Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Yep. Got a big one through the court today, fourth time of asking.”

  “Fourth?”

  “His lawyer kept finding an excuse to postpone it, get more time. Just stalling though, they knew the minute we got them in court it was done.”

  “Big case?”

  “You don’t read the papers, huh? Irish guy, Quinn?”

  Toby paused, his mouth did a wobble before finding the words. “Shit, that was you?”

  Mickey put his drink hand up in the air as if celebrating a goal. “Yep. Took me four attempts, but he’s down. Pushing for the lethal.”

  “Wow. Big day then, huh?”

  “Yeah, just don’t tell your A/C. It might get ambitious.”

  They both paused, drawn to look out into the street. The city down here had a way of telling you when to look, like a sixth sense. A guy walked past outside, naked except for a pair of briefs and a guitar case. He seemed oblivious to the stares he was attracting, bopping down the street with iPod earphones in. Nobody could see where the iPod was tucked.

  After everyone in the street turned back to look for a new thing, a woman walked into the bar. Toby and Mickey both noticed her, cute ass in tight jeans, motorcycle boots. Toby’s head filled with a hundred different song lyrics, but he didn’t have a pad to write any of them down.

  “Get you a drink?” he said.

  Mickey slid across the three stools between him and the woman. “Whatever she wants,” he said, “on me.”

  She didn’t decline or feign politeness. She just took the drink and stared down into it for a second. Toby noticed a few freckles on the bridge of her nose, then stopped himself before he got annoying.

  “Not seen you in here before?” Mickey tried again, all his frustrated charm amounting to nothing more than a mumble.

  She turned to meet him, smiling a little at his failed attempts at suave. “You’re Michael Loew, right?” Her voice was low and cracked slightly, a genuine Irish accent in a city that could fake it with the best of them.

  Mickey was not one of the people who could fake it, and his attempt to say, “Aye” in an Irish accent died at the back of his throat, came out more like, “Arr.”

  Great, Mickey the Pirate, Toby thought.

  The Irish girl reached into her handbag and pulled out a large gun. She’d pumped four rounds straight into Mickey before Toby had time to blink. She turned to point the gun at him, holding it there while she downed the drink. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, smudging her dark lipstick ever so slightly, and toasted Toby with the empty glass, “Sláinte.”

  Toby didn’t let out another breath until she’d turned and walked out.

  Dion heard the gunshots and then a moment later saw the woman walk out of the bar and head away from them up Mott. She was walking calmly, not worried that police sirens might cut the air at any moment. Dion liked that, it was cool. He tucked his hands into his pockets and walked with his head down low, trying to look casual, as he followed her up the street. Halfway up, she slowed down and then stopped. Still not worried about police, amazing. She kicked off her boots, the main thing Dion remembered about her, and threw them over the wall into the churchyard. Out of her handbag she pulled a small pair of slip-on shoes and stepped into them. Next she pulled out a small hat, one of those old-school things that all the white women were wearing, and slipped it on at an angle.

  At the top of Mott she crossed diagonally, heading for the subway. Two blocks down Dion could see Marlo, walking slowly away from them on the other side of the street. Renée would be somewhere out of sight, he could feel it.

  Detective Marcus leaned against the squad car, its blue lights bouncing off the back of the church wall like an old French film. He watched his partner come out of the bar and cross the road to him, ignoring the reporter who was buzzing around them like a housefly.

  “What you get?” Marcus said.

  “Nothing useful,” Doyle said. “He just keeps talking about his A/C being broke. He did say something about an Irish woman with freckles. It was like talking to you.”

  Marcus laughed and waved away Doyle’s joke. He watched as she turned to talk to the reporter, quietly telling him to get to fuck. She would surprise folk, a dark and attractive native woman with an Irish name; it seemed to throw them off. Marcus was an old Jewish man with a Jewish name, didn’t seem to surprise anybody.

