EQMM, March-April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Nothing. He must have been mistaken.

  And then came the banging on the back door: a banging like whoever was out there was being chased by wolves.

  "I can see you,” a voice called.

  Well, that made sense: There was a window by the back door.

  "I don't mean to frighten you. It's just that I could really use some help."

  It was a young man's voice. He didn't fear the young, but didn't relish company just now. “Who are you?” he called.

  "Name's Holt, sir. Ian Holt. I've broken down a little way up the road.” There was a pause. “Well, quite a long way, actually. I kind of got lost in the woods."

  "And then came creeping round my house."

  "I knocked on the front door. I guess you didn't hear me.” While he was speaking, the man tried the handle, and the door wasn't locked. He stepped into Martin Hudson's kitchen. “Hello."

  "I don't remember asking you in."

  The stranger said, “I don't mean to scare you."

  "What makes you think you're scaring me?"

  "You've got kind of a defensive body posture going on."

  "Who are you? And what do you want?"

  "Name's Ian Holt. Didn't I just say? I broke down. Well, not so much broke. Ran out of petrol's the plain and simple truth.” He put his hands up in front of his chest, as if surrendering. “I know, I know. Stupid move, tell me about it."

  He was youngish: thirty or thereabouts. Wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt; an ill-fitting black jacket over the top. And he had a gash on his left cheek, which looked fresh and pretty wide.

  "What happened to your face?"

  Holt raised a hand to his cheek. “Is it bleeding bad?"

  "Not so much. But it's quite a scratch. What did you do, run into a cat?"

  "Ran into a branch. Cutting through the wood.” He shook his head. “It looked like a shortcut. Didn't realise it would be so dark."

  "You want to be careful, taking shortcuts. Things can get pretty treacherous."

  "I won't do it again in a hurry, I can tell you.” Holt looked around: took in the kitchen, and what looked like a warm sitting room through the doorway. “I didn't catch your name, sir?"

  He said, “Hudson. Martin Hudson."

  "Nice place you got here, Martin."

  "How can I help you, Mr. Holt? Now that you've invited yourself in."

  "I'm sorry about that, but it's cold outside. I wouldn't normally ... Look, could you tell me where the nearest garage is?"

  "Didn't you see the sign?"

  "Sign? I must have missed it."

  "Really? You can't have been paying attention. No wonder you walk into branches. It's not far, Mr. Holt. The garage. Just follow the main road."

  "Great. Only thing is, you wouldn't have a canister I could borrow at all? A plastic jug or something? To carry petrol in?"

  Martin said nothing.

  "I hate to be a nuisance. But I've been on the road for a few days, I'm within spitting distance of home, and you'd be doing me a huge favour if you were to lend me a jug and set me on the way to the garage."

  "They can probably let you have one at the garage."

  "Not always. I've been caught like that before."

  After a moment or two, the older man said, “You'd better step on through to the sitting room. I'll sort one out for you."

  "That'd be kind. Like I said, it's cold out there."

  Holt walked through to the inner room, where there was still a fire burning. He made straight for it; stood toasting his hands at its flame, admiring the postcards and candlesticks lined up on the mantelpiece.

  "Very nice place you've got,” he said again.

  "I won't be a moment."

  Martin disappeared back into the kitchen. Holt heard him opening cupboards, looking for the large plastic jug that was bound to be around somewhere.

  Holt had been truthful: It was a nice place; a nice room. Books on shelves; a sound centre in one corner. TV on an elevated table; sofa placed just right for an evening's viewing. There was something slightly off-key, though—a tapping, was it? Like the branch of a nearby tree, rattling at a window.

  The older man returned from the kitchen. “Where did you say you were driving from?"

  "Don't think I did,” Holt said. He'd picked up a pebble from a little bowl of them on the mantel. It was smooth and pink and speckled, like a candy-coated chocolate egg. He put it down again. “But I was in Westerton this morning. On business."

  "What kind?"

  "I'm a salesman.” He nodded at the jug in the older man's hand. “That's it? Great. Thank you."

