Short Shockers: Collection Two

by Peter James

  The cigarette fell from his lips and it took him several seconds to realize. By then it was burning his crotch.

  *

  There was not such a big hurry for Roy Grace’s last call of what was turning out to be a very long day or, rather, extended day. It was 2 p.m. and he’d had no sleep since yesterday. But he was running on an adrenaline high – helped by a lot of caffeine. So far everything had gone to plan – well, in truth, he had to admit, somewhat better than planned. Three in custody, and, if he was right, by the close of play there would be four. But, he knew, it might not be such an easy task to convince DS Stoker.

  He went home to shower and change, wolf down some cereal and toast and to think his next – potentially dangerous – step through. If he was wrong, it could be highly embarrassing, not to mention opening the police up to a possible lawsuit. But he did not think he was wrong. He was increasingly certain, as his next bout of tiredness waned, that he was right. But speed again might be of the essence.

  Whether it was because he was impressed with his results to date, or it gave him the chance to settle an old, unresolved score, DS Bill Stoker agreed to Grace’s request far more readily than he had expected, although to cover his back, he still wanted to run it by the Detective Inspector. He in turn decided to run it by the Chief Superintendent, who was out at a meeting.

  *

  Finally, shortly after 5 p.m., running on his second, or maybe even third or fourth wind, Roy Grace had all his ducks in a row. Accompanied by DS Stoker, who was looking as weary as Grace felt, he pulled up in the street outside the Cunninghams’ house. A van, with trained search officers, pulled up behind, and they all climbed out.

  Roy Grace and Stoker walked up to the front door. Grace held in his hand his second document signed by a magistrate today. He rang the bell and waited. A few moments later, it was opened by the old man. He looked at them, and the entourage behind them, with a puzzled frown. ‘Good afternoon, officers,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Do you have some news for me?’

  ‘We have some good news and some bad news, Mr Cunningham,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The good news is we believe we have recovered your stolen clock.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Not so far, sir, but we have made some arrests and we are hopeful of recovering further items.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. So what’s the bad news?’

  ‘I have a warrant to search these premises, sir.’ Grace showed him the signed warrant.

  ‘What exactly is this about?’

  ‘I think you know that, sir,’ he said with a tired smile.

  *

  Trained police search teams, Roy Grace learned rapidly, missed few things. Not that the stamps had been hidden in a difficult place to find – they were beneath a crate of Champagne in the cupboard under the stairs that served as the Cunninghams’ wine cellar.

  But it was three other items they found that were really to seal Crafty’s fate. The first was an insurance claim form that lay on his desk, faxed only this morning, but which he had already started to fill out with details of the missing stamps.

  The second was another fax, lying beneath it, to a dealer in the US, offering the collection for sale to him.

  The third was a fax back from the US dealer, offering slightly more than the £100,000 Crafty had given the detectives as an estimate.

  *

  Later that night, even though he was exhausted, Roy Grace insisted on taking Sandy out to dinner to celebrate the first highly successful days of his new post, rather than going to the bar with the others officers. Four arrests! ‘We got lucky,’ he said. ‘If the Chief Superintendent hadn’t been out, and delayed us for several hours, and we had gone early, he might not have started filling in that insurance form. He might not have sent that damning fax. And he might not have had the damning reply.’ He pulled out the folded page from The Argus newspaper and showed it to her.

  She read it then smiled at him. ‘I’m very proud of you.’ She raised her wine glass, and clinked it against his, and said with another smile, this one a tad wistful, ‘Now, how about asking me about my day?’

  A VERY SEXY REVENGE

  He saw her and beamed as he staggered down the aisle of the packed aircraft, towing his holdall which bashed into all the other passengers’ ankles. She was fit: slender and beautiful with long blonde hair cut elegantly, and smartly dressed. And she was sitting in his seat.

