MYSTERY TOUR
A CRIME WRITERS’ ASSOCIATION ANTHOLOGY
Edited by
MARTIN EDWARDS
Contents
Title page
Dedication
Introduction – Martin Edwards
Ann Cleeves – The Queen of Mystery
Anna Mazzola – Return to the Lake
C.L. Taylor – You’ll Be Dead by Dawn
Carol Anne Davis – The Last Supper
Cath Staincliffe – The White Goddess
Chris Simms – High Flyer
Christine Poulson – Accounting for Murder
Ed James – Travel Is Dangerous
Gordon Brown – Take the Money and Run?
J.M. Hewitt – No Way Back
Judith Cutler – Mystery Tour
Julia Crouch – Wife on Tour
Kate Ellis – The Naked Lady of Prague
Kate Rhodes – Snowbird
Martin Edwards – The Repentance Wood
Martine Bailey – A Mouthful of Restaurant
Maxim Jakubowski – Cruising for a Killing
Michael Stanley – Three on a Trail
Paul Charles – The Riddle of the Humming Bee
Paul Gitsham – Writer’s Block
Peter Lovesey – Lady Luck
Ragnar Jónasson – A Postcard from Iceland
Sarah Rayne – A Clever Evil
Shawn Reilly Simmons – The Prodigy
Susi Holliday – A Slight Change of Plan
Vaseem Khan – Bombay Brigadoon
William Burton McCormick – Matricide and Ice Cream
William Ryan – The Spoils
About the Authors
Copyright
Dedicated to the CWA Committee, in appreciation of their commitment to the cause of crime writing.
Introduction
Welcome to Mystery Tour, an anthology of new stories by members of the Crime Writers’ Association. Contributors were invited to write stories reflecting the unifying theme of travel and intriguing destinations, and they have interpreted the brief in fascinating and diverse ways.
Diversity and quality are also hallmarks of the list of contributors. Two stories come from recipients of the CWA Diamond Dagger, while the others are the work of a pleasing mix of bestsellers, relative newcomers, fast-rising stars, and stalwarts of the genre. Contributions from overseas members emphasise the book’s international flavour.
The crime genre embraces so many different types of writing that it offers something of interest to almost any reading taste. The CWA plays a central role in promoting crime writing in general and the work of its members in particular. Producing anthologies of stories (as well as occasional non-fiction collections, such as Truly Criminal, which appeared a couple of years ago) is just one of many aspects of the CWA ’s activities. It’s an important aspect, though, because it has helped to keep the crime short story alive in the UK, offering a valuable outlet when many others have long since vanished.
When the very first CWA collection of stories appeared back in 1956, the editorial committee did not hide their gloom about the future prospects of short crime fiction. By publishing an anthology almost every year over the past six decades, as well as by inaugurating the prestigious CWA Short Story Dagger more than thirty years ago, the CWA has made sure that those anxieties proved unfounded. Past winners of the CWA Short Story Dagger include Jeffrey Deaver, John Connolly, Ian Rankin, Denise Mina, Stella Duffy, Reginald Hill – and also Peter Lovesey, who has written a brand-new story for Mystery Tour.
Today, even more so than when the CWA was founded sixty-four years ago, the publishing industry is in a state of flux. For all its massive global popularity, crime writing, both fact and fiction, is as susceptible to the winds of change as any other branch of the creative arts. This means that the need for an effective professional organisation for crime writers has never been greater. The CWA has risen to the challenge, pursuing an ever-increasing range of activities on behalf of its members. And this has borne fruit. Membership numbers have, at the time of writing, reached an all-time high.
So have revenues, but because the CWA is a non-profit organisation, income from publications like Mystery Tour, as well as from subscription fees, sponsorships and other activities, is invested in expanding the range of benefits for members, including promotional opportunities via social media and other platforms. The recent appointment of both a CWA Libraries’ Champion and a CWA Booksellers’ Champion are innovations that reflect a strong commitment to supporting libraries and library readers, as well as booksellers and book-buyers.
