The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Annie Morgan passed away three days later – another prison suicide. At the end, she had decided to take final matters into her own hands and used a bed-sheet and gravity to take her from this world into the next. On her bedside table was a sealed, handwritten envelope addressed to “Miss Collins”, together with Annie Morgan’s old canvas, both of which were given to Mary by the governor after the funeral.

  “Sad,” the governor observed, handing her both items. “All there is to show for a life is a load of paint on an old canvas. Still, it’s yours. She wanted to leave it to you as a gift. Not quite sure what you’ll do with it, though.”

  Mary took the treasured canvas in her hands. The last picture Annie Morgan had painted before her death was a crude likeness of Mary herself, painting in a vast studio, sunlight streaming through wide, imaginary windows. At the bottom, the title – The Gift; for Mary, from Annie.

  Back home, Mary placed the picture gently on the mantelpiece and opened the letter:

  Dear Miss Collins,

  Well, dear, here’s the picture your repulsive ex-boyfriend wanted so much – together with a few answers he’d have craved even more.

  Strange though it is to admit, however, he did get a few things right. After disposing of my husband and sister, I did indeed take the money from underneath the bed and replace it with torn-up newspaper before setting the fire, then returning to the manor house.

  Why did I go there? Not to bury it, but instead to give it to the owner, a sweet and caring old woman who needed it far more than I. One of those classic cases, Miss Collins, a large house doesn’t necessarily mean a massive income. She loved the place, couldn’t bear to sell it, but was being forced to sell the antiques and old paintings simply to meet the upkeep. I gladly gave her the money after telling her what I’d just done. Shocked though she was, she reluctantly took it – our secret. Remember, at that time, I was convinced everything would be destroyed in the fire. I had no idea those damned burnt newspaper fragments would be found.

  On remand, whilst I was awaiting trial, she came to visit me and gave me this small, white, unframed canvas, which I instantly recognized by its dimensions. It had hung in the main hall, largely unnoticed, but was a favourite of mine ever since I’d begun work in the house. She’d taken it down, removed it from its frame, carefully painted over it in white, then passed it on to me as a gift, together with some paints. Seen as harmless by the authorities, I was allowed to keep it, and began a series of paintings from that very day, each one layered over the next, until you see the final bizarre monstrosity that I leave you now.

  I assume she thought I’d be shown mercy from the courts and receive a much lighter sentence, and could therefore use the painting in the future. However, that was not to be. I got two life sentences, and she died long ago, but always knew I treasured her gift, took it wherever I went, never let it leave my sight.

  And now, Mary – it’s yours. My “time” is done. Some will say I took the cowardly option, and maybe they’re right, but in our hearts don’t we all have choices? Mine is to end my life as and when I see fit. We’ve talked about yours, Miss Collins. Given the choice, you’d rather paint. Now you have that choice. Do with this gift what you will. However, it might be rather rash to take your ex-boyfriend’s advice and sell my story and this picture to the papers. Trust me, there are no maps, there is no money to find. Any money was spent many years ago.

  Although, it might interest you to know more about “the policeman that hung around the manor house” that I was so eager to see on the day of the murders. Like I said, he was a constable. A John Constable – the picture in the hallway, the one you now have, my gift to you.

  Interesting, isn’t it, what happens when we peel away the layers and reveal what’s underneath? I suggest a very mild turpentine solution to start with. Good luck, Mary, and please: for me, my former employer and even Constable himself, enjoy your painting.

  In appreciation,

  Annie Morgan

  THE SKIN WE’RE IN

  Matt Hilton

  * * *

  COUSIN BILLY WASN’T happy, and he told me.

  “I’m no happy, Alec.”

  His voice was nasal Glaswegian, the same accent I’d tried for years to lose. Brought me too much trouble this side of Hadrian’s Wall.

  “Everything will be OK. Trust me.”

  He gave me the look, eyebrows steepled, tip of the tongue just peeking from beneath his protruding front teeth. “Trust you, Alec? It’s because I listened to you that I’m in this shite in the first place. You told me to stand up to him and all that got me was a death sentence.”

