Table of Contents
Copyright
About the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival
Introduction by Jenni Murray
Stepping Up by Mark Billingham
Games for Winter by Ann Cleeves
Entrapped by Harlan Coben
A Very Desirable Residence by P.D. James
Ghost Writer by Val McDermid
Wishing for Alison by Steve Mosby
About the Contributors
Copyright
This collection copyright © 2013 Hearst Magazines UK (The National Magazine Company Limited)
Introduction by Jenni Murray © 2013
‘Stepping Up’ by Mark Billingham © 2013. ‘Stepping Up’ is included in the short story collection Thorne at Christmas, published 2/12/13.
‘Games for Winter’ by Ann Cleeves © 2003. ‘Games for Winter ’ was first published in Green for Danger ed Martin Edwards.
‘Entrapped’ by Harlan Coben © 1997
‘A Very Desirable Residence’ by P.D. James © 1976
‘Ghost Writer’ by Val McDermid © 2013
‘Wishing for Alison’ by Steve Mosby © 2010
The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this Work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
ISBN: 978-1-905563-83-8
The expression GOOD HOUSEKEEPING is the registered trademark of the Hearst Corporation INC and the National Magazine Company Ltd.
Published by Hearst Magazines UK (The National Magazine Company Limited), 72 Broadwick Street, London W1F 9EP All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
About the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival
A firm date in the literary calendar, the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival is Europe's biggest crime writing event. The Festival, an annual four-day event, brings together the very best in crime fiction in a series of events, interviews, and panel sessions, taking place in the beautiful spa town of Harrogate. The Festival presents an accessible, challenging and entertaining long-weekend of live literature events, engaging over 12,000 people each year in lively, thought-provoking debates about the written word, the changing roles of writers and readers, and literature's response to, and effect upon, wider society.
Over the last decade the Festival has welcomed a host of international names to Harrogate, including Harlan Coben, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, Jeffrey Deaver, Dennis Lehane, Jeff Lindsay, Jo Nesbo, George Pelecanos and Karin Slaughter.
http://harrogateinternationalfestivals.com/crime/about-2/
Introduction
by
Jenni Murray
I've been a fan of crime fiction for as long as I can remember - starting with Enid Blyton and The Famous Five. George, the girl who never cared about making the sandwiches and bringing the lashings of lemonade, and the faithful Timmy were the brave, amateur detectives who could uncover the dastardly deeds of any burglar or smuggler and make sure good triumphed over evil at the end of every story.
Thrilling, frightening and, mysterious, but always ending with the comforting reassurance that all was well with the world. And, much as Blyton's literary style has often been criticised, she made you turn the page and gave you a setting and a group of characters that made you think about the world in which you lived. I'll always be grateful that she introduced me to George, my first feminist hero. It's that range of qualities - gripping, unputdownable tale, social observation and calming resolution - that marks out every fine writer in the genre.
As a teenager and young adult, I discovered Margery Allingham, Daphne du Maurier, Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers - always delighted to be reading beautifully written mysteries by clever women. Then in my thirties, as I came to Woman's Hour, I found I HAD to read P. D. James, Ruth Rendell, Val McDermid, Tess Gerritsen and Sarah Paretsky as programme research in preparation for interviews. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it! I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
Then came the request from Val to contribute to a crime festival to be held in Harrogate, the scene of Agatha Christie's short and mystifying disappearance. Hooray! A chance to include some men in my reading - Lee Childs, Colin Dexter and Mark Billingham are at the top of my favourites list.
And this year is the 10th anniversary of the Theakstons Old Peculier annual murderous shindig.
People travel from all over the world to hear crime fiction discussed and analysed and to rub shoulders with their best loved authors.
This anthology celebrates those ten years, but you have to be awfully careful when writing an introduction to such a collection not to spoil the reader's pleasure by giving anything away. Suffice to say no-one can pick apart a miserable marriage like P.D. James. Val McDermid understands the need for plot and exquisite literary style. Harlan Coben chills with mind games. Mark Billingham creates horror out of the everyday, Ann Cleeves does landscape and creepy relationships better than anyone and Steve Mosby makes deadly jealousy almost a casual matter.
If you're one of the crime cognoscenti, you'll know this book contains work by some of its greatest exponents. If you're a beginner, there's no better place to start! Enjoy!
STEPPING UP
by
Mark Billingham
I was never cut out to be the centre of attention. I never asked for it. I never enjoyed it.
Some people love all that though, don't they? They need to be the ones having their heads swelled and their arses licked; pawed at and fawned over. Some people are idiots, to be fair, and don't know what to do with themselves if they aren't smack in the middle of the action.
Of course, there were times when I did get the attention, whether I wanted it or not. When things were going well and I won a title or two. I got it from men and women then, and you won't hear me say there was anything wrong with that. Blokes wanting to shake your hand and tarts queuing up to shake your other bits and pieces; well, nobody's complaining about that kind of carry on, are they?
