The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘So what I want to ask you is: do you think I should move out of my house?”

  “No question. You certainly should,” replied Charlie Fenton.

  ~ * ~

  He took a grubby room in a basement near Goldhawk Road and, as he got deeper into his part, Kenny Mountford realized that he could no longer be Kenny Mountford. He needed a new identity to go with his new persona. He consulted Vasili and Vladimir on Ukrainian names and, following their advice, retitled himself Anatoli Semyonov. He also cut himself off from the English media. He stopped watching television, and the only radio he listened to on very crackly short wave was a station from Kiev. He bought Ukrainian newspapers in which at first he couldn’t even understand the alphabet.

  Meanwhile, the tests set by Fyodor got tougher. On top of the dealing, Kenny was now delegated to join Vasili, Vladimir and other of the Semfiropol Boys in some enforcement work. Drug customers dragging their feet on payments, prostitutes or pimps trying to keep more of the take than they were meant to... to bring these to a proper sense of priorities called for a certain amount of threatening behaviour, and frequently violence. In such situations, as with the drug dealing, Kenny - or rather Anatoli Semyonov - did what was required of him.

  The thought never came into his mind that what he was doing might be immoral, that if he were caught he could be facing a long stretch in prison. Kenny Mountford was acting, he was researching the role of Anatoli Semyonov with the long-term view of appearing in a show created by the legendary Charlie Fenton. When such a conflict of priorities arose, Morality was for the petty-minded; Art was far more important.

  As he got deeper and deeper under his Semfiropol Boys cover, Kenny saw less and less of Lesley-Jane. He didn’t feel the deprivation. He was so focused on what he saw as his work that his mind had little room for other thoughts.

  At the end of an evening with Vasili, Vladimir and some baseball bats, which had left a club-owner who was behind on his protection payments needing three weeks’ hospitalization, the three Semfiropol Boys - or rather the two Semfiropol Boys and the one prospective Semfiropol Boy - reported back to Fyodor.

  The gang leader was very pleased with them. “This is good work. I think we are achieving more since Anatoli has been with us.” Vasili and Vladimir looked a little sour, but Kenny Mountford glowed with pride. He had reached the point where commendation from Fyodor was almost as important to him as commendation from Charlie Fenton. “And I think it is time that Anatoli Semyonov should be given his final test...”

  Kenny could hardly contain his excitement. In his heavily Ukrainian voice, he asked, “You mean the one that will actually make me a fully qualified member of the Semfiropol Boys?”

  Fyodor nodded. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.” He gave a curt nod of his head. Vasili and Vladimir, knowing the signal well, left the room. A long silence filled the space between the two men who remained.

  It was broken by Fyodor. “Yes, Anatoli, I think you have proved you understand fully the role that is required of you.”

  Kenny Mountford could hardly contain himself. It was the best review he’d had since The Stage had described his Prospero as “luminescently compelling”.

  “So what do I have to do? Don’t worry, whatever it is, I’ll do it. I won’t let you down.”

  “You have to kill someone,” said Fyodor.

  ~ * ~

  At first Kenny had had difficulty with the amount of vodka-drinking that being an aspirant Semfiropol Boy involved, but now he could match Vasili and Vladimir shot for shot - and even, on occasions, outdrink them. They tended to meet during the small hours (after a good night’s threatening) in a basement club off Westbourne Grove. It was a dark place, heavy with the fug of cigarettes. Down there in the murk no one observed the smoking ban. And, having seen the size of the barmen, Kenny didn’t envy any Department of Health Inspector delegated to enforce it.

  He was always the only non-Russian speaker there, though his grasp of the language was improving, thanks to an online course he’d enrolled in. Kenny had a private ambition that, when the three months were up, he would return to Charlie Fenton not only looking like a Ukrainian gangster, but also speaking like one.

  That evening they were well into the second bottle of vodka before either Vasili or Vladimir mentioned the task which they knew Fyodor had set Kenny. “So,” asked Vladimir, always the more sceptical of the two, “do you reckon you can do it? Or are you going to chicken out?”

  “Don’t worry, tovarich, I can do it.” He sounded as confident as ever, but couldn’t deny to himself that the demand made by Fyodor had been a shock. Playing for time, he went on, “The only thing I can’t decide about it is who I should kill? Just someone random who I happen to see in the street? Would that be the right thing to do?”

  “It would be all right,” replied Vasili, “but it would be rather a waste of a hit.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, if you’re going to kill someone, at least make sure it’s someone you already want out of your way.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand you.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Anatoli,” said Vladimir impatiently, “kill one of your enemies!”

  “Ah.” Kenny Mountford tried to think whether he actually had any enemies. There were people who’d got up his nose over the years - directors who hadn’t recognized his talent, casting directors who had resolutely refused to cast him, actors who’d stolen his laughs - but none of these transgressions did he really think of as killing matters.