  She saw him too, and hoped to hell the dishevelled, drunk-looking slob in the crumpled tan suit wasn’t heading for her row, then focused back on her crime novel. She smelled the fumes of alcohol before she heard his voice.

  ‘S’cuse me, you’re in my seat!’

  She held up her ticket stub, barely glancing at him. ‘14A,’ she said, and turned back to her novel.

  He squinted at his own ticket. ‘Mea culpa!’ he said. ‘I’m 14B. Next to you!’

  He tugged open the overhead locker, and saw the large pink carrier bag. ‘Is that yours?’ he asked her.

  She nodded, barely looking up from her book.

  ‘I’ll be careful not to crush it.’ He lifted it out, hefted his bag in first, then held up the large, almost weightless carrier. On the outside was printed Agent Provocateur.

  ‘Sexy underwear, is it?’ he said, squeezing his bulky frame into the seat beside her. She smelled fragrant. He reeked of booze and stale smoke.

  ‘You could sit in the aisle seat – it would give us more space,’ she said.

  ‘Nah, this is cosier!’ He gave her a wink. ‘Good book?’

  Yes, it’s about a drunken dickhead on a plane, she nearly said. Instead she smiled pleasantly and said, ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve finished it.’

  ‘I’m Don,’ he said. ‘Been in Manchester at a business fair – I flog aircraft components. But don’t worry, none on this plane are mine – so we won’t crash, ha, ha!’

  ‘Good.’ She pulled her book closer to her face.

  He pointed upwards. ‘That sexy underwear – going to wear it for your boyfriend, are you?’

  *

  He drank three Bloody Marys on the short flight – or four including the one he spilt down the front of his jacket. As the plane began its descent, he whispered, ‘You haven’t told me your name.’

  ‘Roxanna,’ she said, as politely as she could, and began rereading the same page yet again, waiting for his next bloody interruption.

  ‘Posh,’ he said. ‘I like it! Tell you what, Roxanna,’ he lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you and I meet sometime in London – you know? A couple of drinks, a nice little dinner?’

  She looked down at his wedding ring, and said pointedly, ‘Would your wife be joining us?’

  ‘Nah, that’s over. Well, it’s on the rocks. She doesn’t understand me, you see.’

  After the engines had been switched off, he stood up unsteadily and lifted her carrier bag and her small case down for her, then slipped her his business card. ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you wearing what’s in that bag – know what I mean? We could have a bit of fun.’

  ‘Oh, I will have fun, trust me.’

  He held back the queue of passengers so she could go in front of him, but she insisted he went first. ‘Hope to see you sometime soon,’ he slurred.

  Not if I see you first, she thought.

  *

  The kids were asleep, and Susie had prepared a candlelit dinner and opened a bottle of wine to welcome him home, as she always did. He held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

  ‘So, tell me about the trip? How was the fair?’ she asked over the avocado and prawns. ‘Tell me about the hotel – was it nice? And why did you have to stay on an extra couple of days?’ she quizzed as he carved into his steak.

  After draining the bottle, he staggered upstairs, and threw his clothes on the floor as usual. Susie picked up his jacket, studying the tomato juice stain. ‘I’ll take that to the cleaner’s first thing,’ she said.

  ‘Yrrrrr,
’ he groaned, almost asleep already.

  As she began checking the pockets, she pulled out a folded square of paper from the right-hand one and opened it out. It was a receipt for Fifi briefs and a Fifi bra in black silk from Agent Provocateur.

  On the back was written: Don, thanks for your wonderful generosity on this trip, as ever. And for making me a member of the mile high club on the flight back! I never knew an airplane toilet could be such fun! Roxy xxxxxxxxxxxx

  THE KNOCK

  ‘Who was that at the door?’

  ‘Some undertakers with a hearse.’

  ‘No one’s dead.’

  ‘They said they can wait.’

