Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  “A lot of these women are men, you know!” Jade giggled. “And Eddie’s going to sign an exclusive three-book deal with us. Great! Mr Rodgers is over the moon, isn’t he, Sadie?”

  My eyes shifted to the slimly curvaceous Sadie, the quieter of the two, who nodded slowly, then finished her spritzer. I got to my feet and insisted on ordering further spritzers for my blonde informants. Jade’s pin-straight hair was cut quite short, while Sadie’s wonderfully curly locks were shoulder length. Sadie’s hair was a better match for the strand Isobel had found. If this race turned out to be of the two-horse variety, it would appear that Isobel had placed her bet on the wrong filly.

  On Thursday morning I called in at A Cut Above for a long overdue haircut, then, following my usual custom, I went home immediately afterwards to shake out the hairs from inside my shirt and rub my back with a towel. As I fastened my shirt buttons, something clicked in my sluggish brain about Isobel’s wayward husband and his mismatched buttons. But what of the letter? Each evening I had pondered on that handwritten piece of paper, torn vertically down the middle.

  il our weekend

  citing thing that’s ever

  fe, and the thought of

  ours being spent with

  ed makes me the most

  ver,

  die

  rling!

  Certainly there were plenty of suggestive possibilities down the torn edge of the note: “exciting”, “life”, “hours”, “bed”, “lover”, “Sadie”, “darling”. But the more I studied things, the more I convinced myself that this could just as easily be interpreted as a wholly innocent missive. In the end, I typed out both versions, the innocent and the not-so-innocent, aligning the joins as neatly as my primitive keyboard skills would permit.

  I was determined to be fairly honest with Isobel the following morning, but there were three matters on which I determined to remain silent. First, I would not mention the fact that on Wednesday night I had experienced a mildly erotic dream about her. Second, I wouldn’t tell her that I had composed another possible - no, quite probable - left-hand half of the letter, written this time by Sadie. Third, I would not confess that fairly early on I’d had strong suspicions that the handwriting on the letter was extremely similar to that on the cheque Isobel had given me, especially those ‘d’s and ‘r’s, and that I now felt certain that Isobel, for some strange reason, had written the letter herself.

  She smiled at me winsomely that Friday morning when I asked if a drink was still on offer, and if she’d mind if I smoked whilst I recounted my findings.

  She said nothing when I told her of my unproductive trip to the British Telecom offices. And when I gave her a truncated account of my encounter with the two blondes, she ventured just a single comment: “So you’re saying the hair wasn’t Jade’s?” When I nodded (hallelujah!) she did betray some surprise for once.

  My proffered explanation of the shirt re-buttoning incident occasioned little reaction, and in reply to my question she admitted that Denis had been for a haircut about that time, yes.

  There remained the final hurdle, though. The letter. I could, of course, have shown her my alternate version, in which “Sadie darling” figured as the happy valediction. But I instead handed Isobel my original reconstruction, then watched her closely as she read it.

  “This is the best you could come up with?” she said dismissively.

  “Yes,” I said, somewhat defensively. “It would have been another matter if you’d managed to find the other half.”

  “And what makes you think I haven’t?” she said as she dipped one elegant hand into her Louis Vuitton handbag. “I found the left-hand half only yesterday - very careless of Denis!” Here she passed me two halves of a typewritten letter cellotaped together.

  “But . . . but those are typed—” I began.

  “Yes, they are. And they are the originals. I made a handwritten copy of the half I had found because I am not a computer person, I have no access to a photocopier, and I wanted to keep the original safe. Do you understand?

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I’m a little surprised and, to be honest with you, just a little disappointed that you hadn’t noticed the similarities between the writing on the cheque and that on the letter. I’m also surprised that you put your money on Denis’ prize author. But go on! Read it!”

  As I read the letter, I was conscious of Isobel’s green, green eyes upon me, and perhaps I succeeded in showing a wholly bogus surprise - bogus, that is, until I read the office nickname at the bottom: Blondie, aka Jade. Isobel had been right all along then, and I had been wrong. She had correctly guessed the winner of a two-horse race, while I had backed an outsider and lost. As we walked to the front door, I resisted the temptation to defend my ratiocinative powers (after all, the hair couldn’t have been Jade’s). Looking at Isobel for the last time, I wished that . . . well, that things had turned out differently.

  Three weeks later I received a handwritten letter with no salutation and no valediction. It was no matter, though. I recognized the writing instantly. It read:

  “Denis and I have agreed upon an amicable separation, so divorce is no longer my dearest wish. I would like you to come and have dinner with me this coming Friday - just the two of us.”

  Oh dear! I had already been invited out to dinner at The Randolph on Friday evening by an attractive Anglo-Indian lady with deep dark-brown eyes. She had asked me to mediate in a squabble with her neighbours over her chatterbox of a parakeet from Paraguay, which she had somehow imported into the UK during the bird flu crisis.