  "I'll let you out, then."

  But Holt didn't move towards the door. He put one hand to his wounded cheek, then lowered it. “The thing is,” he said at last, “I don't have any money."

  "You don't have any money."

  "I lost my wallet."

  "When?"

  "Well, if I knew that, it wouldn't be lost. But somewhere between here and the car would be my guess."

  "Maybe it's in your car. Or next to it. Maybe it slipped out of your pocket when you were getting out."

  "No, I had it then. I always check, you know? Kind of a nervous habit."

  "So you've lost it since."

  "Must have been when I walked into that tree."

  "You said a branch."

  "Branch, whatever. It comes snapping back into your face like that, it feels like the whole damn tree, you know? Anyway, that must've been when I dropped it. Jesus, and it's got all my plastic in it and everything."

  "That's very awkward for you."

  "You're telling me. ‘Course, look on the bright side, I'll have time to cancel them before anyone finds it. ‘Less you've got larcenous foxes out there or something."

  "They steal from bins. I don't think they've raised their game to credit-card fraud."

  Holt threw his head back and laughed, a little too hard, a little too loud. The older man smiled. He knew his pleasantry hadn't deserved this response. “So,” Holt said when he'd finished. “I guess you can probably imagine what I'm about to ask."

  "You're wondering if I can let you have some money."

  "It'd be real Samaritan stuff, you know? Straight out of the Good Book."

  "Except the Samaritan was the one who was passing, wasn't he?"

  "...you what, Martin?"

  "In the Good Book—it's the Samaritan who's passing and sees the man who fell among thieves. I think that was the phrase. But you're the one who's passing, aren't you? I'm the one who was here."

  "So what does that make me, the bad Samaritan?” Holt laughed again, but not so loudly. “Anyway. Seriously. If you could lend me fifteen, twenty quid, it would make all the difference to my immediate future. And I'll post it back first thing tomorrow."

  "You're asking me to take a lot on trust here, Mr. Holt."

  "Not really. I can give you my address, e-mail, mobile number—you on e-mail, Martin?"

  "Am I a silver surfer, you mean?"

  "Well, I didn't mean to imply—it's not like I'm looking at you and seeing an old man or anything. What are you, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, something like that?"

  "A little older."

  "But sprightly."

  "Sprightly. That's a word only attached to the elderly, isn't it? So no, I'd rather not think of myself as sprightly. Hale will do nicely."

  "Hale, yeah, you look hale all right. But anyway, Martin, all I'm saying is—look, what is that?"

  "What's what?"

  "That noise. Is that dripping? Did you forget to turn a tap off?"

  "I didn't forget, no. I seem to have sprung a leak."

  "A real leak or just a washer?"

  "Real?"

  "I mean, if you've got a cracked pipe, that's a problem. Basically, you're going to need a plumber. But if it's a leaky washer, that's no big deal. I could replace it myself. Wouldn't take a minute."

  "You're a plumber?"

  "I'm good with my hands,” Holt said.

&n
bsp; They were large hands, it was true. And looked well used: had grazes on the knuckles. Perhaps from when he'd walked into that tree.

  "I don't think it's the pipe,” the older man said.

  "No?"

  "No. It's just the tap. Won't stop dripping."

  "That'll be your typical washer problem, then. You got a spare?"

  "There's some in a jar,” he said. “In the cellar. With the tools."

  "And a wrench?"

  "Yes. Yes, there's a wrench."

  "Well, now we're getting somewhere. I can fix that for you. Won't take five minutes."

  "In return for some money, you mean."

  "That's how these things work. You do a job, you get paid. This, though, is more of your one-time-only offer, because I'm not asking for payment. Just a loan."

  "We're back to the loan."

  "Sure. The arrangement we just discussed. You let me have twenty, thirty quid, enough to fill my tank and get me home, and I'll post it back to you tomorrow."

  "Twenty, thirty?"

  "Ought to do it."

  "It was fifteen, twenty earlier."

  "That was before I fixed the tap."

  It was still before he'd fixed the tap. The tap hadn't been fixed yet.