  His confusion must have communicated itself to Vladimir, because he said, “You must have a sibling who’s infuriated you at some point, someone’s who’s cheated you of money, a man who’s stolen one of your girlfriends...”

  “Yes, I must have, mustn’t I?” Though, for the life of him, Kenny Mountford still couldn’t think of anyone who was a suitable candidate for murder. He also couldn’t completely suppress the unworthy feeling - which he knew would threaten his integrity as an actor in the eyes of someone like Charlie Fenton - that killing people was wrong.

  The conversation became becalmed. After a few more shots of vodka, Vladimir announced he was off to get a freebie from one of the Bayswater working girls controlled by the Semfiropol Boys. “Got to be some perks in this job,” he said.

  But Vasili lingered. He seemed to have sensed Kenny’s unease. “You are worried about the killing?”

  “Well...”

  “It is common. The first one. Many people find that. After two or three, though...” Vasili downed another shot of vodka “...it seems a natural thing to do. It might even seem a natural thing for an actor to do...”

  Kenny was shocked. “You know I’m an actor?” Vasili smiled. “Do Fyodor and Vladimir know too?” Vasili shook his head. “Only me.” Kenny Mountford felt a flood of relief.

  There was a silence. Then Vasili leaned forward, lowering his voice as he said, “Maybe I could help you...”

  “How?”

  “There is a service I provide. It is not free, but it is not expensive... given the going rate.” He let out a short cynical laugh. “There are plenty of Semfiropol Boys who have got their qualifications from me.” Kenny Mountford looked puzzled. “I mean that they have never killed anyone. I have done the killings for them.”

  “Ah.” Kenny couldn’t deny he was tempted. He knew that, for the full immersion in his character that Charlie Fenton required, he should do the killing himself. But he couldn’t help feeling a little squeamish about the idea. And if Vasili was offering him a way round the problem... “How much?” he asked, not realizing that, now the danger of his actually having to commit a murder had receded, he’d dropped out of his Ukrainian accent.

  Vasili told him. It seemed a demeaningly small sum for the price of a human life, but Kenny knew this was not the moment for sentimentality. And he did still have quite a lot of money left from the sitcom fees. “So how do you select the target? Even mo
re important, how do you make it look as if I’ve actually committed the murder?”

  The Ukrainian dismissed the questions with an airy wave of his hand. “You leave such details to me. I have done it before, so I know what I’m doing. So far as Fyodor is concerned, it is definitely you who has committed the murder. So far as the police are concerned, nothing ties the crime to you. All you have to do is to get yourself a watertight alibi for tomorrow evening.”

  “Tomorrow evening?” Kenny was rather shocked by the short notice.

  With a shrug, Vasili said, “Once you have decided to do something, there is no point in putting off doing it.”

  “I suppose you’re right...”

  “Of course I am right.”

  “But I’m still not clear about how you select the victim.”

  “That, as I say, is not your problem. Usually, I kill one of my client’s enemies. That way, not only does Fyodor recognize there is a motive for the murder, the client also gets rid of someone who’s bugging them. It is a very efficient system - no?’

  “But if your client doesn’t have any enemies...”

  “Everyone has enemies,” said Vasili firmly. Kenny was about to say that he really didn’t think he did, but thought better of it. “So, Anatoli, have we got a deal?”

  “Yes, we’ve got a deal.”

  ~ * ~

  Having checked with Vasili the proposed timescale for the murder and handed over the agreed fee the next morning, Kenny set about arranging his alibi. It couldn’t involve any of the Semfiropol Boys, because Fyodor wasn’t meant to know that he had an alibi. So, to keep himself safe from police suspicions, Anatoli Semyonov would have to, for one evening only, return to his old persona of Kenny Mountford.

  He decided that a visit to a fringe theatre was the answer. A quick check through Time Out led to a call to an actor friend, who sounded slightly surprised to hear from him, but who agreed to join him in darkest Kilburn for an experimental play about glue-sniffing, whose cast included an actress they both knew. “You’re not going with Lesley-Jane?” asked the friend.

  “No.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, Kenny, nothing.”

  Normally he would have asked for an explanation of his friend’s remark, but Kenny was preoccupied by his plans for the evening. Even if the audience were small, as audiences for fringe theatre frequently are, he would still have people to vouch for where he was at the moment Vasili committed his murder for him. Kenny Mountford felt a glow of satisfaction at the efficiency of the arrangements he had made.

  The serenity of his mood was shattered in the afternoon by a call from Fyodor. “Anatoli, I want you to keep an eye on Vasili. I’m not sure he’s playing straight with me.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Kenny nervously.

  “I’ve heard rumours he’s doing work on the side, not just jobs I give him for the Semfiropol Boys.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Contract killing. If you can bring me any proof that’s what he’s been doing, Anatoli, I will see to it that he is eliminated. And you will be richly rewarded.”

