Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories

by Martin Edwards

  Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword by Barry Forshaw

  Introduction by Martin Edwards

  The Habit of Silence  Ann Cleeves

  The People Outside  Martin Edwards

  Boom!  Cath Staincliffe

  The Message  Margaret Murphy

  Best Eaten Cold  Stuart Pawson

  Basic Skills  Ann Cleeves

  Laptop  Cath Staincliffe

  Act of Contrition  Margaret Murphy

  The Case of the Musical Butler  Martin Edwards

  Mud  Ann Cleeves

  Riviera  Cath Staincliffe

  Sprouts  Stuart Pawson

  InDex  Martin Edwards

  Murder Squad: Author Biographies

  Copyright

  * * *

  Foreword

  * * *

  Sitting next to a London author (who shall remain nameless) at a dinner recently, I was paid something of a mixed compliment. ‘I like you, Barry,’ I was told, ‘you’re a good northern boy – not one of these Southern literary types.’ (In fact, the word used was not ‘types’ but a collective noun referring, I believe, to adherents of autoeroticism.) Sadly, however, I had to disabuse my companion of the notion that I was still a northerner (though I let the word ‘boy’ ride). I pointed out that I’d spent more years in the dark literary back alleys of London than my twenty or so formative northern years when the Pier Head, the Mersey Ferry and the Liverpool Philharmonic pub were my stomping grounds. However – as they say – once a northerner, always a northerner. And I never feel the truth of this adage more than when I am in the companionable company of members of the Murder Squad (a very civilised group, despite the moniker). This loose conglomeration of northern crime authors actually sport more differences than things in common – and they’re a bloody-minded bunch who’ll quickly tell you this – but there is a shared dark humour, a wry self-deprecation and an outlook on the world that somehow contrives to be both gloomy and cheerful (though perhaps the cheerfulness is a species of gallows humour). In Murder Squad company, I find myself involuntarily undergoing a startling regional transplant; it wouldn’t be quite true to say that all my northerness comes rushing back (after all, I still have my long ‘a’s, unlike the short ones of Martin Edwards and Margaret Murphy), but despite the London veneer I suppose I’m still a Liverpudlian, even though I have a great antipathy to such local icons as the football teams and TV’s professional scousers. Writing about and reviewing crime fiction for many years has kept me in touch with Messieurs et Mesdames Edwards, Murphy, Cleeves, Pawson and Staincliffe (note the French casually dropped in there – proof of my effete southernisation), and I must confess that (leaving aside their impressive crime-writing credentials) these sanguinary scribes are as stimulating companions as you will find. They are such good company, in fact, that I can even accept the fact that Margaret Murphy will even decline writing commissions (’Too busy,’ she says – can you believe it?); or that Martin Edwards has an annoying habit of spotting typos in an impeccable piece one may have written, though he never (well, hardly ever) pins back one’s ears on the finer points of law.

  However, readers of this anthology will not give a damn about the fact that Cath Staincliffe knows which B&Q sells the cheapest paint stripper, or that Stuart Pawson used to be seen on railway platforms, a small notebook and stub of pencil in hand. Or that Ann Cleeves once wore wellies as an auxiliary coastguard. What counts is the considerable crime fiction expertise of this group, and I can put my hand on my heart and type (with the other hand) the following sentence: the concatenation of talent to be found in this anthology makes the crime lists of many a publisher look (by comparison) impoverished. Reading these provocative, ingenious and sometimes disturbing stories, you will, in fact, be aware of more of those dissimilarities than the congruences between these writers: Ann Cleeves’ cool, precise prose contrasts sharply with the more off-kilter psychological approach of Margaret Murphy, while the dark humour of Stuart Pawson is some distance from the stripped-down approach of Martin Edwards.

  There is, however, one thing that all the writers in this collection have in common: an awareness of the consequences of crime upon the human psyche – the destructive effects on both those who commit the crimes and those on the receiving end. But if all that sounds a little po-faced, don’t worry. The one thing that all the members of the Murder Squad have in common is an unerring grasp of the storyteller’s art. There is not a single piece here that will not (within a paragraph or so) have you comprehensively gripped, Ancient Mariner-style. And as to the question of whether or not there is a northern sensibility at work here – well, frankly, it doesn’t really matter. Crime fiction has always been – and remains – one of the most universal of genres, and the issues for both displaced northerners like myself and for those writers represented here who still live north of the Watford Gap are, essentially, the same. The matters of life and death so fruitfully explored in these stories are relevant to all of us, whether we are reading them in a coffee house in Islington or its equivalent in Manchester. Having said that, the minute I finished the last story in the collection I felt an irresistible impulse: I found myself booking a ticket to experience again a sensation I’ve savoured all my life – that moment when the train pulls into Lime Street station, and I step out to the sight of the monolithically brooding St George’s Hall and the wonderfully preserved William Brown Street. Did you know Liverpool has more listed buildings than any other British city? Uh oh… getting all northern again; this is an insidious collection.