All this activity has many knock-on benefits for the reading public. These include the opportunity to subscribe to free publications, including the monthly Crime Readers’ Association newsletter. Meanwhile, the establishment this year of the British Crime Writing Archives at Gladstone’s Library near Chester means that crime fans and researchers from all over the world now have the chance to explore the genre’s rich heritage in unique and attractive surroundings. In the archives they’ll find, among much else, correspondence revealing that the title of one of the CWA ’s earliest anthologies was dreamed up by Raymond Chandler, who urged his friend Michael Gilbert to call it Some Like Them Dead.
The appearance of Mystery Tour therefore forms part of a much bigger picture. It’s a collection that offers a showcase for some splendid writers and for an organisation whose achievements even the ambitious John Creasey couldn’t have foreseen when he founded the CWA back in 1953. My thanks go to all the contributors, the CWA Board, and everyone who has offered help and support in bringing this book into existence. I hope that crime readers, whatever branch of the genre they prefer, will find plenty to keep them entertained as they embark on this particular mystery tour.
Martin Edwards
The Queen of Mystery
Ann Cleeves
At Malice Domestic they call me the Queen of Mystery. Of course I’m flattered by the description but I’d never use it about myself. Malice is a crime convention for true lovers of the traditional mystery novel, a celebration of the gentle art of killing. And I do kill my characters very kindly, without torture or the gratuitous description of pain. But we aren’t brash or flash at Malice. Self-promotion is frowned upon. Unfortunately, some of the newer writers don’t observe the conventions. I’ve seen t-shirts printed with jacket covers, giveaway candy, the blatant canvassing for awards. I’m Stella Monkhouse and I’m above that sort of thing.
I feel at home at Malice. It’s my convention. When I walk in through the hotel lobby I sense the flutter of the fans as they point me out to each other. I always dress my best to arrive. There are writers here too of course, and I wave to them as if we’re tremendous friends, but really this is a performance for the common reader and the wannabe writer. I need those people’s admiration, and their envy, more than the shared gossip over dreadful wine with fellow authors.
It helps that I was born British. Malice Domestic is always held in Bethesda, Maryland, but it celebrates the English detective tradition. Most of the regular attendees are ladies of a certain age, and the weekend always ends with afternoon tea. I came to the US when I was young to work as a secretary for a publisher in New York City; perhaps I had ambitions to write even then – certainly I hoped to make a name for myself. My husband was a senior editor with the company and much older than I; we never had children. I thought then that was a good thing because it allowed me to focus on my work. Now I wonder what it might be like to leave behind more of myself than a pile of stories.
People sometimes mistake me for my series character. Molly Gregory is the gentle owner of a coffee shop in rural Massachusetts. She quilts, has a cat called Sherlock and solves murders in her spare time. I’m nothing like Mol
ly, though I smile when readers ask me to send their love to Sherlock. One has a certain responsibility not to disappoint one’s audience. But I’ve always adored living in the city and I wouldn’t know one end of a knitting needle from another.
Publishers and other writers consider me ruthless, overly ambitious. They call me a monster behind my back though they turn on the charm when I arrive. I’m the star. The multi-Agatha-award-winner. So why shouldn’t I upstage them a little when we appear together on a panel? I’m a professional and this is a competitive business. Besides, I’m more entertaining than they are, and it’s me the readers have come to see.
There’s no line to check in, and the receptionist recognises me. ‘So glad to have you with us again, Ms Monkhouse.’ This year I’m not guest of honour and I have to pay for my own room. That rankles a little, but someone else has to have a chance to shine, and next year they’ll all be talking about me again. This year it’s little Emily Furlow. She sets her books in Cornwall, though she’d never stepped foot outside Idaho when she started writing. She sent me her first book to blurb, but I couldn’t bring myself to comment. On my way to the elevator I see her surrounded by a group of readers, but I don’t join them. I give a regal wave as befits the Queen of Mystery and move on.
