Tell Tale

by Jeffrey Archer

  May They Rest in Peace

  THE PERFECT MURDER

  COINCIDENCES ARE FROWNED upon in a novel, whereas in real life they regularly occur.

  I had already read the proofs of Tell Tale and returned them to my publisher, when Reader’s Digest announced they would be relaunching their hundred-word short story competition later this year.

  The commissioning editor of Reader’s Digest invited me to take up the challenge a second time, and produce a hundred-word tale within twenty-four hours.

  Result? “The Perfect Murder.” I hope you enjoy my latest effort, and if you are a closet author yourself, perhaps you should finally come out, and also take up the challenge.

  ALBERT STARED AT THE PRISONER standing in the dock, well aware he hadn’t committed the murder.

  Albert had struck the fatal blow moments after Yvonne admitted she was seeing another man. He slipped out of her flat and into a telephone box on the other side of the road. When his rival appeared, he dialed 999.

  Twenty minutes later two detectives dragged the innocent man out of her apartment, threw him into the back of a police car and sirens blazing, sped off.

  “Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder?”

  The foreman rose.

  “Guilty,” said Albert.

  FOREWORD TO HEADS YOU WIN

  Dear Reader,

  It was fun compiling these fourteen short stories after the challenge of writing seven volumes of the Clifton Chronicles.

  What I hadn’t anticipated would happen during that time is that I would come up with an idea for a stand-alone novel every bit as demanding and exciting as anything I have ever written in the past.

  For those of you who have already read the final volume of the Chronicles, This Was a Man, none of this will come as a surprise because Harry Clifton outlined the plot for you in the last chapter of that book.

  However, I thought I’d go one step further than Harry, and share with you the first four chapters of Heads You Win, which will be published in November 2018.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Jeffrey Archer

  November 2017

  1

  “WHAT ARE YOU going to do when you leave school?” asked Alexander.

  “I’m hoping to join the KGB,” Vladimir replied, “but they won’t even consider me if I don’t get a place at the state university. How about you?”

  “I intend to be the first democratically elected president of Russia,” said Alexander laughing.

  “And if you make it,” said Vladimir who didn’t laugh, “you can appoint me as head of the KGB.”

  “I don’t believe in nepotism,” said Alexander, as they strolled across the schoolyard and out onto the street.

  “Nepotism?” said Vladimir, as they began to walk home.

  “It derives from the Italian word for nephew, and dates back to the popes of the seventeenth century, who often handed out patronage to their relations and close friends.”

  “Sounds just like the Soviet Union to me,” said Vladimir. “You just exchange the popes for the KGB.”

  “Are you going to the match on Saturday?” asked Alexander, changing the subject.

  “No. Once Leningrad reached the semifinals, there was never any chance of someone like me getting a ticket. But surely as your father’s the dock’s superintendent, you’ll automatically get a couple of seats in the reserved stand for party members.”

  “Not while he still refuses to join the Communist Party,” said Alexander. “And when I last asked him, he didn’t sound at all optimistic about getting a ticket, so Uncle Niko is my only hope.”

  As they continued walking, Alexander realized they were both avoiding the one subject that was never far from their minds.

  “When do you think we’ll find out?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Alexander. “I suspect the teachers enjoy watching us suffering, well aware it will be the last time they have any power over us.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” said Vladimir. “The only discussion in your case is whether you’ll win the Lenin Scholarship to the foreign language school in Moscow, or be offered a place at the state university to study mathematics. Whereas I can’t even be sure of getting into any university, and if I don’t, my chances of joining the KGB are kaput.” He sighed. “I’ll probably end up working on the docks for the rest of my life, with your father as my boss.”

  Alexander didn’t offer an opinion as the two of them entered the tenement block where they lived, and began to climb the worn stone steps to their flats.

  “I wish I lived on the first floor, and not the fourteenth.”

  “You know as well as I do that only party members live on the first three floors, Vladimir. But I feel sure that once you’ve joined the KGB, you’ll come down in the world.”

  “See you in the morning,” said Vladimir, ignoring his friend’s jibe as he continued to climb another seven flights.

  * * *

  When Alexander opened the door to his family’s tiny flat, he recalled an article he’d recently read in a state magazine reporting that America was so overrun with criminals that everyone had two, sometimes three, locks on their front door. Perhaps the only reason they didn’t in the Soviet Union, he thought, was because no one had anything worth stealing.

  He went straight to his bedroom, aware that his mother wouldn’t be back until she’d finished work. He took several sheets of lined paper, a pencil, and a well-thumbed book out of his school satchel, and placed them on the tiny table in the corner of his room. He opened War and Peace at page 179 and continued to translate Tolstoy’s words into English. When the Rostov family sat down for supper, Leo appeared distracted, and not just because …

  Alexander was double-checking each paragraph for spelling mistakes, and to see if he could think of a more appropriate English word, when he heard the front door open. His tummy began to rumble, and he wondered if his mother had been able to smuggle any little tidbits out of the officers’ club at the docks, where she was the cook. He closed his book and went to join her in the kitchen.

  Elena gave him a warm smile as he sat down on a wooden bench by the table.

