The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  From behind the desk a handsome older woman said, “Please, wait outside until you are called.” Her tone was firm. Beverley Norbury.

  “Polly,” Salvatore said, “are you all right?”

  Polly blinked a couple of times. Then she rose and rushed into Salvatore’s arms. “No,” she wailed. “I’m not all right.”

  * * *

  “So where is Sally now?” Gina asked as Angelo told his wife and sister about his afternoon.

  “Last I saw, he was leading Polly to the registrar’s car park. But who knows where they are now.”

  “He fancied that one from the moment he met her,” Rosetta said.

  “He just left you there with Jonathan Aloysius and the registrar?” Gina said.

  Angelo nodded.

  “What did you do? Call the police?”

  “As it happened, there was no need.”

  * * *

  Once Polly was in the car Salvatore had suggested that they go to her flat. Her snuffling noises didn’t sound like disagreement so that’s where they went. When they arrived, she had her key out.

  “Shall I come in, make you a cuppa?” Salvatore asked.

  More snuffling. She left the door open for him.

  “Sit yourself down,” he said.

  Polly sat on the couch that Salvatore had occupied alone the previous night.

  “Tea?”

  “Mmm.” The sound was nearly a word.

  In her kitchen Salvatore found the kettle and a canister with the word “tea”. He managed to find the fridge even though it wasn’t labelled. There was an open container of skimmed milk inside.

  Remembering her order in the Assembly Rooms, he said, “You take milk, but do you want sugar today?”

  “No.”

  An actual word. “Won’t be long.”

  “I hate him,” Polly said.

  “What?”

  “I hate him. I hate him.”

  * * *

  Angelo said, “Let’s invite Papa and Mama down to eat tonight.”

  “Will Sally be back by dinner time?” Gina asked.

  Angelo shrugged.

  Rosetta said, “Maybe he’ll get lucky.” When they’re on the rebound, and someone like Salvatore is at hand, it could be days before he gets back. She didn’t aspire to having whatever it was Salvatore had, but ten per cent would be nice. She shook her head.

  “He won’t be coming back, Rose?” Gina said.

  “Dunno. Sorry.” Then, “Do you want me to cook?”

  “There are plenty of leftovers.”

  “Papa will want to hear how about the certificates,” Angelo said. “He’ll want to know if his murder is still the only one. He’s probably going on to Mama about it right now.”

  Gina and Rosetta smiled. They could imagine.

  * * *

  Salvatore put two mugs of tea on coasters on the table in front of Polly’s couch. “You’re very kind,” she said.

  “Not at all.”

  “No, I mean it. Very kind.”

  She was more beautiful than ever. For a moment it took his breath away. He sat on the couch but kept to the other end. That said, the couch wasn’t a big one.

  * * *

  “So,” the Old Man said, “no murders?” He turned to Mama. “More chutney. I feel like chutney.” The improvised meal offered more food than most of the family’s specially prepared dinners.

  “No murders, Papa,” Angelo said. “Not even a little one.”

  “But all those dead wives,” David said. “What killed them?”

  “Cancer.”

  “All of them? But isn’t that suspicious? What are the odds?”

  Angelo turned to the table and spread his hands in invitation.

  “Oncology,” the Old Man said.

  “Give the man his chutney.”

  “Oncology?” David asked.

  “Jack Appleby worked in places where the patients had cancer. Having cancer’s nothing like it used to be, but a lot of people still don’t survive it, though they may not die quickly.”

  “So all the women he married had cancer already?” Rosetta said.

  “Correct,” Angelo said with a smile.

  “He has a thing for dying women?” She scratched her head. “But Polly’s healthy, isn’t she?”

  “Cancer was not the only thing his wives had in common.” When nobody offered a speculation Angelo continued, “Each was relatively young – forties and fifties. And single – obviously. Each had one or more children. And each had a career with a good pension plan, one she’d paid a lot of money into.”

  He looked around the table, but they were all waiting for him.

