Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  The phone rang.

  “Listen you fu . . .”

  It rang again.

  “Don’t hang up.”

  “Then do try not to insult me. All that swearing is getting on my tits.” I was enjoying this. It would seem though that poor Gillian would not recognize irony if it jumped up and bit her on the arse.

  “Insult you? Where do you get off being so high and mighty? You’re the fucking junkie, bag stealing bitch ...”

  She may well have been right, but I cut her off anyway. Besides, if we were talking about taking the elevator to the moral high ground, at least I was getting on it about halfway up. I think adulterous, hitman-hiring shrews were roughly three floors below the basement.

  “Please don’t hang up.”

  “Better. Now, give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “A hundred pounds.”

  “What is?”

  “I’ll give you a hundred pounds if you give me my handbag back.”

  I laughed. “Is that supposed to be a tempting offer?”

  “Aye. Fuck ... I don’t know. It might save you sucking some guy’s dick up an alley. What’s the going rate for smack these days you . . .”

  “Now now, Gillian. You know what happens when you start hurting my feelings. And if I hang up this time I’m going to take a wee wander up to Pitt Street and visit Strathclyde polis. I have an idea they might be interested in the contents of your phone.”

  “Oh, aye. That’ll be right. I can just see you walking in there and saying ‘Officers, here’s a bag I mugged off of some wee wifey at Central Station.’“

  “Maybe not, but I might just take one of these crisp twenties in your lovely flash handbag and buy some stamps. If I send it registered post it might even actually get there.”

  “Shite. How much do you want?”

  I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to come across as too cheap, but on the other hand, I didn’t want to name a price that was so high that she would take the chance on me not going to the police. “Two thousand pounds.”

  “Two grand? You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Nope. I’m not smiling here. Two thousand. I think that’s very fair. Tell me . . . just out of curiosity . . . does Tom know about your little plan to off your respective spouses?”

  “Tom ... .?”

  “Yeah, you know, the poor misguided fool you’re bumping uglies with.”

  “Of course he knows. It was him who gave me the idea.”

  “Really? Sounds like you’re a match made in heaven.”

  Again, the irony was lost on her. “We are. We love each other. Can’t keep our hands off each other. His wife is apparently a fat, frumpy bore, and my husband can’t get it up any more.”

  “No wonder. You’ve probably sucked the life right out of him. And not in a good way.”

  “Oh shut the fuck up, you blackmailing bitch. When do I get my bag back?”

  “Well, let’s see. When can you get the £2,000?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Obviously I should have asked for more. “Do you know the Necropolis?”

  “The big cemetery? I know of it, yeah.”

  “OK. Egyptian Vaults. Eight p.m. tomorrow night. You can get a map off the internet. Oh, and bring your bit on the side. I’d quite like to see what all the fuss is about.”

  I shut the phone off before she could whine. I could tell from the noises on the other end of the phone that she was winding herself up to go off on one and, quite frankly, I’d had enough of her. She was mouthy, self-centered, trashy and shallow. Her plans proved that she was also dangerous and I didn’t trust her one little bit. If I was going to meet her and Tom I needed some insurance. I opened the phone again and went to her contacts list. The phone was answered after one ring.

  “Aye?”

  “Billy? I want to buy a gun.”

  * * * *

  The Necropolis was locked up at dusk, but it’s easy to get in, and so huge that it’s impossible to ensure that no one does. I’d arrived at seven p.m., crossed the Bridge of Sighs, and made my way to the Egyptian Vaults via a circuitous route, just in case Gillian and Tom had planned a wee surprise for me. The place was not exactly welcoming during the day, but it was even less so after dark. Dilapidated and overgrown, it was a haven for junkies, wee neds drinking Buckfast and taking illegal substances, the homeless and the hopeless. Between some of the gravestones and in the sheltered spots beside the vaults were sleeping bags - as yet unoccupied - their owners perhaps at the soup kitchen on East Campbell Street, getting a little warmth and light before returning to this creepy place to sleep.

  I wasn’t worried about the dead. It was the living that concerned me, and I gripped the gun tighter. Billy had put me in touch with an acquaintance, who knew a guy, who had a friend who could possibly lay his hands on a gun. All very cagey, lots of ifs and buts, but I think Billy thought I was Gillian, since I was ringing from her phone, so he opened a few doors for me. I guessed that the fifteen grand she had paid him would help. I assured him - as Gillian, of course - that I wasn’t going to do a DIY job and cut him out. I just said I needed the gun for protection.

  I met Billy’s contact behind a pub in Possilpark. Just to be on the safe side I wore a blonde wig and sunglasses. I felt like Dolly Parton in a bad spy movie. The transaction had been quick and easy. The guy had turned out to be a man who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His cheekbones were prominent and angular and when he sucked at his cigarette his face turned into a skull.

  “Do ye ken how tae use it?” Spittle came out of his mouth with every word. He had a set of false top teeth that he appeared to be breaking in for someone with a much bigger mouth, and no bottom teeth at all, which caused his face to cave in when his mouth was closed.

