The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Oh, yes. Too many, in fact. And, in some of them, I’ve known who did it, too, but I’ve never felt so bloody taunted as I do in this one. He thinks I’ll never prove that he did it, and he’s quite happy to crow about it.”

  The phone began to ring in the house, which was something of a relief. I went to pick it up and heard Dad’s dulcet tones. “Lance? I just wanted to tell you that it’s back.”

  “What is?”

  “The book.”

  The way he said it, the word might have had a capital letter; he might have been talking about a holy writ or a long-lost first edition. “What book?”

  “From the library.”

  Which did not answer my question nor, indeed, did it answer any question at all. “Dad, could you be more explicit?”

  He tutted; I was used to my father’s tutting and he was undoubtedly good at it, but this was better than most. He followed it up with, “The next stage.” When I said nothing, he went on, “Of my project.”

  I was slightly exasperated by the way that the evening had gone and so was slightly acerbic as I asked, “What on earth are you talking about now?”

  “The next step on from the longbow.”

  “What does that mean?” As I asked this, I felt something furtling around in my bowels.

  “Although the longbow undoubtedly revolutionized the art of war...” A shiver of cold horror blossomed within me. I could see that this meant trouble; knowing my father, I now appreciated that “the next stage of the project” probably meant building his own nuclear weapon and then testing it in the greenhouse while he took shelter in the kitchen with a large saucepan on his head. He droned on, “I am of the opinion that for sheer elegance, it is inferior to its predecessor, the crossbow. The crossbow was more powerful and easier to use, see. A great sniper’s weapon.”

  “But you can’t,” I protested.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you really might kill someone with one of those. Where will it end? A do-it-yourself cannon?”

  To my horror, there was brief silence and I just knew that he was storing this for future reference before he said, “You really are so melodramatic, Lance. Anyone would think you were talking to an irresponsible child.”

  “Dad, is this wise?”

  “Wise? Why shouldn’t it be?”

  I had taken in a deep breath with all the arguments poised and ready to spew forth, but then thirty years of experience told me to keep quiet. Nothing I would say - nothing anyone would ever say -was going to stop my father doing what my father did. I let it all out in a long sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Lance, are you all right?” he asked with genuine concern. “You seem a bit out of sorts.”

  It took me a moment to find my voice. “I’m fine, Dad. Just fine.”

  When I went back out to the garden, Max was looking severely strained and Masson was looking as he always did, which was morose. He stood at once. “I must be going,” he announced as if anyone was going to argue.

  As I showed him out, I tried to cheer him up. “I’m sure you’ll break the case soon.”

  He didn’t even reply.

  ~ * ~

  For two months nothing happened and everyone forgot about the death of Harvey Carlton, even the Croydon Advertiser. Dad went quiet, too; I asked him how his crossbow was coming on, but all he did was mumble something about “technical problems”. I remember nodding sympathetically whilst giving thanks to God. Then, quite abruptly, Peter Carlton was found one morning unconscious on the floor of his shop by a woman who was interested in purchasing a set of dining chairs. An ambulance was called and he was taken to Mayday Hospital where a severe, left-sided stroke was diagnosed; he regained consciousness within a day but he remained severely compromised - paralyzed down the right-hand side, unable to speak, dribbling constantly. I visited him after two days and saw in him what I had seen in so many stroke victims - severe depression. Who could blame him? In the space of a second, his entire life had been taken from him; he had not just been placed in a cage but gagged and restrained by a straitjacket as well. There would be some improvement if he could find the will to work at it, but it would not be much, unlikely ever to bring him to an independent existence, definitely never enough to allow him to work again. I could see within his eyes that he knew it, too, and that was agony to behold.

  On a walk in Norbury Park, I told Max that evening. She was uncharacteristically unsympathetic. “Perhaps it’s a punishment,” she said. There was a kestrel hovering in the air above us and to our right; it was about fifty yards up and the only movements that it made were at the ends of its wings. Something was about to die.

  “What for?”

  “For killing his brother.”

  “We don’t know he did.”

  “Inspector Masson seemed to think he’s guilty. Anyway, nobody liked him.”

  I sighed. “I have to say, I’m not sure that we can automatically assume any form of infallibility on the good Inspector’s part.” Still the kestrel hovered. It was a symbol of patience. “And unpopularity is not normally considered a firm foundation on which to bring a conviction.”

  “No,” she conceded. “But he mistreated Mrs Kerry’s Georgie, and that’s a sure sign of an evil man.” I knew Max well enough to decipher this cryptogram at least partially. Georgie was a dog and Max would never forgive someone who mistreated an animal.

  “It’s a long way from kicking a dog to murdering a man.”

  “No, it’s not,” she replied at once, and I knew better than to argue. She said thoughtfully, “He’ll be stuck in hospital now...”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s going through your head, Max?”

