Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

Ignoring Castro, O’Shea looked up and scanned the room; desk to his left, the open window, a metal cabinet in front and the door to his right . . .

  Another guttural snicker then he asked, “You gotta have seen her naked over the years . . . seen her maturing . . . an’ then, a guy like you must’ve been tempted?”

  He continued to scrutinize the sparsely furnished room, particularly the wide-open window beyond the desk.

  “Don’t fuckin’ ignore me, ya low-life piece of shit!” yelled Castro, pistol-whipping him on both cheeks.

  The chair jolted noisily off the floor and O’Shea shook his head violently, as if to clear the pain somehow. It didn’t work. His jawbones throbbed like hell and he felt dizzy.

  “So, let me put a scenario to ya, Jack . . . there’s these two cops on patrol. It’s late at night, not much happenin’. To relieve the boredom they cruise over to the red-light district, near the arches on the edge of town. They see this fit piece of black meat and decide to have some fun, get her into the back of the van. She’s cold, right? And she trusts the cops. They ask a few cop-like questions, but no worries, par for the course in her line of work, so nothin’ untoward there, right? Then she’s threatened with arrest cos she’s already had her quota of street warnings. But she don’t wanna spend the night in a cell cos she’s rattling an’ clucking, cold turkey, right? So they notice this, and the conversation turns to . . . ‘What can you do for us?’ . . . Right? One cop climbs into the back an’ whips his cock out . . . an’ she gets down to it. But, no, he’s not happy with that . . . he wants to feel this whore, taste her. But she’s not happy with that, and so the second cop pins her down. Then they both abuse their positions big time . . . and of course, the girl. Afterwards, they just laugh and dump her back on the streets . . . the piece of meat she is, right?”

  Jack motioned an emphatic “NO” with his head.

  “So, what do ya think of that scenario then?” he asks, almost casually, before ripping the duct tape from O’Shea’s mouth.

  “Aaargh! Fuck . . .”

  “Bet that’s what you said on the night, innit?”

  O’Shea opened his mouth, stretching his aching jaw and stinging facial muscles. His mind still foggy, he tried to speak, but just croaked. He cleared his throat with a cough. “I didn’t . . . do anything . . . I swear.”

  “Bullshit, bitch!” Castro forced the Browning into O’Shea’s mouth, the muzzle clattering against his teeth, making him heave. “Just cos some bullshit internal enquiry says you did shit, don’t make it so, ya punk-arsed pig. I want a fuckin’ confession. Now!”

  O’Shea just eyeballed him, had no choice. He could feel the metallic tang, the grind of metal on teeth. The sickly taste of the gun’s last discharge made him heave again. He wondered who it had been used on. Castro yanked the pistol from the cop’s mouth, scraping a molar on its exit. A sharp pain was followed by a hint of blood oozing on to the back of O’Shea’s tongue.

  Ignoring the pain, and the banging headache, he tried to compose himself, think straight. With a deep breath, he said, “Believe what you want . . . but I know the truth.”

  “The truth? The fuckin’ truth!”

  “Yeah . . . and I . . . did nothing that night.”

  “Nothin’?” Castro’s dark eyes flared. “You raped ma fuckin daughter, ya cunt!”

  “She was lying, Castro . . . and what the hell are you playing at anyway . . . pimping out your own flesh and blood like that?”

  Castro suddenly became quiet, his eyes narrowing. He turned his back, shoulders sagging. Smoothing his braided hair, his voice hushed. “But times have been real hard. It’s a fuckin’ jungle on the street, man. And, anyway, she was more than willing . . .”

  O’Shea’s senses continued to slowly kick in, and he realized just how musty the room was, increasing his nausea. He couldn’t quite place the smell, but it was familiar. “Imagine how hard times will be . . . if you kill me. A life sentence, fella.”

  Castro pivoted, grimacing, pointing the Browning toward O’Shea’s forehead. “Yeah, but it’ll be worth it. I’d be a hero inside for killin’ a pervert cop.”

  “Whoa. I’m not so sure about that, Castro. Pimps are classed as sex offenders in prison . . . just like the paedos.”

  “Don’tcha fuckin’ compare me to no nonce, man!”

  “Well, my daughter’s only fourteen, you know.” He gazed at the photo on the desk.

