The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He’d been steadily growing redder through this recital, and Joe was worried Tom Parker might accidentally have a seizure or something; perhaps a mild apoplectic episode requiring medical intervention. He was a youngish man, so this wasn’t desperately likely, but as Joe’s first-aid expertise stopped at dialling 999, he thought it best to steer conversation away from the shirt. “You’ll forgive my saying so, I know,” he said. “Not only because we are friends, but because you’re a fair man. But you keep saying Tessa did this. Did she perhaps leave a note? Or some other declaration of some description?”

  “Of course she didn’t, Joe. We’re talking criminal damage here.”

  “She seemed a nice young woman,” he mourned.

  “Well,” Tom Parker said, “don’t they all? To start with.”

  He’d first met Tom Parker three months previously, at a French market in Gloucester Green, where they’d fallen into conversation over the relative merits of the olives on offer. Tom had been with Tessa – Tessa Greenlaw – and Joe, in the way of such meetings, had assumed them an established couple. He himself had been with Zoë at the time, and for all he knew, Tom and Tessa made the same assumption about them. Not that Zoë had been on the spot when the conversation started, of course – she had a way of bringing such encounters to an early close – but by the time she returned from a nearby wine stall, Joe was already ushering his new friends in the direction of a coffee bar.

  “You’ll never stop collecting strays, will you?” she’d said later.

  “Hardly strays. He runs a language school? She is an NHS, what are they calling them now? Managers? Hardly strays, Zoë.”

  “It’s the kind of thing old people do.”

  Joe would never get to be old, but neither of them knew that yet. Besides, as he said, the pair weren’t strays: Tom Parker was mid-thirties, with a relaxed, confident way which expressed itself in his clothing, his smile, and the direct expression he wore when he shook Joe’s hand. “Joe,” he’d said. “Good to meet you. This is Tessa.” Tessa was a few years younger: a sweet-faced blonde woman whose small, squarish, black-framed spectacles gave the impression that she was trying to look less attractive than she was, though to Joe’s mind they made her look rather sexy. While waiting for coffee, the group swapped life details.

  “I’ve never met a private detective,” Tom had said.

  Joe shrugged modestly.

  “Well, now you’ve met two,” Zoë told him.

  “Do you solve many crimes?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘solve’,” Joe said carefully. “And also ‘crimes’.”

  “It sounds fascinating,” Tessa said. She had a rather breathy voice, to Joe’s ear.

  “It sounds fascinating,” Zoë echoed sarcastically as they made their way home later.

  “She was trying to show an interest, that’s all. I thought they were a nice couple.”

  Though as it turned out, they were no longer a couple by the time Joe next encountered Tom.

  This had been in a bar in the city centre, where Joe had been watering a police contact of his, one Bob Poland, who had no useful information on a young runaway case Joe was working on, but managed to drag it out to five large scotches anyway. Joe himself had been nursing a beer, because there was no point getting competitive with a thirsty cop. He was only halfway through it when Bob had to leave – his shift was up – so was unfolding his newspaper when Tom Parker walked through the door. His language school, Joe remembered as he raised a hand in greeting, was just round the corner. “You remember me?”

  “Of course – Joe, isn’t it?”

  “Silvermann.”

  “From the olive stall.”

  “Well—”

  “The private eye – don’t worry, I remember.”

  He often dropped in here for a drink once the working day was done, he told Joe. The pair settled at a table by the window.

  “And Tessa, how is she?”

  “Oh, I’m not seeing her any more.”

  “Tom! No! What happened?”

  “Well, nothing. Christ, Joe, it’s not the death of romance or anything. We dated for a while and now we’re not. Simple as that.” Something in his expression, though, suggested it wasn’t that simple.

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  But nothing, Joe had to admit. Nothing he wanted to say out loud. That they had seemed a nice couple, and that nice couples ought to stick together, if only to set an example to everyone else. “Should I – would you like another drink?” When all else failed, offer hospitality. “Should I go to the bar?”

  “Joe, they have table service.” Tom raised a hand for the waitress. “Why do it yourself when you can pay someone else to do it? How about you, you want the other half?”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Tom ordered their drinks, then went on, “Besides, she’s unstable. Was right from the start.”