  “Oh,” said Kenny.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get through to Vasili’s mobile, but it was permanently switched off. By the time he met his friend at the fringe theatre in Kilburn, Kenny Mountford was in an extremely twitchy state. There was no pretending that his situation wasn’t serious. If Fyodor found out that he had actually paid Vasili to do his qualifying murder for him, Kenny didn’t think it’d be long before there was a contract out on his own life. But he couldn’t let anyone at the theatre see how anxious he was, so all his acting skills were called for as he sat through the interminably tedious and badly acted play about glue-sniffing and then, over drinks in the bar, told the actress who’d been in it how marvellous, absolutely marvellous, her performance had been.

  His friend had his car with him and offered to drop Kenny off. As they were driving along they heard the Radio 4 Midnight News. The distinguished theatre director Charlie Fenton had been shot dead in Notting Hill at ten o’clock that evening.

  “Good God,” said his friend. “If you hadn’t actually been with me, I’d have had you down as Number One Suspect for that murder, Kenny.”

  “Why?”

  But his friend wouldn’t say more.

  ~ * ~

  Had Kenny Mountford not completely cut himself off from the English press and media, he would have known about the affair between Charlie Fenton and Lesley-Jane Walden. Their photos had been plastered all over the tabloids for weeks. He might also have pieced together that the director had never had any interest in him, only in Lesley-Jane - hence the request when they first met for their mutual landline, rather than Kenny’s mobile number. How convenient for Charlie had been the actor’s willingness to go undercover and leave the field wide open to his rival.

  Vasili, however, read his tabloids and knew all about the affair. He recognized Charlie Fenton as the perfect victim. The guy had gone off with Kenny’s girlfriend! Fyodor wouldn’t need any convincing that that was a proper motive for murder.

  So Vasili had lain in wait outside the Notting Hill house, confident that sooner or later Charlie Fenton would appear. As indeed he did, on the dot of ten o’clock. A car drew up some hundred yards away from Kenny Mountford’s house and the very recognizable figure of the director emerged, blowing a kiss to someone inside. Vasili drew out his favoured weapon, the PSS Silent Pistol which had been developed for the KGB, and when his quarry was close enough, discharged two bullets into Charlie Fenton’s head.

  Job done. Coolly replacing the pistol in his pocket, Vasili had walked away, confident that there was nothing to tie him to this crime, as there had been nothing to tie him to any of his previous fifty-odd hits. Confident also that Fyodor would assume that the job had been done by Kenny Mountford.

  What he hadn’t taken into account was Charlie Fenton’s tomcat nature. No sooner had the director bedded one woman than he was on the lookout for another, and his honeymoon of monogamy with Lesley-Jane Walden had been short. She, suspecting something was going on, had been watching at the window of the house that evening for her philandering lover to return. As soon as Charlie Fenton got out of the car she had started to video him on her camera, and thus recorded his death. The footage, when handed over to the police, also revealed very clear images of Vasili, from which he was quickly identified and as quickly arrested.

  Lesley-Jane Walden was in seventh heaven. To be at the centre of a murder case - there were actresses who would kill to achieve that kind of publicity. In the event, though, it didn’t do her much good. The police made no mention of the help she had given to their investigation in any of their press conferences. They didn’t even mention her name. And all the obituaries of Charlie Fenton spoke only of “his towering theatrical originality” and his reputation as “a loving family man”. Lesley-Jane Walden was furious.

  Her mood wasn’t improved when Kenny ordered her to get out of the house. She moved into a girlfriend’s flat and started badgering her agent to get her on to I’m A Celebrity - Get Me Out Of Here!

  ~ * ~

  “You are a clever boy, Anatoli Semyonov,” said Fyodor, when they next met. “To get rid of your girlfriend’s lover and arrange things so that Vasili is arrested for the murder - this is excellent work. I have wanted Vasili out of the way for a long time. You are not just a clever boy, Anatoli, you are also a clever Semfiropol Boy.”

  “You mean I have qualified to join the gang?”

  “Of course you have qualified. Now you will always be welcome here. You are one of the Semfiropol Boys.”

  So Kenny Mountford too thought: job done. Except, of course, having done that job was not going to lead on to the other job. Kenny had done what he promised - infiltrated a London gang - but the man to whom he had made that promise was no longer around. There would never
be a Charlie Fenton production about London gangs. All Kenny Mountford’s efforts had been in vain.

  And yet the realization did not upset him. No one could say he hadn’t tried everything he could to achieve respectability as an actor, and now it was time to move on. Time to get back to being Kenny Mountford. All that “Method”, in-depth research approach to characterization might be all right for some people in the business. But, for him, he reckoned he preferred something called “acting”.

  When he finally spoke to his agent, she revealed that she’d been going nearly apoplectic trying to contact him over the previous weeks. The BBC was doing a new sitcom and they wanted him to play the lead! He said he’d do it.

  But Kenny Mountford didn’t lose touch with Fyodor and the Semfiropol Boys. As an actor, it’s always good to have more than one string to your bow.

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