In my room I unpack and hang up the dress I’ll wear for the awards dinner. I’ve been nominated again for an Agatha so I need to look my best. It’s expected. The winner is chosen by readers over the weekend, and I’m confident that their loyalty will see me through. The sight of Emily with her entourage has unnerved me a little though. It’s essential that I end my career on top. Second best has never been good enough for Stella Monkhouse, and it certainly won’t do for this weekend. For a moment I feel something like self-pity. Or old age. Emily is at least thirty years younger than I am. In that moment I suspect that my recent books lack the wit and pace of the earlier titles and that she’s a better writer than I am. I ban the thought immediately and prepare to meet my fans.
There is nowhere for me to sit to do my make-up. The only mirror is the long one just inside the door, where the light is appalling. My husband called the make-up my war paint, and today I need it more than I’ve ever done. Clive and I were never passionate, but for a while we suited each other. Squinting in the gloom to fix my mascara I wish that he were here with me.
I sweep into the lobby just as everyone is gathering for the opening reception. There’s a pay bar and I’m tempted to buy myself a large glass of wine, but today I need a clear head. I target members of the committee, hitting them with my special smile and the force of my personality. I need to dazzle them. These are the influential women who plan the convention and whose superb organisation keeps it going year after year. Like a politician I can make them feel special. I remember the names of their husbands and who has a son or daughter looking for an internship in the business. Many of them do. I don’t actually promise that my publisher will provide their offspring with work experience, but they’re left with the impression that it’s a real possibility. I haven’t put this much effort into working a convention since I was a young writer struggling to make a name for myself with my first book.
When I feel at the top of my game, glittering, I head for Emily Furlow. She’s sitting on the floor next to a group of women who sit on the bright-red cubes of plastic that pass as seats. There’s a glass of juice on the floor next to her – Emily, of course, never drinks alcohol. It occurs to me that I could slip an overdose of my medication into it and lose the competition forever, but I know that Emily dead will be much more popular than Emily alive. Dead, she would certainly upstage me.
There’s a stir as I approach. ‘Stella,’ she says. ‘How lovely!’ She’s on her feet in one movement, and we kiss on both cheeks. She’s shorter than me, and I have to stoop. ‘I adored your latest book.’
I smile and murmur that she’s very kind, then I turn my attention to the readers. The voters. There are a couple of women from Texas who come to Malice every year, and I ask after their grandchildren. That’s always a winner. We’re called into the reception, and the group walks along with me leaving Emily behind.
That night I struggle to sleep. The following evening will be the awards ceremony and I want to look my best. I think about Clive again. Before his death I thought I might enjoy living on my own with no distractions, but suddenly I realise I’m missing him dreadfully. I think of a possible parallel universe, one where I live like most of the attendees – a life cluttered with children and responsibilities, the demands of friendship. For a moment it has its attractions, but I know I couldn’t stand it.
I wake to a beautiful Maryland late-spring day and decide that I’ll go out to my favourite French café for breakfast. I can walk that far, despite the arthritis in my spine, and the fresh air will be good for me. In the far corner of the café Emily Furlow is sitting quite alone, her nose in a book. My book. For a brief second I’m tempted to join her. I wonder what she really makes of it, whether she thinks it’s up to my usual standard, but the moment passes and I find a corner of my own and pretend I haven’t noticed her. Because I’m in a strange mood. If she were kind to me I might be prompted to some sort of confession, and that isn’t part of the plan at all. Not yet.
The awards dinner is just as it always is. The women have dressed in their finery and some of the men are wearing tuxes. Tradition is respected at Malice. The toast mistress is Catriona, another of my rivals – a Scottish woman based in California. She’s witty and keeps things tight and fun, so we come very quickly to the announcement of the prizes. When the moment arrives, I wonder if I’ve lost the passion to win. Perhaps I could drift into retirement after all, take up knitting and quilting like my heroine. Bring a dog into my life. Perhaps it would be better if Emily took over my mantle. I hate to admit it, but she is a fine writer.