  “Don’t worry.” I showed him the Browning pistol. “This time things’ll be different.”

  “That’s what I’m no happy aboot.”

  “I’m not gonna use it. I’m only gonna show them it so they know we mean business.”

  “And what then? What if they dunnae listen to you? Are you gonnae use it then?”

  I didn’t have an answer for him. “Just quit worrying, will ya? You’re making me nervous now.”

  “So let’s just get the fuck oota here and forget all about them.”

  “Here” was in my beat-up Volkswagen Golf, just across the street from the hangout of the man Billy was so terrified of.

  “Can’t, Billy. We do that, we’ll never be able to walk these streets again.”

  “Won’t be walking anywhere if Gardy kills us.”

  I laid the bullshit on thick. “So go to your grave with your honour intact. I’d rather be a dead hero than a living coward.”

  “I’m no a coward.”

  “Didn’t say you were. Just making a point.”

  “I’d rather be a live hero, but.”

  “Exactly my point. That’s why I brought my gun.”

  Before he could say anything else, I slipped out of the Golf, jamming the Browning into my belt at the back. I hid it under the tail of my sweatshirt, pulled up my hood. Billy didn’t follow. Good lad. He wasn’t there to back me up, just save me if things went tits-up and a quick getaway was in order. Billy scooted over into the driving position, and turned on the ignition. He drove the Golf away and into a parking space next to a Spar shop on the corner. I watched him nose the car round and then reverse into the shadows. The lights went off, but I could still hear the low thrum of the idling engine. Out of sight, but not out of mind. I left Billy there and walked across the street to the pool hall.

  Couple of kids in the doorway gave me the thousand-yard stare, eyes like jaundice pouring from manhole covers. High. I pressed between them and they grunted, didn’t want to move, but they’d no option. One of them pressed his forearm to my lower back but that was the extent of his defiance. I gave him the dead eye: the old silent promise. Maybe he’d felt the weight of the gun in my belt ’cause he quickly moved away, towing his drug buddy along with him. I let them go; they meant nothing to me.

  First thing I noticed was the smell of pot, heavy in the air like a dampener. Next was the stench of sweat. Something else. Wank juice. Smelled like teenagers. There was a short vestibule, which doubled as an occasional toilet judging by the stains on the walls. Then there was a narrow flight of stairs leading up into darkness. From up there in the rafters came the clack of cues on balls. There was the low rumble of conversation, punctuated by harsher curses and raucous cheers. I felt like my arsehole was doing a Betty Boop pout, but I went up the stairs. Like I told Billy, rather be a dead hero …

  If someone came down, maybe that’s as far as I’d get. I went up the last few steps with my hand tucked under my sweatshirt, thumb on the gun’s grip, ready to tug it out and start blasting. But no one came down. Thought, thank fuck for that, and kept going.

  Another corridor.

  This one was graced with strip-lights. One of them flickered. A bluebottle bounced along the plasterboard ceiling, doing a crazy waltz. I tried to ignore the loud buzz, but it was much the same as the sound inside my head. They blended and grew exponentially,
juxtaposing one on top of the other. My mouth felt dry, like Ghandi’s flip-flop. Like Billy’s credit score.

  There was some hip-hop shit playing through a speaker. Couldn’t stand the stuff. All these young lads in the pool hall playing at being gangstas. Would’ve made me laugh if they weren’t so serious. Now I wasn’t happy. Maybe Billy had a point. Wasn’t too late to walk away.

  Of course it was. I’d made it all the way into the pool hall and it was like in those old westerns my dad used to watch on a Saturday afternoon. If there was a pianist, he’d have stopped playing. The hip-hop jagged on, and that was the only thing that spoiled the effect.

  There were kids in the big room, slouching round green baize tables with cues held like torches to ward off the dimness. They were all in the obligatory hoody and baggy trousers. Chains hung from a couple of pockets, beanie caps pulled low like it was winter outside. I ignored them. They were just tag-alongs. I walked across the room, down the centre of the dozen pool tables. I was watched all the way. Mouths hung open. No one spoke, they didn’t have to. Their faces said, What the fuck is he doing here?

