Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  I got into the flat, bumped into Daryl.

  Daryl: “You did it?”

  Me: “Aye.”

  Daryl: “You’re not trying to draw a psycho pension. You really are crazy.”

  I nodded and limped through to the living room. Daryl said he was going to bed. I didn’t answer him.

  Just went over to the video and put on a movie. One of Liz Fairbride’s early works. My wife. That blonde angel, moaning just for me. And I wasn’t old enough to be her husband, but maybe back then I would’ve been. I put the gun on the floor, sat cross-legged. Something white against the black blood.

  Kitty’s tooth.

  I pulled out the canine and turned it in my fingers as my wife breathed. The slap of flesh against flesh, getting quicker now.

  Then I flicked the tooth to one side, unzipped my combat trousers and wept silently as both me and my wife came together.

  That was love. That was beauty even after the semen dried.

  <>

  * * * *

  WHERE THERE’S A WILL . . .

  Amy Myers

  I’m a wicked old man, so all my dearly beloved relations fondly tell me. They don’t know the half of it. They’ve got a shock coming their way when I’m finally hauled kicking and screaming into the afterworld. Not yet awhile. I’m a hundred years old today, and in full possession of all my faculties. Silas Carter at your service. Just like that creepy old bore Humphrey Bone claims he’s at mine. Who needs lawyers? Death and di-vorce is all they’re good at. Just as well—he’s got a shock heading his way, too.

  Look at that marquee out there. No need for it at all. A little bit of rain never hurt anyone. Anyway, it’s always sunny on my birthday; that’s what darling niece Mary coos at me, bending over me with all her cleavage showing—as though there were anything to look at. Thank the Lord I never had kids of my own. I’m at liberty to see my relations as clear as God made them, and an ugly sight they make. She with her holier-than-thou simper, Don with his knobbly knees, shorts, and binoculars, always twittering on about birds (the feathered kind, alas), and “young” Nigel, Mr. Artsy-Craftsy himself, and more of the craft than art if you ask me. A long-haired skinny white wiggling grub, he is. Never see any of them except when they’re crawling here on pilgrimage to my bank account.

  Now they’ve had the nerve to stay in my house, without so much as a by-your-leave to me. “We’ve fixed it all with William,” Mary beams, as though they expect me to leap up in my wheelchair and cry out, “Oh, whoopee!” because my servants and family have saved me the trouble of organising my own birthday. Leap? That I should be so lucky. It’s no fun being old, being wheeled everywhere. You have to work hard to make your own fun when you’re a hundred years old.

  So, believe me, I have.

  “It’s high time you updated your will,” Mr. Humphrey Bore Bone snuffled to me some weeks ago.

  “You’re right, Humphrey,” sighed I, pretending to be all tired and weary, though only ninety-nine at the time.

  I’m not only wicked, you see. I’m also very rich. Perhaps that’s the reason for it. Never had a wife, well, not for the last seventy years, so I can please myself what I do with my money. Oh, the pleasure of freedom. I’ve only mentioned these particular relations, but I’ve a vast family out there. All the Christmas cards check in dutifully once a year, but now they’re all screaming down on me like vultures licking their lips in person at the thought of a slice of my golden pie when I hop it.

  “How about charities?” Humphrey said dolefully to encourage me on my will updating.

  “How about them?” I said rudely.

  “Have you no favourite causes?”

  “Only one. Mine,” I snapped. Then I relented. Humpity-Humph is a boring old stick but he means well. Perhaps. “Tell you what, Humphrey, you find me a charity that looks after blind atheist stamp collectors with moles on their cheeks or aged aunts who run homes for stray elephants and I’ll support them.”

  He couldn’t, of course, so when he sent his bill in I didn’t pay him—don’t believe in encouraging failure. And, I informed him, I’d be writing my own will, and sending it to him in due course.

