Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Okay.” There was a gap of just a few inches between Mrs Hilton’s balcony and Simone Lewis’s. “Please show me.”

  She nodded and took him to the shared landing that both front doors faced. Simone Lewis’s was locked. Mrs Hilton unlocked her own door and tilted her head towards the inside of her flat. “Just lean over.”

  The balcony led from the sitting room but, rather than follow him, Mrs Hilton remained in the doorway that led to the kitchen and watched him as he stepped outside. The blue lights from the ambulance were pulsing across the outside wall. He shone his torch across to next door but it took several seconds of staring through the flashing to pick out the full details. Shards of glass littered the floor and the base of a smashed tumbler lay in a puddle of liquid. Beside it a paperback was splayed open on its back. He swung the beam of the torch into each corner but there was nothing else immediately visible. Below him the sounds had quietened to just the clipped voices of the paramedics interspersed with the chatter of official radio communications. When he looked down he found Gully collecting details from potential witnesses. He directed his torch, making one quick sweep of the narrow flowerbeds outside the ground-floor window, and when he swung it back, away from where Simone had fallen, he caught sight of metal glinting in the adjacent garden’s rockery.

  Gully watched the ambulance doors close before turning to face Goodhew. “She regained consciousness briefly.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Yes, that we shouldn’t worry, no one pushed her. She said it a couple of times, too many for my liking.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Hm.” He held up the evidence bag. “I found her phone on the grass, just there.” He directed his torch on to the spot where he’d pushed a Biro into the ground to mark the phone’s original location. Then he pressed its buttons through the plastic and tilted the screen in her direction. “This is the last photo she took, timed at 6.43 this evening.” An image of an open page of the Bible appeared. “A time to be born and a time to die. Is that what Simone Lewis was quoting?”

  Gully read the first line and nodded. “For everything there is a season? Deep eh?” Gully ran her fingers up the side of the screen, then tapped at one corner. “Look at that, you can see the floor in the background. If you could zoom in I think you’d be able to see the tiles properly.”

  He hadn’t noticed anything but the wording until then, but when he squinted the gold on dark terracotta tiles came into a better focus. There was something almost Celtic in their design and he recognized them immediately. “It’s the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”

  She frowned. “Where?”

  “You know, the Round Church.”

  “And that means something?”

  “We’ll see. It’ll be closed until the morning. Right now I need to find Simone’s friend Tabitha.”

  Tabitha Whyte lived five minutes’ walk from the airport and the Electoral Roll listed the only other occupant as Robert John Stanley. Goodhew could have rung ahead but he chose not to, even though it was now past 11 p.m. She’d been crying, he noticed that before anything else. He saw her surprise as she opened the door, then confusion next as he introduced himself.

  “Has something happened?” Her eyes were puffy from tears, but tired too. She wore a cream cardigan wrapped across her body. She pulled it a little tighter. In another month she’d be thirty-one, but right now she looked older. “Is it Bobby?”

  He shook his head, “Simone Lewis? She’s a friend of yours?” He watched her closely.

  She nodded.

  “She’s injured. She was found in the street, possibly a fall from her balcony.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “She’s in Addenbrooke’s, but I don’t know anymore yet.”

  “Has someone told her mum?”

  “It’s in hand.”

  She nodded slowly and looked beyond him, towards the head of the cul-de-sac. “You’d better come in.”

  She closed the front door behind them but made no attempt to move out of the hallway. “So, how did it happen?”

  “You visited her earlier today? What time exactly.”

  “After five, maybe half-past. I hadn’t seen her for a day or two, dropped by to make sure she was okay.”

  “And was she?”

  Tabitha snorted as though one of them had just said something amusing. “Oh yes, she was fine.” Despite their redness her eyes shone darkly. “She had this boyfriend Ollie. She’d been with him for about five years, thought it was the real thing until she found out he’d been at it with one of the temps at his work. What a cliché. Simone’s beautiful and clever and he chucks it all in. Why do blokes do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Goodhew shrugged, then thought of his own upbringing. “It’s not just men though,” he added.