But this, though . . . ?
The doctor had been banging on about exercise, especially as I was having such a hard time giving up the fags. It would help to get the old ticker pumping a bit, he said. Get your cholesterol down and shift some of that weight which isn't exactly helping matters, let's face it. You used to box a bit, didn't you, he said, so you shouldn't find it too difficult to get back in the swing of it. To shape up a little.
Piece of piss, I told him, then corrected myself when he smiled and straightened his tie.
‘Cake, I meant. Sorry, Doc. Piece of cake.’
I don't know which one of us I was kidding more.
I got Maggie's husband, Phil, to give me a hand and fetch some of my old gear out of the loft. We scraped the muck off the skipping rope and hung the heavy bag up in the garage. I thought I would be able to ease myself back into it, you know? Stop when it hurt and build things up slowly. Trouble was it hurt all the time, and the more I tried, the more angry I got that I'd let myself go to shit so badly; that I'd smoked so many fags and eaten so much crap and put so much booze away down the years.
‘It was Mum's fault for spoiling you,' Maggie said. 'If she hadn't laid on meat and two veg for you every day of her life, you might have learned to do a bit more than boil a bleeding egg. You wouldn't have had to eat so many takeaways after she'd gone . . .’
Once my eldest gets a bee in her bonnet, that's it for everyone. It was her that had nagged me into going to the doctor's in the first place, getting some exercise or what have you. So, even though the boxing training hadn't worked out, the silly mare had no intention of letting the subject drop.
One day, in the pub with Phil, I found out that I wasn't the only one getting it in the neck.
‘Help me out, for Christ's sake,' he said. 'She won't shut up about it, how she thinks you're going to drop dead any bloody second. Just do something.’
‘Snooker?’
‘Funny.’
‘Buggered if I know, Phil. There's nothing I fancy.’
I'd told Mags I wouldn't go jogging and that was all there was to it. I've been there, so I know how that game works; shift a few pounds and bugger your knee joints at the same time. Tennis wasn't for the likes of me and the same went double for golf, even though a couple of blokes in the pub had the odd game now and again. The truth is, I know you have to stick at these kind of things, and that's never been my strong suit. I had a talent in the ring, so I didn't mind putting the hours in, and besides, I had more . . . drive back then, you know? Day after day on a golf course or a sodding tennis court, just so I wouldn't look like a twat every time I turned out, didn't sound much fun.
Plus, there weren't that many people I could think of to play with, tell you the truth . . .
'There's a class,' Phil said. 'Down our local leisure centre. One night a week, that's all.'
'Class?'
'Just general fitness, you know. Look it's only an hour and there's a bit of a drink afterwards. You'll be doing me a favour.'
'Hmmm.' I swallowed what was left of a pint and rolled my eyes, and that was it. That's how easily a misunderstanding happens and you get yourself shafted.
I should have twigged a couple of weeks later when Maggie came by to pick me up. On the way there I asked her where Phil was, was he coming along later and all that, and she looked at me like I'd lost the plot. See, I thought it was his class, didn't I? A few lads jumping about, maybe a quick game of five-a-side and then a couple of beers afterwards. When I walked out of that changing room in my baggy shorts and an old West Ham shirt, I felt like I'd been majorly stitched up. There was Maggie, beaming at me, and a dozen or so other women, and all of them limbering up in front of these little plastic steps.
A fucking step class. Jesus H . . .
And not just women, either, which didn't help a great deal. There were a couple of men there to witness the humiliation, which always makes it worse, right? You know what I'm talking about. There were three other fellas standing about, looking like each of them had gone through what I was going through right then. An old boy, a few years on me, who looked like he'd have trouble carrying his step. A skinny young bloke in a tight top, who I figured was queer straightaway, and a fit-looking sort who I guessed was there to pull something a bit older and desperate.
Looking around, trying my hardest to manage a smile, I could see that most of the women were definitely in that category. Buses, back-ends, you see what I'm getting at? I swear to God, you wouldn't have looked twice at any of them.
Except for Zoe.
I'd met her forty-odd years back, when I was twenty-something and I'd won a few fights; one night when I was introduced to some people at a nightclub in Tottenham.
Frank Sparks was doing pretty well himself at that time, and there were all sorts of faces hanging about. I wasn't stupid. I knew full well what was paying for Frank's Savile Row suit and what have you, and to tell you the truth, it never bothered me.
There weren't many saints knocking around anywhere back then.
Frank was friendly enough, and for the five or ten minutes I sat at his table, it was like we were best friends. He was one of those blokes with a knack for that, you know? Told me he was following my career, how he'd won a few quid betting on me, that kind of thing. He said there were always jobs going with him. All sorts of bits and pieces, you know, if things didn't work out or I jacked in the fight game or whatever.
I can still remember how shiny his hair was that night. And his teeth, and the stink of Aramis on him.