  Humphrey’s eyes had glinted, the first sign of life I’d seen for a long time. He told me that one day my jokes would take me too far. Maybe he’s right. Jolly good. Nothing like living dangerously when you’re a hundred—in your mind, at least. Fat chance I’ve got of fighting off sharks or climbing Everest from this chair.

  The vultures have landed. I can see them all outside in the garden, gathering for the big feast at my expense. Why should I have to pay for my own birthday party? You’d think if they all loved me so much they’d be queuing up to treat me. No way. I reckon that everyone in that mob below flatters himself he’s entitled to walk in and help himself to my money the minute I’m dead. Well, I’ve scotched that little plan. I’ve outlived my brothers and sisters—told them all I would, and I did—so it’s the next generation and the one after that I have to watch. Mary’s in the former category, Nigel and Don in the latter. They march together in the vanguard of the “Why don’t you leave it all to me?” brigade. The Three Gargoyles, I call them: always goggling at me with their ugly faces and nothing but water running in their veins.

  They’d no sooner arrived yesterday than they bounded up to me to ask if I’d like a trip to my old home next month. Bah, humbug. I grew up in a two-up two-down terrace house in Huddersfield. No, I’ll stay here in my Surrey mansion, thanks very much, where Woeful William answers my every whim. Most of these are to press Venus’s boobs. I’ve got a bar behind the library books; one touch on the carved lady’s tender parts on the panelling underneath and out floats nectar—or whisky, if you prefer its real name. And that’s one thing the Three Gargoyles don’t know about. Let ‘em stick to water. They’re welcome to it. If any showed up in my veins they’d burst with shock.

  Here come the Gargoyles now. I can see them marching purposefully from the marquee towards the house, and—oh, goodie—Humphrey Bone the Bore is with them. Only William to collect on the way and we’re off. Mary’s at the front, of course, mutton dressed as lamb, or as I like to think of it, soggy shepherd’s pie with a white topping. Don’s on one side—trousers today, I see! Even a sporty blazer. I am honoured. I can do without the sight of his knees on my birthday. And I can glimpse darling Nigel’s supercilious nose poking out on Mary’s other side, as he struts along in his artsy pale cream suit. No artist starving in a garret, he. Nothing but the best for him—especially if it comes courtesy of my bank account. Any one of them would see me dead tomorrow if it wasn’t for the fact they can’t be certain who’s in my will because I might change it. If only I could see their faces when they find out...

  Ah well, time for my big appearance. I’ve been smothered with cards and presents today. Even the Queen sent a card via a minion. She’s the only unselfish one amongst them, and she’s not getting a slice of anything. Her blinking government will get their paws on anything coming her way in the way of tax. Perhaps I’ll send her a lump of stale birthday cake in compensation.

  “Well, Uncle Silas, are we all ready?” Mary beamed.

  Of course I am, you silly old cow, I wanted to reply, but I could see Humphrey looking at me in that way of his, so I decided to behave. “Hallo, Mary,” I quavered. “Think I’d be late for my one glass of champagne?” Not on your life, I thought. Or more pertinently, on mine, which is a great deal more valuable to me.

  “Happy birthday, Uncle,” Don said heartily, peering at me as though I was a wounded goldfinch.

  “Sorry. I’m still alive,” I said tartly, and seeing Humphrey’s compressed lips, added, “Just my little joke, darling boy.” Boy? He looks like an antiquated frog. No, frogs are too lively for our Humph. Toad’s more like it. Sits on its bottom and blinks—waiting for the fees to roll in.

  Nigel must have been nervous for once. “Many happy returns,” he bleated, pumping my hand up and down.

  “As a ghost?” I r
etorted politely, but seeing my grin, the party took this as a witticism in which everyone could join. Even Woeful Willie, looming over me with first-aid kit in hand in case I pass out with pleasure at their company, giggled, although Toad Humphrey remained solemn-faced.