  "I'm quite capable of managing by myself, you know."

  "I don't doubt it for a moment. But if I do it, we'll both feel better, won't we? I'll have done you a favour in return for the loan, and you'll know I'm not some scam artist who's turned up on your doorstep hoping to rip you off."

  "You could still be that."

  "Well, sure. But at least you'll have had your tap fixed."

  Something in the fire snapped suddenly, with a bang and a scatter of sparks. Neither man jumped. Holt said, “So, your tools are in the cellar, that's what you said?"

  "That's what I said."

  "You just point me, I'll pop down and fetch what I need."

  "That won't be necessary. I'll get them."

  "Well, I'll come with you, make sure you get the right stuff."

  "No,” Martin said. “I'll go. You wait here."

  Holt looked around. “Well, I can't say I'm sorry to spend another couple of minutes by the fire."

  Martin said, “I won't be a moment."

  Alone, Holt rubbed his hands together again, to squeeze the cold out of them. He revolved slowly in front of the flames, warming himself on all sides. Then he gazed around at the room's contents once more.

  Martin Hudson, who would soon be deceased, kept a tidy house.

  Holt wandered from the fire to the hallway, where a travel bag sat under a row of coat pegs. It seemed a journey was being planned; possibly an overnight trip. It wasn't a huge bag. From its unzippered opening, clothing poked: Martin Hudson, it would appear, was a tidier housekeeper than he was packer. There was an envelope in the bag, unsealed, its opening clearly visible. It contained banknotes. Holt raised an eyebrow, and returned to the fireside.

  He switched the TV on, registered what was showing, and switched it off.

  A moment or two later Martin reappeared, via the kitchen. “Did I hear you talking?” he asked.

  "I turned your TV on. Just wanted to catch the score."

  "I didn't know there was a match on."

  "Euro playoffs. But I missed the sports roundup. It's okay. I'll catch it later."

  "No, that's all right."

  When the set came back on, the newsreader was repeating the main headline.

  "—Shrievemoor Maximum Security Prison. Once again, the public have been warned not to approach this man, described by police as extremely dangerous."

  Holt said, “They'll read the scores again later. I'll catch them on the car radio."

  Martin turned the set off. “Shrievemoor,” he said.

  "That's quite near, isn't it?” Holt asked after a moment.

  "About ten miles.” Martin was holding a wrench: a pretty hefty example of one. “Well, by road. Less than that through the woods."

  "I think I drove through it earlier."

  "I thought you said you drove from Westerton."

  "That's right."

  "I'm not sure you could have done, then. Not without being lost."

  "Well,” Holt said. “Maybe I passed a signpost for it."

  "Maybe."

  "So,” Holt said after a short silence. “I see you found your wrench."

  "Uh-huh."

  "What about a washer? Did you have a spare?"

  "Got one right here."

  Holt took it from him, and the wrench too. It looked a comfortable fit for his large hand. “Righty-ho,” he said. “Lead the way."

  * * * *

  The body of Martin Hudson was found the following afternoon by a friend from the village, who'd been expecting to meet him for lunch. It was in the cellar where the tools were kept, one of which—a wrench—had been used to batter him to death.

  "But he hung on for a while,” the pathologist noted. “Probably survived for a few hours after the attack."

  Upstairs, the scene-of-crime outfit were bagging evidence.

  "No shortage of prints,” one noted.

  They all knew whose they were looking for. Yesterday's escapee from Shrievemoor had notched up six kills in his time, at least one of them for fun.

  Somebody brought in a plastic jug which had been left on the garden path.

  "Smells like it's been used for petrol."

  "Surprised he didn't torch the place after killing—what was his name?"

  "Hudson."

  "Hudson.” The policeman shook his head. “Then again, not much our Derek does surprises me anymore."

  "Man's an animal."

  When they checked the CCTV at the local garage, they saw the jug again: being filled at a pump by the man who'd said his name was Ian Holt. He paid in cash.

  A few hours later, they had him at the station.