I pour myself a glass of wine; the other people at my table turn out not to be great drinkers. Catriona is opening the envelope. I fidget in my purse – after all, this mustn’t seem to matter too much – so I’m not looking at the stage when the announcement is made.
It’s me. I’ve beaten the record for the longest reign as Agatha champion. The glad-handing, the enquiries about grandchildren, the promises of internships that will never be kept, have all paid off. The people at my table rise to their feet and begin cheering. I grab my wine and walk a little unsteadily to the stage. There Catriona kisses me on both cheeks, though I sense her disappointment. She admires Emily’s work. I sip the drink and take the microphone. The custom is that speeches are kept very short, but this is an unusual occasion. As soon as I start speaking they will listen to me.
‘This is my last time at Malice, and I thank you all for making it so special. There will be no more Molly Gregory and no more Sherlock.’
There are horrified boos and cries of ‘Shame!’ I pause. I’ve always had a sense of dramatic timing.
‘By tomorrow morning there will be no more Stella Monkhouse.’
There’s a sudden silence, a few embarrassed giggles, because they think I’m making a tasteless joke.
‘In my fiction I take research seriously. I know about poison, the prescription meds that can kill.’ I lift my glass in a mock toast. ‘In here there’s more than enough to finish me off.’ I’d taken the pills from my purse while Catriona was speaking and I drink the remainder of the wine with a very unladylike gulp.
Ironically, I’ve never felt more alive. Not even when I was holding the pillow over poor Clive’s mouth to kill him. He asked me to do it – after the stroke he knew he was holding me back – but he never expected me to agree. When I can’t sleep I’m haunted by his pleading eyes, begging me to let him live. However, this isn’t a time for regrets. This is what I’ve always wanted: to be the centre of attention, to shock and thrill with my words. And I know that when I’m dead my books will shoot to the top of the bestseller lists, for a while at least. Articles will be written about me. The obituaries will tell the world that I died as a champio
n. I couldn’t have borne to be a woman who once was the Queen of Mystery, who slid into obscurity as her writing lost its power. Now, I’ll reign for ever.
Return to the Lake
Anna Mazzola
The evening air was sharp with the tang of salt, algae, barbecue smoke, and the lake shifted silver in the fading light. Two small boys were wading in the shallows, shouting, trying to collect something in empty jam jars, and Alice, standing on the cracked front steps of the house, almost wanted to warn them. But that was absurd, of course. It happened years ago. She drew on her cigarette and stared at the water stretching before her, edged with tall fir trees, which moved in the breeze.
‘You don’t have to come,’ her mother had told her back in England. ‘But I thought it might be nice: the family together again. A chance for Michael to get to know everyone properly before the big day.’
‘Yes, of course.’ For they had barely met him. Michael was her new world, her better world; she had done what she could to keep them apart, but she could not do so forever.
She stared, still, at the lake. Here and there, she glimpsed dark, undistinguishable shapes beneath the surface, rippling the water, changing its flow. She had not been able to ask why her mother had chosen to return here after all this time. Perhaps it was a kind of memorial, or a way of letting go.
Alice heard footsteps behind her, felt Michael’s arm around her waist. She leaned into him, smelling sweet sweat and suntan lotion. He didn’t speak, and for that she was grateful. There was nothing she could say about it now. There never really was.
The lake was a favourite haunt of picnickers – mostly French, but with a smattering of Germans, Austrians, Italians, Brits. Some came just for a day trip; others camped on a hill by the lake, as she and Clara had done that night. The apartments her parents rented were in a large, shambling house overlooking the water. In the years since they had last visited the place had been allowed to decay: paint flaked from the front door and the windows were coated with a film of dirt.
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