Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories

by Martin Edwards

  It takes forever and an age to get the car out of the water and the body out of the car. The CSIs have to photograph it at every stage and preserve as much of the scene as possible. Soon as I get a look at him, I can tell you what the cause of death is. Bullet wound to the chest. Dead men don’t drown and they don’t drive cars either. Not even in the wilder parts of our patch.

  ‘Susie shot them both?’ the Boss frowns. ‘Why both? One or the other, yes. But both?’

  I play it in my head. Susie calls Sammy Gupta and he goes round there. There’s some sort of scrap and Greg Collins gets shot. Sammy Gupta drives himself and Susie out here. They argue. She shoots him, puts him in the car, pushes it in. Can’t live with herself.

  ‘He’s a big bloke,’ I say. ‘Could she lift him?’

  ‘Needs must. But how come no one reported the shot?’

  ‘The food festival. They had fireworks last night. Any shots round here, people would put down to that.’

  ‘Sammy Gupta, then – he shoots Collins. Comes here with Susie. She’s upset. Either she jumps or he pushes her in. With two murders on his plate Sammy can’t see anyway out. He drives the car up to the edge, puts it in gear, foot on the brake.’ She turns to me. ‘Rear brakes on a VW Concept?’

  Search me. I’m picturing the Italian Job with the bus on the cliff edge.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘he shoots himself, his foot slips off the brake, in he goes.’

  ‘But he’d have to wind the window down, chuck the gun out and wind it up again.’

  ‘I knew there was something,’ she says.

  We go back to the office, heads spinning, full of news. DC Barratt’s in the lift, all swagger. Gavin Henderson has been eliminated. He lied about the Bridgewater to cover his tracks. He admitted he was at an illegal poker game with some very heavy characters, refused to give details but offered up a taxi ride there and back which checked out.

  The incident room is buzzing with excitement. There’s been a deluge of faxes and e-mails which have netted us the following: first of all, blood at the Collins’ house came from two different men: Greg Collins and Sammy Gupta. Blood at the wharf only came from Collins. Secondly, CCTV footage shows the VW driving in the direction of the canal at 19.15. Next, the explosives expert has identified the nature of the blast: natural gas. An open outlet on the hob was the source of the escape. A small electrical charge from a central heating timer or a light switch would have been adequate to ignite the built-up gas. And to put the lid on it, the only fingerprint on the gun is a match to Susie Collins.

  That little lot puts a whole new spin on things. I get it! Like solving Su Doku. I lay it out: ‘Susie and Greg argue, she rings her mum and then Sammy Gupta, asks him to come and get her. Greg’s not having it, he’s losing everything: business, house, wife. He gets out the gun that he’s kept since his army days. When Gupta arrives, Greg shoots him. He has to get rid of the body and the VW and keep Susie close by.’

  Barratt pipes up then, snide like, ‘Why would she hang around, he’s just shot her lover?’

  ‘If he’s pointing a gun at her…’ I say.

  ‘Fair enough.’ The Boss nods.

  ‘Collins puts the dead man in the VW, probably gets Susie to drive. At the wharf, Collins puts Gupta in the driving seat. Pushes the car in. At some point, Susie manages to get hold of the gun and fires at Greg. But it’s only a shoulder wound, it doesn’t put him down. He goes after her and forces her in the water. He walks home, painful but possible. What he doesn’t know is there’s a pan on the stove, forgotten about in the commotion of Gupta’s shooting, but at some stage a door opened or slammed and the wind, fierce that day, blew out the flame. The gas builds while Collins is away at the canal, streaming out to fill the room, to fill the house.’

  The gas keeps coming. He’s walking back, his mind racing: plane or boat, cash or card? Spain or further afield? Heading straight for an accident waiting to happen. A time-bomb.

  Tick tick.

  Boom!

  He keeps up the victim act even when we tell him we know he’s the villain. Even as I read him the caution and charge him. Perhaps he’d have done better on the telly than in property.

  Big tick for me, though. And tonight – we’re all off for a feast in Chinatown.