  So here we go. Off to my hundredth-birthday party. As I was wheeled into the tent the crowds parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Quite right, too. I could see the place was packed, with all those Christmas cards having sprung to life and put their happy, happy faces on, while they waited for the champagne. I decided to make them all listen to me for an hour at least before they got their reward.

  At the end of the first half-hour of my speech, I beamed at their now flagging faces. I was wiping their smiles away splendidly.

  “And now, my dears,” I announced, “I’m going to tell you something very important.”

  The whole assembled company leaned forward very hopefully. But it wasn’t going to be about my will. Oh no. That’s going to be a sweet surprise. I didn’t talk about money at all. I lectured them on the importance of happiness in families, how nice it was to see them all together getting on so well. Poppycock. My brothers and sisters used to quarrel like a pack of hyenas, and their offspring followed suit. Even Mary, Don, and Nigel couldn’t stand the sight of each other normally. They are only united today by a common hope that they alone will be my sole heir. I have, I admit, been teasing each of them separately that he or she is the person to whom I’ve left all my money. And it’s the truth—in a way.

  I do like teasing people.

  I’m even teasing you, whoever reads this. You’re all expecting me to drink my glass of champagne, gag, clasp my throat, and fall gasping for air, poisoned by one of my dearest and nearest kinfolk, unable to wait a minute longer for my millions.

  Well, I’ve news for you. The party’s over, and I’m still alive.

  * * * *

  “Good morning, Mr. Bone.” William opened the door of the manor to me, and led me into the late Mr. Silas Carter’s library cum living room. Once it was a dark and sombre place, but no longer. The blinds were up and sunlight streamed in, as if glad to reach the previously forbidden places. I approved. I had always dreaded coming here, but it made my unwelcome task of this morning much easier if the sun was fighting on my side. Silas Carter was, I regret to say, a wicked old man, with a sharp, if lively, tongue. He was no judge of character, however. Assuming the role of boring old lawyer is a useful device for me (and never more so than with Silas Carter) and would be so again in the meeting about to take place.

  “My condolences, William,” I said formally. Might as well stick to being Humphrey the Bore for the moment. “What will you do once everything is cleared up?” It had obviously been sensible for me as executor—at least as apparent executor—to ask his carer to stay on while the disastrous mess of the estate was being sorted out.

  “I daresay I’ll find something. I’ve always dreamed of a cottage of my own, but it won’t be the same.” William looked sad. “I’ve been here over twenty years now.”

  I could see his point. Being ill-treated in a palace might be more palatable than loneliness in a cottage, and William must be over fifty now. Not an age to go searching for new Silas Carters to tend.

  “I’ve prepared coffee for you all, Mr. Bone. I’ll be in the kitchen if you want me. Just ring.”

  He’d be used to that, all right, I thought as he left me. Everything in its place: cups, saucers, coffee keeping warm. If only my life had been as simple over the estate of Silas Carter: Instead it had presented me with The Great Muddle. Not a word that lawyers take kindly to. We prefer words—and wills—that are cut-and-dried, not muddled. Especially where the family of the deceased are concerned. I was ready to implement my plan, and I was only awaiting the three most vocal of them over their demands to know how matters stood with the will. I fear—no, that is not the word I should be using—in the case of these three, I am delighted to tell them. Indeed, I shall relish it. As the old rhyme has it, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell. For Dr. Fell, read Mary Simpkins, Donald Paxton, and Nigel Carter. I never have liked them on the rare occasions we have met, but since the events of Silas’s hundredth birthday, I have added deep suspicion to my dislike.

  These three had stayed in the house the night of Silas’s birthday; the latter was also the night of his death. Accidental death, the coroner had concluded, and for someone not personally acquainted with Silas that would be the obvious conclusion. However, I did know the old skinflint well. The doctor had been sufficiently imbued with the notion that Mr. Carter would live forever to notify the coroner at his unexpected death. Poor Silas had proved to be stuffed full of his sleeping pills, with only his fingerprints on the bottle and water beaker. Natural enough, the coroner must have thought, for him to be overcome with the excitement of his birthday party and the glass or two of champagne he had drunk there, and not realise the number of pills he was taking.