  But if you’re in the mood for a trip north, all you really need is the price of this exemplary anthology – which I trust you have already spent. A warning note, though: you’ll find the north can be a dangerous place…

  Barry Forshaw, 2011

  Barry Forshaw is the author of The Rough Guide to Crime Fiction and the editor of British Crime Writing: An Encyclopedia

  * * *

  Introduction

  * * *

  Murder Squad is a group of crime writers, friends who first met at meetings of the northern chapter of the Crime Writers’ Association and who decided to band together to promote their work. The Squad was founded by Margaret Murphy in the spring of 2000. Our first event together was held at a newly opened branch of Borders on the Wirral; we never imagined we would outlive a major chain of bookshops, but part of the appeal of the world of books is that nothing is entirely predictable.

  At first there were seven of us, although in recent times John Baker has moved away from the crime genre, while Chaz Brenchley is currently focusing on fantasy and supernatural fiction. But we are not seeking to act out a real-life equivalent of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None – far from it: we have already stayed together rather longer than the Beatles did! Collectively, we have had a great time over the years, occasionally getting together as a group, more often working in duos and trios.

  And some wonderful things have happened to us over the years: CWA Dagger awards, television series – the very popular Vera and Blue Murder for Ann Cleeves and Cath Staincliffe respectively, overseas book deals and countless festival and convention appearances. Margaret had a year as Chair of the CWA, we were featured in a BBC TV programme, Inside Out, we have a website managed by Cornwell Internet and we have put together a CD of readings from our work.

  This year sees the tenth anniversary of our first anthology of fiction, which was published by Flambard Press, and we decided it was high time we put together another collection. The stories in this book are mostly set in the North of England, and generally have, in one way or another, revenge as a theme, but they are as
varied in style as any crime fan could wish. We hope our readers enjoy them as much as we enjoyed writing them.

  I must give a warm word of thanks to Barry Forshaw for his generous Foreword, and to our publishers, for making sure this book has seen the light of day. But above all, I want to express my gratitude to my Murder Squad colleagues for their kindness and companionship over the past eleven years; it is a privilege to be part of the Squad, and I am hugely in their debt.

  Martin Edwards, 2011

  Ann Cleeves

  * * *

  The Habit of Silence

  * * *

  Newcastle in November, Joe Ashworth thought, is probably the greyest city in the world. Then running up the steps from the Westgate Road he realised that he’d been to this place before. His seven-year-old daughter had violin lessons at school and he’d brought her here for her grade one exam. They’d both been intimidated by the grandeur of the building and the girl’s hand had shaken during the scales. Listening at the heavy door of the practice room he’d heard the wobble.

  Today there was rain and a gusty wind outside and the sign Lit and Phil Library open to the public had blown flat onto the pavement. Taped to the inside door, a small handwritten note said that the library would be closed until further notice. Mixed messages. The exams took place on the ground floor but Joe climbed the stone staircase and felt the same sense of exclusion as when he’d waited below, clutching his daughter’s small violin case, making some feeble joke in the hope that she’d relax. Places like this weren’t meant for a lad from Ashington, whose family had worked down the pit. When there were still pits.

  At the turn of the stairs there was an oil painting on the wall. Some worthy Victorian with a stern face and white whiskers. Around the corner a noticeboard promoting future events: book launches, lectures, poetry readings. And on the landing, looking down at him, a tall man dressed in black, black jeans and a black denim shirt. He wore a day’s stubble but he still managed to look sophisticated.

  ‘You must be the detective,’ the man said. ‘They sent me to look out for you. And to turn away members and other visitors. My name’s Charles. I found the body.’

  It was a southern voice, mellow and musical. Joe took an instant dislike to the man, who lounged over the dark wood banister as if he owned the place.

  ‘Work here, do you?’

  It was a simple question but the man seemed to ponder it. ‘I’m not a member of staff,’ he said. ‘But yes, I work here. Every day, actually.’

  ‘You’re a volunteer?’ Joe was in no mood for games.

  ‘Oh no.’ The man gave a lazy smile. ‘I’m a poet. Sebastian Charles.’ He paused as if he expected Ashworth to recognize the name. Joe continued up the stairs so he stood on the landing too. But still the man was so tall that he had to crick his neck to look up at him.

  ‘And I’m Detective Sergeant Ashworth,’ he said. ‘Please don’t leave the building, Mr Charles. I’ll need to talk to you later.’ He moved on into the library. The poet turned away from him and stared out of a long window into the street. Already the lamps had been switched on and their gleam reflected on the wet pavements.

  Joe’s first impression, walking through the security barrier, was of space. There was a high ceiling and within that a glass dome. Around the room a balcony. And everywhere books, from floor to ceiling, with little step-ladders to reach the higher shelves. He stared. He hadn’t realised that such a place could exist just over the room where small children scratched out tunes for long-suffering examiners. A young library assistant with pink hair sat behind a counter. Her eyes were as pink as her hair and she snuffled into a paper handkerchief.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The girl hadn’t moved her lips and the words came from a small office, through an open door. Inside sat a middle-aged woman half hidden by a pile of files on her desk. She looked fraught and tense. He supposed she’d become a librarian because she’d wanted a quiet life. Now she’d been landed with a body, the chaos of the crime scene investigation and her ordered life had been disrupted. He introduced himself again and went into the office.

