Crime After Crime

by Crime After Crime (v5. 0) (mobi)

  Crime After Crime

  a collection of crime stories

  Edited by Debz Hobbs-Wyatt and Stephen Puleston

  Published by Bridge House Publishing

  ~~~~~~~~

  Crime After Crime

  Copyright in the text reproduced herein remains the property of the individual authors, and permission to publish is gratefully acknowledged by the editors and publishers.

  All rights reserved

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A Record of this Publication is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-907335-26-6

  This edition published 2012 by Bridge House Publishing

  Manchester, England

  Contents

  Foreword

  Stephen Leather

  Blood in Summer

  Sam Millar

  A Killer Week

  Cathy Cole

  No Privacy

  Kirsty Ferry

  Perilous Truths

  Jane Isaac

  A Routine Job

  Don Nixon

  The Weapon

  L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  Stevie’s Luck

  Gerry McCullough

  Foxtrot

  Don Nixon

  The Most Whimsical Jape of the Season

  Kate Tough

  Rat Trap

  Paula R C Readman

  The Courgette House

  Stephen Puleston

  The Execution

  C D Mitchell

  Foreword

  Stephen Leather

  What makes a good short story? To answer that question, I did what most writers do these days when they do their research – I Googled it.

  And the answer? Well, the consensus is that you need a clearly defined plot line made up of an exposition (supplying background information); rising action (events in the story that lead to a climax); a climax (some event or events that pull the rising actions together); falling actions (events that result from the climax); and a cohesive resolution, where the entire story is pulled together to form a logical conclusion.

  That, I’m afraid, is called writing by numbers, and is as much a recipe for a disaster as it is for producing a great short story.

  I’m best known for my full-length thrillers but I’ve tried my hand at writing short stories and hand on heart I can tell you that short stories are harder to write than novels. Seriously. It’s far easier to tell a story over 120,000 words than 10,000.

  With a novel, it’s all about what you put in. With a short story, what you leave out is just as important. Maybe more so. With a novel you have time to develop sub-plots that tide you over when the main story starts to flag. If you don’t describe a character perfectly the first time, you get the chance to revisit them later in the book. But a short story is a diamond that is polished until it’s perfect. Every word has to count. The story has to be faultless, the characters perfectly-drawn and the pace unflagging. You have so few words to play with that any flaws are easy to spot.

  Crime After Crime contains twelve short stories that were selected from more then two hundred submissions. I have nothing but admiration for those writers who made the final cut. They all have one thing at common. They are all written from the heart, which is what good-storytelling is about. It’s not about following formulas or recipes, it’s about producing stories with fascinating characters in situations that set the pulse racing. They are stories that get you inside the heads of heroes and villains alike and allow you to experience life in the raw.

  * * *

  Bridge House Publishing offers new writers a way of getting their work out to the wider world and I’m sure that many of the writers in this collection will be much better known in the future. And from my experience I think they’ll find writing full-length novels easier.

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Stephen Leather was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. Before that, he was employed as a biochemist for ICI, shovelled limestone in a quarry, worked as a baker, a petrol pump attendant, a barman, and worked for the Inland Revenue. He began writing full time in 1992. His bestsellers, including the Spider Shepherd series and supernatural detective Jack Nightingale series, have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as London’s Burning, The Knock and the BBC’s Murder in Mind series. You can find out more from his website, www.stephenleather.com.

  Blood in Summer

  Sam Millar

  I held the coffee cup rigid at my mouth as I read the morning’s headline: Murder Case To Be Re-opened.

  “Tom?” Belinda, my wife, interrupted my thoughts. “You okay?”

  “Heartburn.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” I smiled falsely, returning to the photo in the newspaper, while thinking back to all those years ago…

  Mid-June, the town in a heat wave. I was skinny-dipping in Jackson’s Lake with my two best friends, Paul Fleming and Charlie Redden. The lake could be deceptively still at times, but quite crafty in its nature. Police danger signs were posted everywhere.

  I’d just stepped out of the water when I spotted a figure on top of the hill.

  “That looks like Joey Maxwell,” I said, pointing.

  Paul glanced towards the hill.

  “You’re right, Tommy. It’s him.”

  “How many times have we told him he can’t hang with us?” asked Charlie.

  Joey was twelve – two years younger than us – so there was no way we could be seen with a kid. Besides, the horrible episode from last year was still fresh in our minds, and even though it wasn’t Joey’s fault, we no longer felt comfortable when he was anywhere near us.