  “Unstable?”

  “I used to get phonecalls from her in the middle of the night. Checking up. That I was alone, and where I ought to be.”

  Joe clucked his tongue, shook his head. “Late night phonecalls. Zoë and I, we had a spate a while back. They get tired, they give up. You’re sure this was Tessa?”

  “Sometimes she’d arrive on my doorstep unexpectedly, or be waiting when I left work. You ever been stalked, Joe?”

  “Is it stalking, this? Not just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  Joe shrugged. “Perhaps she just wants to be with you.”

  “Feels like stalking to me, mate.” He shook his head. “It’s a hell of a world, Joe, I’m telling you. And most of its problems caused by women.”

  Well, maybe half, Joe conceded. If you ignored war and famine and stuff.

  They fell to talking about other things. The next Joe heard about Tessa, Tom was in his office, outlining the damage.

  He had taken a cigarette from a pocket but didn’t light it; just held it between finger and thumb as he spoke. “Those phone calls? They never stopped. Oh, she wouldn’t speak, but it was her. Middle of the night, and I’m getting woken up to be given the silent treatment. Or not woken up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sometimes you’re already awake,” Joe guessed.

  “Not alone, either. You can imagine the damper that puts on proceedings.”

  “She sounds unhappy.”

  “And I care? She’s fucking nuts, Joe. And driving me crazy while she’s at it.”

  “Have you been to the police?”

  “What good would that do? Look. I know it was Tessa, you know it was Tessa. Bloody Tessa knows it was Tessa. But knowing isn’t proving. We get into an I said-she said situation, the best that’ll happen’s she’ll get told to watch her step by the boys in blue. Meanwhile, I’m still paying the bills on her domestic terrorism, thanks a bunch.”

  “How did she get in?”

  “In?”

  “To your house,” Joe explained. “She didn’t look, pardon my saying, like a housebreaker.”

  “Oh, right. No, she didn’t need to be. We’d swapped keys, but she never gave it back. Claimed she did, but she didn’t.”

  “And your locks? Have you changed your locks?”

  “Well I have now, Joe. But that’s a little late to help.”

  Joe nodded, as a change from shaking his head. There’d been a crime, and Tom seemed certain he’d identified the culprit. But it wasn’t clear what Joe was expected to do about it.

  Tom said, “That was my favourite shirt, too. Bought it in Italy. It’s not like I can just pop out and buy another.”

  “It’s not . . . salvageable? No, sorry, forget I spoke. Of course it’s not.”

  Tom leaned forward. His unlit cigarette jammed meaning into every syllable. “She blocked the sewer pipe with it, Joe. First I knew about it, the toilet’s backing up. Course it’s not bloody salvageable.”

  “Would you like coffee? Tea?”

  “Neither. Not right now.”


  “You’re upset, yes. Your shirt and all the rest, plus the sense of being invaded. I can see you’d want to talk to somebody about it.”

  “But why you.”

  “That’s what I was wondering, Tom, yes. Why me?”

  So Tom told him.

  A homeless man had made his pitch by an entrance to the covered market: teatowel in front of him for contributions to his wellbeing, he sat crosslegged, back to the wall, face obscured by a hood. A young Alsatian lay next to him, its head on his knee. Lots of homeless people – and there were lots; they seemed to multiply faster than any housing shortage could account for – lots of them had dogs, Joe had noticed, which was a detail which, if not a silver lining, at least provided a little insulation, he liked to think. There was comfort in knowing that no matter how hard you’d fallen, love was still available. He’d said as much to Zoë once, and she’d looked at him as if he were mad, which wasn’t an unusual expression for Zoë.

  “They don’t keep dogs for something to love, Joe. They keep dogs so they’ve something to shout at. Something they can get angry with, which just has to sit and take it.”

  Which might or might not have been true, but one thing was certain: having heard it said, Joe would never look at a homeless man and his dog in quite the same way again.

  “The glass is always half-empty, isn’t it, Zoë?” he’d said sadly.

  “No, the glass is cracked,” she’d told him. “And there’s no way I’m drinking from a cracked glass.”