  I nodded. I had grown up on a farm. “Aye.” I held out the money we had agreed on and he passed over the padded envelope containing the gun.

  He took one more drag of his cigarette. “Good luck, hen.”

  “Cheers, pal.” And that was that. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it was like going into the newsagents and buying the Evening Times.

  I reached the Egyptian Vaults and chose a vantage point where I could see but not be seen. Just before eight o’clock I heard footsteps coming up the path.

  “This woman’s a weirdo. Why the hell did she want to meet us in this godforsaken place?” I recognized that shrill, whiny voice.

  “Don’t worry babe. We’ll get the bag back and that will be that. These scumbags are only out for a quick score. I hope she’s on time. Kate’s expecting me home by nine.”

  I recognized that voice too. Cheating, murderous bastard. I stepped out of the shadows. “Don’t worry, Tom. When you’re not home by nine, I’ll assume you have a good excuse.”

  “Kate?” Tom said.

  “Kate?” Gillian repeated, looking at Tom and then at me. “You mean this fat junkie bitch is your wife?”

  “Well, Tom? What do you say to that?”

  “I . . . She . . . I. . .”

  “Apparently Tom is lost for words Gillian. So, yes, I am the fat, frumpy bore married to your boyfriend. Not, however, a junkie. That was an assumption you jumped to. Understandable given the circumstances, I’ll grant you that.”

  “How did you . . .? What are you . . .?”

  “How did I know about your sleazy little affair, Tom? Well, let’s face it, you’re not exactly Mr Discreet. And you look so guilty when caught answering text messages that are supposedly from your mates. So I followed you one day. And, well, not to get all Hercule Poirot about it, here we are.”

  Tom started towards me with his hands outstretched. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but let’s just go somewhere and talk.”

  I raised the gun. “Just stop right there.”

  “A gun?”

  “Ooooh, well done. That’s exactly what it is.”

  “She’s a fucking lunatic Tom. I told you what she was like on the phone. She . .
.”

  “Tom, tell her to shut the fuck up. This is between you and me right now.”

  “Don’t you talk to me . . .”

  “Gillian, just do as she says and shut the fuck up.”

  Gillian subsided into whimpering silence. It still sounded like fingernails scraping down a blackboard, but as long as there weren’t any actual words, I could tune her out.

  “So, did you go and see that divorce lawyer?”

  “I . . . well . . . I . . .”

  “No. The answer you’re groping for is ‘no’ Tom. Because you chose a slightly more dramatic way out.”

  “It was Gillian’s idea.” His voice had turned from pompous to bleating and I could see him starting to sweat now.

  Gillian’s eyes opened wide. “You were all for it.”

  Tom ignored her. “It was easier for her because of the money. She would lose out on a fortune if she divorced Stewart. But I didn’t want anything to do with it.” A wavering smile appeared briefly as he tried to look sincere and honest. He looked about as sincere and honest as a politician caught with his trousers down in a brothel.

  “You said it would be the best way. You lying bastard!”

  We both ignored her. “I was caught up in it all, Kate. I wouldn’t have hurt you. You’ve got to believe me.”

  This time it was my turn. “You lying bastard.”

  “Honest, Kate . . . I . . .”

  “Tom, you wouldn’t recognize honesty if it gave you a hug and called you mother.” I could feel tears pricking behind my eyes. “Get your clothes off, both of you.”

  “What?”

  “Clothes off.” I gestured with the gun. “Now. And fold them up neatly in a pile.”

  “Look, okay, you want to humiliate us, I understand.” Tom hopped on one leg as he struggled to remove his jeans.

  “Nah. I don’t want to humiliate you. Now, lie down on the grass.”

  “I’m not doing—”

  “Gillian, just shut it and do what I say. Lie down on the grass and put your arms around each other. Tom, you’re looking decidedly unaroused. I’ve never seen it quite so shriveled and tiny. What’s wrong? Lost your desire?” It was a cheap shot, but I couldn’t resist.

  They were on the ground, naked and shivering.

  “Look Kate, this is just ridiculous. Let’s go and talk somewhere like civilized . . .”

  The shots were louder than I’d expected. And there was more blood. I pulled Tom’s wallet out of his jeans and picked up Gillian’s handbag. I would throw them in the Clyde on my way home, along with the gun. I wiped my prints off Gillian’s phone and left it under the pile of clothes. If the police didn’t think this was a mugging gone badly wrong, then maybe the text messages would lead them in Billy’s direction. As far as he knew, Gillian had bought the gun. There was nothing to lead the police to me, and plenty to lead them away.

  As I made my way out of the Necropolis and back to my car, it struck me that Gillian’s handbag was another Prada. If nothing else, I’d saved Tom a small fortune in accessories.