  That old boozer? I knew better. Silas Carter was far too well accustomed to alcohol to be thrown off his usual careful habits by a mere five or six glasses of champagne—I lost count of the number I saw him drink. If ever I saw a man heading for being pickled for posterity by the whisky inside him, it was Silas Carter.

  No, it’s far more probable that one of the gruesome threesome helpfully crushed his pills up for him and saw them safely down his throat. Which, though? One of them? All three? Did I care? I most certainly did. Someone might have cheated Silas out of years of life. I began to look forward to this meeting with some eagerness.

  The three hopefuls were on time—indeed, some minutes early—and I decided I would play doddering lawyer as well as a boring one while I fumbled with serving coffee and biscuits and fussed about sugar and milk. By the time I’d finished, they were all twitchy. Ever since I’d seen early Hollywood films with lawyers solemnly reading out wills to the assembled company, I’d wished we had the same tradition here in England, and now I was to get my opportunity—at least to some of those most concerned in this mess. Those who, as Silas had kindly explained in the letter he sent me with “the will,” had had expectations. Expectations, as opposed to hope, I suppose. Every Carter in Christendom must have been eagerly searching their family tree on the news of Silas Carter’s death.

  I wouldn’t be reading out the will today, but at least I could enjoy my position of temporary power. Not that Silas had demanded to be buried in Siberia or anything like that. Oh no, he was too cunning.

  The trio sat on the huge sofa opposite me like the three monkeys: Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil. And I, when I wish, can be very evil.

  “It seems to be taking a remarkably long time to clear up dear Uncle Silas’s estate,” Mary began jovially. I noticed she’d worn a smart(ish) black suit, clearly hoping to impress me with how businesslike she could be. She needn’t have worried; most people get very businesslike when it comes to inheriting money. Donald was more cunning; he had decided on a simple countryman’s approach: anorak, casual trousers, and sport shirt. As if to pretend he wasn’t interested in sordid lucre. Nigel plainly didn’t care. He was playing man about town, with long hair and linen suit and sunglasses. I rather wished the blinds had been down. It would have punctured his ego to have to take them off.

  “And will take longer,” I said gravely, looking at them over the top of my glasses. Instant panic.

  “Why?” Nigel ceased to be mysterious, and became very focussed. “It’s a simple will, I’m sure. Everything was left to me. He told me so.”

  Mary looked reproachful. “You misunderstood. It was to me, Nigel. Uncle told me so.”

  A polite cough from Donald, as though he wished to impress me that he was the reasonable one of the three. He might be right. “To me, actually.”

  A pause while they summed each other up. “He wanted the family name to continue,” Nigel snapped, a trifle more uncertainly now. “So it must be me. You two come through the female line.”

  Time for the
boring lawyer to put a word in. “Might I enquire when he told you this?”

  “Several times. The last occasion was the evening he died,” Mary said triumphantly as if she’d played an ace. “I went to his room to say goodnight, and he told me I was a good girl and could look forward to a happy, rich retirement.”

  “What time?” Nigel demanded.

  “About eight o’clock,” Mary replied with dignity.

  Nigel chuckled. “He clearly changed his mind after you left. I went at eight-thirty, and he told me the same.”

  “That you were a good girl?” Donald sneered. “In fact, you’re both barking up the wrong tree, because I went about nine-fifteen, and he told me I was the sole heir. So, if, Aunt Mary, you are telling the truth, or even you, Nigel, Great-Uncle Silas was clearly planning to change his mind and write a new will.”

  They fell to squabbling, then, until I put in my boring Humphrey cough. “Mr. Silas Carter’s confusion that evening could have been induced by the sleeping pills. Was he already feeling sleepy, perhaps, and so didn’t know what he was saying?”