  Anyway, the dog he was looking at was the same one he’d seen yesterday, because this was the homeless guy’s regular hangout, and this particular entrance to Oxford’s covered market was right by the doorway to Tessa Greenlaw’s gym. Or the gym Tessa Greenlaw was a member of. Joe had spent long enough watching it to make such pointless clarifications to himself, as if somewhere inside his own head was a not entirely bright third party, in constant need of updating. Tessa Greenlaw came here once her workday was done, or had done so both days Joe had been following her. Surveilling, he amended. “Following” had a stalkerish air. And yesterday, after leaving, she’d done nothing more complicated than head straight home, giving Joe a tricky moment when he’d found himself boarding the same bus – but it had been crowded, and he’d sat where she couldn’t see his face, and besides, they’d only encountered each other once, months ago. Chances were, all she’d have would be one of those vague city moments at the sight of a face from a forgotten context. And if that happened, she hadn’t let on.

  Tonight, though, there was no rush for the bus. Instead, on leaving the gym Tessa Greenlaw headed south, down St Aldate’s. Giving her a moment to get ahead, Joe peeled himself from his hiding place, thought for a moment about popping over the road to slip a quid to the boy with the dog, decided he didn’t have time, and set off in Tessa’s wake.

  It was hardly a surprise. How many places could she have been headed? Well, okay, she could have been going anywhere – but a short distance down St Aldate’s, then a left turn off the main road, and what you reached was the building that housed Tom Parker’s language school.

  This wasn’t a busy thoroughfare. Joe couldn’t have followed Tessa along it without being spotted. But opposite the lane’s entrance, on St Aldate’s itself, was a bench for the weary, from which Joe had a clear view of Tessa Greenlaw coming to a halt by the language school; of Tessa checking her watch, then leaning against the wall of the building opposite, looking up at the second-floor window where Tom had his office.

  Joe spread his newspaper over his knees, in case Tessa noticed him.

  He timed it at eleven minutes. Eleven minutes before Tom Parker came out. During this time, Tessa grew restless; checked her watch a number of times; fiddled through her bag for something she didn’t find. She was wearing the same glasses Joe had admired the first time he’d met her – only time, he amended; you couldn’t call this “meeting” – and her hair was shorter, but what he mostly noticed was that she seemed, what might the word be – frazzled? Yes: she seemed frazzled. As if things were not going her way lately, and the directions they had chosen instead were stretching her thin . . . Zoë would probably point out that Tessa had just been to the gym, which might account for it. But still: she looked frazzled.

  Joe was staring straight at her when she looked his way. He dropped his eyes to the newspaper; made a bit of a thing about turning a page. When he risked another glance, Tom was in the lane too.

  “You saw?”

  “I saw, yes.”

  “That’s the fourth time. No, fifth. She’s mad, Joe. Complete mentalist.”

  “Mentalist.” Joe wasn’t sure he’d encountered the term. “Certainly, she does not give the impression of being, ah, stable.”

  He hadn’t been able to hear everything, but that she’d been shouting was clear enough. Bastard had floated Joe’s way. And all the while Tom had been making soothing gestures in the air; smiling softly but never quite touching her, as if Tessa were a cornered animal in spitting mood, unclear of its own best choices. When he’d reached at last for her sleeve she’d pulled her arm away angrily and stormed down the lane, away from Joe. Slowly, he’d folded his newspaper and stood. When Tom reached him, he led the way to the bar without a word.

  Now he said, “And has there been any pattern, any particular sequence to the way in which she comes and, ah, lurks outside your workplace?”

  “I’m not sure. Would it make a difference?”

  “Probably not,” Joe admitted.

  “You’re thinking some kind of PMT thing?”

  Uncomfortable with this direction, Joe shook his head. “Not really.” Truth was, he had no idea what questions to ask, or what answers would help. Insights into the female psyche weren’t his specialty. And if he’d ever claimed them to be, it wasn’t like the notion would withstand five minutes of Zoë’s scrutiny. “Did you confront her about her invasion of your property?”

  “Did she give the impression of being up for a discussion?”

  “I couldn’t hear,” Joe explained. “Traff c. Distance. Plus, she was shouting and you were speaking softly. Neither was an ideal volume.”

