The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Paul Johnston

  * * *

  IT WAS THE morning after the longest day that Moon made his decision. It didn’t help that his head was splitting after James’s party, his throat parched and his fingers quivering. The night before had been a disaster, but the truth was he’d been wearing donkey’s ears for weeks. He’d tried to be understanding, he’d tried to be a good neighbour, but he’d been wasting his time. Some people just didn’t care. The noise had got worse, the dogs barking all night and the baby screaming as if it was possessed by the most anti-social fiend in the underworld. As for the music … either the daughter was tone-deaf or she’d been paid by some caterwauling boy band to play their songs 24/7. He wasn’t going to take it any more.

  Things had looked good when he’d moved into the fourth-floor flat in the converted warehouse behind the City Chambers. Moon – tall, dark and what he thought was handsome – was a business lawyer in a big firm. He’d used contacts to secure the luxury three-bedroom for a price less steep than an ordinary mortal would pay. He’d taken every reasonable precaution, running checks on the building’s other occupants. His next-door neighbour was a stock-broker who spent a lot of time travelling, while the people below were softly spoken bankers whose idea of a raucous evening was to worship at the shrine of Jeremy Paxman. Angela, the middle-aged woman who rented the penthouse, had seemed to be no problem. She was a freelance writer who worked on her own and had few visitors.

  All that suited Moon – he was Kevin to his mother, but anyone who wanted to be his friend soon learned to use his surname; he spent at least four evenings a week with his laptop in the room he’d equipped as a study. His days were filled by power breakfasts, high-level meetings, alcohol-free business lunches and visits to clients, so he had to do the research and reports in his own time. That didn’t bother him. His friends, most of them lawyers about to be offered partnerships, did the same.

  For three months Moon had done that without breaking much of a sweat. The flat was great, even though the best view was across the lane to another renovated Victorian block, full of men and women who came home wearing tailored suits and changed into designer casual wear. That was no hassle. The only view he wanted was of his new silver Audi parked below in the designated resident’s space. He worked, he chilled, he listened to his music – Waits, fado, Calexico – at a respectable volume. At least, no one complained. He’d been invited round by all his neighbours, including Angela in the penthouse. She was in her late forties, he reckoned, her bobbed hair dyed auburn and her figure interesting enough beneath the loose clothes she wore. Moon had even thought about trying his luck with her.

  Then the daughter, the grand-daughter and the dogs materialized.

  Moon didn’t see the new arrivals, but he smelled and heard them as soon as he came in the street door. There was a stain on the carpet and the frantic howling from above made it clear that a four-legged specimen had cocked a leg or squatted. The lift was full of the sweet-and-sour reek of infant puke and, as he got out on his floor, Moon heard high-pitched screams join the canine racket from the penthouse. They were followed by the yell of an irate woman. Letting himself into his flat, he realized the sounds were even louder there. They were loudest of all in his study.

  Moon stood with his fists clenched and told himself not to panic. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of organic orange juice, no bits. So Angela had visitors. Pretty noisy, dirty visitors for such a pleasant woman, but they’d soon be gone. They’d better be. He had a report to write.

  But they stayed. And they got noisier. It was nearly a month now. Moon had waited a few days before calling Angela. His report had been markedly less well received than his efforts normally were, and his sleep not so much disrupted as destroyed – earplugs were no help at all. His neighbour was apologetic. Her daughter Sharon had broken up with her husband and had nowhere else to go. Her grand-daughter Mimi was teething, but she’d soon be over it. Yes, she knew the dogs were a problem, she wasn’t getting much sleep herself. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Sharon will find her own place in a week or two.”

  But she hadn’t. And Mimi was still squealing. She must have had a full set of fangs coming through. Maybe the dogs – one a mongrel with a face that looked like it had been stoved in by a frying-pan, the other a scrawny terrier – were howling in terror. Moon had tried everything to get his work done. He stayed late at the office, though the cleaning team made a racket that was only marginally less distracting. In the flat, he put on his top-of-the-range headphones and cranked up the decibels, but concentration then became impossible. He even swallowed his pride and bought a supermarket CD of “relaxing sounds”, but the attack dogs and the demon child cut through that like a knife through crème caramel.