  “Joey! What the hell’re you doing!” shouted Paul.

  Joey didn’t reply, inching slowly into the water.

  “He’s going for a dip, with his clothes on,” said Charlie, grinning. “Go on, Joey! You can do it!”

  Suddenly, we were all chanting, “Joey! Joey! Joey!”

  Every deliciously fear-charged moment of entertainment increased, as water moved up to Joey’s neck.

  We began counting out the seconds, daring him to break the all-time record of one minute and ten seconds for staying under the water.

  “One, two, three…”

  He was gone.

  We continued counting in a drum roll.

  “Twenty, twenty-one…”

  On and on we counted, our voices rising with each fading second.

  “Fifty-nine, sixtyyyyyyyyy! Sixty-one, sixty two…”

  At seventy, our voices slowly filtered out, leaving a heavy silence.

  “Someone’s gotta dive in there, see what that he’s up to,” said Paul. “Tommy?”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re the best swimmer.”

  I didn’t want to be part of anything that might have happened under that dirty water, but I had little choice.

  For some inexplicable reason, the water felt colder as my bare feet touched it. Seconds later, I was in, propelling my body downwards in the murky thickness. Visibility became nil as I went deeper.

  But it wasn’t too long before panic began building up inside my burning lungs. I needed to resurface. Then, just as I twisted my body to head upwards, an old wreck of a car mistily came into view. Ghostly green, its smashed windows looked like gaping eyes. I wanted to swim away from it, but its magne
tic pull drew me closer.

  That was when I spotted Joey, motionless. He seemed to be gripping the car.

  I went torpedoing forward, reached out and took hold of his arm. He didn’t move, his face expressionless in the godless gloom of watery darkness.

  Quickly grabbing the back of his shirt, I began yanking as hard as I could.

  Nothing. His body resisted.

  I pulled some more on the shirt, but my lungs were on fire. I quickly swam to the surface, empty-handed, gulping on the beautiful taste of air.

  “Get help!” I shouted, before plunging back down.

  Under the water, I tried searching for the wreck, but the water was becoming murkier. I found nothing, other than a forest of thick weeds. I tried swimming through them, but suddenly they began entwining themselves on my legs. It felt like someone trying to hold me down.

  Panicking, I kicked out at the weeds, but their grip became iron. Water began rushing into my mouth.

  No! Not like this! I screamed in my head. Don’t die like this…

  I remember Charlie dragging me back to land, but that was about all I recalled. “He’s… he’s down there, Charley,” I spluttered, coughing up water.

  “Paul’s away to get help. It’ll be okay.” Charlie was lighting a cigarette. I could tell from the way his hands were shaking he understood it was anything but okay.

  By the time an ambulance arrived in tandem with a police jeep, I knew it was too late. Joey was gone. I also knew I was in trouble, as I watched the sheriff emerging from the jeep, rushing towards me.

  “Are you okay, Tommy?” The sheriff quickly bent down beside me.

  “Joey’s down there, Dad.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find him,” said Dad, before running in the direction of police divers.

  I knew Dad would have more to say to me, later. He didn’t agree with my friendship of Paul, whom he regarded as a future felon.

  It took the divers forty minutes to locate Joey, but two hours to bring his body to the surface. He’d handcuffed himself to the steering wheel of the old wreck – the same handcuffs his father used as a prison guard for years.

  The newspaper headlines suggested Joey’s suicide had been triggered because of a sexual attack on him. They also noted, ominously, that his attacker had never been apprehended, even though police had a suspect but couldn’t arrest him through lack of evidence.

  The papers took a picture of me. They said I was a hero trying to save a drowning pal.

  “That bastard, Not Normal. He killed Joey,” said Paul.

  “Shhhh!” I hissed, looking nervously behind my shoulder. “Only a few people know Not Normal’s a suspect. If my dad finds out I was listening to his phone conversations, I’ll be in for it.”

  Not Normal – Norman Armstrong – acquired the moniker after his name being repeatedly pronounced wrongly by every kid in town, usually when entering the movie house where the creepy loner worked.

  Normal, can you tell us if there’s a cartoon on today? Will the ice-cream woman be working today, Normal? Normal, can you tell me—

  This went on for months, until one night, he had had enough. I’m Norman! he screamed, in utter frustration, making history eternally with the following classic statement: I’m not fucking Normal!

  “They should shoot the perv,” continued Paul, so serious it scared me.

  “Yea, in the head,” said Charlie.

  “We should make a pact, like they do in the movies,” continued Paul, who loved nothing better than a good murder movie. “Are you game, Tommy?”

  “For what?”

  “Justice for Joey. We take an oath, right here.” He held out his hand and with the other produced a penknife. “A blood oath.”

