The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  * * * *

  Everything I am, I owe to my mam. She taught me that I was as good as anybody else, that there was nothing I couldn’t do if I wanted to. She also taught me the meaning of solidarity. Kick one, and we all limp. They should have that on the signs that tell drivers they’re entering our town, right below the name of that Westphalian town we’re twinned with.

  So when she told me and my da what that prize prick Keith Corbett had planned for her and the other at the Roxette, I was livid. And I was determined to do whatever I could to stop it happening. My mam and da have endured too bloody much already; they deserve not to have the rug pulled out from under them one more time.

  After we’d had our tea, Da and I went down the club. But I only stayed long enough to do some basic research. I had other fish to fry. I got on the mobile and arranged to meet up with Liz’s daughters, Lauren and Shayla. Like me, they found a way out of the poverty trap that has our town between its teeth. They were always into computers, even at school. They both went to college and got qualifications in IT and now they run their own computer consultancy up in Newcastle. I had the germ of an idea, and I knew they’d help me make it a reality.

  We met up in a nice little country pub over by Bishop Auckland. I told them what Corbett had in mind, and they were as angry as me. And when I set out the bare bones of my plan, they were on board before I was half a dozen sentences into it. Right from the off, they were on side, coming up with their own ideas for making it even stronger and more foolproof.

  It was Shayla who came up with the idea of getting Corbett to suck me off. At first, I was revolted. I thought it was grotesque. Over the top. Too cruel. I’ll be honest, I’ve swung both ways in my time. Working in theatre and telly, there’s plenty of opportunities to explore the wilder shores of experience. But having a bit of fun with somebody you fancy is a far cry from letting some sleaze like Corbett anywhere near your tackle.

  ‘I’d never be able to get it up,’ I protested.

  They both laughed. ‘You’re a bloke,’ Lauren said dismissively. ‘And you’re an actor. Just imagine he’s Jennifer Aniston.’

  ‘Or Brad Pitt,’ Shayla giggled.

  ‘I think even Olivier might have had problems with that,’ I sighed, knowing I was outgunned and outnumbered. It was clear to me that now I’d brought them aboard, the two women were going to figure out a battle plan in which I was to be the foot soldier, the cannon fodder and the SAS, all rolled into one.

  The first - and the most difficult - thing we had to do was to plant a fibre optic camera in Corbett’s lounge. We tossed around various ideas, all of which were both complicated and risky. Finally, Lauren hit on the answer. ‘His lad’s about twelve, thirteen, isn’t he?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘So I heard down the club.’

  ‘That’s sorted then,’ she said. ‘I can get hold of some games that are at the beta-testing stage. We can knock up a letter telling Darren he’s been chosen to test the games. Offer him a fee. Then pick my moment, roll up at the house before she gets home. She’s bound to invite me in and make me a cup of tea. I’ll find somewhere to plant the camera and we’re rolling.’

  And that’s exactly how it played out. Lauren got into the house, and while Margo Corbett was off making her a brew, she stuck the camera in the middle of a dried flower arrangement. Perfect.

  The next phase was the most frustrating. We had to wait till we had the right set of pictures to make the scam work. For three nights, we filmed Corbett’s living room, biting our nails, wondering how long it would take for mother and son to sit down together and watch something with enough dramatic tension. We cracked it on the Monday night, when Channel Five was showing a horror movie. Darren and Margo sat next to each other, huddling closer as the climax piled up.

  Then it was Shayla’s turn. She spent the rest of Monday night and most of Tuesday putting together the short digital film that we would use to make sure Corbett did what he was told. Lauren had already filmed me against a blue background waving around the replica sawn-off shotgun we’d used as a prop last series. It hadn’t been hard to liberate it from the props store. They’re incredibly sloppy, those guys. Shayla cut the images in so it looked like I was standing in Corbett’s living room threatening his nearest and dearest. I have to say, the end result was impressive and, more importantly, convincing.

  Now we were ready. We chose Wednesday night to strike. Lauren had managed to get hold of her mam’s keys and copied the one for the Roxette’s back door. While the last session of the evening was in full swing, she’d slipped out and unlocked the door so I could walk straight in.

  It all went better than I feared. You’d have thought Corbett was working from the same script, the way he caved in and did what he was told. And in spite of my fears, the girls had been right. My body didn’t betray us.

  I made my getaway without a problem and drove straight to Newcastle. Shayla got to work on the video, transferring it to digital, doing the edit and transferring it back to VHS tape again. I packed the money into a box and addressed it to Children in Need, ready to go in the post in the morning, then settled down to wait for Shayla.

  The finished video was a masterpiece. We’d all been in Tyson Herbert’s office for a drink at one time or another, so we knew where the video camera was. I’d been careful to keep my body between the camera and the gun for as much time as possible, which meant Shayla had been able to incorporate quite a lot of the original video. We had footage of Corbett packing the money into the holdall. Even better, we had the full blow job on tape without a single frame that showed the gun.