  “Oh, I realize that.” She studied him and seemed to be weighing up what she should say next. He could have prompted her, but curiosity kept him silent. “Every time Ollie turns up saying he’s made a mistake, Simone ends up in a mess.”

  “Because she still has feelings for him?”

  “Exactly. And he’s still with the other one. And when I went over today I thought Simone might be cut up and hiding away again. But she wasn’t exactly—” She stopped suddenly. “She was on the balcony, on the phone. I didn’t go up.”

  “So you don’t know if she was alone?”

  “I’m guessing she was, but no, I can’t be sure.” She glanced at her watch, then, instead of explaining anything further, she turned and walked through the door to the kitchen, “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  She filled the kettle and switched it on but did nothing else towards preparing drinks. She leant back against the worktop. “I think she was on the phone to my boyfriend, Bobby.”

  “Which is why you’ve been crying?”

  She didn’t bother to reply. “She didn’t know I’d be there and I heard her talking, telling him how I mustn’t find out.”

  “Then what?”

  “She saw me and I left. I guess losing your boyfriend to your best friend is pretty clichéd too. I came back here and waited, Bobby came back home and we had a huge fight.” She clasped her hands in front of her, knitting her fingers together and studying the way they overlapped. “He left about ten minutes later and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “Just before eight. You think she was pushed then?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “All I wanted was for her to flush Ollie out of her system. I should have been more careful about what I wished for.” Her gaze held steady for just a few more seconds. She blinked, suddenly fighting tears, and he saw her hands begin to tremble. “Who am I kidding? How could I want her hurt when I love her so much?”

  To Goodhew it was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; that had been the name that his grandfather had always used, but almost everyone else just called it the Round Church. He arrived a few minutes after the doors were unlocked and crossed the tiled floor towards the small information desk near the rear of the building. He’d been inside a few times. The first had been a primary school visit when they’d gone inside to make pencil sketches of the 900-year-old columns and arches. Then, as now, it struck him that the building looked far bigger on the inside than it did from outside.

  There were two people at the desk, a man and a woman, both in their mid-twenties, pale-skinned as though neither saw daylight very often. He placed a 6 × 4 photo of Simone Lewis in front of them. “I believe this woman came here yesterday. Do either of you recognize her?”

  The woman muttered something Goodhew couldn’t catch and the man frowned, picked up the print and studied it closely. “I think you’re right,” he said to her, then handed it back to Goodhew. “There was a young woman who came in early yesterday evening. She seemed a bit disorientated and I asked her if I could help. She told me she just wanted to look round, asked if that was
okay. I carried on doing something else then but Adrienne watched her . . .”

  “Not because I thought I needed to, just because I was at a loose end. It’s often quiet in here. I often watch people.” Adrienne paused as if she expected Goodhew to comment. To Goodhew it seemed a pity that there were so many people that never bothered keeping an eye on the world around them, so he simply nodded and it was enough for her to continue. “When Josh was speaking to her I could see her looking behind him, trying to spot something. I guessed the Bible of course.”

  “There’s a type of visitor who sometimes comes,” Josh cut in, “not a tourist or a regular churchgoer but maybe someone whose circumstances drive them to end up here. For guidance.”

  Goodhew felt sceptical and it must have shown. Adrienne shook her head at him. “It happens you know. And this woman went over to the pews and picked up a Bible. She was decisive as she opened it, she didn’t flick forwards or backwards, just photographed that one page.”

  “And then what?”

  “She left.” Adrienne nodded in the direction of the door. “She stood out there talking on her mobile phone for about half an hour.”

  “Are you sure?” Goodhew asked sharply.

  “Yes. Next time I looked she’d gone.”

  “No, no, I mean the mobile. Are you sure she was using her phone?”

  “Absolutely. Is that a problem?”