  “In every case, if the woman was single when she died, her pension would die with her. All the money she’d paid in would be lost. However, in each case the terms stipulated that if the woman was married, her pension would continue to be payable to her husband.”

  “He married them for their pensions?” Marie asked. “Cool.”

  “So,” Rosetta said, “the six regular payments to Jack’s bank are from the dead wives’ pensions?”

  “Exactly,” Angelo said. “Pension payments that would have been lost if the women had died unmarried.”

  Gina said, “I see what was in it for Jonathan Aloysius but why did those poor women marry him?”

  “Because Jack agreed with each of them to pay half the pension money to their children.”

  “Ah,” Rosetta said, “the payments going out of his account.”

  “So there are eleven children currently getting money that would otherwise have been lost to them.”

  “So he didn’t love his wives?” Marie said.

  “No. It was entirely a pragmatic arrangement.”

  “Cool.”

  “And where does Beverley Norbury fit in all this?” Gina asked.

  “She conducted the ceremony for the first wedding. When Jack went in to register Belinda Rogers’ death and Ms Norbury sympathized, Jack explained why he wasn’t grieving in the usual way. Then, when it was time for the second wedding, he went back to Ms Norbury because she already understood the kind of marriage it would be. Ms Norbury says she’s certain nobody was taking advantage of anybody else. It was win-win.”

  “And so she became his personal registrar?” Rosetta said.

  “In a way.”

  “But where does Polly fit in all this?” Gina asked.

  “Jack met her when she came to the RUH to visit an aunt – an aunt who eventually recovered. And she and Jack fell in love. When that happened he transferred out of oncology.”

  “He didn’t think to tell Polly about his marital history?”

  “How do you tell a new woman that you’ve been married six times, always to women you didn’t love who then died? It’s not a chat-up line that’s going to get you a phone number.”

  “But why didn’t he tell her later?”

  “He said it just never seemed the right time. And then he thought that if Beverley Norbury performed the ceremony, he might not have to tell Polly at all.”

  “But Beverley Norbury didn’t act her part well enough,” Marie said. “Acting is a special talent. So few people have it.” She tossed her hair.

  “Or Polly is unusually intuitive about people,” Angelo said.

  “Or,” Mama said, “this registrar was really happy for this marrying young man who found love at last. Did you think of that?” She glared at Angelo.

  “But,” Rosetta said, “despite the innocence of it, despite the good that he did, Polly wasn’t happy with the explanation?”

  “He lied to her, at least by omission,” Angelo said. “No, she was not happy.”

  * * *

  When the meal was finished, everyone but Marie repaired to the living room to wait for Salvatore. Marie’s mind was on other things.

  “Would you like me to help you with your lines?” Gina asked her.

  “No need. You carry on with your weddings and funerals.”

  But once in her
bedroom she called a boy at school named Sam.

  “Ullo,” Sam said.

  “Hi. It’s Marie.”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  “I’m in the most awful fix. I hate to bother you but … Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

  After a moment, Sam said, “What fix?”

  “It’s my lines. Everyone at my house is, like, totally preoccupied with something else. I can’t get anyone to test me, and to read opposite me. I know it’s the most awful cheek to ask, but are you doing anything now? It’s just, what with your living fairly close and all …”

  “You want me … to come over?”

  “Or I could come there. It’s just that with your being in the lighting crew you know how awful the whole thing will be if I don’t know my lines. And Ms Noodles-For-Brains will go mental if we don’t rehearse without scripts by next Monday.”

  Sam chuckled and said, “Ms Noodles-For-Brains. That’s good.” And Marie knew she had him.

  * * *

  Salvatore’s mood was bittersweet as he returned to the family home and headed up the stairs. Polly was in her flat, tucked in bed with a telephone, water and a banana on the bedside table. She was calmer, comforted by his attentions. Or the passage of time. Hard to be sure which.

