselessly asking questions about Mary’s childhood, her home life, her relationship with Steve. And although the cell door remained open, and a warden never too far away, it was, Mary felt, an intensely private experience.

  One Wednesday the prison governor told her why she permitted these “visits”. “Annie has no one,” she explained. “No friends, no family. And although she’s technically up for parole later this year, there’s severe doubts about her health.”

  “Oh?” Mary said.

  “She had two massive heart attacks last year. Refuses to lose the weight, take care of herself. Really, Miss Collins, it’s just a matter of time for our Annie. And whilst your visits might be a little unorthodox, I think Annie’s earned the right to have tea with a friend every week, don’t you?’

  The news came as a shock. “Thank you,” was all Mary could say.

  Mary broke up with Steve just a few weeks later. His continual insistence, insane schemes and emotional bullying finally became too much, even for previously mild-mannered Mary. After a huge row, he left, vowing to “stay over with a proper girl I sometimes knock about with from time to time”. The revelation didn’t come as much of a blow to Mary, more of a relief that he’d be out of her life. Mostly, she pitied the “proper girl”.

  She thanked Annie when she next saw her, telling the old inmate that she’d never have had the courage to cause the row in the first place if Annie hadn’t advised her to do so.

&n
bsp; Annie smiled, nodded, yet seemed older, slower. “Well, he sounded like a right rum lot to me, dear. You’re well shot of that sort, believe me.”

  And then, without prompting, Mary told Annie of her ex’s madcap ideas, the research into the crime he’d done, the obsession with the missing money, the almost daily insistence that she steal Annie’s precious canvas.

  Annie gently laughed, looked over at the picture, its pride of place on her small table. “Well, he was one idiot who added two and two and made fifty-five, Miss Collins.’

  “Five hundred and fifty-five,” Mary added.

  “He really thought I’d buried my husband’s money up at the manor house? Preposterous!”

  Mary nodded. “He wasn’t the brightest colour on the palette.” She paused, not knowing whether to ask the next question.

  Annie sensed the hesitation. “And now you have something to ask me?”

  “Is it OK?”

  “Fire away, Miss Collins.”

  “Why did you go back there, to the house, after you …?”

  “Killed them?”

  Mary nodded.

  Annie smiled, seemed to drift back through time to a better place. “To see the constable, Miss Collins. The one who was always hanging around. I needed to confess, after all.” She looked over at the ageing canvas, heaped with years of paint, then back to Mary. “Promise me this one thing. If you have the chance, then you’ll paint again, Miss Collins.”

  “I’d love to, but …”

  She put a finger to her lips. “No buts, Miss Collins. Too many of those. I’ve lived a life of them. I did a truly terrible thing, and have paid the price ever since. Now, I simply want to hear if there’s no ‘buts’ from you.”

  Mary took a breath. “If I had the chance,” she slowly replied, “then there’s nothing more that I’d like to do than paint.”

  The old woman nodded, her eyes suddenly tired and heavy, yet also seeming to glimmer and shine with something that Mary hadn’t seen in Annie Morgan before – contentment.