  I told them.

  “This has got fuck all to do with any of ya. I’m here to see Gardy.”

  “Dead man walking,” someone said, like prison rap.

  Maybe he was right. I was taking a big chance throwing myself into the lion’s open mouth, but hey, sometimes you’ve gotta live dangerously just to get by.

  The pool hall was spread over two floors. The boys, they had to hang out down here in the shitty quarters; the men, they all went upstairs into the loft. It was like they were saying that they were above the others, and I’m not talking literally.

  This time I didn’t get a free walk up the steps.

  I was stopped by two guys. One of them was a hard bastard I knew as Toad. No one called him that to his face, ’cause it was nothing he’d go by. The other I didn’t know. In my head I called him Skank, ’cause that’s the way he smelled, like a whore bitch.

  Toad was an ugly man. No one would deny it, not his mother even. He’d a round head, warty texture, flat nose, and wide lips. Get the picture?

  “The fuck you doin’ walking in here?” he said with a hand flat on my chest.

  “No other way in.”

  “Who says you’re goin’ in?”

  “Me,” I said, “and Gardy. He’s expecting me.”

  “Whatcha carrying?”

  I showed him my empty hands.

  He snorted at the other man, who began wiping me down.

  “You like how that feels?” I asked the skank. “Rubbing yoursel’ all over another man?”

  “The fuck’s this?” he asked touching the bulge in the back of my pants.

  “I shit mesel on the way in when I knew you’d be here to stop me,” I told him.

  He withdrew his hand, looked at Toad for what to do. Toad knew I was packing, but asked anyway.

  “You packin’, Alec?”

  “’Course I am.”

  “Gonna have to have it.”

  “Touch it,” I said smiling, “and you’ll get it all right.”

  Toad rocked back on his heels. His tongue went from one side of his lips to the other. I half expected his eyes to roll back as he blinked, but they didn’t.

  I could hear the silence behind me, as contradictory as that seems. It was as if the hush was a tangible weight pressing down on my shoulders. The gangsta music had faded so even it was indistinguishable from the buzzing in my skull. My peripheral vision retracted, like I was a horse in blinkers. I zoned down on the hand pressing on my chest.

  “Take your hand off me, Toad, or I’ll break it.”

  “Fuckin” Toad?”

  “You heard.”

  Toad removed his hand.

  But only to coil it into a fist.

  He should have hit me then. But he didn’t. He was hard when he got going, but he was a pussy beforehand. No real bottle. He flicked his gaze to the skank standing at my shoulder and I guessed that’s who would kick off first. I smashed the prick in the throat before he got the chance. Point of my elbow bone right in his voice box; fucker couldn’t even scream.

  Toad flinched, but not far enough.

  My forehead cracked him on the bridge of his nose.

  He went back, hands cupping the blood spewing into his palms. I hoofed him in the bollocks.

  I said the bastard was hard. He didn’t go down, but that was only a minor setback. I grabbed him by his skull and battered my knee into his chest, then used his head like a bowling ball, fingers inserted in his nostrils to swing him down and round and across the floor.

  Don’t know if that was him out of the fight or not, ’cause I immediately went up the stairs and into the room they called the Gods. I’d filled my hand on the way up, the Browning feeling like a clumsy and unfamiliar weight. Shouldn’t have, I used to carry one all the time, but it had been a few years. It was a single action pistol, with thirteen 9mm rounds in the magazine, and I had the hammer cocked back, the safety catch on, ready to go.

  There were five of them up there. Four punks and the biggest arsehole of them all. The one in the middle was Raymond Gardner. Or Gardy to friends and foes alike. I showed him the barrel of the Browning so he could see the black hole that was gonna suck him into oblivion.

  “Heard you were expecting me, Gardy?”

  He had to take a spliff out of his mouth to speak.

