The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I spent several hours looking but without success. The only vaguely suspicious thing I found was in the back garden where there were the remains of small bonfire. By the light of a torch I looked through it and came up with several pieces of charred metal but none of them looked like they might be from a crossbow; I raked them together, though, and put them in a plastic bag. I finished by searching the office, as Max had done, which was when everything fell into place as I came across those peculiar receipts for fluffy dice and barometers.

  ~ * ~

  With Max, I went to see Peter Carlton the next evening. He was sitting out by his bed, dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown, a urinary catheter snaking surreptiously out from beneath the ensemble. The right side of his face was drooping, a faint shiny line of dribble coming from the corner of his mouth. His right arm was flexed on his lap; his eyes were bright but it was with the light of tears held back. After the niceties of introduction and questions about his welfare that he could only answer with nods and winks, I said gently, “Peter, I want to talk to you about your brother’s death.” There was no reaction. “I’d like to suggest to you what might have happened that day.”

  If he wanted to hear what I had to say, he didn’t show it. I glanced across at Max who encouraged me with a smile. “I think you did something that was quite ingenious, quite outrageously clever.”

  The flattery had no effect either. “I think that you made yourself a crossbow. You borrowed a book from the library to help you construct it, but you would have managed with your skills to make a very, very good one, I suspect.” For the first time there was something in his eyes that suggested a reaction - pride, perhaps. I continued, “As my father has told me, it’s a perfect sniper’s weapon. Silent and very deadly over long distances. Also, it can fire anything, not just arrows. The problem is, of course, that it’s difficult to conceal.

  “Also, since the murder occurred in broad daylight - at three-fifty-two in the afternoon, to be precise - and the trajectory of the bullet suggests that the killer must have been standing in open view of scores of witnesses, it is spooky that no one saw him.”

  For the first time he made a noise; it was no more than a gurgle and incapable of being comprehended. I said, “The clever thing was that it wasn’t the bullet the police found that killed your brother, was it? That was just a decoy, so that they would work with completely the wrong trajectory. You fired that the night before, didn’t you? You put a silencer on the gun, walked across Thornton Road and stood in the garden of the Homans’ house. You knew that he worked late into the night, and more or less when he would leave. What did you do? Wait for your brother to leave the shop and then fire over his shoulder? You must be a good shot, Peter. Are you?”

  He didn’t answer, of course, so I went on, “It must have been tempting to kill him there and then, but you were patient. Your target was the wooden shelving behind him, and you hit it; it was small-calibre ammunition so that it wouldn’t do too much damage. You knew the police would find it and you knew that they’d jump to all the wrong conclusions.

  “With that piece of misdirection, you could then proceed with the murder. You shot him using your crossbow from the safety of your own shop, through the open door. You waited until he was standing in front of the place where you had shot the bullet and then you killed him.”

  He was trembling, I noticed. Was that something new?

  “But what of the bullet you used? The police found only one, of course, so where is the other?”

  Which, since I hadn’t told her, was when Max joined in. “Yes, Lance, where is it?”

  I had brought the charred metal fragments with me and, opening a newspaper on the bed, I poured them out. “I was hoping that these might be parts of a crossbow, but I think not. I think that they’re pieces of barometers. You ordered several in May, didn’t you?”

  “And fluffy dice,” pointed out Max

  I shook my head. “No, Max. Not fluffy dice. Not car dice, but cardice.”

  She looked none the wiser so I explained, “Cardice is solid carbon dioxide. It has a temperature of minus seventy degrees centigrade, and that is quite cold enough to freeze mercury solid; mercury that you might get out of barometers, say.”

  She saw the implications of what I was saying, and gasped. I looked at Peter Carlton and for the first time I knew that he was listening to me and that I was right. She said, “He made the bullet out of solid mercury.”

  “He made several, I should think, just to be on the safe side. He fired the mercury bullet with the silent crossbow through the open doors of both shops as Harvey stood in front of the shelves where he kept his barometers. It passed through his eye, through his brain and through his skull, and then melted to join the rest of the mercury on the floor around the body.”

  There was silence for a moment, and it took a while before I realized that Peter Carlton was crying.

  ~ * ~

  Officially Masson solved the case but he hid his gratitude well. The next time I saw him, he rather curtly confirmed that, with the aid of a speech and language therapist, Peter Carlton had been helped to make a voluntary confession that fairly accurately mirrored what I had conjectured.

  “I don’t know, Doctor, but I’d be worried if my brain were devious enough to have worked all this out.”