  “That’s well different. You smartarse cops always twist things. This isn’t about me, man . . . it’s about you.” Rushing forward a pace, he raised the gun, pointing it at O’Shea, whose head flicked from side to side. Leering, he inched closer, pressing the pistol into the cop’s brow.

  O’Shea winced, thought of his family.

  “Thirteen rounds in this magazine, Jack. Well, there was. Unlucky for some, eh?”

  Was? O’Shea glanced at the wallet photo on the desk. He tried to stop his voice from trembling, but being parched wasn’t helping. “But . . . but what’s the point, Castro, when I honestly did nothing wrong? The judge threw it out of court, remember?”

  The gun remained pressed against O’Shea’s forehead, creating a ringed imprint. “Rah, rah, everyone knows you all piss in the same pot. Confess or die, you cunt!”

  “Pleeease! You know that’s . . . not the case. Loads of bad guys get off with shit . . . including you.”

  Castro lowered the gun. “You’re pecking ma head, man. You smartarse muthas do ma box in.” He turned, picked up the duct tape from the desk.

  “Look . . . before you do that . . . please, just let me tell you about that night.”

  Castro hesitated, glared. “It better be fuckin’ good, pig.”

  O’Shea glanced out of the open window, the view of rooftops in the distance telling him he was high up, the blue sky and wafting breeze teasing him. “Please, hear me out . . .” he began. “It was a cold night, very cold. My partner, Webber, saw Shannice standing on the corner. She was freezing, had no coat on. He shouted her over. We took her into the van, flicked the heater on and chatted. Suggested ways she could get off the brown. Rehab programmes, drugs workers and all that. I even gave her a coffee from my own flask to warm her up. We were with her for about twenty-five minutes, half-hour tops, when she insisted on hitting the streets again, saying she was losing money for every second spent talking to us. So we dropped her off, told her to be careful. She even thanked us for caring . . . for God’s sake.”

  “Not good enough, O’Shea. Nice touch blaming Webber for shouting her over, though. That lying piece of shit.” He noisily yanked duct tape from the roll, bit a strip off.

  O’Shea briefly considered his partner. They spoke daily. Surely he’d be out looking for O’Shea by now. He had to keep stalling. “Okay then. If it’s as you said, then why did Shannice not get examined at the hospital? She refused, remember?”

  He held the strip of duct tape outstretched, aloft, his right index finger resting perilously on the Browning’s trigger. “It was too late.”

  “Exactly. She left it too late. I mean, five days later she reports it.”

  The pimp stepped forward a pace. “She was scared of repercussions.”

  “I’m not having that, as it’s the easiest thing to do. Contrary to popular belief, and unlike with the public, if you accuse a cop of anything, he’s guilty straightaway, until proven otherwise. Because no one likes a dirty cop, including other cops. I’ve already been through hell these last eighteen months.”

  “Nice speech, O’Shea. Even I’m beginning to believe you. No wonder you got off with it.”

  “Okay, why didn’t Shannice hand over the clothes she wore that night?”

  “She’d already washed them.”

  “Surely it was worth a shot though, if not for DNA, then fibres.”

  “You’re twisting again. Don’t wind me up, you mutha! Or you’ll end up like . . .” He fleetingly turned to the cabinet.

  “Like what . . . who?”

  Castro ignored him,
screwed up the duct tape, went to the window and stared outside.

  O’Shea’s fuzzy mind drifted back to his children. They were too young to lose their daddy. He cursed himself for trusting this career criminal, saying he had “info of interest to the police”. Should’ve taken Webber with him, dammit. He glanced at the door to his right, then back to Castro. He heard traffic below, emanating from the gaping window. He tugged on the ligatures. No use. Think!

  He swallowed, then said, “My guess is that Shannice, like many others, saw an opportunity. The chance of getting off the streets by winning a shed-load of compensation, and even selling her story to the papers and then living happily ever after.”

  “Fuck this, man!” yelled Castro manically, passing the metal cabinet and banging the butt of the gun on it in anger. The left cabinet door slowly opened behind him, as he turned and forced the Browning into O’Shea’s gob again.

  This time Castro leaned in real close, his contracting pupils inches from O’Shea’s. He was so close that O’Shea could smell his breath. It smelt like dog shit, a reflection of its owner.