  Salvatore entered the kitchen as quietly as he could. His intention was to gather the overnight things he’d brought the day before and then go back to his own flat.

  From the living room he heard laughter and speech. He listened, checking the voices. All the grown-ups except Mama. Well, he didn’t really feel like going through it all, making what almost felt like a confession.

  So he glided silently into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. There wasn’t much to pick up. He got his things together and tiptoed back into the hall.

  “Uncle Sal?”

  It was David. “Nephew Dave.”

  “What happened with Polly?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “They were talking about it at dinner. Is she your girlfriend now?”

  “My what?”

  “That’s what Aunty Rose thought. That you like Polly and now that she’s not engaged any more you’d be making your move.” David smiled. He even winked.

  “Polly isn’t my girlfriend and she won’t be.”

  “Don’t you want her to be?”

  That was a painful question. “I think she’ll get back with Jack.”

  “She will?” Wide eyes.

  “It’s not like he committed any crime, David.” Except a crime against romance. That was not a small thing, but it was something one could be pardoned for.

  “But he tried to hide all those dead wives.”

  “What he did helped him, but he also helped those women by making sure their children would be better off.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t tell Polly.”

  “And that was very wrong.” Yes, Salvatore thought, a grownup really does need to take responsibility for what he does and what he is. “And it was cowardly. But, as I told Polly, if you care deeply for someone … If you think that person really gets you, and understands who you are underneath appearances … That’s very very rare, David. It’s something your parents have, and it’s something we all should aspire to. And it’s not something to throw away lightly.”

  David didn’t quite understand.

  But Polly had. Salvatore had said, “Did you really feel that you connected with Jack before all of this? That he connected with you?”

  Her response was instant. “Yes.”

  “That is not a trivial thing.”

  “But he lied to me.”

  “But he didn’t betray you.”

  “No.”

  “And as soon as he fell in love with you, he switched wards.”

  “Yes.”

  “He stopped looking for another woman to marry because he’d found the woman he wanted for a wife. Someone he wanted to be a real husband to.”

  “Yes.”

  “You should at least talk to him, Polly. You should at least try to get past this.”

  “Yes,” she’d said. Faintly. But then, with more resolve, “Yes, I will try. But I will never live on those poor women’s money. Their children should have it all.”

  Polly would get back together with her Jack.

  “So,” David said, “aren’t you going to tell everyone what happened? Because they want to know.”

  What Salvatore wanted to do was to go to his own place and space. He wanted to find a way to ignore the fact that Polly and Jack, Gina and Angelo, Mama and the Old Man all had something valuable. Something that he wanted. Something that he didn’t have.

  But to go home wouldn’t be taking grown-up responsibility. “Yes, I’ll tell them.” Salvatore patted David on the head.

  And when he caught a moment with Rosetta maybe he’d suggest they go speed dating together. It wasn’t the same as an internet site but it was still a positive action. And at least with speed dating nobody could use a faked photograph.

  BLOOD ISLAND

  Barry Maitland

  * * *

  I WAKE WITH a jolt, a roaring in my ears. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s the howl of jet engines. Dark cloud is rushing past the window by my shoulder, and then abruptly clears and I am looking down on a sea dotted with dozens – no, hundreds – of islands scattered like green confetti across the slate-grey surface. Now a landmass comes rolling into view, fractured and creased by inlets and rivers and more islands. The plane is dropping rapidly, and I can make out the roofs of buildings, farms perhaps or isolated houses, among the trees. But where is this? And then it comes back to me, my brain soggy with fatigue and jetlag. Sweden. Stockholm. And as if in response, the plane banks to reveal the red and brown roofs of a city spread out ahead.

  I’m filled with a sense of unreality. Just how long ago? I check my watch, still on Australian time. Just four hours ago I flew into Heathrow, expecting my older sister Abbie to meet me at the airport. The plan was that I would stay with her for a few weeks while I looked for a job and got myself organized for a year in London now that I’d finished uni. She has been living there for five years already, doing well working for an art dealer with a posh Bond Street address. Only she wasn’t at the airport. Instead there was a bloke holding a plastic carrier bag in one hand and a piece of cardboard with my name written on it in the other.