  She frowned for a moment, then smiled; it was a sweet smile, and all the more worrying because of it. “Nothing,” she said. A movement in the sky caught my eye, but I was too slow to see the kestrel dive and I never found out if it was successful.

  Despite my constant questioning, Max would say nothing more.

  ~ * ~

  The next evening I was on call but it was a relatively quiet night and so the following day I didn’t feel too bad, especially after a short afternoon nap. I was awake by six, had a sandwich and then called Max but got no answer. She was occasionally called out at night because of a veterinary emergency, although her practice did not have a formal on-call rota, so I wasn’t too concerned. I decided that I would spend the evening watching television and try her later; as it happened, I fell asleep to be awakened at eleven o’clock when the phone rang. Before I had a chance to speak, Max said, “Lance?”

  “Oh, hi, Max.” I yawned.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Well...no...”

  “Do you think you could come and fetch me?”

  “Sure. Where are you?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “In Peter Carlton’s shop.”

  ~ * ~

  Life with Max had never been boring and I would not have wanted it any other way, but her propensity for breaking into premises - or, for variety, inducing me to do it - did prove a trifle wearing at times. I was not, therefore, in the best of moods when I stopped the car at the end of Fairlands Avenue and walked to Peter Carlton’s shop. It was in darkness but she must have been watching out for me because the shop door opened a fraction as soon as I walked up to it. “Come in,” she hissed urgently, although I couldn’t see her. As I squeezed through, Max shut it at once, making barely a click. I could just make out the crouched form of my girlfriend.

  “Max?”

  “Come with me.”

  She scurried off to the back of the shop, making a fairly good imitation of a chimpanzee as she did so. As a respected member of the community and feeling it unlikely that anyone could see me anyway, I chose to walk more normally. She led me into an office at the back of the shop, closed the door behind me and then switched on a lamp on the desk. “There,” she said, straightening up at last.

 
; “Max, what the bloody hell are you doing?”

  “Investigating.”

  “That’s one word for it. Others would be breaking and entering.”

  She looked pained. “Surely not. I haven’t broken anything.”

  “How did you get in, then?”

  “I got the key from Mrs Kerry who lives next door. She cleans the shop for Peter Carlton and I’ve been treating her poodle. She’s ever so grateful to me.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  She had no shame. “I told them you had been to see Peter Carlton and you had asked me to collect a few things for him in hospital.”

  I breathed very heavily, told myself that I loved her. “Listen, Max. Peter Carlton might be in hospital and likely to be there for quite a few weeks, but that doesn’t mean you can waltz into his shop and search through whatever takes your fancy.”

  She looked outraged. “Lance, he’s a murderer.”

  “Max, there are rules...”

  She sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t find anything.”

  I said at once, “Exactly. There’s no point in charging in until you know what you’re charging into. What did you think you’d find? A confession signed in blood? A gun with one bullet missing?”

  “You never know...”

  “Life’s not that simple, Max.”

  She nodded. “I see that now.” My mouth was open and I was about to continue my philosophizing when she said, “You’re absolutely right. There’s nothing here at all.” I was about to sound even more pompous when she said, “It’s all rather pathetic, really. Just lots of invoices for different types of wood and thngs.”

  “As you’d expect.”

  “Of course,” she said forlornly.

  It took a few minutes but I led her after a while from the shop through the darkness and then out into the cooling air of Fairlands Avenue, Thornton Heath. Having pushed the key through Mrs Kerry’s letterbox, we hurried away, looking around us all the while, seeing no one. In the car on the way back, Max said, “He must have been very eccentric.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he bought lots of fluffy dice - the things that you hang in the car.”

  It was a relatively new craze then, but I was taken aback by this news. “You’re sure?”

  “I saw the receipt. He spent eighty pounds on them in May.”

  “Eighty? He must have bought a hell of lot of them.” The picture I had of Peter Carlton was one of a desperately unhappy and driven man, but not a loony. I imagined that eighty pounds’ worth of fluffy dice would occupy an entire room and I could not for the life of me imagine why a dedicated and expert furniture-maker should start a sideline selling novelty gifts. “How peculiar,” I said.

  “And he was branching out into his brother’s territory.”

  “In what way?”

  “He bought a consignment of barometers at the same time.” Which at least to me sounded less barmy than buying several crates of fluffy dice. She continued, “Maybe that’s the reason he killed Harvey - because they argued about selling barometers.”

  “I would have thought that would be more reason for Harvey to kill Peter, not the other way round.”

  These were mysteries for sure, but they weren’t of great import when compared with the central conundrum of who had killed Harvey and why.