  “Anything special tonight, Mama?” Alexander asked hopefully.

  She smiled again, and began to empty her pockets, producing a large potato, two parsnips, half a loaf of stale bread, and this evening’s prize, half a sausage that had probably been left on an officer’s plate after lunch. A veritable feast, thought Alexander, compared to what his friend Vladimir would be eating tonight.

  “Any news?” asked Elena as she began to peel the potato.

  “You ask me the same question every night, Mama, and I keep telling you that I don’t expect to hear anything for at least another month, possibly longer.”

  “It’s just that it would make your father so proud if you won the Lenin Scholarship.” She put down the potato and placed the peel to one side. Nothing would be wasted. “You know, if it hadn’t been for the war, your father would have gone to university.”

  Alexander knew only too well, but he was always happy to be reminded how Papa had been stationed on the Eastern Front as a young corporal during the siege of Leningrad, and although a crack Panzer division had attacked his section continuously for ninety-three days, he’d never left his post until the Germans had been repelled and retreated back to their own country.

  “For which he was awarded the Defence of Leningrad medal,” said Alexander on cue.

  His mother must have told him the story a hundred times, but Alexander never tired of it, although his father never raised the subject. And now, almost twenty-five years later, after returning to the docks he’d risen to Comrade Chief Superintendent, with three thousand workers under his command. Although he wasn’t a party member, even the KGB acknowledged that he was the right man for the job.

  The front door opened and closed with a bang, announcing that his father had returned. Alexander smiled when he strode into the kitchen. T
all and heavily built, Konstantin Karpenko was a handsome man who could still make a young woman turn and take a second look. His weather-beaten face was dominated by a luxuriantly bushy moustache that Alexander remembered stroking as a child, something he hadn’t dared to do for several years. Konstantin slumped down into the chair opposite his son.

  “Supper won’t be ready for another half hour,” said Elena as she diced the potato.

  “We must speak only English whenever we are alone,” said Konstantin.

  “Why?” asked Elena in her native tongue. “I’ve never met an Englishman in my life, and I don’t suppose I ever will.”

  “Because if Alexander is to win that scholarship and go to Moscow, he will have to be fluent in the language of our enemies.”

  “But didn’t the British and Americans fight on the same side as us during the last war, Papa?”

  “On the same side, yes,” said his father, “but only because they considered us the lesser of two evils.”

  Alexander gave this some thought as his father stood up. “Shall we have a game of chess, while we’re waiting?” Konstantin asked.

  Alexander nodded. His favorite part of the day.

  “You set up the board while I go and wash my hands.”

  Once Alexander’s father had left the room, Elena whispered, “Why not let him win for a change?”

  “Never,” said Alexander. “In any case, he’d know if I wasn’t trying and leather me.” He pulled open the drawer below the kitchen table and took out an old wooden board and a box containing a set of chess pieces, one of which was missing, so each night a plastic salt cellar had to substitute for a bishop.

  Alexander moved his king’s pawn two squares forward, before his father returned. Konstantin responded immediately, moving his queen’s pawn one square forward.

  “I assume you still haven’t heard anything?”

  “Nothing,” said Alexander, as he made his next move. It was a few moments before his father countered.

  “Papa, may I ask if you’ve managed to get a ticket for the match on Saturday?”

  “No,” admitted his father, his eyes never leaving the board. “They’re rarer than a virgin on Nevsky Prospect.”

  “Konstantin!” said Elena. “You can behave like a docker at work, but not when you’re at home.”

  Konstantin grinned at his son. “But your uncle Niko has been promised a couple of tickets on the terraces, and as I have no interest in going…” Alexander leaped in the air while his father made his next move, pleased to have distracted his son for a moment.

  “You could have had as many tickets as you wanted,” said Elena, “if only you’d agree to become a party member.”

  “That’s not something I’m willing to do, as you well know. Quid pro quo, an expression you taught me,” said Konstantin, looking across the table at his son. “Never forget, that lot will always expect something in return, and I’m not going to sell my friends down the river for a couple of tickets to a football match.”

  “But we haven’t reached the semifinal of the cup for years,” said Alexander.

  “And probably won’t again in my lifetime, but it will take a lot more than that to get me to join the Communist Party.”

  “Vladimir’s already a pioneer and signed up for the Komsomol,” said Alexander, after he’d made his next move.

  “Hardly surprising,” said Konstantin, “otherwise he’d have no hope of getting into the KGB, which is a natural habitat for that particular piece of pond life.”

  Once again, Alexander was distracted. “Why are you always so hard on him, Papa?”

  “Because he’s a shifty little bastard, just like his father. Be sure you never trust him with a secret, because it will have been passed on to the KGB before you’ve reached home.”

  “He’s not that bright,” said Alexander. “Frankly he’ll be lucky to be offered a place at the state university.”

  “He may not be bright,” said Konstantin, “but he’s cunning and ruthless, a dangerous combination. Believe me, he’d shop his mother for a ticket to the cup final, probably even the semifinal.”

  “Supper’s ready,” said Elena.

  “Shall we call it a draw?” said his father.

  “No, Papa,” said Alexander. “I’m six moves away from checkmate, and you know it.”