  The final challenge was to deliver the video to Corbett without either the police or his wife knowing about it. In the end, we went for something we’d done on a stupid TV spy series. I’d had a small part in a couple of years previously. We waited till he’d set off in the car, heading down the A1 towards our town. I followed him at a discreet distance then I called him on his mobile.

  ‘Hello, Keith. This is your friend from last night.’

  ‘You fucking cunt.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak to a man whose dick you’ve had in your mouth,’ I said, going as menacing as I could manage. ‘Listen to me. Three point four miles past the next exit, there’s a lay-by. Pull over and take a look in the rubbish bin. You’ll find something there that might interest you.’ I cut the call and dialled Lauren. ‘He’s on his way,’ I told her.

  ‘OK, I’ll make the drop.’

  I came off the dual carriageway at the exit before the lay-by. I waited three minutes, then got back on the road. When I passed the lay-by, Corbett was standing by the bin, the padded envelope in his hand.

  I sped past, then called him again a few minutes later. ‘These are the edited highlights,’ I told him. ‘I’ll call you in an hour when you’ve had a chance to check it out.’

  He wasn’t any happier when I made the call. ‘You bastard,’ he exploded. ‘You total fucking bastard. You’ve made it look like we’re in it together.’

  ‘So we are, Keith,’ I said calmly. ‘You do something for me, and I won’t send copies of the tape to the cops and your wife.’

  ‘You blackmailing piece of shit,’ he shouted.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’

  * * * *

  You could have knocked me down with a feather. I didn’t know what to expect when I turned up that Thursday for work, but it wasn’t what happened. I knew about the robbery by then - the whole town was agog. I thought the Cobra would be pretty shaken up, but I didn’t expect a complete personality change.

  Before I’d even got my coat off he was in the staffroom, all smiles and gritted teeth. ‘Noreen,’ he said, ‘a word please?’

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Corbett?’ I asked. ‘That must have been a terrible experience.’

  He looked away, almost as if he was ashamed. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Noreen, I might have been a bit hasty the other day. I’ve come to realise
how much of the atmosphere at the Roxette depends on you and the girls.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t think of a single word to say. I just stood there with my mouth open.

  ‘So, if you’d be willing to stay on, I’d like to offer you your job back.’

  ‘What about the other girls? Liz and Jackie and Julie?’ I couldn’t have accepted if they weren’t in the deal.

  He nodded, although it looked as if the movement gave him pain. ‘All four of you. Full reinstatement.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ I managed to say Though what I really wanted was to ask him if he’d taken a blow to the head during the robbery.

  He grimaced, his tight little face closed as the pithead. ‘And if you still want to do the Children in Need night, we could make it next Friday,’ he added, each word sounding like it was choked out of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I took a quick look out of the window to see if there were any pigs flying past, but no. Whatever had happened inside the Cobra’s head, the rest of the world seemed to be going on as normal.

  And he was as good as his word. I don’t know what changed his mind, but the four calling birds are back behind the balls at the Roxette. I still can’t quite believe it, but as our Dickson reminded me, I’ve always said there’s good in everybody. Sometimes, you just have to dig deep to find it.

  <>

  * * * *

  Marilyn Todd

  Thoroughly Modern Millinery

  The Pink Parrot was buzzing louder than a barrelful of hornets when Fizzy Potter fluttered her fingers at Lennie the barman, tossed her feather boa over her shoulder and shimmied up the sweeping spiral staircase. Down on the dance floor, the exuberance of the Charleston had given way to pencil-thin couples fusing together for the Argentinian tango, a relatively recent import, but one which seemed destined to remain the chief talking point among the middle-aged and middle-classed for years to come. Sensitive to the dance’s stillness and pauses, the conductor of the Pink Parrot Orchestra was milking its suggestiveness for all it was worth.

  ‘I say, Fizzy!’ A young man with a moustache that looked like an anchovy on his upper lip waved her over. ‘Care to join me with a whisky and soda?’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ she quipped back, ‘but with you and me it’ll only ever be gin and platonic!’

  With laughter ringing in her ears, she made her way to the corner where her friends had set up their usual Friday night colony. All feathers and beads, cloche hats and silk stockings, Fizzy also happened to own the finest pair of knees this side of the Bosphorus. A point which rarely went unappreciated when she sat down, as now, and crossed her long legs.

  ‘Jolly glad you made it, old girl,’ Marriott muttered across his martini.

  Impeccably turned out as usual, and with a crease in his trousers that could slice bacon, he twiddled the yellow rosebud in his buttonhole. Marriott Stokes was the only member of the group who didn’t need to go out and earn his weekly envelope, his father having left him a packet several years previously.

  ‘Rather hoping you can do something with old Catspaw,’ he drawled.

  ‘Yes, I’d noticed he’s sporting a face like a vulture whose carrion has just made a miraculous recovery and is now dancing the fandango instead of providing him with a good supper,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Seems Bubbles gave him the raspberry,’ Foxy Fairfax explained.

  Like Fizzy, he was also an illustrator, only instead of working freelance for magazines, Foxy tended to restrict himself to children’s books.