  “Let’s take him over to the fifth,” Marcus said once Doyle had scared off the crime tourist, “Get him some coffee and a cell. You never know, might turn out he’s our guy.”

  Doyle cocked her head to one side and shot him a look, “You even looked in there? No way he climbed over the bar to shoot Loew from that angle. And where’s the gun?”

  “I’m just saying. Wouldn’t it be nice an easy?”

  “When is it ever?”

  Marcus nodded at that, then his thoughts drifted for a second, snapped back, “So, this Loew, he’s a city lawyer, right?”

  “Yes. Part of the team who did the Quinn case today.”

  “No shit? I never heard his name before?”

  She shook her head. “Wasn’t a big part. Did some of the paperwork, research. I talked to his boss, he says Loew was their go-to guy for the smallprint. He got round the delays from Quinn’s defence team.”

  “Okay. And the barman says the shooter was an Irish woman, right? No way is that coincidence. We should put someone on the other members of the legal team.”

  Doyle shot him that look again. “You think I’m new at this?”

  “Already done it?”

  “Already done it.”

  One of the uniforms stepped close, looking nervous around the two detectives. “Uh, we got another one, up on East Houston. Gun-related, figured you’d want to see it.”

  Doyle leaned low over the body; its glassy eyes still staring up at the railing of the subway entrance. A nice-looking hat lay nearby, looking like it had been knocked off the woman’s head as she fell.

  “No coincidences, huh?” Doyle stood back up and walked over to where Marcus was catching the story from the uniform who’d caught it. “You sure about that?”

  Marcus smiled thinly and nodded, then he took a turn to look down at the woman’s body. First thing he noticed were the bullet holes across her chest and abdomen, four of them, probably fired fast at point blank. Second thing he noticed were the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  “So you reckon if we check her ID she’ll be Irish, huh?”

  Doyle nodded to the nearest squad car and said, “Let’s find out.”

  The shooter was cuffed in the back of the car, caught straightaway by one of the squad cars that had been on its way to the bar. Two other youths had been seen at the scene, a girl with blood all over her nose and a black male running on a nasty-looking limp. But the cops had prioritized catching the third one, who’d been stood holding a gun and a woman’s handbag.

  “What’s the shooter’s name?” Doyle asked.

  Marcus rechecked his notes. “Uh, Dion. DeWhite Dion. Name rings a bell.”

  “Related to Black Top Dion?”

  “I bet you he is. Say, a beer after work?”

  Doyle looked him up and down with a faint smile then said, “Yeah, okay. Only if we’re right, though.”

  They both bent to look on the front seat, where the victim’s bag was lying. Her ID lay beside it. Margaret Quinn, twenty-seven. Definitely Irish. They both stayed silent for a long time and then Doyle said, “This is fucked up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If she’s the shooter from the bar, where’s her gun?”

  They both looked to where the murder weapon lay, in a plastic bag on the hood of the car, at pretty much the same time they both said, “Can’t be.”

  Then Marcus looked back along East Houston toward the corner of Mott. After a moment he said, “What you reckon we go back to the bar, see if we can’t convince that A/C guy of yours that his shooter was a young black kid?”

  “Think you can do it?”


  “A dinner after our beer says I can?”

  “You’re on.”

  No Flowers

  Martin Edwards

  Sunlight burst through the arched windows. For an instant, Kelly was blinded.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Brett asked.

  “It’s . . . amazing.”

  Despite the sunlight, the house felt chilly. As she shaded her eyes, she couldn’t help shivering.

  “I knew you’d love it!” He nodded towards the brilliant light. “Those aren’t the original leaded windows, but triple glazing in precisely the same style. There was never any stained glass in St Lucy’s, but no expense has been spared, promise.”

  “St Lucy’s?”

  “Name of the old church. The developer changed it to Meadow View. More appropriate, truly rural.”

  “And you want to move in soon?”

  “Today!” Decisiveness was a quality he prized. “The deal is done, contracts were exchanged simultaneously with completion.”