  “Well trust me, she was in no mood for answering questions. More than likely, she’d find a way of blaming it on me, anyway. You had much to do with mad women, Joe?”

  Loyally, Joe denied it.

  “Lucky you.”

  She’d looked frazzled, he remembered. It wasn’t such a stretch to colour her mad. “What was she saying?”

  Tom Palmer ran a hand through his hair: a boyish gesture, not without charm. “That we belong together. That I was just being stupid, and should come to my senses. That I should come to my senses.” He shook his head in wonderment. “A bloody baby. We’re not even in a relationship, for god’s sake.”

  “Does she have parents? Someone who could perhaps talk to her—”

  “Well I don’t know, do I? We weren’t playing happy families, Joe. We were only together for a couple of weeks.”

  “An official complaint, perhaps? Now that I’ve been a witness to this stalking, this harassment, perhaps you want me to . . . accompany you to the police station?”

  Tom barked a sudden laugh. “You’ve never actually been a copper, have you, Joe?”

  “Never. Not ever.”

  “But you talk the talk. No, I don’t want you to accompany me to the station, thanks anyway. I want something more direct than that. I want you to put a stop to it. To all her crap.”

  Joe had been afraid that’s where this was leading. “You think she’ll listen to me?” He was older than Tessa, true – could easily be her father – and perhaps a little elder wisdom was what she needed: but still, he was afraid. Not of confronting a madwoman; more of being mortally embarrassed. “There is a law,” he suggested. “The Protection from Harassment Act?”

  “I know,” Tom said. “You think that’s going to carry weight? Quote section thirteen, paragraph six at her, and watch enlightenment dawn?” He leaned forward. “Sh
e’s barking, Joe. You’ve seen what she’s like, waiting round my office to harangue me when I leave. Not to mention she seriously messed me about, wiped my computer. I like things ordered, Joe. This was out of order. So. Are you going to help or not? I mean, that’s what you do, right? You’re a private eye. You take on clients.”

  “Yes,” Joe sighed. “It’s what I do. I take on clients.”

  “Good.” Tom passed a key across the table. “I want you to mess her place up, Joe. Same way she messed mine. Fair’s fair, right?”

  “I suppose it is,” Joe agreed. “Fair’s fair. Yes.”

  Tessa left home for work at 9.15. It was all right for some, Joe noted, a judgment tempered by the knowledge that if he himself didn’t reach the office before eleven, it wasn’t like anyone would notice. As it was, this morning he’d been up at seven; by half-past, had been slumped twenty yards down the road from Tessa’s front door, his trusty newspaper on the car seat next to him, in case a disguise was called for. Was it really necessary for him to observe, first-hand, Tessa’s departure? Yes, it was. If he was going to let himself into her place with the key Tom had given him, he wanted proof positive she was off the premises. He figured that was the way Philip Marlowe would have played it, “What would Marlowe do?” being Joe’s regular mantra. Marlowe wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. Well, that wasn’t true. But it was the answer Joe wanted, which was substantially more important.

  “You still have this?” he had asked Tom on being given Tessa’s doorkey. “Won’t she have changed the lock?”

  “Trust me, that’ll get you through the door.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me.”

  So Joe’s hand had clamped round the key as if his fist were taking an impression.

  Now he straightened in the driving seat as Tessa reached the corner, crossed the road, and headed for her bus stop.

  Give her another ten minutes, he thought. It was likely she’d be waiting at least that long; time enough to remember she’d left her purse behind, or her paperback, or any one of a hundred items she never left home without. But his body was in unwilled motion, eager to get this part finished whatever excuses his mind could conjure; his body was excavating itself from its car, brushing the creases from its coat; was pulling its collar up in a completely unsuspicious attempt to obscure its face for the benefit of anyone curtain-twitching, wondering what the guy in the car was up to. Housebreaking in broad daylight was not a game for the nervous. So if he was engaged in it, he couldn’t be nervous: QED. Unnervously, then, Joe made his way to Tessa’s house; unnervously fished her key from his pocket as he did so; unnervously dropped it as he tripped on the kerb, then had to frantically scrabble before it disappeared down a drain.