  That sounded suspiciously like sour grapes to me but I smiled sweetly and pointed out, “It’s just as well somebody’s devious enough, isn’t it?”

  I walked away before his scowl could excoriate me.

  ~ * ~

  My father had invited us to another barbecue but I only accepted after his reassurance that he would not get his crossbow out of his suitcase until we arrived. Nevertheless, I had a faint feeling of trepidation as I opened the back garden gate and peered carefully around. Dad was sitting reading, apparently completely weaponless, but he jumped up at once as we walked up to him and produced his beloved crossbow. “I decided on arrows,” he announced. “Much more aesthetically pleasing than solid projectiles.”

  He showed us his arrows; as usual with my father, they were exquisitely well made.

  “Now, what you do is turn this handle, which draws the bowstring back, then you press that switch there and, by doing that, you lock the string into place under tension. You place the arrow there, and then pulling the trigger releases the string which projects the arrow forward.”

  Max said, “Go on, then.”

  He began to turn the handle. At first, it was quite easy, but it quickly became harder and harder. Within a few seconds there was a frown on his face and the string was only two-thirds of the way back. He persevered, though.

  “Careful,” I advised.

  He looked up at me whilst continuing to wind. “Lance, don’t fuss. This is a precision instrument and I know exactly the tolerances that can be applied. There is no danger...”

  The snap was loud and sudden and somehow sad. Dad looked down to see his precious crossbow in two pieces, split through the stock.

  A moment of silence ensued; if any neighbours were watching, that was the moment they would have opened the champagne.

  “Bugger,” said Dad.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  THE GOLDEN HOUR

  Bernie Crosthwaite

  17 August, 20.05 hours

  T

  he domestic is a real downer. Wife attacks husband with a cricket bat. Apparently it’s been going on for years. It started with punching him, then pulling his hair out in handfuls, then stubbing cigarettes on his bare back. While he’s telling us all this the guy is sitting on the floor, whimpering like a dog. That really gets to me.

  ‘What a loser,’ says PC Lowery on the way back to the station.

  I don’t say anything, just take one hand off the wheel and release a strand of hair that’s got trapped in my plait. I glance out of the window. After a wet day it’s turned into a beautiful evening. The sun is streaking out from under the clo
uds like fingers. I feel sorry for the kids on their school holidays. It’s been a lousy summer.

  The duty officer is talking on the phone as we come in. He puts a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Helen - you can take this one. A misper. Caller’s name - Mrs Sally Hunter. Try and get some sense out of her.’

  He hands me the phone. Brett Lowery pushes past me on the way to the canteen.

  ‘Hello. Mrs Hunter? My name’s Sergeant Brandling. What seems to be the—’

  ‘My little - girl - my little - girl . . .’ There’s a catch in the woman’s voice like hiccups.

  ‘Hold on, Mrs Hunter.’ I signal for a notepad and pen. ‘Tell me exactly what’s worrying you.’

  ‘She was playing outside - she’s - not there - I don’t know - I don’t know where . . .’ The words are being pulled out of her by force. ‘She’s . . . disappeared.’

  I can barely hear the last word. It’s whispered like it’s an obscenity.

  ‘Is there anywhere she might have gone?’

  ‘She knows not to leave the garden.’

  ‘Did you check up and down the street?’

  ‘She’s as good as gold.’

  ‘Have you looked for her indoors, Mrs Hunter?’ It’s surprising how many don’t, how quickly panic sets in. They’re on to the police before they’ve even searched the house.

  ‘I called her. She always comes when I call.’ Her voice is getting higher, close to hysteria.

  Obsessive mother, rebellious child? Maybe. But my gut twists. I have a feeling about this one.

  ‘OK, Mrs Hunter. I need a few details. What’s your address?’ All I get is a weird noise like a howl. ‘Try and keep calm, for your little girl’s sake.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Thirty-seven, Gunnerston Road.’

  ‘And your daughter’s name?’

  ‘Natalie.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Eight and a half.’

  ‘Can you tell me what clothes she’s wearing?’

  ‘A pink and white sundress and pink sandals.’

  ‘And what does she look like?’

  ‘She’s quite small for her age. Light brown hair. Green eyes.’ Her voice falls away as if she’ll never see those green eyes again.

  ‘OK. I’ll get her description circulated straight away and I’ll be with you in about ten minutes. Please listen carefully, Mrs Hunter. As soon as you put the phone down I want you to have a good look round the house, and check the garden and any outbuildings or sheds. Will you do that, please?’

