The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Living in his house, you mean?” She stared absently across the lounge. “When my husband and I split up a year ago I was living on the coast and needed a job. Someone who knew Gus told me he was looking for help. He had contacts in the San Diego Navy yard and was buying ex-military stuff pre-public auction. He needed someone to deal with paperwork on the construction side, so I applied.” I didn’t say anything, and she looked at me with a hint of fire in her eye. “Gus was my boss, period. I lived at his place, but I had my own room.”

  “I know,” I said smugly. “I’ve seen it.” I explained about searching the house.

  “So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “Go home, I suppose. You?”

  She shrugged. “Head back to the coast. Start again. I’ve done it before. I need to get my stuff from Gus’ place, though.”

  The indicator board showed my flight number. There must be something about airports that appeals to the romantic in me. Either that or I need my bumps examining. “You mean clothes?”

  She thought for a while, then shrugged again. “I guess. Mostly. But I can always buy more. And I could stay with Mom for a while.” She gave a half smile and seemed to brighten up at the idea. “I’ve done that before, too.”

  I took out the envelope Gus had given me and looked inside. I was half-expecting it to be full of plain paper. But it wasn’t. Whatever else Gus might be, he believed in paying well.

  “Do you have your passport with you?”

  “Sure,” she said. “It was a habit Dad got me into. Why?”

  “No reason,” I said, my pulse beginning to beat a little faster, “I just wondered if you’d like to take a holiday. On Gus’ account.”

  “With you?” She gave a flash of her old smile and looked at me as if I might suddenly pop and disappear. As the smile blossomed into an excited grin, I stood up and took her arm.

  “Why don’t we,” I suggested, “go out and buy ourselves some swimming costumes, and look for somewhere hot and quiet to hide away for a while?”

  She laughed in a way that made my spirits soar. “Costumes? Did you say costumes? That’s so cute!’

  “Tomayto, tomarto,” I responded easily. “You’ll get used to it . . .”

  A BLOW ON THE HEAD

  Peter Lovesey

  ALMOST THERE. DONNA Culpepper looked ahead to her destination and her destiny, the top of Beachy Head, the great chalk headland that is the summit of the South Downs coast. She’d walked from where the taxi driver had left her. The stiff climb wasn’t easy on this gusty August afternoon, but her mind was made up. She was thirty-nine, with no intention of being forty. She’d made a disastrous marriage to a man who had deserted her after six weeks, robbed her of her money, her confidence, her dreams. Trying to put it all behind her, as friends kept urging, had not worked. Two years on, she was unwilling to try any longer.

  Other ways of ending it, like an overdose or cutting her wrists, were not right for Donna. Beachy Head was the place. As a child she’d stayed in Eastbourne with her Gran and they came here often, “for a blow on the head”, as Gran put it, crunching the tiny grey shells of the path, her grey hair tugged by the wind, while jackdaws and herring-gulls swooped and soared, screaming in the clear air. From the top, five hundred feet up when you first saw the sea, you had a sudden sensation of height that made your spine tingle. There was just the rim of eroding turf and the hideous drop.

  On a good day you could see the Isle of Wight, Gran had said. Donna couldn’t see anything and stepped closer to the edge and Gran grabbed her and said it was dangerous. People came here to kill themselves.

  This interested Donna. Gran gave reluctant answers to her questions.

  “They jump off.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, dear.”

  “Yes, you do. Tell me, Gran.”

  “Some people are unhappy.”

  “What makes them unhappy?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “What things?”

  “Never mind, dear.”

  “But I do mind. Tell me what made those people unhappy.”

  “Grown-up things.”

  “Like making babies?”

  “No, no, no. Whoever put such ideas in your head?”

  “What, then?”

  “Sometimes they get unhappy because they lose the person they love.”

  “What’s love?”

  “Oh, dear. You’ve such a lot to learn. When you grow up you fall in love with someone and if you’re lucky you marry them.”

  “Is that why they jump off the cliff?”

  Gran laughed. “No, you daft ha’porth, it’s the opposite, or I think it is. Let’s change the subject.”

  The trouble with grown-ups is that they always change the subject before they get to the point. For some years after this Donna thought falling in love was a physical act involving gravity. She could see that falling off Beachy Head was dangerous and would only be attempted by desperate people. She expected it was possible to get in love by falling from more sensible heights. She tried jumping off her bed a few times, but nothing happened. The kitchen table, which she tried only once, was no use either.

  She started getting sensuous dreams, though. She would leap off the cliff edge and float in the air like the skydivers she’d seen on television. If that was falling in love she could understand why there was so much talk about it.

  Disillusion set in when she started school. Love turned out to be something else involving those gross, ungainly creatures, boys. After a few skirmishes with over-curious boys she decided love was not worth pursuing any longer. It didn’t come up to her dreams. This was a pity because other girls of her age expected less and got a more gradual initiation into the mysteries of sex.

  At seventeen the hormones would not be suppressed and Donna drank five vodkas and went to bed with a man of twenty-three. He said he was in love with her, but if that was love it was unsatisfactory. And in the several relationships she had in her twenties she never experienced anything to match those dreams of falling and flying. Most of her girlfriends found partners and moved in with them. Donna held off.