  Margaret Murphy

  * * *

  The Message

  * * *

  Rules of the game:

  One, find your spot.

  Two, stake your claim.

  Three, warn off all comers.

  Four, wait.

  Vincent Connolly is keeping dixie on the corner of Roscoe Street and Mount Pleasant. Roscoe Street isn’t much more than an alley; you’d have a job squeezing a car down – which means he can watch without fear of being disturbed. He’s halfway between the Antrim and Aachen hotels, keeping an eye on both at once. They’re busy, because of the official opening of the second Mersey tunnel tomorrow; the Queen’s going to make a speech, thousands are expected to turn out – and the city centre hotels are filling up fast. It’s the biggest thing the city has seen since The Beatles’ concert at The Empire on their triumphal return from America in 1964. That was seven years ago, when Vincent was only four years old – too young to remember much, except it was November and freezing, and he was wearing short trousers, so his knees felt like two hard lumps of stone. They stood at the traffic lights in Rodney Street, him holding his dad’s hand, waiting for the four most famous Liverpudlians to drive past. As the limo slowed to turn the corner, Paul McCartney noticed him and waved. Vincent had got a lot of mileage out of that one little wave. He decided then that he would be rich and famous, like Paul McCartney, and ride in a big limo with his own chauffeur.

  Now it’s 1971, Vincent is eleven, The Beatles broke up a year ago, T-Rex is the band to watch, and Vincent’s new hero is Evel Knievel. For months, he’s had his eye on a Raleigh Chopper in the window of Quinn’s in Edge Lane. It’s bright orange, it does wheelies, and it’s the most beautiful thing Vincent has ever seen.

  He doesn’t mind working for it. He’s never had a newspaper round, or a Saturday job, but he is a grafter. October, he can be found outside the pubs in town, collecting a Penny for the Guy. From Bonfire Night to New Year, he’ll team up with a couple of mates, going door-to-door, carol singing. Summertime, he’ll scour the streets for pop bottles, turning them in for the threepenny deposit – one-and-a-half pence in new money. Saturdays, in the football season, he’ll take himself off to the city’s north end to mind cars in the streets around Goodison Park – practically the dark side of the moon, as far as his mates are concerned, but Vincent’s entrepreneurial spirit tells him if you want something bad enough, you’ve got to go where the action is.

  He lacks the muscle to claim the prime spots – he’s got the scars to prove it – so, for now, he’s happy enough working the margins.

  The Antrim is the bigger of the two hotels, and he angles himself so he’s got a good view. A half hour passes, three lots of tourists arrive – all of them, disappointingly, by taxi. He settles to a game of single ollies in the gutter for a bit, practising long shots with his best marble, just to keep his eye in. It’s a warm, sunny June evening, so he doesn’t really mind.

  Another fifteen minutes, and the traffic heading out of town is lighter; Wednesday, some of the shops close half day. By six, Mount Pleasant is mostly quiet. A bus wheezes up the hill, a few cars pass, left and right, but you can count the minutes by them, now. Things won’t pick up again until after tea-time, when the pubs start to fill up. By six-thirty, he’s thinking of heading back for his own tea, when he sees a car stop outside the Aachen, off to his right.

  One man, on his own. He sits with the engine running while he folds up a map. Tourist.

  ‘You’re on, Vinnie,’ Vincent whispers softly. He picks up his marbles and stuffs them into his pocket.

  He’s still wearing his school uniform, so he’s presentable, but he’s pinned an SFX school badge over his own as a disguise. He licks bo
th hands and smoothes them over his head in an attempt to flatten his double crown, then he rubs the grit off the knees of his trousers. Now he’s ready, poised on the balls of his feet, waiting for the driver to get out so he can make his play.

  In Vincent’s book, you can’t beat car-minding. It seems nobler than the rest, somehow, and it couldn’t be easier – no special props required – you just walk up, say, ‘Mind your car, mister?’ – and agree your price. Ten new pence is the going rate, but he’ll go as low as five, if the owner decides he wants to barter. It’s a contract. The unspoken clause – the small print, if you like – is cough up the fee, or you might come back to find your car on bricks.