  He shook his head slowly, “Actually no, I don’t think it is.” He saw the glimmer of the answer then, maybe not the whole answer but at the very least the next question to ask. Goodhew didn’t need to recheck Simone’s phone; he remembered the call history clearly and he knew that there had been no calls at all since her visit to the Round Church.

  Goodhew had returned to Parkside and updated DI Marks. From then it had taken another two hours before the phone records had answered his questions. And now he waited in Ollie Maundrell’s flat while Ollie’s girlfriend Paula plied him with a third coffee.

  “I can text him,” she offered, also for the third time. She’d already assured him that Ollie would be back by one and it was still only five to.

  The only conversation someone in Paula’s position ever really wanted was the one that allowed her to ask why he was there, and instead the focus became time-killing small talk through each slow-moving minute. Paula heard his key in the door first and hurried across the room to speak to him. Goodhew had a clear view through to the short hallway. Maundrell had the tall and broad look of a rugby player. He tilted his head towards her as she quietly explained then tilted his head further still to take stock of Goodhew through the open doorway.

  Maundrell pushed his jacket into her hands and walked into the front room. “What do you want?”

  “We’re investigating an assault on a former girlfriend of yours. Simone Lewis.”

  “We heard about it.”

  Paula slipped into the room behind Maundrell and stood quietly against the wall. She still held his jacket but more tightly now. During the first couple of questions her gaze remained pinned on Goodhew. “When did you last see Simone?” he asked, and saw her focus switch to the back of her boyfriend’s head.

  Maundrell wetted his lips before speaking. “We broke up months ago.”

  “But that’s not an answer to the question, is it?” Goodhew felt his own expression close down and his voice switch to a more clinical tone. “I’m asking when you last met with Simone.”

  Maundrell shrugged. “Months ago, Paula and I—”

  “Telephone communication then?”

  Maundrell’s weight shifted on to the other foot. “Not as long, but still weeks back.” Goodhew knew Maundrell was lying and, judging by her expression, Paula knew it too.

  Goodhew glanced down at the sheet of A4 in his hand even though every detail on it was clear in his mind. “But yesterday evening Simone called your mobile.”

  “She might have tried, but I didn’t speak to her.”

  “Who did then? The call lasted eleven minutes and forty-two seconds. I doubt she spoke to your girlfriend for that length of time, did she Mr Maundrell?”

  Maundrell sighed. “No. Simone rang me.” He turned slightly towards Paula, “It was the usual, begging me to come back. I didn’t want to upset you with it.”

  She said nothing, her expression fixed with apprehension. Maundrell turned further towards her then, but she shrugged him away.

  “He’s twisting the truth,” Goodhew spoke quietly. “Simone rang Mr Maundrell because she’d made a decision. It was never totally over between your boyfriend and Simone Lewis until last night. Simone spoke to him then deleted him from her phone. She ended it, Paula. And, in the end, it was nothing to do with you.”

  “Liar,” she muttered. For a moment he wasn’t sure where the words were aimed. “Psycho you called her.” She flung the jacket at Maundrell. “You said she owed you. She was the reason we have no money, no life, that you’re working every bloody hour paying off the debts she left you. Liar, Ollie. I found out it’s all lies weeks ago, the texts, the emails, even the key to her flat. Why couldn’t you just leave her alone?”

  “I tried. But you and I have been fighting so much . . . I don’t expect you to understand, but she has always been there for me.”

  “Oh, I worked that out,” she snapped.

  “Simone and I weren’t getting back together.”

  “How could you when part of you had never left? Do you even know how often you mention her? Or compare me to her, or tell me about places you went together and the things you did?” Paula was leaning close to Ollie, her body rigid and her face just inches from his. “Do you even know how much she’s hurt me?”

  Maundrell’s eyes widened. “What the hell did you do, Paula?”

  “What do you think? I did what you’d promised me you’d done yourself. I’ve got her out of our life. I shoved her and she fell, and the only thing I regret is that she isn’t dead.”

  Goodhew arrested her then. Maundrell just looked on in silence. “I’ll need to take a statement from you, Mr Maundrell.”