  In her mid-to-late thirties she began to feel deprived. One day she saw the Meeting Place page in a national paper. Somewhere out there was her ideal partner. She decided to take active steps to find him. She had money. Her Gran had died and left her everything, ninety thousand pounds. In the ad she described herself as independent, sensitive and cultured.

  And that was how she met Lionel Culpepper.

  He was charming, good-looking and better at sex than anyone she’d met. She told him about her Gran and her walks on Beachy Head and her dreams of flying. He said he had a pilot’s licence and offered to take her up in a small plane. She asked if he owned a plane and he said he would hire one. Thinking of her legacy she asked how much they cost and he thought he could buy a good one second-hand for ninety thousand pounds. They got married and opened a joint account. He went off one morning to look at a plane offered for sale in a magazine. That was the last she saw of her husband. When she checked the bank account it was empty. She had been married thirty-eight days.

  For a long time she worried about Lionel, thinking he’d had an accident. She reported him missing. Then a letter arrived from a solicitor. Cruelly formal in its wording, it stated that her husband, Lionel Culpepper, wanted a divorce. She was devastated. She hated him then and knew him for what he was. He would not get his divorce that easily.

  That was two years ago. Here she was, taking the route of so many who have sought to end their troubles by suicide. Some odd sense of completion, she supposed, was making her take those last steps to the highest point. Any part of the cliff edge would do.

  She saw a phone box ahead. Oddly situated, you would think, on a cliff top. The Samaritans had arranged for the phone to be here just in case any tormented soul decided to call them and talk. Donna walked past. A short way beyond was a well-placed wooden bench and she was grateful
for that. She needed a moment to compose herself.

  She sat. It was just the usual seat you found in parks and along river banks all over the country. Not comfortable for long with its slatted seat and upright back, but welcome at the end of the stiff climb. And it did face the sea.

  In a moment she would launch herself. She wasn’t too scared. A small part of her still wanted the thrill of falling. For a few precious seconds she would be like those sky-divers appearing to fly. This was the way to go.

  Revived and resolute, Donna stood and checked to make sure no one was about. Perfect. She had the whole headland to herself.

  Well, then.

  What it was that drew her attention back to the bench she couldn’t say. At the edge of her vision she became aware of a small brass plaque screwed to the top rail. She read the inscription.

  In memory of my beloved wife Donna Maria Culpepper, 1967–2004, who loved to walk here and enjoy this view.

  A surreal moment. Donna swayed and had to reach out and clutch the bench. She sat again, rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked a second time because she half wondered if her heightened state of mind had made her hallucinate.

  The words were just as she’d first read them. Her name in full. She’d never met anyone with the same name. It would be extraordinary if some other Donna Maria Culpepper had walked here and loved this view. The year of birth was right as well.

  Two things were definitely not Donna. She hadn’t died in 2004 and the way her rat of a husband had treated her made the word “beloved” a sick joke.

  Was it possible, she asked herself now, still staring at the weird plaque, that Lionel had paid for the bench and put it here? Could he have heard from some mistaken source that she had died? Had he done this in a fit of conscience?

  No chance. Freed of that foolish infatuation she’d experienced when she met the man and married him, she knew him for what he was. Conscience didn’t trouble Lionel. He’d had the gall to ask for a divorce – through a solicitor and after weeks of silence. He was cowardly and callous.

  How could this bench be anything to do with Lionel, or with her?

  It was a mystery.

  Cold logic suggested there had been another Donna Maria Culpepper born in the same year who had died in 2004 and had this touching memorial placed here by her widowed husband, who was obviously more devoted and considerate than Lionel. And yet it required a series of coincidences for this to have happened: the same first names, surname, date of birth.

  She took another look. In the bottom right corner of the plaque was a detail she hadn’t noticed – the letters “L.C.” – Lionel’s initials. This, surely, clinched it. The odds against were huge.

  She no longer felt suicidal. Anger had taken over. She was outraged by Lionel’s conduct. He shouldn’t have done this. She had come here in a wholly negative frame of mind. Now a new challenge galvanized her. She would get to the truth. She was recharged, determined to find an explanation.

  First she had to find him. After their break-up she’d had minimal contact, and that was through solicitors’ letters. She had no idea where he lived now.

  She walked down the path towards the town.

  The Parks and Recreations Department at Eastbourne Council said that about forty seats had been donated as memorials by members of the public. A helpful young woman showed her the records. The bench had been presented last spring. A man had come in with the plaque already inscribed. He’d particularly asked for a teak seat to be positioned at the top of Beachy Head. He’d paid in cash and left no name, though it was obvious he had to be a Mr Culpepper.

  Donna asked if he’d left his address or phone number and was told he had not. She took a sharp, impatient breath and explained about the shock she’d had. The clerical assistant was sympathetic and said it could only be an unfortunate duplication of names.

  While Donna was explaining why she thought it couldn’t be coincidence, an assistant at the next desk asked if they were talking about the seat at the top of Beachy Head. She said a few months ago she’d had someone else in, a woman, asking about the same seat and the man who presented it.