  ‘Come off it, chaps, every girl gives Catspaw the bird,’ she said, sliding her olive off its cocktail stick. ‘Why should Bubbles be different?’

  Anyway, Bubbles was married, and girls like that don’t pass up on rich bankers in favour of a penniless cartoonist.

  ‘Exactly what I told him,’ Biff said. ‘In fact, I seriously advised the old halibut to go and get stinko and forget all about popsies. Like the Mongol hordes descending from wherever it was they used to descend from, girls only bring grief on a chap.’

  Adding, as Marriott ordered another round of drinks, ‘I say, Fizzy. Given any further thought about swanning down the aisle with me?’

  As a partner in the family firm of purveyors of quality pickles, Biff Kilgannon had no interest in art like the rest of the gang; in fact the nuances of Impressionism, gouache and the finer points of the Neue Sachlichkeit sailed completely over his head. He only tagged along because his sister, Lulu, was an artist and this way he got to mix with lots of Witty Young Things, something one tends not to do in the gherkin and piccalilli department. It wasn’t that Biff wasn’t a dish, Fuzzy mused, especially since playing prop forward had endowed him with muscles of steel. It was just unfortunate that he had a brain to match.

  ‘Sorry, Biff.’ Fizzy set to powdering the shiny spot on her nose. ‘The answer’s still no.’

  The mirror in her cloisonné compact reflected a heart-shaped face with a much-kissed snub nose and big eyes enlarged further by finely plucked brows and heaps of soot-black mascara. It was only upon closer examination that one realised that one eye was brown, the other blue.

  Fizzy’s appointment diary rarely showed a blank spot. Snapping the compact shut, she slotted a cigarette into its holder. Simultaneously, a battery of clicks produced enough light to power up half of southern England and quite possibly a chunk of East Anglia, too. Thanking her gallant knights with an all-encompassing smile, Fizzy struck her own match and thought, funny how the entire male section of the Westlake Set was queuing to slip a diamond cluster on the third finger of her left hand - yet every time she pictured the hatload of kids she so desperately wanted, all the little beezers sported the same ski-slope noses, lopsided smiles and floppy fringes of the only man who’d never once jumped forward in a bid to light her gasper.

  Damn you, Squiffy Hardcastle. Damn you to hell.

  ‘— don’t you think so, Fizzy?’

  ‘Sorry, Kitty, didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I was just saying, sweetheart, that his work’s far too Gauguinesque for my taste —’

  Fizzy didn’t bother asking whose work. ‘Absolutely,’ she replied, her mind elsewhere. On a certain painting, as it happened, in a gilt frame...

  ‘— Matisse is living in the south of France, I hear —’

  ‘— now does Lulu’s stuff reflect Synthetic Cubism with a hint of Purist, d’you think, or pastoralism with a touch of Analytic Cubism?’

  Snippets drifted past like ducks on the Thames, while Fizzy contemplated portraits in gilt frames...

  ‘Sorry we’re late, everyone.’

  Her train was interrupted as Orville Templeton, Hon. Member for Knightsbridge & Chelsea, held out a chair for his wife.

  ‘Traffic was an absolute stinker.’

  ‘You haven’t missed much,’ Foxy told the newcomers. ‘Chilton and his protégé haven’t arrived yet.’

  ‘Traffic, probably,’ Orville said, shooting his cuffs.

  Poor Orville. Noble, worthy, gallant, dignified - a hundred decent men packed into one - and duller than a miner’s bathwater. Fizzy exchanged smiles with his wife and thought the same couldn’t be said of Gloria Templeton. Fizzy’s best friend was five years older than her and a study in understatement, from the simple wedding band to the pale cream silk she always draped herself in. Not half as modish as Fizzy’s white cloche, Gloria’s broad-rimmed hats were perfect for hot summer evenings like this, flattering her chestnut bob and emphasising her strong patrician features - though nothing could disguise the permanent sadness in her lovely green eyes.

  That was the problem, Fizzy sighed, when one’s still in love with one’s first husband.

  A husband, moreover, who was handsome and charming, gave one two gorgeous daughters, then betrayed all three of them by getting himself blown to pieces in the very last week of the war. Her blue-brown gaze rested on Orville, looking for all the world like a reject from a second-rate taxidermi
st’s. Poor Orville. The Hon. Member for K&C worshipped his new family. Adored Gloria. Idolised his adopted girls. Would do anything for them, anything at all. Even to accepting that he would only ever come second best...

  Second best, of course, was a concept far beyond the scope of Fizzy Potter and, along the banquette, Bubbles was slipping her Cartier-encrusted wrist through Teddy Hardcastle’s arms.

  ‘I say, were you really the youngest captain in the Great War, Squiffy?’

  Any closer, dammit, and she’d be a tattoo.

  ‘Too jolly right he was,’ Marriott boomed. ‘Gave him a gong for it, too.’

  Hardcastle spiked his rebellious fringe out of his eyes, but made no effort to prise the limpet away.