  Moon realized he was being too soft and decided to hit back. The whole of Led Zeppelin Two at the top end of the dial obscured the sounds from the penthouse, but brought a pained rebuke from the bankers below – and made Mimi screech even louder. Next morning, Sharon came down the stairs from the penthouse in a rush when he was leaving for work.

  “I suppose you thought that was funny, pal.” Her voice was much less refined than her mother’s. “Well, I didn’t and neither did my baby.” Above, the dogs were barking, their claws rattling on the door.

  Moon looked into bloodshot eyes. Sharon was thin and wan, her face marked with fading bruises. The skin round one of her eyes was blackened. He felt his antipathy well up and then suddenly drain away. He turned away with his head down, but the injustice soon got to him. What right did she have to complain when he countered her noise with his?

  Come on, man, you’re a lawyer, Moon told himself later. He called the company that owned the penthouse and got them to write Angela a letter about the noise and presence of animals. As for the baby, the tenant was entitled to have her grand-daughter to stay – the woman on the phone made him sound like the unreasonable one. He contacted the council’s noise pollution unit. They were polite, but made it clear that they had greater priorities than a self-proclaimed luxury apartment block. He even spoke to the police, who brusquely declined to get involved. The other neighbours were useless. They didn’t get the full force of the din and, anyway, they were about as confrontational as a fish supper.

  His workmates suggested official letters and court action. Before he started down that line, he was called in by the senior partner and informed that the firm could do without one of the people it had invested so much in being distracted by a personal case at such a sensitive phase of his career. The quality of his work had become uneven. Did Mr Moon get the message?

  He did and he was devastated. Without work he was nothing. Going to the nearest pub, he knocked back a couple of whiskies and got his breathing under control. Not only had the witches and their familiars ruined his private life, they were fatally damaging his career. But his nerves were so shot, his brain so churned, that he couldn’t come up with a coherent plan. At least his mate James was having one of his famously over-the-top parties at the weekend. He’d think about how to close down the penthouse zoo after that.

  The party started well. James, a hyper-flash advocate who specialized in keeping murderers out of jail, had hired a nightclub. The catering was by one of the city’s top operators. After several glasses of Krug and a platter of oysters, Moon found himself in a clinch with Vivienne, a statuesque blonde who worked with James. He was surprised, considering the dark rings around his eyes and the twitch that sleep deprivation had given him, that she was interested. And even more surprised when she suggested they go back to his place – apparently the woman she shared with was having her parents to stay. Maybe his luck was finally changing, he thought, as he tapped in the code of the street-door. When they emerged from the lift, he heard no sound from above.

  Not for long. As soon as they got into Moon’s place, the music started, even though it was after midnight. “Shake it, baby, shake it, yeah, yeah, yeah,” sang the pimply boys against a pounding beat.
r />   “Yeah, baby,” Vivienne said, frowning.

  Then the dogs started, arhythmically. Moon could hear Mimi screaming in the background too.

  Vivienne looked around the flat, giving no sign of being impressed. “Is it always such a madhouse here?” she asked, with a mocking smile. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

  “Watch me,” Moon said, the weeks of inadequacy making his cheeks blaze. He ran up to the penthouse. As he hammered on the door, he looked down and saw Vivienne on the landing below.

  The door opened and, before he could move, the dogs were on him. The pig-ugly mongrel went for his groin, while the terrier nipped away at his ankles. In a desperate attempt to save his manhood, Moon went to ground, giving the Jack Russell even more targets. The bites hurt, as did the slap that Sharon gave him. She was screaming about her baby being terrified of him and that music was the only way she calmed down. Her mother was a witness to the way he was hassling them, he was nothing but a stuck-up twat.

  Worst of all for Moon was the look on Vivienne’s face as she helped him back into his flat. She left him to get to the hospital on his own for a tetanus jab.

  On his way home in the early morning, the birds in full voice, Moon finally saw the light. He’d tried not to allow himself to be dragged down to Sharon’s level, but there was no point. It was time to play hard ball and Wee Stevie was the answer.