  ‘I assume,’ she said, ‘you want to go downstairs to look at poor Gilbert.’

  ‘Not yet.’ As his boss Vera Stanhope always said, the corpse wasn’t going anywhere. ‘I understand you’ve locked the door?’

  ‘To the Silence Room? Oh yes.’ She gave a smile that made her seem younger and more attractive. ‘I suppose we all watch CSI these days. We know what we should do.’ She gestured him to sit in a chair near by. On her desk, behind the files, stood a photo of two young girls, presumably her daughters. There was no indication of a husband.

  ‘Perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened this morning.’ Joe took his seat.

  The librarian was about to speak when there were heavy footsteps outside and a wheezing sound that could have been an out of breath hippo. Vera Stanhope appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light. She carried a canvas shopping bag over one shoulder.

  ‘Starting without me, Joe Ashworth?’ She seemed not to expect an answer and gave the librarian a little wave. ‘Are you alright Cath?’

  Joe thought Vera’s capacity to surprise him was without limit. This place made him feel ignorant. All those books by writers he didn’t know, pictures by artists whose names meant nothing to him. What could Vera Stanhope understand of culture and poetry? She lived in a mucky house in the hills, had few friends and he couldn’t ever remember seeing her read a book. Yet here she was greeting the librarian by her first name, wandering down to the other end of the library to pour herself coffee from a flask set there for readers’ use, then moving three books from the only other chair in the office so she could sit down.

  Vera grinned at him. ‘I’m a member of the Lit and Phil pet. The Literary and Philosophical Society Library. Have been for years. My father brought me here to lectures when I was a kid and I liked the place. And the fact that you don’t get fined for overdue books. Don’t get here as often as I’d like though.’ She wafted the coffee mug under his nose. ‘Sorry, I should have offered you some.’ She turned back to Cath. ‘I saw Sebastian outside. You said on the phone that he found the body.’

  The librarian nodded. ‘He’s taken to working in the Silence Room every afternoon. We’re delighted of course. It’s good publicity for us. I’m sure we’ve attracted members since he won the T.S. Eliot.’

  Vera tapped Joe’s shoulder. ‘The Eliot’s a prize for poetry, sergeant. In case you’ve never heard of it.’

  Joe didn’t reply. It wasn’t just the smell of old books that was getting up his nose.

  Cath frowned. ‘You know how Sebastian hates the press,’ she said. ‘I do hope he won’t make a scene.’

  ‘Who else was around?’ Joe was determined to move the investigation on. He wanted to be out of this place and into the grey Newcastle afternoon as soon as possible.

  ‘Zoë Wells, the library assistant. You’ll have seen her as you came in. And Alec Cole, one of the trustees. Other people were in and out of the building, but just five of us were around all morning.’ The librarian paused. ‘And now, I suppose, there are only four.’

  The Silence Room was reached by more stone steps at the back of the library. This time they were narrow and dark. The servant’s exit, Joe thought. It felt like descending into a basement. There was no natural light in the corridor below. The three of them paused and waited for Cath to unlock the heavy door. Inside, the walls were lined by more books. These were old and big, reference texts. Still no windows. Small tables for working had been set between the shelves. The victim sat with his back to them, slumped forward over one of the tables. There was a wound on his head, blood and matted hair.

  ‘Murder weapon?’ Vera directed her question to both of them. Then: ‘I’ve been in this room dozens of times, but this is the first time I’ve ever spoken here. It seems almost sacrilegious. Weird, isn’t it, the habit of silence.’ She turned to Joe. ‘That’s the rule. We never speak in here
.’

  ‘I wondered if he could have been hit with the book.’ Cath nodded towards a huge tome lying on the floor. ‘Could that kill someone?’

  Vera gave a barking laugh. ‘Don’t see why not, with enough force behind it. Appropriate eh? Gilbert Wood killed with words.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Why am I not surprised? Joe thought.

  ‘Oh our Gilbert was quite famous in his own field. Academic, historian, broadcaster, writer. He’s been knocking around this place since I was a bairn and he’s turned out a few words in his time.’ She turned to Cath. ‘What was he working on now?’

  ‘He was researching the library’s archives. The Lit and Phil began its life as a museum as well as a library and there’s fascinating material on the artefacts that were kept here. Some very weird and wonderful stuff. We thought it might make a book. Another boost to our funds.’

  Outside there were quick footsteps and a man in his sixties appeared in the doorway. He was small and neat with highly polished black shoes, a grey suit and a dark tie. Joe thought he looked like an undertaker.

  ‘I was working upstairs,’ he said. ‘The accounts for the AGM next week. Zoë had to tell me that the police had arrived.’ There was a touch of reproach in the voice. He was accustomed to being consulted.

  ‘Please meet Alec Cole.’ Cath’s words were polite enough but Joe thought she didn’t like him. ‘He’s our honorary treasurer. It’s Alec who makes sure we live within our means.’

  ‘A difficult task,’ Cole said, ‘for any charitable organisation during these benighted times.’

  ‘You knew the deceased?’ Joe had expected Vera to take charge of the conversation, but she was still staring at Wood’s body, apparently lost in thought.