  ~ * ~

  Max and I were gardening when Dad came visiting that evening. I hate gardening but Max is quite enthusiastic, which makes me feel just guilty enough to show slightly willing and pull the odd weed. The familiar sound of Dad’s bright red Hillman Avenger - if you can imagine Chitty Chitty Bang Bang crossed with a Flying Fortress trundling down the runway, then you have some idea why it is not hard to identify my father’s presence in the neighbourhood - interrupted the serenity of a warm summer’s evening. Max led him through to the garden; he was carrying a battered brown suitcase and for a moment I thought that he was planning on staying for a while.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Good evening!” Like Masson, he was noticeably happier than usual, which led me to wonder if there was something in the air. Before I could offer him refreshment, he asked, “Is this the way you treat your guests? Nothing to drink? Are you suddenly teetotal?”

  Max said, “What would you like, Dr Elliot? Beer, wine, or something soft?”

  “If my son has a decent bottle of beer, I’ll have one. None of that gnat’s pee you call lager, though.”

  She found him a bottle of bitter that he sniffed at somewhat - he only liked beers that stripped the stomach of its lining and then knocked out your bone marrow - but eventually deigned to try.

  “What’s in the suitcase?”

  “Aha! I thought you’d never ask.” He sighed with happiness. “It’s finished.” With which he pulled the suitcase on to his knees and flicked the catches. From within it he withdrew a crossbow draped in a white cloth, much as a Stradivarius is cosseted by its owner. He placed it on the garden table, exposed it fully and sat back.

  Max said at once, “It’s wonderful.” Even I had to admit that he’d done a good job on it. The stock was beautifully shaped and deeply varnished; the bow was of burnished metal, the trigger mechanism finely etched with filigree. There was a sight at the front and small handle towards the back with which to wind back the bowstring. It looked lethal.

  “Gosh,” I said softly.

  “I’m rather pleased with it.” He picked it up, put it to his shoulder, at which Max and I ducked instinctively. He looked at us. “What’s wrong with you two?”

  “Is it loaded?”

  A look of irritation passed across his face. “Don’t be stupid, Lance. I wouldn’t point it at someone if it had an arrow in it, would I?” I thought about responding, saw the futility of this at once. “Anyway, I haven’t made any arrows yet. I’ve only just finished the bow.”

  “Let me know when you do,” I suggested, half to myself. He didn’t hear and continued, “Mind you, I might not just stick at arrows.”

  “No?” asked Max.

  “It’s quite versatile. You can even fire things like marbles. They could be just as lethal.”

  He had put it back down and Max was inspecting it carefully. “How easy is it to use?” she asked.

  “Very. That was the beauty of it; unlike the longbow, it doesn’t require much training to be very accurate. The disadvantage is that it has a low rate of fire - at most one or two arrows per minute as opposed to a dozen with a longbow. But as a sniper’s weapon, it’s superb. Accurate and lethal over nearly two hundred yards.”

  As he prattled on, I remember wondering whether to ring his neighbours and warn them that it would be in their best interests to remain indoors during daylight hours for the next few weeks. Dad was clearly in love with his new creation and I could not criticize him for it, but the memory of my close encounter with death a few weeks before was strong within me.

  Suddenly, I was brought back to the present as he was talking about the troubles he had had in making it. “To think that I had to wait so long to get hold of the book from the library. Some people are just so selfish. The librarian got very angry that this chap, Carlton, held on to it for so long. The fine was quite astronomical...”

  “Carlton?”

  “Yes. As I was saying...”

  “Peter Carlton?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I was looking at Max who was returning the compliment. Dad drank his beer and carried on talking.

  ~ * ~

  When I rang the next morning and asked the librarian if it had been Peter Carlton who had kept the book on making crossbows out of my father’s hands, he was at first slightly surprised to be asked, but eventually confirmed that, yes, it had indeed been Peter Carlton. He made some comment that he was glad that the book had been returned before he had had his stroke, which I thought was a bit tasteless though I said nothing.

  What, though, was I going to
do with the information? This question occupied me as I worked my way through morning and evening surgeries, sandwiched by the midday home visits. By the time I was finished, though, I had made up my mind and, trying to avoid feelings of hypocrisy, I knocked on Mrs Kerry’s door. She was a delightful old lady who swallowed every lie that I told her about wanting to look in Peter Carlton’s shop for his cheque book, happily handing over the key.

  What was I looking for? I suppose, to be truthful, I was thinking I might just find a crossbow, but I was not optimistic. If Peter Carlton had any sense, he would have burned it immediately, and I suspected that he had had a lot of sense indeed. The theory that had percolated its way through my brain cells was that he had shot the bullet with the crossbow, but that left some important questions unanswered; firstly, why had he used an old bullet - one already fired from a gun with a silencer - and secondly how had he managed to fire the crossbow in broad daylight when there were potentially a hundred people to see him?