  Before Moon had joined the firm, he’d worked for a small Legal Aid partnership. Back then he had some crazy idea about saving society’s unfortunates from the vicissitudes of life. A lot of the work was petty crime and he soon got bored with the fecklessness of his clients. Then he met Wee Stevie and realized immediately that the guy was a serious piece of work. Smart, a half-smile perpetually on his lips, brought down only by his cretinous pals, Stevie had nerves of steel. He was also, despite his wiry body and pretty-boy looks, the most violent individual Moon had ever come across. After Moon got him off an assault charge by digging the dirt on the sole witness, Wee Stevie told him he was for ever in his debt.

  “You ever need any business doing, I’m your man,” he said, winking conspiratorially. “The sky’s the limit, Mr Moon.”

  All it needed was a phone call. Moon was going to be out with James and his friends the next Saturday night. He’d make sure he wasn’t back before 3 a.m. Wee Stevie would be long gone by then, leaving behind a pair of dead dogs and couple of traumatized women. Moon had told him not to lay a hand on Angela or Sharon, and especially not on the baby. But it was to be made clear that they were all to be gone the next morning and the lease terminated forthwith. And if they wanted the kid to make it to primary school, they’d better keep their mouths shut.

  Saturday came and Moon managed to enjoy himself, despite Vivienne’s ironic smiles. He told her he’d solved the problem, though he wasn’t going to invite her back, not tonight anyway. At half-past two, having consumed a heavy load of cocktails, he left the club and headed home. He’d sobered up considerably by the time he got to the lane. For once he didn’t cast more than a glance at his precious Audi. This was going to be very interesting.

  Punching in the code he’d given Wee Stevie, Moon opened the street door and made no less noise than he normally would coming back late. There was no sound from above, even when he came out of the lift on the fourth floor. This was looking good, but his heart was pounding. Wee Stevie was an animal. What if he’d lost it and laid into the women? What if he’d done something to Mimi?

  Moon moved towards his door. He had to keep his cool. If he went up to the penthouse, he’d potentially link himself to whatever the lunatic had done. But he couldn’t hold himself back. Now the noise had finally stopped, his mind was clear again, despite the booze. The need to know was overwhelming.

  Leaving his shoes behind, he went up the stairs. The door was ajar. Had Stevie dealt with the dogs as planned? What about the women? Could they have left already?

  After listening at the gap, Moon took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door further open. The penthouse had a large open living space to the left. There was no sign of anyone in it. To the right, the doors of the bedrooms and bathroom were all wide open. The place was still, as silent as an ancient tomb. Moon tried to swallow, his throat suddenly drier than the Sahara. Where were they? Where were the dogs? He wasn’t necessarily in the clear yet. They were occasionally quiet, so Sharon must have been able to shut them up somehow.

  Tiptoeing across the stripped-pine floor, he reached the master bedroom and gasped. Angela was on her back, motionless, her arms outspread. Before he could move towards her, he heard a sound that made the hairs spring up on the back of his neck. It was a soft and sibilant laugh.

  “Mr … Moon,” said Wee Stevie from the floor by the door to the en suite bathroom. Then he coughed and dark blood slopped out over his lips. His head rolled to the side and his eyes glazed.

  Moon went to him, then stopped when he saw the figure that appeared in the doorway.

  “You did this,” Sharon said hoarsely, Mimi clamped to her chest. “You told him I was here.”

  Moon took in her wide-eyed stare and then glanced back at Stevie. He was clutching a short length of piping in his right hand. There was a patch of blood on his abdomen, the handle of a kitchen knife protruding from it. “I …” Moon looked at her. “You know him?”

  “He’s my husband,” Sharon said, her face hardening as she moved forwards. “And you told him where to find me.”

  Moon took a step back when he saw the other knife in her hand. “I … no, I’ve never seen him …” The lie was feeble. “What … what happened to your mother?”

  “He hit her. I think she’ll be all right.” Sharon was getting closer. “Which is more than can be said for you, shithead. You’re a lawyer. Self-defence should cover me, don’t you think?”

