The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He bagged a handful of snuffboxes, silver and gold, a pair of blue-and-white plates, a Dresden shepherdess of exquisite frailty accompanied by her would-be suitor plucking a lyre, and three of the little Japanese curios. God knows if anyone else would like them but he did, he thought, deliberating over which ones to take. He settled on a dormouse dozing inside one half of a walnut shell, a snake coiled into an evil-looking pyramid and an ivory samurai in full armour, his hands by his sides, his chest puffed out nobly. Six of the miniatures came with him as well: pretty girls in low-cut dresses, the sort of thing that appealed to collectors. They were easy to package up.

  On his way out, he stopped by the shotguns. Putting his bag down, he lifted one of them off its hooks, feeling the heft of it, the lethal snugness of it against his shoulder, the willingness of the trigger. A thing of beauty. He put it back on the wall slowly, longingly, and winked at the black-and-white photo.

  “Fair play, Greville.”

  There had been nothing in the kitchen for him - he didn’t touch glass, too fragile - and although he looked into the library, he didn’t fancy it. Dustsheets covered the furniture and the books were locked behind elaborate grating. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for, anyway. And he had a fair bit, he thought, hefting the shoulder bag that contained his night’s work. Time to quit. He ghosted back into the hall and up the stairs, counting them under his breath and skipping the fourth, the ninth, the seventeenth ...

  Where he came a cropper was halfway down the landing. Seduced by the dim light from the window at the end that guided him towards his room, he had decided he knew his way well enough to dispense with the torch. He had no warning when he collided with something solid, something heavy, something that uttered a long-drawn-out howl as he nosedived into the ancient carpet, tasting the dust of ages and his own very modern blood.

  It was as if she had been waiting behind her door. It slammed back against the wall, light spilling out into the hall so he had to shield his eyes for a second. She was still wearing the coat, he noticed, blinking up at her.

  “Mr Field. What happened?”

  “It was the fu— it was the dog. It was Oscar. I just - I needed the toilet. I was just looking for it. I got confused.” Stop talking. Start thinking. He couldn’t hit her. Not an old woman. But if he ran downstairs ... an image flashed into his mind. The shotguns. He curved his hand around an imaginary stock, practically feeling it against his palm. If he was quick, he could deal with her before she had a chance to phone the guards. That assumed she didn’t have a phone upstairs, it assumed the shotguns were loaded, and it also assumed he had the nerve to do it. Murder. Kill her, in cold blood. Blow her away. Then spend a million years trying to wipe his prints and DNA off every bit of the house. It was a bit different from pocketing a few knick-knacks, when you thought about it.

  He was still lying on the ground, grovelling in front of her. He got up slowly, picking up his bag as if it were nothing of note.

  “It’s the middle of the night. Where were you going?” She didn’t sound panicked, which was something.

  “I was looking for the toilet. I got confused about which stairs it was off.”

  “The back stairs.” She pointed. “Down there.”

  “That explains why I couldn’t find it.” He tried a smile. “Sorry for disturbing you. And for stepping on the dog. Sorry about that, Oscar.”

  The mutt gave him a wall-eyed glare.

  “I’ll head down there, so. Sorry again.” The toilet wasn’t a bad plan, actually. The tension was squeezing his guts. He needed a crap. He walked away in the direction she had indicated, waiting for her to call him back to ask for a better explanation, or to tell him to empty his pockets, and what’s in that bag?

  She said nothing. He risked a look back at her as he turned the corner to go down the narrow back stairs, and she was standing in the light, leaning over, talking to the dog. He allowed himself a small grin of triumph as he headed into the dark. They were like children. They couldn’t imagine you would do them wrong, so they believed every word you said to them. Fools. He was glad he had taken advantage of her now. He’d have kicked himself twelve ways to Sunday if he’d left empty-handed because of what? An attack of conscience? She wasn’t even nice to him.

  ~ * ~

  In the morning, he came downstairs carrying his bag to find his hostess in the hall. “Ah, you’re up at last. Did you sleep well?”

  What time she got up at, he couldn’t imagine. It was only seven o’clock.

  “I didn’t, no. I think the roof is leaking, to be honest with you.”

  It had started raining heavily while he was taking his celebratory shit, the water gurgling in cast-iron drainpipes and spilling from unreliable guttering. He had got back to his room to discover the bed was saturated, the ceiling still dripping. The remainder of the night he spent curled up on the floor, trying to find a position where his bones didn’t ache and the draught from under the door didn’t cut through the one blanket he’d been able to salvage.

  “Oh, dear.” She didn’t sound surprised. “I’ve had breakfast already. But there’s some porridge if you’d like.”

  “No. Thank you.” He’d yak if he tried. “I’ll get something later.”

  She was looking thoughtful. “I don’t suppose - I shouldn’t ask, but maybe if you would - if you have a head for heights, which I must admit I don’t—”

  Payment for the night’s board. He put the bag down, resigned. Always leave them grateful. “What can I do? Is it the roof?”

  “Could you see if there are many slates gone? The man who looks after it is away.”