  <>

  * * * *

  EPIPHANY

  Margaret Murphy

  You’ve got to hold my hand!” Trina’s got her cross face on, because we’re late and it’s my fault, ‘cos I didn’t get ready fast enough. Her eyebrows are all bunched up and her eyes are squinty.

  “No! You squeeze too hard!” I hide my hand behind my back, but she’s ten and big and I’m only seven and little, so she wins.

  “I don’t want you—I want my mummy!”

  “Well, your mummy doesn’t want you.”

  This is so horrible, I gasp. “You’re a big fat liar!”

  Trina really is fat, so she gets even crosser. “Am not! Your mummy’s a wacko.”

  “She is NOT.” I try to hit her, but I’ve got my school bag in the other hand and it’s too heavy, so I don’t get a good swing.

  Trina gives me a big tug and starts to sing, “Loony-bin, loony-tune, she’s so mad she bays at the moon!”

  “Stop it!” I shout. “It’s not true. She’s just oppressed.”

  Trina laughs—it’s that loud, hard laugh—when you know it means she doesn’t think it’s funny at all. “It’s not o-ppressed, it’s depressed—muppet.” She squeezes and squeezes until I cry.

  “I’m in charge. And your mummy says you’ve got to hold my hand to cross the road,” she says.

  I don’t see why, ‘cos there’s Pelican lights and everyone knows you just have to wait for the green man, but no matter how hard I wriggle, I can’t make her let go. If you looked at her face you’d think she was smiling, but she isn’t, she’s showing her teeth, like Uncle Pete’s dog does when he doesn’t want you to stroke him.

  A mummy comes up with her kids while we’re waiting, so I cry harder and shout, “You’re hurting my HAND!” The mummy looks at Trina, and she lets go, but only a bit, so it doesn’t hurt so much.

  She smiles and pretends to be nice. “Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t want to get squished, now, would you?” Explaining like I’m a baby. She wipes my nose with her tissue, when I didn’t even need her to and it’s probably full of boogers, anyway.

  She has to keep pretending, because the mummy walks behind us. They’re late, too, but the mummy is kind to her children and tells them not to worry, to just tell the teacher the car wouldn’t start. I look over my shoulder because I can’t hear them talking anymore, and she’s at the gate of the county primary, which isn’t the same as our school.

  She waves bye-bye and smiles, so they don’t worry. Then she looks at me and I can tell she’s thinking if I was her little girl she would walk me to school and she wouldn’t squeeze my hand too hard.

  “Come on.” Trina pulls so hard I nearly fall over and she has to squeeze my hand again or I’ll fall. “Saved your life!” she says. “Now you owe me forever.”

  This makes me afraid, in case she makes me eat worms or something to pay her back, but something makes me say, “You nearly killed me, now you owe me forever.”

  She lets go of my hand ‘cos we’re on the field now, and the school is at the top of the hill, up the grey path. My fingers have gone white and stiff, so I tuck my hand under my arm.

  “Baby.” Trina walks fast deliberately so I have to run to keep up. My fingers are so cold. Trina walks faster and faster, and I’m afraid I’ll get left behind and I won’t know what to say to Miss Irvine. “My fingers hurt!” She pays no attention, but she’s almost catched up to a lady with a dog, and I think about how she felt guilty in front of the mummy, and I shout, “You BROKE MY FINGERS!”

  She stops, like a soldier when the sergeant calls halt. Then she turns and marches up to me and bends down, so her face is right in front of mine. Her cheeks are red, but everything else is white, ‘cept her nose. “You’re such a brat!” Her eyes are big and angry.

  “I’m not! I’m not a brat, it’s just my hand hurts and my fingers are cold.”

  “I told you. You should’ve worn your gloves,” she says, and grabs my hand. I try to escape, but I’m too slow ‘cos I’m upset. “Hm,” she says, examining it like a doctor. “I see.... Stone cold. That’s frostbite, that is. I’m afraid those fingers’ll drop off by playtime.”

  I snatch my hand back, pushing it into my coat pocket.

  “One by one,” Trina says. “Snap! Snap! Snap! Till all you’ve got is stumps and you won’t be able to write or eat or dress or anything and they’ll put you in a home.”

  I start to cry again and she gets behind me and gives me a big shove. “Crybaby! Get a move on, or I’ll snap one off right this minute!”

  I feel all fluttery, like when Mummy and Daddy used to argue. “Please don’t!”

  Trina makes another grab for my hand, but I run onto the grass.

  “Snap! Snap! Snap!” she says. I back away and she hunches over like a big bear that would eat you. “Snap! Snap! Snap!”

  I turn and run. I run and run and Trina can’t catch me, because she might be
able to walk fast, but she’s too fat to run.

  “You can’t go off on your own!” she shouts. “You’re not a-loud!”

  * * * *

  I run until I can’t even hear her shouting anymore. When I turn around, I can’t see Trina. My footsteps have made a track—pale green shoeprints on the white frosty grass. I run around in circles for a bit, in case she tries to follow me, and I end up in the trees. Can’t go in there on your own, you’re not aloud.