  ‘But she isn’t—’

  ‘The most likely thing is that Natalie’s hiding. Let’s hope you find her before we get there. That’ll be the best outcome for everyone.’

  As soon as the call ends I give the duty officer my notes and he starts logging them into the system. ‘And can you check the database for known paedophiles in the Gunnerston Road area?’

  I’m up the stairs two at a time. Brett’s in the canteen, just about to stuff a bacon sandwich down his neck.

  ‘Forget that. You’re coming with me.’

  I give Brett the few details I have as we clatter down the stairs. The duty officer looks up from his computer and shakes his head.

  No leads then. Nothing to point us in the right direction. We’ll have to start from square one.

  As we run towards our patrol car I check the time. Quarter past eight. If we can find Natalie Hunter within the hour the odds are she’ll still be alive. As time passes the odds worsen. A day without a sighting and it’s fifty-fifty. After that we could be looking at a murder investigation. The next sixty minutes are crucial.

  The golden hour starts now.

  ~ * ~

  I’ve been waiting for an evening like this for a long time.

  I had planned to take the Norton to the coast today. I got all my equipment ready last night. But when I woke up this morning it was wet and the rain was forecast to last for hours. It was almost certain there would be a sea fret, a ‘haar ‘ as they call it in Scotland, and the thought of riding all that way in the rain to find nothing but thick white fog was unappealing and I abandoned the trip.

  It’s been a frustrating day, spent staring out of the window and reading my monthly photography magazine. I read the many articles on digital techniques with deep misgivings. I’m not against the new technology. I recently invested in a very expensive digital camera and I’ve played around with images, but it feels like a form of cheating. Capturing my subject in all its perfection has always been the challenge for me.

  With dinner eaten, the dishes washed up and put away and nothing on television but wall-to-wall rubbish I’m lost for something to do. Since I retired, if I can’t get out with my camera, time hangs heavy.

  When I take the bin bag out I see that the sky is no longer a uniform grey pall. The clouds are beginning to break up and rays of sunshine, like the spokes of a fan, shoot out and touch the ground with gold. The correct name for them is crepuscular rays. Some people call them the fingers of God.

  My camera bag is already packed. The motorbike has a sidecar, which Lynette never liked, but she isn’t here any more and that means there’s more room for bulkier equipment like the tripod. I’m ready to go within minutes. And all the time, the sky is changing, the clouds dissolving and reforming in unpredictable patterns.

  I feel my excitement rise. Along with dawn, around sunset is one of the best times of day to take pictures.

  We call it the golden hour.

  ~ * ~

  20.19 hours

  Gunnerston Road is a steep street with houses built against the slope. The garden of number 37 is terraced to cope with the gradient - concrete beds filled with bushy heathers. There’s a steep winding flight of steps up to the front door. We’re both breathing hard by the time we get there.

  The door is opened by a small plump woman around forty.

  ‘Mrs Hunter? Sergeant Helen Brandling. And this is PC Lowery.’

  She doesn’t look us in the eye. She seems mesmerized by our uniforms. Then her gaze darts behind us, up and down the street.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  She steps back. A grandfather clock takes up a lot of space in the narrow hallway and we have to shuffle past it to close the door.

  ‘Any sign of Natalie?’

  ‘No. I’ve searched the house. I can’t find her anywhere.’

  ‘I want you to call her friends. She may have gone off to play with someone without telling you.’

  ‘She’d never do that.’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’ I look at Brett and nod. He starts to climb the stairs.

  ‘Where’s he going? I told you - I’ve looked all over!’

  ‘No harm in double-checking.’

  I’ve known kids hide in the tiniest spaces - the drawer under the bed, behind the bath, the gap between the wardrobe and wall. Sometimes they’re not hiding at all - they’ve been hidden. What’s left of them.

  ‘Is your husband at home?’

  Her eyes flicker nervously, looking everywhere but me. ‘No.’

  ‘Working late?’

  ‘He left us. About six months ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I wait no more than a heartbeat before I ask, ‘Have you got a recent photo of him?’

  She leads me into a small cramped living room and points to the mantelpiece. ‘I keep it for Natalie’s sake.’

  A pudgy face, florid complexion, receding hair, rimless glasses.

  ‘Is he fond of Natalie? Does he miss her?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looks at me directly for the first time. ‘You think Gareth might have . . .?’

  ‘What’s his current address?’

  She finds it for me. I write it down and ask her what car he drives and the registration. Then I point to the phone in the hall. ‘Try everyone you can think of - friends, relatives, neighbours, anyone Natalie might have gone off with. But don’t ring your husband, OK?’