She was the sister of this bloke I used to spar with, and I'd seen her waiting for him at the back of the gym a few times, but it wasn't until that night in Tottenham that I started to pay attention. She was all dressed up, with different hair, and I thought she was an actress or a stripper. Then we got talking by the bar and she laughed and told me she was just Billy's sister. I said she was better looking than any of the actresses or strippers that were there guzzling Frank's champagne, and she went redder than the frock she was wearing, but I knew she liked it.
I saw her quite a bit after that in various places. She started going out with one of Frank Sparks' boys and wearing a lot of fancy dresses. I remember once, I'd just knocked this black lad over in the fourth round at Harringay. I glanced down, sweating like a pig, and she was sitting a few rows back smiling up at me, and the referee's count seemed to take forever.
You just get on the thing, then off again; up and down, up and down, one foot or both of them, in time to the music. Simple as that. You can get back down the same way you went up, or sometimes you turn and come down on the other side, and now and again there's a bit of dancing around the thing, but basically . . . you climb on and off a plastic step.
I swear to God, that's it.
Maybe, that first time, I should have just turned and gone straight back in that changing room. Caught a bus home. Maggie had that look on her face though, and I thought walking out would be even more embarrassing than staying.
So, I decided to do it just the once, for Mags, and actually, it didn't turn out to be as bad as I expected. It was a laugh, as it goes, and at least I could do it without feeling like it was going to kill me. It was a damn sight harder than it looked, mind you, make no mistake about that. I was knackered after ten minutes, but what with there being so many women in the class, I didn't feel like I had to compete with anyone, you know what I mean?
Ruth, the woman in charge, seemed genuinely pleased to see me when I showed up again the second week and the week after that. She teased me a bit, and I took the piss because she had one of those microphone things on her ear like that singer with the pointy tits. They were all quite nice, to be honest. A pretty decent bunch. I'd pretend to flirt a bit with one or two of the women, and I'd have a laugh with Anthony, who didn't bang on about being gay like a lot of them do, you know?
Even Craig seemed all right, to begin with.
The pair of us ended up next to each other more often than not, on the end of the line behind Zoe. Him barely out of breath after half an hour; me, puffing and blowing like I was about to keel over. The pair of us looking one way and one way only, while she moved, easy and sweet, in front of us.
One time, he took his eyes off her arse and glanced across at me. I did likewise, and while Ruth was shouting encouragement to one of the older ladies, the cheeky sod winked, and I felt the blood rising to my neck.
I remember an evening in the pub with Maggie and Phil, a few weeks in, and me telling Maggie not to be late picking me up for the class. To take the traffic into account. She plastered on a smartarse smile, like she thought she'd cottoned on to something, but just said she was pleased I was enjoying myself.
It only took one lucky punch from a jammy Spaniard for everything to go tits up as far as the fighting was concerned. I had a few more bouts, but once the jaw's been broken, you're never quite as fearless. Never quite as stupid as you need to be.
Stupid as I had been, spending every penny I'd ever made, quick as I'd earned it.
With the place I was renting in Archway, the payments on a brand new Cortina, and sweet FA put by, it wasn't like I had a lot of choice when it came to doing door work for Frank Sparks. Besides, it was easy money, as it went. A damn sight less stressful than the ring anyway, and I certainly didn't miss the training. Your average Friday-night drunk goes down a lot
easier than a journeyman light-heavyweight, but the fact is, I couldn't have thrown more than half a dozen punches in nearly a year of it. I was there to look as if I was useful, see, and that was fine. Like I said before, I was happier in the background and I think Frank was pretty pleased with the way I was handling things, because he asked me if I fancied doing a spot of driving.
And that's when I started seeing a lot more of her.
She wasn't married yet, but I'd heard it was on the cards. Her boyfriend had moved up through the ranks smartish, and was in charge of a lot of Frank's gambling clubs. Classy places in Knightsbridge and Victoria with cigarette girls and what have you. She used to go along and just sit in the corner drinking and looking tasty, but some of these sessions went on all night, and she'd always leave before her old man did.
So, I started to drive her.
I started to ask to drive her; volunteering quietly, you know? There were a couple of motors on call and we took it in turns at first. Then, after a few weeks, she asked for me, and it sort of became an arrangement.
In the image I still have of her, she's standing on a pavement, putting on a scarf as I indicate and drift across towards the kerb. She's clutching a handbag. She waves as I pull up, then all but falls into the back of the Jag; tired, but happy as Larry to be on the way home.
In reality of course she was thinner, and drunker. Her eyes got flatter and the bleach made her hair brittle, and she was always popping some pill or other. That crocodile handbag rattled with them. The smile was still there though; lighting up what was left of her. The same as it was when I looked down through the ropes that time and saw her clapping.
When I felt as though I was the one who'd had the breath punched out of me.
How bloody old am I?
It's a fair question, but I don't suppose it really matters. Too old, that's the point, isn't it? Too old to smoke and not worry about it; to put on a pair of socks without sitting down; to think about running for a bus.
Crime Writers Page 1