  “Already?”

  “I had to keep my plan secret, in case negotiations broke down.”

  “You’re so thoughtful.” She hugged him. “And it really is ours?”

  “Down to the last maple floorboard.” He lowered his voice, and for a few seconds it was almost as if the house were still a church. “I only hope it goes a little way towards making up for – you know . . . what happened.”

  Churlish and ungrateful to say nothing could make up for what happened. She was thankful that he cared so much. After she lost the baby, he might have abandoned her. But in his way, he had tried his best to offer comfort.

  “I want to put your name on the title deeds,” he said. “We can sort the paperwork once you give the landlord notice to quit your flat.”

  “I don’t care about title deeds,” she said. Financial and legal stuff meant nothing to her, she was happy to leave bureaucracy to him. He was the banker, after all. She only worked in a florist’s. “But . . . is there a bus route nearby? How will I get to the shop?”

  “I’ll buy you a car,” he said, “though really, sweetie, you don’t want to stay stuck behind a counter all day.”

  “I like the job,” she said. “You know I love flowers.”

  “Why not design a floral arrangement for the sitting area? This space calls out for a splash of colour, make a contrast with the potted palm.”

  “A customer once told me palms symbolize the victory of the faithful over enemies of the soul.” She gazed at the exposed rafters of the ceiling. “How old is this place?”

  “A hundred and forty years old.”

  “When did it stop being a church?”

  “The last service was held three years ago.” He shook his head. “I bet there were scarcely half a dozen old folk in the congregation. The church authorities realized St Lucy’s was uneconomic. In the end, five parishes were merged, and the redundant churches put on the market. Sound business decision, the figures never added up.”

  “Sad, though.”

  “There comes a time when you have to rationalize,” he said.

  For a moment, she recalled those endless nights, crying herself to sleep in her poky flat, when she feared he might rationalize her out of his life. Foolish of her, she should have shown more trust.

  “The conversion was a labour of love,” Brett said. “St Lucy’s was bought by a man called Dixon. He was born round here, but moved to London with his family. I gather he dreamed of coming back to the village. Not that there was much of a village left to come back to.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The school closed, along with the post office, and the pub was knocked down. Most of the cottages on the main street have become second homes or a base for commuting couples. According to the estate agent, hardly anyone has lived in the village more than five years.”

  “Pity.”

  “Progress, sweetie. By all accounts, the whole area cried out for an upgrade, investment was required. Don’t fret, there’s a retail park ten minutes away by car, they sell everything you could wish for. You won’t have to depend on some grubby little village shop for over-priced groceries.”

  She squeezed past the potted palm, which was nearly as tall as Brett, and sank into the clutches of a leather sofa, one of three stationed at right angles to each other. An enormous television screen completed the square.

  “You can’t see the wiring,” he said. “It’s cleverly concealed, but we have the latest cinema sound system.”

  At a flick of a remote, the screen sprang to life. A rock band, performing in concert. Kelly didn’t recognize their contorted faces; flowers were her thing, not music. The sound deafened her, the strobe lights made her want to shut her eyes.

  “The equipment is all to the highest specification,” Brett said, as he silenced the acoustic guitar. “Hot water underfloor heating. Zoned thermostats. And it’s environmentally friendly, with a bio-treatment sewage system. Come and see the mezzanine gallery.”

  As she followed him up the stairs, he maintained a running commentary on their surroundings. “Matching maple treads, see? The black strings are made of steel. The safety glass meets the highest standards.”

  As they reached the top, Kelly found herself facing an enormous four-poster bed.

  “Silk curtains as well as sheets,” he said. “Over there is our en-suite bathroom. Mahogany-framed Shoji screens for privacy – not that we need worry about that when we don’t have guests to stay.”

  “Guests?”

  “Sure, you know how important it is for me to entertain clients and colleagues. My progress up the ladder depends on keeping them satisfied. You’ll enjoy the company, honestly.”