  In any case, I’ve always preferred dark-brown to startling green.

  Well, that’s what I told myself.

  <>

  * * * *

  THREAT MANAGEMENT

  Martyn Waites

  I could see her from where I was crouching, behind the bushes. She was walking along the pavement, getting bigger as she came towards me, like all I could see was her. Only her. Wearing her usual stuff, business suit with a kind of belted mac thing over it, a short, beige one. Looked good in it, an’ all, her long black hair loose down the back. Umbrella up. Her heels made that crunchy, clacking noise on the tarmac - kind you only hear in films and think it must be made up till you hear it in real life. There were probably other people around, but I didn’t see them. Cars going past made a wet whoosh in the drizzle but I hardly heard them. Saw only her. Heard only her heels clack-clacking. Sounded louder than bombs.

  I have to be honest, I wanted her then. Any man would.

  By the way, this is a true story. I’m not making any of it up. I don’t do that any more. Which is something, which is progress. No, this is exactly how it happened. Exactly.

  I’ve watched her every day this week. Know her routine better than mine. What time she gets up, what time she leaves the flat. Which bus she catches, tube station she gets off at, train she gets on. Which branch of Costa she gets her regular cappuccino, skimmed milk, at. What time she gets in to the office. In the city. Nice place. All steel and glass. Huge. Know what she does in there. Yeah, I’ve been in. Seen her.

  She didn’t see me, though.

  A solicitor, she is. A legal mouthpiece.

  Then lunch breaks, usually a Marks and Sparks sandwich at her desk, sometimes a trip down to one of those flash new places off Spitalfields Market with a couple of the girls from the office. Sometimes with Tony. Another solicitor. Met at some party. Her boyfriend, so she claims. They’re an item. Not so sure he’d say the same thing.

  And then coffee breaks - sometimes she’ll come down to the Costa again, just for a walk, stretch her legs. But no fag breaks. Doesn’t smoke. Too healthy. Know which branch of Holmes Place she goes to, after work sometimes. And what times. Watched her work out.

  Well, apart from that time when she had a broken arm. Just straight to work and back home, then. Alone.

  That Tony, he’s a cunt. Really, he is. He doesn’t appreciate her, not nearly enough. Not an item
. Cunt.

  Then all again in reverse: tube, bus, home again. Unless she’s been going out. Cinema, theatre, dinner. A bar. Usually up in town, nothing round here. Well not much. A couple of times she’s been in my local. Once with a mate of hers. And once on her own. Sampling the local atmosphere, I heard her say to Mike behind the bar. But Mike behind the bar wasn’t impressed. If he can’t shag it or make money out of it, he doesn’t want to know. And she wasn’t about to become a regular. And she was way out of his league. So really, she knows no one round here.

  Except me.

  I unscrewed the small bottle, took a big swallow of whisky. Smacked my lips, savouring the aftertaste, feeling the burn. Good. Kept me warm. Helped me concentrate.

  The rest of the pubs on the high road and the estate, she’s too good for them. Wouldn’t want her going in them again, I told her that. The men in there, they’re animals. They’d tear her apart. And I might not be there to protect her. I mean, I try my best, but I can’t be with her all the time.

  I told her that the first time she came in the pub. She laughed then, asked what I did. I told her. Showed her the card. She said nothing.

  The second time she came in the pub she said plenty, though. It was accidental, really. I just bumped into her in the street. Like I said, accidental. I hadn’t been following her or anything like that.

  Honest.

  I asked her if she’d like to come for a drink with me. Couldn’t believe it when she accepted. Took her to the pub, squired her round. All the other old bastards in there couldn’t believe it. She was with me. Me.

  We had a great time. Talked all night. She really listened, you know? To everything I had to say, no matter how stupid it sounded. She made me feel like the most important person alive. To have a pretty girl listen to you, and talk to you, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

  She made me feel special.

  When she left, Mike from behind the bar said I should forget it. Get her out of my mind, she was too good for me. Whatever she had to say, she was just using me, stringing me along. I got angry with him. Told him just because she didn’t like him or want to talk to him he was jealous. He just shook his head, walked off to restock his bottles.

  I wasn’t falling in love with her then. Honest.

  It was dark now and cold. The fog made big patches of blackness between the street lights. You could see your breath in front of you. I breathed out into my hand, up my sleeve. I didn’t want her seeing mine. I watched.

  She turned off the pavement like she usually did, made her way to the front of her block of flats. 1930s I think, lots of that type in this part of South London. Old, but still going strong. And worth more than where I lived.

  I guessed what she would do next: put her head down, start rummaging through her handbag for her keys. I was right.

  I’d been in that flat. Told them all in the pub that she’d invited me in. They didn’t believe me. They never do. But she had done. Made me a cup of coffee, even. So yeah, I was really there, true. Let the others in the pub think what they like. Say what they like. I was there.

  Honest.