  * * * *

  "How did you find me?"

  They explained.

  He laughed, then stopped. “Sorry. Not appropriate. But if I hadn't returned the plastic jug, you'd not have known I'd been there, would you?"

  "Oh, we'd have worked it out."

  They told him that Martin Hudson had lain in the cellar for some hours before dying of his wounds, and his colour drained as he worked out the timing.

  "He was still alive when I left."

  "That's right."

  Then they showed him a photo. “He looks harmless."

  "Yes. But he's been in prison twenty years, and he's killed twice while he's been inside. He's a very bad man, is Derek Martin."

  "And I thought he was worried about me."

  They shook their heads.

  Holt said, “There was a bag. In the hallway. It had clothes in it, and money too. In an envelope."

  They said, “After Martin broke in, attacked Hudson, and left him in the cellar, he packed himself a getaway kit. He was waiting for dark, that's all. If you'd arrived five minutes later, he'd have been gone."

  "And maybe I'd have tried the door anyway. And found poor Mr. Hudson."

  They didn't have an answer for that. But they returned his wallet, which they'd found on the path through the wood, under the branch he'd walked into. “You'll be wanted as a witness, of course. To place him in the house at the time."

  "Of course,” Holt said. Then added, “I wonder why he did that. Lent me the money. Watched me fix that tap. Let me walk away."

  "He probably thought it funny, watching you fix a tap with a murder weapon. And letting you go would be part of the joke. When we catch him, we'll ask. But I suspect he won't have an answer. That's the thing about very bad men,” they said. “They don't really follow any rules."

  ©2009 by Mick Herron

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  Fiction: SUICIDE BONDS by Tim L. Williams

  By day an English professor at a western Kentucky college, Tim L. Williams still manages to find time to turn out a large number of topnotch stories in both the literary and mystery fiel
ds. His work has been selected for Best American Mystery Stories, published by Houghton Mifflin, and has appeared in many magazines besides EQMM. His most recent work in the crime genre appeared in Murdaland. He is currently at work on a new novel featuring the hero of this story, Charlie Raines.

  Five days after her daughter jumped from a fourth-floor balcony, Cheryl Washburn was back behind the bar at the Refugee Lounge. We gave her sympathetic smiles and larger than average tips and whispered that she was holding up all right. Of course the cliche about regulars in low-rent, dimly lit bars like the Refugee is that they form a patch-quilt family, and, like most cliches, it's a lie. We worried about Cheryl because she was one of us but were secretly thankful that this time misfortune had found someone else. Hardcore drinkers aren't family. They're more like army buddies tying to survive a protracted guerrilla war without even the hope of a ceasefire.

  I caught her watching me a few times, brow furrowed, eyes searching for something she wasn't going to find in my booze-bloated face. Cheryl was an attractive woman, not pretty exactly but attractive. At thirty-seven, with a body that looked twenty-five and a face that was pushing fifty, she was no one's idea of a traffic stopper, but when you looked at her in the right light, you could still see the girl who had turned heads before life, hard work, and even harder drinking had gotten the best of her. A couple of years ago we'd shared a bed. It was okay. Neither of us fell in love, but neither of us ended the evening by weeping. When you're forty-five, single, and without any illusions about your desirability as either a life partner or a one-night stand, “okay” is a successful evening.

  "You got a minute, Charlie?” she asked just before her shift ended.

  I drained the last of my beer, did my best to smile. “Just a couple and then I've got to catch a flight to the French Riviera."

  She forced herself to laugh as she climbed onto the empty stool next to me. I knew she didn't want my time, my lame jokes, or my condolences. When your twenty-year-old daughter, an honor student at the University of Memphis, gets loaded on booze and downers and jumps from a fourth-floor balcony, you want answers more than you want comfort. Most days I like my job, or at least pretend I do so that I don't have to face the fact that I'm middle-aged and don't know any other way to make a living. Chasing bail skips, running background checks, working mall security, and repossessing cars are all fine with me. But I hate it when things get complicated—when people in pain or trouble hire me with the expectation that I can help.