  The man shoves open the door and hoists himself out of the driver’s seat. He’s not especially tall, it’s just that the car he’s wedged into is a Morris Minor, a little granny car. Vincent squints into the sun, taking in more details: spots of rust mar the smoke grey paintwork, nibbling at the sills and lower rims of the door. Even the wheel arches are wrecked. He curls his lip in disgust; a heap of tin – hardly even worth crossing the road for.

  The man is five-nine or -ten, and spare. Collar length hair – dark brown, maybe – it’s hard to tell from twenty-five yards away. He’s wearing a leather bomber jacket over an open-necked shirt. He stretches, cricks his neck, left, right, goes round to the car boot, and checks up and down the street, which gets Vincent’s spider-sense tingling.

  He ducks deeper into the shadow of the alleyway, crouching behind the railings of the corner house. The man lifts out a vinyl suitcase in dirty cream. He sets it down on the road, reaches inside the car boot again, and brings out a small blue carry-all. He looks up and down the hill a second time, opens the driver’s door and leans inside. Vincent grips the railing, holding his breath. The man straightens up and – hey, presto – the bag is gone.

  Still crouched in the shadows, Vincent watches him walk up the steps of the hotel. The front door is open, but he has to ring to gain entry though the vestibule door. Someone answers, the man steps inside, and Vincent sags against the wall. The bricks are cool against his back, but he’s sweating. He can’t decide if it’s fear, or guilt, or excitement, because he’s made up his mind to find out what’s in that small blue bag.

  Taking money off strangers to mind their cars is a bit scally, but breaking into a car is Borstal territory. Not that he hasn’t done it before – for sunglasses left on the dashboard, or loose change in the glove compartment – small stuff, in and out in less than a minute. But this isn’t small stuff; the way the man had looked around before he ducked inside the car, it had to be something special in that bag. Money, maybe; a big fat wad of crisp new notes. Or stolen jewels: emeralds as green as mossy caves, rubies that glow like communion wine. Vincent sees himself raking his fingers through a mound of gold coins, scooping out emeralds and sapphires and diamonds, buried like shells in sand.

  He is about to break cover when the lobby door opens and the man steps out. For a second he stands in the hotel doorway and stares straight across the road, into the shadows of the alleyway. Vincent’s heart seizes. He flattens himself against the wall and turns his head, hiding his face.

  For a long minute, he shuts his eyes tight and wills the man away. When he dares to look, the man is already heading down the hill, into the westering sun. As he reaches the bend of the road, a shaft of sunlight catches his hair and it flares red for an instant, then he is gone.

  Vincent can’t take his eyes off the car, almost afraid it will vanish into thin air if he so much as blinks. Less than a minute, he tells himself. That’s all it’ll take. But his heart is thudding hard in his chest, and he can’t make his legs work. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Because what if the man had forgot his wallet in his hurry? What if he comes back? What if someone is watching from the hotel?

  ‘And what if you’re a big girl’s blouse, Vincent Connolly?’

  The sound of his own voice makes him jump, and he’s walking before he even knows it – one moment he’s squatting in the shadows, gripping the railings like they will save him from falling, the next, he’s at the car, his penknife in his hand.

  Close to, the rust is even worse. Moggy Minor, he thinks, disgustedly – one doddering step up from an invalid carriage. Still… on the plus side, they’re easy: the quarter-light catch wears loose with age – and this one’s ready for the scrapyard. He pushes gently at the lower corner with the point of the knife blade and it gives. He dips into his pocket for his jemmy. It’s made from a cola tin, cut to one inch width, and fashioned into a small hook at one end. The metal is flexible, but strong, and thin enough to fit between the door and the window frame. In an instant, he’s flipped the catch, reached in and lifted the door handle.

  A Wolseley slows down as he swings the door open. A shaft of fear jolts through him, and he thinks of abandoning the job, but the chance to get his hands on all that money makes him reckless. He turns and waves the driver on with a smile, sees him clock the fake school badge on his blazer and grins even broader. The driver’s eyes swivel to the road and he motors on to the traffic lights.