  DREAM HOLIDAY

  This was inspired by the true story that gave me the idea for my novel Dreamer

  One of the things Annie liked best about going on holiday was deciding what she was going to wear in the evenings. She’d always had a passion for designer shoes, and of course, in her stylish opinion, if you bought new shoes, then a matching handbag was a must. Much to her husband’s dismay she regularly maxed her cards out on new outfits; she argued that it was her money, and he had to agree. And, to be fair, Nigel told her he was always extremely proud of how lovely she looked. Once he’d admitted to her, with that wry smile of his, that he got a secret kick out of seeing the envy on other men’s faces when they looked at her.

  She was particularly excited about this holiday because it was the first time that the two of them were going away alone, without the kids. Thank you, Aged Ps, as Nigel called his mum and dad-in-law! They weren’t actually that elderly at all, and were relishing taking care of Chloe, who was four, and Zak, who was going through his terrible twos. Zak had turned from an angelic baby into, at times, a demon out of a horror movie, with frequent tantrums, often involving hurling his food around the room. Although she would miss the children, the thought of having a week free of Zak was deeply enticing.

  At least he liked attending the day nursery, and she was grateful for the respite that it gave her. She was able to continue her business as a hairdresser from home for three days a week without constant interruptions from him and it enabled her to afford to pay for her luxuries herself.

  They were going to Montreux, a beautiful lakeside town on a sheltered bay, with fairy-tale views across the placid water of Switzerland’s Lake Geneva – or Lac Léman, its Swiss name that Nigel liked to call it by – to the Alps. The hotel, a magnificent building in grand Belle Époque style, had once been a palace, and all the guests dressed for evening cocktails on the terrace. Dinner, in the majestic dining room with its starched linen and fine-crystal glasses, where the waiters wore black tailcoats and white gloves, was a magical experience.

  It was there, after a particularly fine dinner, that Nigel had proposed to her. It had taken him two years to get round to it, although, he had confessed to her shyly, he knew he wanted to marry her the moment he had first set eyes on her.

  Nigel was an analyst for a stockbroking firm in the City, and was incapable of acting spontaneously. Analyst stood for anal, she sometimes chided him. He scrutinized everything, always thought through every single detail with the greatest care. Sometimes that drove her to distraction. He could spend hours online, poring over restaurant menus and wine lists, before deciding on where they would go to eat. He had already planned every minute of their holiday. And probably every second.

  Their recent purchase of a new car had been a nightmare odyssey through websites and dealerships, weighing up the safety features for their precious children, all elaborately detailed by Nigel on a spreadsheet. They’d settled on a big Volvo off-roader, which ticked the most boxes, but then they had argued about the colour. Nigel wanted white, and Annie was dismayed. She told him that according to an article in a woman’s magazine, white was the colour people chose when they couldn’t decide on a colour! She wanted black or silver, or even navy blue.

  ‘But, darling,’ he had insisted, showing her a computer printout. ‘Read this. Yellow and white are the safest colours statistically. You are least likely to be involved in “a passive accident” in a yellow or white car. But I don’t think we want yellow, do we?’

  Nigel tended to get his way because he always had statistics on his side. Besides, she knew, bless him, that he meant well, he had the best interests of his family at heart. So white it was. But one detail Nigel had overlooked, and which she teased him about mercilessly in the first weeks after they had got the new car, was that it would not fit in the garage of their house, near Hove Park, in the city of Brighton and Hove.

  Well, that wasn’t strictly accurate. It did fit in the garage, but if you drove it in, it was impossible to open the doors, so the only way out would be through the sunroof – one of the options she had insisted on.

  So the car became something she ribbed Nigel about, mercilessly. The big white elephant stuck on the driveway. But, she had to admit, it was comfortable, and inside you felt indestructible, like being in a tank.

  It was Sunday night. The following Sunday, she thought, as she lay back against the headboard, flicking through the Style section of the Sunday Times, they would be luxuriating in that huge bed, beneath the soft, plump duvet, in Switzerland. Heaven! She could not wait, and her mind was too preoccupied with trying to remember all the things they must not forget to pack to concentrate on reading anything.