  “How do I get up there?”

  “Through the attic. But you’ll need to get the ladder. Cormac always uses his own.”

  “No problem. Where is it?”

  “It’s in the shed.” She gestured vaguely to the back of the house. “Out there. The door is jammed, though. You’ll have to go out the front door and walk around. And I think it might be quite near the back.”

  ~ * ~

  He was true to his promise, getting back to Dublin in record time with the radio blasting dance music and the heater blowing out a fug of hot air. He’d earned his money, that was for sure. First getting the fucking ladder out from what turned out to be a barn the size of a bus garage, full to the roof with junk. “Shed” my arse. Then getting it into the house while Clemmie waved her hands and shrieked warnings to him every time he came near a light fitting. Then propping it up on the rotting floor of the attic, discovering that the rungs were shaky in the extreme, and making it out on to the leads of the roof in time for the rain to start again. He had taken shelter by a chimneystack and enjoyed an illicit cigarette, thinking of her waiting patiently for him to return. She would think he was doing a thorough job if he didn’t hurry back. Another cigarette put manners on the hunger that was beginning to twist at his stomach. He didn’t waste any time looking for missing slates. It was something of a surprise to find there were any up there at all. A deep breath, then back down the stairs with the ladder. He took it back to the shed, jamming it in as best he could between a knackered old Riley with deflated tyres and a load of rusty milk churns.

  The relief of getting on to the M50, within reach of civilization. The joy of seeing Dublin spread out before him as he came over the mountains, the Pigeon House towers striped red and white in the distance, Howth Head glowing green behind them. The fucking sun came out and everything. Welcome to the Promised Land, my child.

  In his case, welcome to the Sundrive Road. There was a house there, a small one, not the kind you’d notice, and it was the home of the finest fence he’d ever met, a fat man named Ken who had every book you could imagine on antiques and never needed to consult one of them. Anthony didn’t ask what happened to the things he brought him. The fat man paid cash and that was all that mattered to Anthony. That and getting rid of the stuff before the guards came calling.

  Ken’s w
ife was a comically small woman, a little elf of a thing. Would he have a cup of tea? And a sandwich? He practically took the hand off her; he was desperate for something.

  Ken was scratching himself in the front room, layered in cardigans and jumpers as if he were capable of feeling the cold. The room was hot anyway. He drew the blinds without getting up from his chair.

  “Stick the light on there and let’s have a look at what you’ve got.”

  Anthony sat on the other side of the coffee table and dug in his bag, setting out his bundled-up dusters where Ken could reach them. The fence tapped his fingers against his belly, waiting for his wife to come back with the tea.

  “Tell me about the house.”

  Anthony described it in as much detail as he could. Ken listened, asking questions, thinking. The Purdeys had him shifting in his chair with what could only be excitement.

  “Shame you didn’t find out anything about the paintings. Never mind. I’ll make a note.”

  Mrs Ken rattled in with a tray and handed Anthony a mug and a ham sandwich. Ken got the same, and a plate of biscuits. He needed to keep his strength up, Anthony reflected. Poor man couldn’t be expected to wait until lunch.

  As soon as the door closed behind her Ken’s pudgy fingers went to work, unexpectedly delicate as he began unwrapping what Anthony had brought him. The first thing was the silver sauce boat. Even though he knew what was inside each parcel, Anthony still felt a thrill as the last fold of yellow cloth fell away - to reveal something that was definitely not an eighteenth-century sauce boat.

  “ ... the fuck?”

  Reverently, Ken set a wooden teapot-stand down on the table. It had been crowned with a plastic measuring jug. “Well. Very interesting.”

  “I don’t understand it. I don’t know what happened.”

  The fat man was at work on the next parcel. He looked down at the contents without showing them to Anthony. “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “Two Dresden figurines.”

  ‘Two wooden dolls.” He held them up. They were hideous things, homemade, with crudely painted faces.

  The next parcel was the silver dish ring, or rather a stainless-steel dog bowl.

  “I don’t fucking believe this ...” Anthony picked up one of the smaller packages and started ripping, pulling it apart recklessly, careless of the contents, which was a mistake. It was not a fine little carving of a mouse asleep inside a walnut shell. It was a hen’s egg, and it broke. He could feel the blood beating in his head, the rage pushing against the bones of his skull. “She sent me on a wild goose chase. She had me up on the roof cooling my heels while she was downstairs going through my bag. The fucking bitch.”

  “You wouldn’t be up to them,” the fat man observed in much the same tone as if he’d said the sky was blue.

  Together, they unwrapped every parcel on the table, revealing every piece of junk that Anthony had carried away from Clementine Hardington’s house. Chipped brown side-plates dating from the 1970s. A lump of coal. Two wooden spoons. Orange plastic egg-cups that were supposed to be salt cellars. Six green tiles masquerading as framed miniatures. Old matchboxes filled to the brim with rice to make them as heavy as the snuffboxes he’d assumed they were.