  “Alec Duncan, me ol’ pal,” he grinned. “How long’s it been? Fuck me, must be three years.”

  The Browning never wavered from his skull. Give him his due, he didn’t look bothered. As if having a gun pointed at him was a daily occurrence. Maybe it was these days.

  His pals didn’t look as confident, they were antsy, trying to move away without making it obvious. I read Gardy’s face; wasn’t difficult, being the proverbial open book.

  “Pity me an’ you can’t be friends again. You see the wankers I have round me nowadays? Not like it was back in the Regiment.”

  The Regiment was a whole lifetime away for both of us now. His if I didn’t get my way.

  “Things were different back then,” I told him.

  “Dunno about that. I’ve still got the same enemies. Micks and ragheads.”

  And at least two Scots, I wanted to add. Me and Billy Reid.

  “I’m here about my cousin Billy.”

  Gardy came round a pool table, putting his head even closer to the barrel of my gun. He sat on the edge of the table, folded his arms like he was fuckin’ Simon Cowell offering scathing criticism. He put on a passable Glaswegian accent. “It’s the difference between Bing Crosby and Walt Disney. Bing sings but Walt disnae.”

  “The fuck you on about?” Not that I hadn’t heard that old joke about a million times.

  “I’m speaking in metaphors,” Gardy said.

  “You’re talking shite,” I corrected.

  He smiled, thumbed the spliff back between his teeth. I wanted to remind him that the no smoking ban also applied to toking on a joint, but that would have just made me look like an idiot. Holding an illegal handgun on someone wasn’t viewed favourably by the law either. I let it go.

  Gardy was a wiry fucker, always was. In the last three years since I last saw him he’d put on the beef, but it was all round his neck and shoulders. He still looked like an ex-squaddie. Right down to the short hair, the rubber-soled boots. He was still dangerous. The difference was I was clean, but he was wired. The gange wasn’t the only thing he’d taken judging by the twitching round his eyes. I glanced, saw white residue from a couple lines on the pool table rim. Coked up. Speed maybe. I’m not that up on the different substances people snort up their noses these days. Didn’t care for them or the people that peddled them. I had to hang with Billy only because he was blood.

  “Billy says he owes you money,” I said.

  “Like I said, Bing sings—”

  I got it this time. Billy had reneged on paying his supplier.

  “You can’t get
blood from a stone,” I reminded him.

  “It’s all about the ways and means, Alec, me ol’ pal.”

  “You wanted him to steal money from our grandmother, you bastard.”

  “She’s eighty-two, ain’t she? What does she need with a heap of cash?”

  I flicked off the safety. Almost shot the prick there and then.

  His friends had made themselves scarce, backing off into the corners, still trying to look like hard-cases, but failing. I wondered if any of them were carrying; if they were they weren’t making a move yet. I kept the gun on Gardy. Like stink on shit as they say.

  Gardy studied the end of his spliff. Looked like it had gone out. Told me he was blowing instead of sucking. Bad sign; meant he wasn’t afraid of me or the gun. That’s what comes of coke, makes you feel indestructible, I heard.

  “Billy owes you no nothin’. That’s it, Gardy. Leave it at that an’ we stay good ol’ pals.”

  Gardy shook his head.

  “Can’t be done, me ol’ china.” The fuck had he switched to a cockney accent for? That was Gardy, though. He used to be good fun, would have us all grinning at his Sean Connery or Billy Connolly, his Tommy Cooper or Prince Charles. I used to laugh with him, now I was laughing at him. I saw now that he used the accents and mimicry cause he just wasn’t happy with the skin he was in. Was why he’d reinvented himself from a Special Forces soldier to a drug-peddling smackhead, I supposed. Pathetic bastard.

  Then there was me. I was also once an SAS bad-arse. Now look at me. Running around like a common criminal, defending someone who I should’ve smacked round the head a few times for even thinking of burgling my granny’s bungalow. Give Billy his due, he’d come to me before he did it. Made me wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been in town, though. I was there protecting one deadbeat from another.