  O’Shea could just about see the left cabinet door, now fully open. His heart somersaulted and he double-blinked in a rush of panic. Webber was squashed inside, eyes staring like a dead salmon, but seeing nothing. The bullet hole in his forehead ensured that.

  Castro seemed to notice what O’Shea had seen and glanced behind for a second. O’Shea bit down hard on the gun’s barrel. With a twist of his neck he yanked the pistol from his kidnapper’s grasp and flicked it overhead. The gun clattered on the floor. Castro’s eyebrows shot up to his creasing brow, as O’Shea lunged forward, still tied to the chair. The cop’s gaping mouth impacted Castro’s neck, forcing him backward on to the desk. O’Shea clamped his teeth down, feeling the skin giving then splitting. The taste of blood, bitter and metallic, flooded warm in his mouth, spurted up into the air as he rocked his head side to side and ripped at the flesh like a hyena on speed. He felt Castro’s desperate punches thudding on his head. But O’Shea continued, tearing into the pimp’s throat, survival instinct and desperation driving him on, until Castro’s screams became a pathetic gurgle.

  O’Shea was standing in a painfully awkward crouch, the chair sticking out behind him. He yanked repeatedly, ripping bloody tendrils out, feeling them rubbery between his teeth, Castro now offering silent screams, his vocal cords in bits. O’Shea re-clamped his aching incisors and dragged Castro inch by painful inch along the desk closer to the open window. Castro’s dark, bloodshot eyes swamped with fear and tears, his leg kicking out like a giant, upturned insect. O’Shea struggled with the weight, so unclamped again and sank his blood-dripping teeth into the pimp’s thigh. The punches hitting him now were like that of a child’s.

  Half out of the window, Castro’s head jerked up and O’Shea looked into those dark, defeated eyes one last time, showing their true cowardly colours as they pleaded mercy. Ignoring the pain in his gums and neck, and the increasing weight of the chair, O’Shea swiftly switched his grip. He bit hard on to Castro’s belt, before heaving him that crucial last few inches, the slippery blood-drenched desk O’Shea’s ally.

  Relief flooding him, O’Shea peered over the window’s sill . . . and mentally waved “bye-bye” to the cop killer, whose eyes bulged in disbelief as he plummeted.

  Seconds later, O’Shea heard screams from below and sank backward, clumsily into the chair still strapped to him, knowing his colleagues would soon be here.

  Breathlessly, he surveyed the bloody scene; incredible how much of the fluid covered the walls, desk and floor. He, himself, was soaked from head to toe in Castro’s claret. He prayed that the pimp hadn’t dipped into too many of his girls. He spat sprays of Castro’s sickly fluid repeatedly on to the floor in disgust.

  His best mate, Webber, eyed him. How could he possibly tell Webber’s wife and kids about this? His emotions bubbled and he saw his open wallet on the floor, the blood-spattered photo of his own three children staring back up at him. It was all too much. He cried red tears.

  As he heard the sirens, he reflected. He knew the world would be a better place without Castro. And, as a vampiric smirk formed, he also knew that bitch, Shannice, had enjoyed it. He could tell by her eyes.

  Secret of the Dead

  David Stuart Davies

  It was Reuben Flowers, landlord of the Shoulder of Mutton, who found Annie Lincoln. She was floating in the village pond. Flowers had been taking his retriever for its early morning constitutional when he spotted a body lying face downwards. He recognized the old woman’s plaid shawl, which was spread out on the still water like bat’s wings. Stepping into the pond, he grabbed Annie’s ankles and heaved her body on to the grass bank.

  “She’s a dead ’un, all right,” he said, turning the body over and gazing down at the pale lifeless face. “Silly old girl. She must have missed her footing and gone in head first,” he murmured, addressing the dog. The hound stared back inscrutably.

  “Hello, I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

  Richard Cuff stared at the tall thin youth who stood on the threshold of his little cottage. He had a cadaverous, intelligent face with a long nose and dark expressive eyes. His manner was polite but there was something about him, thought Cuff, which radiated a confidence and a certain amount of arrogance beyond his years.

  “Oh?” responded Cuff and waited for further data.

  The youth shifted his feet. “I’ve come to help you.”