  “This is a nightmare.” Anthony couldn’t stop staring at the junk on the table, as if he could make it change back into riches if he only looked hard enough. “I’m embarrassed, Ken.”

  “So you should be.” He settled back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his paunch. “Ah, well.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Doesn’t make any difference to me. You’re the one who’s out of pocket.” He yawned. “You shouldn’t be surprised. There’s a reason they’ve held on for so long. They don’t give it up easily.” He nodded at the last parcel, the smallest, which Anthony was clutching. It should have been the ivory samurai, upright and noble. “Open it.”

  It was tightly wrapped, folded in on itself, and he struggled to undo it, pulling the material apart eventually so what was inside bounced out and landed on the table where it spun around and around. Ken picked it up.

  “What’s this? A shotgun shell?”

  Anthony shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s a message.”

  He knew in his heart that even if he had realized what she was planning - even if he had been as angry with her then as he was now - he would never have been able to pull the trigger. He knew it just as well as he knew that if she held the gun, she wouldn’t hesitate. That was as much her legacy from her ancestors as the crumbling stones of the house, the acres of boggy parkland, the fine art and furniture and woodworm and all.

  And as far as Anthony was concerned, she was welcome to the lot of it.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  A MEMORABLE DAY

  L. C. Tyler

  I

  f there’s one piece of advice I’d like to pass on it’s this. Keep a note of your alias. There’s nothing worse than the sudden realization that you’ve no idea who you are

  The young lady, whose name had also temporarily slipped my mind, was starting to look at me a little oddly.

  “Mr Smith? Your tea ...”

  Smith - yes, of course. “John Smith”, probably. My imagination is almost as bad as my memory. Hopefully they wouldn’t ask me to confirm Smith’s address, which was now forgotten way beyond any hope of recall. That’s the good thing about being a hero, of course - people don’t cross-examine you or expect you to provide proof of identity.

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting the steaming mug and wondering how many times she’d addressed me before I’d responded. “Thank you. That will go down a treat after all this afternoon’s excitement. A treat.” I tried to appear brave but modest - I’ve seen it done, so had a vague idea how it should look.

  I took a first sip of the tea. Heroes clearly took plenty of sugar, or maybe the young lady had distantly remembered that a hot sweet drink was good for shock. We’d all had a shock, though possibly I’d had a bit more than the rest of them. Hopefully the worst was over. Fingers crossed.

  “I’m sorry we can’t offer our hero something stronger,” said Mr Adewole, who I remembered was the Assistant Branch Manager (or was it Deputy?). He straightened his tie. I’d seen one like it in a shop earlier - pure silk, sixty quid. I’d been tempted, as they say, but not tempted enough.

  “Tea’s fine,” I said. “The cup that cheers.”

  “You’re a hero,” said Mr Adewole.

  “He’s a hero,” confirmed the young lady. (Arabella? Daisy? Lillwen? Some name like that anyway.)

  “Seems like I’m a hero, then,” I said.

  We’d explored the present indicative quite well. I am a hero. Thou art a hero. He, she or it is a hero. Actually it was the first person plural we needed. We are heroes. I hadn’t done it alone.

  I’d been walking along the Holloway Road, head down, doing my level best not to get in anyone’s way. My bag was a bit heavy and I’d stopped outside the bank briefly to check the contents and make sure all was well. I’d just put it on the ground and had scarcely begun to pull the zip when this large geezer with a stocking mask over his face and a sawn-off shotgun in his hands comes charging out of the door. I stood up and stepped aside respectfully, as you do with large geezers carrying shotguns. He went past at a fair lick and off down the Holloway Road. Then, stone me if his mate (small geezer, stocking mask, large nylon holdall stuffed with cash) didn’t run straight into me from behind as I was stepping back. He wasn’t big, as I say, but he was going fast enough to knock us both to the ground three or four feet from where I had been standing. I didn’t bear him any ill will - he hadn’t trodden on my bag or anything - so I suppose it was just a reflex reaction that made me lash out at him the moment we were both back in a sitting position.

  With my arm fully extended, my fist just about made contact with his face. I’m not sure he even registered that I was trying to punch him, to be hon
est with you. It must have been simple curiosity that made him pause, looking at me as best he could through ten-denier nylon, for just a fraction of a second too long. A stocky member of the public had come running up and pinioned him in a pair of muscular arms. The small bank robber cursed me under his breath, but there was nothing more for him - or me - to do. Game over.

  In the middle distance, the big guy with the shotgun had reached a conveniently parked Honda with its engine running. It was purple - a bit too visible as a getaway vehicle, but I’d already seen evidence that they weren’t the brightest pair of bank robbers in North London. He’d been about to jump into the fake-leather passenger seat when he turned and saw that his mate with the money was sadly no longer with him. The big guy too was still wearing ladies’ hosiery on his face, and I couldn’t read his expression, but from his body language he wasn’t best pleased. For an instant I thought he might be about to come back and shoot a few of us, but fortunately all hell chose to break loose that very moment. The bank staff had been able to get their nervous little fingers to the alarm buttons and there were lights and noises and people running everywhere.