  “Stop squabbling, you two,” said Elena, “and lay the table.”

  “When did I last manage to beat you?” asked his father as he placed his king on its side.

  “November the nineteenth, 1967,” said Alexander. The two of them stood up and shook hands.

  Alexander put the salt cellar back on the table and then packed the chess pieces into the box while his father took down three plates from the shelf above the sink. After he’d laid them on the table, Alexander opened the kitchen drawer and took out three knives and three forks of different vintage. He recalled a paragraph in War and Peace that he’d just translated. The Rostovs regularly enjoyed a five-course dinner (better word than supper—he would change it when he returned to his room), and a different set of cutlery accompanied each dish. The family also had a dozen liveried servants who stood behind each chair to serve the meals that had been prepared by three cooks, who never seemed to leave the kitchen. Alexander felt sure that the Rostovs couldn’t have had a better cook than his mother, otherwise she wouldn’t be working in the officers’ club.

  One day … he told himself, as he finished laying the table and sat down on the bench opposite his father. Elena joined them, with her latest offering, which she divided between the three of them, but not equally. The remains of the sausage had been cut into three pieces, the potato diced, and the peelings fried and made to look like a delicacy. Both of her men also had a parsnip along with a thick slab of black bread and lard.

  “I’ve got a church meeting this evening,” said Konstantin as he picked up his fork. “But I shouldn’t be back too late.”

  Alexander cut his sausage into four quarters, chewing each one slowly, between mouthfuls of bread and water. He saved the parsnip till last; the bland taste lingered in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he even liked it. In War and Peace, parsnips were only eaten by the servants. Despite taking their time, the meal was over in a few minutes.

  Konstantin emptied his glass of water, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, stood up, and left the room without another word.

  “You can go back to your books, Alexander. This shouldn’t take me too long,” Elena said with a wave of the hand.

  Alexander happily obeyed her. Back in his room, he replaced the word supper with dinner, before turning to the next page and continuing with his translation of Tolstoy’s masterpiece. The French were advancing on St. Petersburg …

  * * *

  When Konstantin left the apartment building and walked out onto the street, he was unaware of a pair of eyes staring down at him.

  Vladimir was looking aimlessly out of the window, unable to concentrate on his schoolwork, when he saw Mr. Karpenko coming out of the building. It was the third time that week. Where was he going at this time of night? Perhaps he should find out.

  Vladimir quickly left his room and tiptoed down the corridor. He could hear loud snoring coming from the front room, and peeped in to see his father slumped in a horsehair chair, an empty bottle of vodka lying by his side. He opened and closed the front door quietly, and then bolted down the stone steps and out onto the street. He looked to his left and spotted Mr. Karpenko turning the corner. He ran after him, but slowed down before he reached the end of the road.

  He peered around the corner, and watched as Comrade Karpenko went into St. Nicholas’s church. What a complete waste of time, thought Vladimir. The Orthodox Church may have been frowned on by the KGB, but it wasn’t actually banned. He was about to turn back and go home when out of the shadows appeared another man, who he’d never seen at church on Sundays.

  Vladimir slipped around the corner, but remained out of sight as he edged his way slowly towa
rd the church. He watched as two more men coming from the other direction also made their way inside. Vladimir froze when he heard footsteps behind him. He leaped over the wall and lay still. He waited until the man had passed before he crept through the graveyard to the back of the building and an entrance that only the choristers ever used. He turned the doorknob and cursed when it didn’t open.

  Looking around, he spotted a half-open window above him. He couldn’t quite reach it, so using a rough stone slab as a step he pushed himself up off the ground, and tried to grab on to the ledge. He managed it on his third attempt and with a supreme effort pulled himself up and squeezed his slim body through the open window before dropping down onto the floor on the other side.

  Vladimir made his way silently through the rooms at the back of the church to the nave, where he hid behind the altar. Once his heartbeat had returned to almost normal, he peered around the side of the altar to see a dozen men seated in the choir stalls, deep in conversation.

  “So when will you share your idea with the rest of the workforce?” one of them was asking.

  “Next Saturday, Stefan,” said Konstantin, “when all our comrades come together for the monthly works meeting. I’ll never have a better opportunity to convince them to join us.”

  “Not even a hint to some of the older hands as to what you have in mind?” asked another.

  “No. Our only chance of success will be surprise. We don’t need to alert the KGB as to what we are up to.”

  “But they are certain to have spies in the room, listening to your every word.”

  “I am aware of that, Mikhail. But by then the only thing they will be able to report back to their masters will be the strength of support we have for forming an independent trade union.”

  “Although I have no doubt the men will back you,” said a fourth voice, “no amount of rousing oratory can stop a bullet in its tracks.” Several of the men were nodding.

  “Once I’ve delivered my speech on Saturday,” said Konstantin, “the KGB will be wary of doing anything quite that stupid, because if they did, the men would rise as one, and then they’d never be able to squeeze the genie back into the bottle. However,” he continued, “Yuri is right. You’re all taking a considerable risk for a cause we’ve long believed in, so if anyone wishes to change their mind, and leave the group, now is the time to do so.”