  “Have you now? I wasn’t aware that I needed any help.”

  “It was my aunt’s idea. I’m staying with her for the summer. My parents are in Europe with my brother.”

  “And who might this aunt be?”

  Holmes ruffled his hair, suddenly aware that he was not explaining himself very well. “It’s Mrs Dryfield, up at the Grange. She said that you were a keen gardener but now that you’ve been struck with a bad attack of sciatica you weren’t able to . . .” The boy’s voice trailed away.

  Cuff smiled. “So she sent you down to be my assistant. My under gardener.”

  Holmes returned the smile. “I suppose so.”

  “Well, that is mighty thoughtful of your aunt. Indeed, she is a thoughtful woman. I have had reason to thank her for her kindnesses in the past but in this instance I don’t really think—”

  “Oh, please Mr Cuff, do let me help. I’m awfully bored up at the Grange. I’ve read all the books I brought with me and there’s nothing to do there. I just need something to occupy my time. And, for another thing . . .”

  Cuff’s face shifted into a gentle inquisitive frown. “Yes?”

  “Well, I believe you used to be a detective.”

  “I reckon it’s time you came in for a cup of tea, young man. I think you’ve earned it.” Cuff had been standing at the end of the vegetable patch for some time unobserved by Sherlock Holmes who was busy turning over the earth and creating furrowed rows in readiness for the planting of potatoes.

  Holmes looked up, ran his sleeve across his brow and nodded.

  “My aunt tells me you were a policeman in London,” he said as he lifted the large mug of tea from the rough wooden table in Cuff’s kitchen. He scrutinized the man opposite him, the grizzled head bowed, with bright intelligent eyes and long white fingers now somewhat gnarled with age.

  “Your aunt is quite correct. But I came up to Yorkshire to investigate the strange affair of the Moonstone diamond . . .”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve read all about that. It’s an honour to meet you, sir. The history of crime is a passion of mine.”

  “Well, I liked the county so much I came back up here to live when I retired. The air is much sweeter than in the metropolis.”

  “Don’t you miss the detective life? Solving crimes, unravelling mysteries?” Holmes asked after taking a sip from the mug of very hot, dark brown tea.

  Cuff chuckled, his eyes steel sharp. “It’s not like it is in stories. Investigating crime can be tedious and boring at times as well. Ah, but you’re righ
t, I suppose. I do miss it. Police work gives you an appetite for folk.”

  Holmes gave him a puzzled frown.

  “I like to know how people tick and what’s going on up here.” He tapped his forehead. “What a person says is often different from what they think, but little things give them away. You for example.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I can tell that you are interested in chemistry, you make use of that old punchbag Mrs Dryfield keeps in the outhouse and that you are somewhat jealous of your older brother swanning off to Europe with ma and pa.”

  Holmes smiled.

  “Am I right?”

  “I suppose so. How did you know?”

  “By using my intelligence and my eyes. I deduced, you see. A young lad with chemical stains on his shirt and jacket, especially in the school holidays, must have some interest in the subject of chemistry. I’ve seen the old punchbag and I’ve seen your bruised knuckles. You’re obviously an active fellow who likes to keep fit.”

  “And me being jealous?”

  “Ah, well spotting that comes with practice. Interviewing people for all those years one learns how to interpret not just words but tone and expression. You fathom the ways of men and women. When you told me about your brother your eyes narrowed momentarily and there was a cool timbre in your voice and a slight purse of the lips. That spoke volumes to an old sleuth hound like me.”

  Holmes clapped his hands together in appreciation. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, perhaps I could reciprocate and tell you something about yourself.”

  “That would be most interesting.” The old man gave him an indulgent smile.

  “Well,” said Holmes, “I should say that you have misplaced your spectacles this morning and that you’ve recently lost a pet dog, probably through old age.”

  Cuff’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, Master Holmes, you are quite correct. Now you tell me how you arrived at these conclusions.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands with pleasure. “It is clear that you normally wear spectacles. The red rim across the bridge of your nose and the indentations on either side proclaim as much. But you are not wearing them at present and yet I observe this morning’s paper, folded and unread on the table. Similarly your post remains unattended to, two envelopes unopened because you cannot read the contents without your spectacles. And finally, you are wearing odd socks.”