  Vincent slides inside the car, closes the door, and keeps his head down. The interior reeks of petrol fumes and cigarettes. The vinyl of the driver’s seat is cracked, and greyish stuffing curdles from the seams. He reaches underneath, and comes up empty.

  Certain that any second he’ll be yanked out feet first, he leans across to the passenger side and feels under the seat. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Just grit and dust and tufts of cotton. But the passenger seat is in good nick: no cracks or splits in the leatherette. So where has the stuffing come from?

  Frowning, he reaches under again, but this time he turns his palm up, pats the underside of the seat. His heart begins to thud pleasantly; he’s found something solid. He tugs gently and it drops onto his hand.

  He’s grinning as he barrels up the steps to his house. Vincent lives in a narrow Georgian terrace in Clarence Street, less than a minute’s walk from where the car is parked, but he has run past his own street, left and then left again, crossing Clarence Street a second time, on the look-out for anyone following, before cutting south, down Green Lane, covering four sides of a square to end up back at his house.

  The door is on the latch. His mum is cooking lamb stew: summer or winter, you can tell the day of the week by what’s cooking; Wednesday is Irish stew. He scoops up the Liverpool Echo from the doormat and leaves the carry-all at the foot of the stairs, under his blazer, before sauntering to the kitchen.

  ‘Is that you, Vincent?’ his mother glances over her shoulder. ‘I thought you were at rehearsals.’ His class has been chosen to perform for the Queen.

  ‘We were so good, they let us finish early.’

  He must have sounded less than enthusiastic, because she scolded, ‘It’s a great honour. You’ll remember tomorrow for the rest of your life.’

  Vincent’s mum is a patriotic Irish immigrant. And she says he’s full of contradictions.

  ‘The Echo’s full of it,’ he says, slapping the newspaper onto the table.

  She balances the spoon on the rim of the pot and turns to him. Her face is flushed from the heat of the pot; or maybe it’s excitement. She wipes her hands on her apron and picks up the paper. ‘Well, go and change out of your school uniform. You can tell Cathy, tea’s almost ready. And wash your hands before you come down.’

  For once, he doesn’t complain.

  He tiptoes past his sister’s bedroom door and sidles into his room like a burglar. He shuts the door, then slides the carry-all under his bed. He untucks the blankets from his mattress and lets them hang. They are grey army surplus, not made for luxury, and the drop finishes a good three inches clear of the floor. He steps back to the door to inspect his handywork. He can just spy one corner of the bag. He casts about the room and his eyes snag on a pile of laundry his mum has been on at him to fetch downstairs. He smiles. Given the choice between picking up his dirty socks and eating worms, Cathy Connolly would reach for a
knife and fork. Smiling to himself, he heaps the ripe-smelling jumble of dirty clothing on top of the bag.

  He says hardly a word at the dinner table, evading his mother’s questions about the rehearsal by shovelling great spoonfuls of stew into his mouth. All the while, his sister looks at him from under her lashes, with that smirk on her face that says she knows something. He tries to ignore her, gulping down his meal so fast it scalds his throat, pleading homework to get out of washing the dishes.

  His mother might be gullible, but she’s no pushover.

  ‘You’ve plenty of time to do your homework after you’ve done the dishes,’ she says.

  ‘But Cathy could–’

  ‘It’s not Cathy’s turn. And she has more homework than you do, but you don’t hear your sister whining about doing her fair share.’

  Cathy widens her eyes and flutters her eyelashes at him, enjoying her beatification.

  He stamps up the stairs twenty minutes later, grumbling to himself under his breath.

  ‘Where were you?’

  His heart does a quick skip. Cathy, waiting to pounce on the landing.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, I’m not talking about when God was handing out brains, ‘cos we both know you were scuffing your shoes at the back of the queue, that day.’

  He scowls at her, but his sister is armour-plated and his scowls bounce harmlessly off her thick skull.

  ‘Mary Thomas said you went home sick at four.’

  ‘It’s none of you business.’