  Kelly said nothing. Brett’s best clients were from the Middle East, rich men who traded in oil. They oozed charm, but she didn’t care for the way they looked at her.

  “Seriously, you’ll be able to experiment.” He paused. “You know, you can try out all the appliances in that wonderful kitchen downstairs.”

  She gazed across the living space to the gleaming breakfast bar and state-of-the-art stainless-steel units at the far end of the house. She and Brett might have boarded a starship, where no germs and grime could survive.

  “This is where the organist used to play,” Brett said, waving towards the matching bedroom cupboards. “But when the place was converted, of course the organ had to go.”

  Later, Kelly took herself out for a walk while Brett made a few calls. He always had calls to make, he liked to say that he made sure his clients always got whatever they wanted. The grounds of Meadow View were smaller than she’d expected, though as Brett said, that wasn’t a problem, since neither of them was a gardener. She could plant a few flowers at the back. He’d dig out a border to keep her happy.

  There were no gravestones. Another selling point of the property, Brett explained; it was rare to find an Anglican church in this part of England without accompanying graveyard. St Lucy’s cemetery once sprawled behind the rectory, he’d heard, but the parish allowed it to become overgrown, a haunt for the village’s few indigenous teenagers to misbehave with each other and take drugs at night when no adults were around. The planners insisted it was tidied up as part of the regeneration project. Now the gravestones lined a neat formal garden that linked the lane to the main street. Brett wasn’t sure if the remains were left under the redeveloped land or re-interred elsewhere, but the whole garden was monitored by CCTV and the gates were locked as soon as darkness fell. Much more respectful.

  Beyond the meadow, a string of industrial units lined the horizon. Sun glinted on their dark metal roofs. A throaty rumble came from vehicles queuing on the slip road, although the new motorway was invisible. Across the lane from Meadow View stood a large building almost as old as her new home. At first she thought it was another house, and wondered what her new neighbours would be like, but then she saw the front garden had been turned into a car park with spaces marked for half a dozen cars, and spotted a freshly pai
nted board announcing the place as headquarters of Old Rectory Technology Solutions. A sign indicated the way to the Meadow Memorial Garden, but Kelly ignored it. The memory of her lost baby was too raw for her to wish to confront fresh reminders of mortality.

  The lane was narrow, and lacked a pavement. Three times in as many minutes; Kelly pressed herself into the hawthorn hedge as a lorry raced round the bend on the wrong side of the road, taking a short cut to the business park. At least there was no need to worry about traffic noise in the house. Brett said the triple glazing made it soundproof.

  A couple of hundred yards further on, the lane dog-legged and Kelly saw the junction with the main street that ran through the village. A shame the school had closed. A quiet place in the countryside was perfect for bringing up youngsters. She wanted to try again soon for another baby, even though her pregnancy had been an accident. To begin with, she’d dreaded Brett’s reaction when she broke the news. He admitted thinking he was still too young for fatherhood, but after that first fraught conversation, he’d never raised the possibility of abortion again. The miscarriage was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, worse even than her mother’s death from cancer – Dad had deserted them when she was five, and she’d never heard from him since – but at least she had Brett. He wept when she lost the baby, though he soon seemed to get over it. She rid herself of any impression that his generosity was tinged with relief. Her mother used to be fond of saying that everything happens for the best in the long run, though Mum’s own troubled life scarcely proved her point.

  “Are you the new person?” a hoarse voice asked.

  Kelly’s thoughts had wandered, and she hadn’t seen the old woman leaning on the gate of a dilapidated cottage close to the junction. The woman’s white hair was untidy, and her lined face reminded Kelly of parchment. Her misty grey eyes were fixed on some point far away. She wore an ancient black overcoat that seemed too big for her. An unlikely soulmate, but if the village was to become her home, Kelly must make friends, and this old biddy would have forgotten far more about the neighbourhood than incomers would ever know.