  “I…” Even though I believed nothing would come of this so-called blood oath, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly nipped my skin. “Okay…”

  Paul held out his thumb, curving the knife inwards. The skin tore. An inkblot of blood appeared. I would never forget it. Dirty crimson. Like the bloodshot eye of a trapped animal.

  “Here,” said Paul, handing the knife to me, while holding his bloody thumb outwards.

  I took the knife, cut.

  “Now you, Charlie,” commanded Paul.

  Charlie cut.

  “Put all our thumbs together,” said Paul.

  We complied.

  “Let the oath of blood brothers and secrecy live with us…” continued Paul, forcing the three thumbs tightly against each other, allowing the blood to mingle. “Forever.”

  For the longest time of my life, I waited to take my thumb away. It felt on fire.

  “Are we finished?” I finally asked. “I’ve got to head home. I’m still under curfew.”

  “Finished,” said Paul. “Give me time to think out a plan.”

  There would be no plan, of course, just Paul living out one of his fantasies.

  * * *

  The next day, I met Paul and Charlie at the bottom of my street.

  “I’ve something I want to show you,” said Paul.

  “What?”

  “You’ll see. Let’s head over to Blackwood.”

  Blackwood was the large forest area surrounding Jackson’s Lake.

  “This’ll do,” said Paul, thirty minutes later, stopping beside an old uprooted tree badly gone to rot.

  I watched him dropping to his knees, digging at the soil. A few minutes later, he stood, a rag-covered package in his hand.

  “What’s that?” said Charlie.

  Paul peeled the rag away, revealing a gun wrapped protectively in polythene. It stared out at us like a mummified foetus.

  “Whoa! Is it real?” said Charlie.

  “As real as your cock,” said Paul, releasing the gun from the enclosure. “It’s a German Luger.”

  I was less impressed, having seen plenty of guns in my life. By the time I was seven, I had handled my first gun. Yet, there was something different about this gun displayed proudly in Paul’s hands. It sent the dual shivers of fear and weariness up my spine.

  “Where’d you get it?” I asked.

  “My granddad brought it back from the war.”

  This was a new Paul – a Paul with secrets. As friends, we weren’t supposed to have secrets – at least not of this magnitude.

  “Have you fired it?” asked Charlie.

  “Old Mullan’s barn. Almost shot one of his bulls.”

  “That’s bullshit,” said Charlie, grinning.

  Without warning, Paul cocked the Luger. The sound made me think of someone’s knuckles cracking. Slowly, he brought the gun up to Charlie’s face.

  “Think I’m a bullshitter, Charlie?”

  Both Charlie and I went rigid. Fear spread through me, and everything began to tingle in a very bad way. I could see Paul’s finger tightening on the trigger.

  “Paul…” I finally managed to croak, my mouth dry as cotton. “Don’t mess with—”

  He pulled the trigger.

  Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaacckk!

  “You should’ve seen the look on your face, Charlie!” Paul was grinning like a frog. “It wasn’t even loaded.”

  Charlie began retching violently.

  Instinctively, I grabbed the gun from Paul’s grip, and pushed him. He landed firmly on his butt.

  “Are you fucking mad!” I shouted.

  “It… it wasn’t loaded,” he mumbled.

  Removing the magazine from the Luger’s heel, I could see a bullet nestled on top. I slowly removed the bullet, and held it out.

  “Wasn’t fucking loaded! What’s that?”

  It was Paul’s turn to look frightened.

  “I thought it was empty…” he mumbled.

  “Never point a gun at anyone, unless you intend to use it.” I sounded like Dad in one of his daily lectures. I threw the gun and single bullet at Paul’s feet, before turning to Charlie. “You okay?”

  “Yes…” He nodded.

  Paul stood, wiping dirt from his jeans. “You’re right, Tommy,
I shouldn’t point a gun unless I’m willing to use it. Well, I’ll be pointing it at Armstrong’s head, once I get a plan set up.”

  * * *

  It took Paul three days to come up with a plan. It was late when we sat on a small collection of rocks deep inside Blackwood.

  “Every Thursday night after the movie house shuts, Armstrong takes porn movies home to watch in that run-down trailer of his,” said Paul.

  “How do you know?” asked Charlie.

  “Everyone knows,” said Paul, his voice rising slightly.

  From the look on Charlie’s face, he obviously wasn’t everyone. I guess I wasn’t everyone either, because I had the same look.

  You’re gonna be the bait, Charlie,” said Paul.

  “Bait?” Charlie frowned.

  “Something to lure the perv to where we can get him off-guard.”

  “Why me?”

  “Would you rather pull the trigger?”

  “No…”

  Almost immediately I realised I had underestimated Paul’s conviction to this plan.

  “We’ll meet back here tomorrow night,” continued Paul. “And remember: this is for Joey.”

  * * *

  Armstrong’s trailer was a rust bucket, parked just outside town. In the iron darkness, a faint light filtered from the trailer’s back window.

  For the last hour, we did a stakeout, just across from the trailer. As Paul predicted, Armstrong was home.

  “You ready, Charlie?” asked Paul.

  “Yes…”

  “Know what to do?”

  Charlie nodded. “Tap on his door, ask for directions. Tell him I’m lost and thirsty.”