  It was comfortable. Really comfortable. That’s the best way to describe it. The sofa looked like the kind you’d want to sink into after a hard day’s work. The TV looked like the kind you would want to watch. On the shelves were books that looked interesting if you liked that kind of thing and CDs that I’m sure would have been good to listen to. There were other things around too, like candles and little ornaments and small lamps that gave off soft, warm glows. Rugs that reminded you of the expensive foreign holidays that you’d never be able to afford to take.

  Not a bare bulb in the place. Not one piece of never-never furniture from Crazy George’s that’d given up on you before you’d finished paying for it. No mismatching knock-off carpet remnants, donated tables and chairs. Not like my place at all.

  I told you I was there.

  And in the middle was her. Sitting on the sofa, sipping some real coffee, not the instant shite I was brought up with. She was like the flat. Nice. Dark hair that was long and well cared for. Green eyes that made you want to smile just to look at them. And she had dress sense and style.

  She was so sweet, so honest. So loveable.

  Then she told me her troubles. Her problem. I listened, all sympathetic like. And when she’d finished, I knew. Knew I could help her. And I wanted to help her. Protect her. Because she was lovely. Really beautiful. And there’s a lot of bad things, bad people, out there, just waiting to snatch that beauty away. Because they’re cruel. It’s what they do. She might live in this area of South London but she’s not of it, if you know what I mean. So she needed me to look after her. Like her own guardian angel.

  Of course, I didn’t say any of this. Just drank my coffee, said I’d help her. But I think she knew. I could tell the way she was looking at me. Could tell what I was thinking.

  She touched my hand. Told me how much it would mean to her if I would help. And I got that feeling, that little zing of electricity going up my arm like I’d just stuck my finger in a live socket. And I looked at her. Her eyes. Big enough to fall in to.

  I swallowed hard. Said I would do what I could. She could rely on me.

  She smiled. And I felt my heart lift. Really lift. Like getting a blessing from an angel.

  I smiled back. She just jumped like I’d hit her. I saw myself in the mirror over the fireplace when I did it. Don’t blame her for jumping. Not a smile but a grimace. A blood lust one like apes do when they’ve just arse-fucked an outsider to the tribe and killed him by pulling his arms off. Once a squaddie always a fucking squaddie.

  I stopped smiling. I was angry with myself, ashamed. She kept her hand there. Gave me another smile.

  And that told me everything between us was still OK.

  Now like I said, I wasn’t falling in love. That would have been fucking stupid.

  The hand in the bag was my cue. I’d planned the shortest route to her while I’d been waiting. I hadn’t forgotten. The best view, the most camouflage, the quickest escape route. The bushes in the grounds of the flat. Obviously. Away from the road, the street light. Other people. Sarge would have been proud of me. Vicious old cunt.

  I stood up, still hidden, breathing heavy, hand in front of my mouth, getting psyched, ready to run forward, ready for what was about to happen.

  I thought about her all day long. All night. Even when I slept. Beautiful but vulnerable. I began to think things I’d never have considered a couple of months ago. Make little plans in my head. For the future. Thinking of her smile, the way she’d looked at me.

  The future.

  She stood on the front step, rummaging.

  I waited.

  But not for long.

  They said at this charity that I go to that my problems go further back than just the shellshock. Go way, way back. Before the army. When I was a kid. To stuff that happened to me then. Bad stuff.

  But I don’t think about that now.

  They said I needed an outlet. So I got one. When I told them in the pub what I was doing, when I showed them the cards, they just laughed. As usual. They never take anything I say or do seriously. Think I’m some mentalist, some nutter, spend all day at the library reading private eye novels. Thinking, like the counsellor at the charity said, like I’m the hero of my own fantasy. They think I’m away with the fairies. Delusional, they say.

  Well, we’ll see.

  They say the drinking doesn’t help either. I should stop it. Just feeds it.

  We’ll see.

  They say that if I could just stop living out this fantasy life and get on with the real one then that would be something. That would be progress.

  We’ll see.

  She got her key out, tried to put it in the lock, dropped it. She bent down.

  And then he was on the doorstep with her. Tony. The cunt. Mouth open, hands going, talking to her, explaining something. Couldn’t hear what, didn’t matter. Didn’t want to
know.

  And then his hands were on her. Grabbing her shoulders, his voice raised.

  The cards I had printed. Threat Management. That’s what they said. Got them done at a machine at Elephant and Castle shopping centre. Threat Management, that’s what they say. Then my name. And a contact phone number. The pub’s. Haven’t got one of my own.

  He grabbed her, pushed her up against the door. Her bag dropped on the ground. His arms were on her shoulders, holding hard. A blur of something dark and shiny flashed between them. Tony looked down, found the blade in his fist. Her body went towards his, his mouth was up against her ear. Saying something to her. Something unpleasant. They struggled, like two reluctant dancers. Locked together, they moved towards the side of the block of flats, like he was dragging her off.