  Moon panicked and made a dash for the door, Sharon shielding Mimi from him. He felt his socks skid on the wooden floor. “What about the dogs?” he said, looking around.

  Sharon gave him an empty smile. “And there was me thinking you didn’t like them.” She jerked open the door of the broom cupboard. “Get him, girls!”

  Moon started to run as the mongrel and terrier came for him. He went towards the sofa to put it between him and them, but his feet went from under him and he found himself flying towards the window. Arms extended, body stretched in a loose dive, he braced himself for impact.

  Unfortunately for him, the window-lock had been disengaged. As he hit the glass, it swung open and he was through in a flash.

  All this for a bit of peace and quiet, he thought.

  Moon carved a graceful arc through the lightening sky, the barking of the dogs and the baby’s cries filling his head as he landed on the roof of his Audi and died.

  PARSON PENNYWICK IN ARCADIA

  Amy Myers

  * * *

  “MY DEAR JACOB, it is death who addresses us, not a gentleman who has indulged in the idyllic pastoral life of Arcadia. You are most certainly wrong in your interpretation of the phrase. Et in Arcadia ego, remember. Death is present even in Arcadia.” This was a familiar conundrum for us both, all the more enjoyable as there is no answer to it. Two elderly parsons may be allowed a little fun, especially as I feared that our visit to the Palladian mansion of Fern House might not prove to be as delightful as it sounded.

  Jacob adjusted his wig before giving me his earnest attention, always a sign that my friend is about to stand firm – usually on marshy ground, alas. “Self, Caleb. The et qualifies the ego, not the Arcadia. My source is Schidoni. Et ego in Arcadia vixi. Translated, that is: And I too have lived in Arcadia.”

  Death must have the last word. I was about to reply somewhat heatedly that Schidoni was irrelevant, owing to his inclusion of the word vixi, which altered the construction and thus the meaning of the phrase. At that moment, however, our host appeared to greet us. Many guests were already present, judging by the numbers of carriages in the forecourt.

  The Honourable Horatio
Simple was an eccentric gentleman, devoted more to his continental travels and collection of antiquities than to his fellow human beings, whom he approached with distrust. Alas, this applied even to his betrothed. I had a great fondness for Eleanor Herrick, and my heart was sad that she was being forced by impoverished parents into marriage with Horatio rather than bestowing her hand on his younger brother. Mr John Simple was a straightforward and honest young man, who smarted with pain for her loss.

  Horatio was a far different kettle of fish – which reminded me, in the way that my mind can nowadays all too frequently jump, of Mortimer Kettle, who was perhaps the most famous collector of relics of classical times. In public they maintained their rivalry was purely good-natured, but knowing Horatio I found that hard to believe. I wondered whether Mr Kettle would be here today for the much awaited opening of Fern House’s newly designed gardens.

  I had always had a great admiration for these gardens, around which I frequently strolled when Horatio’s and John’s father, Percival Simple, was alive. Their formal design and colour, surrounded and enhanced by famous yew hedges, gave the eye much pleasure, but times and fashions change, alas, and even gardens can no longer rest in peace. When Percival died three years ago, he can hardly have dreamt of the havoc to fall upon his beloved estate at the hands of his heir Horatio.

  “Parson Pennywick, Parson Trent,” Horatio greeted us affably. “Pray do not fail to visit my tomb.”

  Such oddity did not disturb me, as I knew Horatio better than did Jacob, and I replied politely, “We should be delighted.”

  “Renaissance, of course, carved for one of the Medicis and newly brought from Florence,” our host explained. “One far-off day it shall have the honour of enclosing myself.”

  I saw Jacob blench, but perhaps that was more at our host’s chosen costume than at the proposed visit to the tomb. Horatio was dressed as an Arcadian shepherd. Tight-fitting breeches adorned his lower body, perhaps because the weather was chilly for an Arcadian May, but the upper half was clad in Grecian shepherd style – or at least in accordance with the various painted impressions of it provided to us by artists over the centuries.