  “Matt!” the stranger said, “Good to meet you. How was the flight? I’m Rich. Close friend of Abbie’s. She sent me to meet you. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

  He led me to a café table and ordered two coffees. He was a Londoner by his accent, around thirty, but I couldn’t remember Abbie mentioning a close friend called Rich.

  “There’s been a change of plan, mate,” Rich said, stretching out his long legs. He had a smooth, confident air about him as if nothing would ruffle him. “Abbie had to go over to Stockholm on business, and thought it would be great for you to go and spend the weekend with her. You ever been there?”

  I shook my head, feeling dazed after the long flight, trying to grapple with this new development. “No. First time out of Australia,” I mumbled.

  “Really? Oh, you’ll love it, beautiful city, Stockholm.”

  “This weekend?” I tried to remember what day it was.

  “Yeah. Your flight leaves in two hours. Not from this terminal though. Drink up and I’ll take you over there.”

  “But …” I rubbed my face in confusion. What I really wanted was a long hot shower and a change of clothes. “Right now? Another flight?”

  “Just a short hop.”

  “Blimey.” I looked at my suitcases, all the stuff Mum had insisted on me bringing, summer clothes, winter clothes, presents for Abbie.

  “You can leave most of that with me if you like,” Rich said, as if reading my mind. “Just put enough for a couple of days in your backpack. I’ll take the rest back to Abbie’s.”

  So he had a key to her flat. “Yes … s’pose so.”

>   I set about repacking my bags.

  “Got a thick jacket?” Matt said. “Bit cooler up there.”

  It was the start of October, a warm spring back home, but autumn here.

  When I was finished, Rich lifted up the plastic bag he’d been carrying. “And Abbie asked if you could take this to her.” He handed it over carefully. It was surprisingly heavy, a solid slab of something, wrapped in brown paper.

  “What is it, a bomb? Drugs?”

  Rich gave a laugh, as if I’d just said something highly amusing. “No, no, just a book. An art book. Abbie needs it for reference. Expensive, though, so whatever you do, don’t leave it behind in the overhead locker, eh?”

  For a brief moment I saw an anxious intensity in the other man’s eyes, then he relaxed and grinned.

  “No worries.”

  Later, going through the security checkpoint, an official asked me if I’d wrapped the sealed package myself, and I lied, just to keep things simple, and said that I had. It didn’t seem to set off any alarms on the scanner.

  And so here I am, looking down on a city spread out across a landscape of rivers and wooded islands, dropping towards Arlanda airport. I try to think what I know about Sweden: Abba, Volvo, IKEA, but mainly Stieg Larsson. The funny thing is that I’ve brought the third of his books, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, with me, and one of the movies they were showing on the plane from Australia was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It almost seems as if this visit to Stockholm was pre-ordained. Kind of eerie really. I open my wallet and count the Swedish krona banknotes that Rich gave me in London, and read again the typed instructions for me to get to the hotel where Abbie will meet me. There is something definitely odd about all this, but perhaps it’s just the jet lag that’s making me feel disoriented.

  When the plane lands I get my backpack and the package for Abbie from the overhead locker, remembering Rich’s insistent instructions not to forget it, and make my way to the station for the high-speed train connection into Stockholm. While I’m waiting I ask at a kiosk for a map of the city, and of course they have a Millennium Map, showing all the locations that are featured in Larsson’s three thrillers. Excellent. The train glides in and twenty minutes later I’m emerging from the vault of Central Station and walking out on to a broad avenue, giving a shiver as a gust of cold wind catches me. I open the map and try to work out the direction I should take when an elderly man stops and asks if he can be of assistance. He examines the note and says, “Ah yes. You want Gamla Stan, down there, across the bridge.”