  She kissed Nigel goodnight, switched off the light and snuggled down against the pillow, thinking, hiking boots, shorts, suntan lotion, nose block, sunhats . . .

  The only downside to the holiday was the journey. She had never been happy about flying, even though Nigel had given her all the statistics, demonstrating to her that being in a commercial airliner was actually the safest place in the world – safer even than your own bed. But he could not convince her.

  . . . books, Kindle, swimsuits, insect repellent cream, first-aid kit . . .

  There was a familiar rustling sound beside her. Nigel would never go to sleep on a Sunday night without having read the news and financial pages of every single one of the broadsheets. Every Sunday evening of their marriage she had fallen asleep to that sound.

  Scrunch, she heard. Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. Then the thud of a discarded supplement landing on the floor on his side of the bed.

  Scrunch, rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle.

  Then a different sound.

  A strange, deep, pulsing thump, thump, thump in the distance. Getting closer and louder.

  Suddenly she was engulfed in a vortex of swirling air. She saw a propeller spinning in front of her eyes.

  She screamed. Her eyes snapped open. She snapped on the light, gulping down air.

  Nigel, fast asleep, stirred and murmured, ‘Wasser? Wassermarrer?’

  The bedside clock said 3.15 a.m.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, upset at having woken him: he had an early start every workday and needed his sleep, especially on a Sunday night so that he was fresh for the week ahead – and the week before going on holiday was always a stressful one for him. ‘I’m sorry – just had a nightmare.’

  She kept the light on for some minutes, lying there. It was a still, early June night. There was a faint scratching sound outside – a cat or an urban fox rummaging in a rubbish bag. Slowly, her breathing calmed. She turned out the light, and fell asleep again a short while later.

  *

  The next night, Monday, Annie had the dream again. It was exactly the same, only this time the propeller was even larger, and came even closer. Again her screaming woke Nigel, and it set Zak off screaming too; but she managed to calm her son down by recovering his ‘night’ teddy, which had fallen on his bedroom floor, and he went back to sleep with one of its paws in his mouth.

  *

  On Tuesday night she had the dream again. This time the propeller came even closer still. And this time she snapped on her bedside light and she told Nigel. ‘This is the third night running. I think this dream is telling me something.’

  ‘What do you mean? Tell
ing you what?’ he asked, more than a little grumpily. Then he looked at the clock. ‘Shit, 4 a.m.’

  ‘I think it’s a premonition,’ she said. ‘It’s telling us we shouldn’t fly.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Annie, it’s you being afraid of flying! You have a bad dream every time before we fly.’

  ‘Not like this one.’

  ‘Can I go back to sleep?’

  ‘Go back to sleep.’

  *

  On Wednesday night, although she had been frightened to turn the light out for a long while, Annie slept a deep, dreamless sleep and woke refreshed, feeling positive and optimistic. Even Zak, for a change, was in a happy mood, gleefully pushing his big yellow digger truck around the floor, and making the accompanying sound effects.

  After she had dropped the two children off at their nurseries, she returned for the first client of the day, Samantha Hardy, the wife of a work colleague of Nigel, who also lived locally, and chatted to her excitedly about their holiday. Samantha told her about a wonderful restaurant near Geneva she and her husband had eaten in, and promised to text her the name that evening when he got home.

  *

  On Thursday night Annie dreamed she was in a cloud. Cold, grey tendrils brushed her face, icy air thrashed her blonde hair around her face, making it feel as hard as whipcords, and chilling her body to the core. She was shivering with cold and fear. In the distance a thump, thump, thump became increasingly louder. Louder. Louder. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. The roar of an engine rising to a crescendo. She was rocking from side to side and screaming, trying to keep her balance. Then the propeller was right in front of her face, thrashing, thrashing, coming at her, thrashing; suddenly the air gripped her in a vortex, spun her, hurtled her straight into the propeller.