  “A woman? Did she say why?” Donna asked.

  “No, but she left her business card. I put it in the folder, just in case we found out any more.”

  The card had slipped to the bottom of the folder. Donna was given a pencil and paper to make a note of the name and phone number. Maggie Boswell-Jones, Starpart Film, TV and Theatrical Agency, Cecil Court, Off Charing Cross Road, London. There were phone, fax and e-mail numbers.

  Donna didn’t have her mobile with her. She hadn’t intended using it on this last day of her life. She used a public phone downstairs.

  The conversation was all very bizarre.

  “You’re Lionel’s wife? But you’re dead,” Maggie Boswell-Jones said. “You were killed in a flying accident.”

  “I promise you I wasn’t,” Donna said. “I’m who I say I am.”

  “How can you be? There’s a seat on Beachy Head with your name on it. Lionel put it there in your memory.”

  “He ran out on me in the second month of our marriage. May I ask why you were looking for him?”

  “Because he’s my boyfriend, darling, and he’s missing.”

  Donna felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She knew Lionel was a rat. Now she knew he was a two-timing rat. He’d walked out on her and started up with this woman. She made an effort to save her fury for Lionel.

  “How did you know about the seat?”

  “He took me up there specially. He wanted me to know that you were dead. I made it very clear to him that I don’t get involved with married guys. He spoke nicely of you.”

  “Look, can I come and see you?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I’m determined to find him. With your help I’m sure I can do it.”

  At the agency Donna recognized a man who stepped out of the lift. He was an actor she often saw in Coronation Street. In the waiting room upstairs there were framed movie posters. In a glass showcase were various awards, including what looked like an Oscar.

  Maggie appeared high-powered with her black fringe, tinted glasses and purple suit, but she turned out to be charming. Coffee and biscuits were ready on a low table in her office. They sat together on a black leather sofa. “I’ve been trying to understand what’s going on with Lionel ever since you phoned and I’m still at a loss,” Maggie said. “He’s such a bright guy. I can’t think how he got to believe you’d passed away.”

  “He made it up,” Donna said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. He said the kindest things about you. I mean, why would he go to the trouble and expense of buying a seat for you?”

  “To fool you into believing I was dead and he was free to have an affair. Can’t you see that?”

  Maggie took a lot of convincing. Clearly she was still under Lionel’s spell. Just as Donna had believed him incapable of leaving her, so Maggie insisted he must have lost his memory in the flying accident.

  “There was no flying accident,” Donna said. “He talked about taking me in a plane, but it never happened. He took ninety thousand pounds from our account.”

  “Really? This shocks me.” The colour had drained from Maggie’s face. “I certainly need to find him because I lent him sixty grand to renovate a house he’d bought for us in the south of France.”

  “You’ll never see that money again,” Donna said. “He’s a conman. He befriends women like you and me and fleeces them. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you meet him? Was it through a newspaper?”

  “What a skunk!” Maggie said, and Donna knew she’d got through to her at last.

  That evening Maggie took Donna for a meal at a restaurant near the agency. “I’m not short of a bob or two,” she said, “but let’s admit it, I’m unattached and on the lookout. I meet plenty of hunky blokes in my job, but it doesn’t do to mix work and pleasure, so I put my ad in the Guardian. Lionel was the best of the b
unch who responded – or seemed to be.”

  “I wonder how many other women he’s conned,” Donna said. “It really upsets me that he went to all that trouble to make out I was dead and he was a free man. There must be some way of stopping him.”

  “We can’t stop him if we can’t find him.”

  “Couldn’t we trace him through the newspaper?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re very strict about box numbers. And they cover themselves by saying you indemnify the newspaper against all claims.” Maggie thought for a while, and took a long sip of wine. “Right,” she said finally. “What we do is this.”

  GORGEOUS Georgie, 38, own house, car, country cottage, WLTM Mr Charming 35–45 for days out and evenings in and possible LTR. Loves fast cars, first nights and five star restaurants.

  “What’s LTR?”

  “Long term relationship. That should do it,” Maggie said.

  “It’s a lot more pushy than mine,” Donna said.

  “How did you describe yourself?”

  She blushed a little. “Independent, sensitive and cultured.”

  “Independent is good. He’s thinking of your bank balance. But we can’t use it a second time. This will pull in quite a few gold-diggers, I expect. We just have to listen carefully to the voice messages and make sure it’s Lionel.”

  “I’ll know his voice.”

  “So will I, sweetie.”

  “And who, exactly, is Gorgeous Georgie?”

  “One of the best stuntmen in Britain.”

  “A man?”

  “Ex-boxer and European weightlifting champion. He’s been on my agency books for years. He’ll deliver Lionel to us, and the money he stole from us. When Georgie has finished with the bastard he’ll beg for mercy.”

  Maggie called ten days later. “He’s fallen for it. A really unctuous voice message. Made me want to throw up. He says he’s unattached—”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Professional, caring and with a good sense of humour. He’ll need that.”