  Maundrell nodded.

  “Did Miss Lewis even know you had a key?”

  “No, she didn’t. I should have been more careful, Paula’s always been so jealous.”

  At 3.05 p.m. Goodhew had called on Tabitha Whyte. She’d still been wearing the same jeans and cream cardigan as the night before and he would have thought she’d slept in them except it didn’t look as though she’d slept at all. She’d eyed him warily, then held the front door open, expecting him to step inside.

  He’d shaken his head. “Simone has regained consciousness,” he’d told her, then watched as she’d pressed one hand to her face and drawn several slow breaths.

  “Thank God,” she’d murmured.

  “I thought you might like to come to Addenbrooke’s.”

  “Yes. Hang on.” She’d reached back inside and grabbed a handbag from the hallway then stepped into the street, locking the door behind her. “Does she know what happened to her?”

  Goodhew had waited until they were inside the hospital and close to the ward before handing her the same sheet of A4 that he’d carried for most of the afternoon. “How many of these do you recognize?”

  There were four numbers on the list. She pointed to the bottom two. “Those are mine, home and mobile.” She drew an invisible circle around the other two with the tip of her finger. “They look familiar but I can’t think . . . hang on.” She’d delved into her handbag and produced her own mobile phone. Then she’d scrolled through the address book for a few seconds “Okay, well, the top number is Simone’s ex, Ollie’s, and the second . . . oh.” Her frown deepened. “Why is he on the list?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother Harry.”

  In the few seconds that had followed he’d watched deep furrows cloud her face and now, finally the realization that pushed them aside. “These are the calls to and from her phone?” she asked.

  “Yes, in the last forty-eight hours.”r />
  Her skin blanched slightly and she shook her head. “My boyfriend’s number isn’t there, is it?”

  “No.”

  She glanced at the door to the ward but, instead of going towards it, stepped back and dropped into the nearest seat. “I can’t face her now, can I? What an idiot.” She pressed her face into her palms. “What a complete idiot I’ve been. She was in pieces when Ollie cheated on her and I couldn’t understand why she’d betray me like that.” She leant back against the wall and looked up at Goodhew, “And, of course, she wouldn’t.”

  Goodhew pulled up a second chair and sat beside her. “My DI spoke to her earlier. She remembers being pushed, but claims she doesn’t know who it was.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “We know that, but I think she’s scared it was.”

  “Well then, she’s stupid,” she said softly, and for the first time a small smile touched her lips. “And I guess we’ve been as stupid as each other then. Am I allowed to see her?”

  Goodhew nodded. “We’ll go in together. I need to tell her we’ve made an arrest.”

  Billy Micklehurst’s Run

  Tim Willocks

  In the winter, Billy Micklehurst used to say, when the nights were bitter and long and you woke up before first light with your hair frozen fast to your collar, and when the hostels and dosshouses were crammed to the doors with the fallen – or when you just weren’t in the mood for the company of the living – then Billy, in his raggedy suit and his laceless shoes and with his shoulders hunched against the wind, would make the long march from the nether world between Deansgate and the river, through the concrete bunkers of Hulme and the splendored decay of Moss Side, and past all manner of things upon the way, until he found the sanctuary he craved in the great necropolis of Southern Cemetery.

  There were over a million graves in Southern Cemetery, said Billy. He knew this to be true for he had counted every tombstone himself – each and every one, he swore – and had read by moonlight the names and valedictions on more than just a few of them. Furthermore – and this next revelation he prefaced with a backward glance over either hunched shoulder, as if to exclude the unwelcome presence of eavesdroppers and spies – he claimed to be familiar with the still earthbound spirits of certain of those long entombed and poetically memorialized dead. The identities of these still-present dead he refused to reveal – to anyone, not even me – because, Billy said, they had entrusted him with some small but precious part of their soul, and it would have been a breach of that trust to identify those spirits who had elected him their guardian and saviour in this world.