Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “I don’t know where the money is!” screamed Tatty, “I don’t know where it is! I don’t!”

  Bobby looked at Tatty dispassionately and said, “I believe you, son.” Then he nodded at the bloke holding him. “No!” screamed Tatty desperately, but he was already being pushed over the edge and I could see his terrified eyes as he was pitched over the side. His scream was high-pitched like a little girl’s and it got quieter but somehow more shrill as he fell, only finally silenced when his body hit the edge of a skip and bounced off, landing hard on the ground next to it. He didn’t move.

  Bobby looked at me. “It’s in a lock up,” I told him quickly, “in black plastic bags in a garage on the Sunnydale estate, number 37. It’s got a green door and a padlock on it but you could break it off easy. Carey had the key.”

  Bobby looked at me for a minute that stretched out in front of me. Then he said, “All right, son,” before adding, “A deal’s a deal. We’ll let you walk.” And I couldn’t tell you how sweet those words sounded or how relieved I was to be walking away from this nightmare. I swore I would never do anything stupid or dangerous again. I knew right then and for sure that I’d do exactly what my dad told me to do. I’d get a job, marry a nice girl, have kids and never cross any one like Bobby Mahoney as long as I lived. I’d just disappear forever.

  Jerry Lemon let go of my hands and I straightened but almost fell off the edge. I desperately regained my balance and I was about to step slowly and carefully back down and away from the edge when Lemon said, “Course we will.” But he said it in a nasty, sarcastic way and straightaway I knew what was coming next. I felt a shove in my back and I was pushed out into thin air.

  As I fell, I didn’t even bother to flail my arms or scream because I knew there was nothing I could do to save myself. My life did not flash before me but I did see that barmaid’s face as I closed my eyes tight so I didn’t have to watch it happen, and I remembered my dad’s words again, “No short cuts, son.”

  “What the fuck did you do that for?” demanded Bobby.

  “What?” asked Jerry Lemon. “I thought you was joking.”

  “Joking?” Bobby Mahoney was furious. “I don’t joke, Jerry. I gave that lad my word, told him he could walk and you just shoved him over the edge? Fuck you think you’re playing at, man?”

  “He was a witness to three fucking murders and we were all in the frame for them,” Jerry was defiant. “He had to go.”

  “You won’t hear any argument from me,” said Joe Kinane.

  “Who asked for your opinion?” snapped Bobby and he turned back to Jerry, “I gave him my word. That might mean fuck all to you, you simple cunt, but it means something to me.” And he bared his teeth at Jerry.

  Jerry Lemon finally realized the trouble he was in. “I’m sorry Bobby. I didn’t mean to . . . I never thought . . . I just figured.”

  “Don’t think, don’t figure, leave that to me. Just do what you are fucking told in future!”

  Jerry nodded like a simpleton. “Yeah, yeah, course, sorry Bobby. Hey, it won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “It had better fucking not,” said Bobby, and he seemed to calm down, then he jabbed a finger at Jerry Lemon, “but you’re buying the beers tonight, and I do mean all night.”

  Kinane and Finney both laughed at Lemon then.

  “Fucking hell, that’s a bit harsh Bobby,” said Lemon, “the way these cunts put it away.” He jerked his head at Finney and Kinane but Bobby silenced him with a look.

  “Very generous of you, Jerry,” said Kinane. “Think I might have a few of the top shelf tonight, since you’re paying.”

  “Aye,” added Finney, “let’s go from one side of the optics all the way across the bar to the other.”

  “That’s settled then, Jerry,” confirmed Bobby, “tonight’s on you,” and his eyes took on a mischievous sparkle because to him the punishment had begun to fit the crime.

  “You’re a chiselling bunch of bastards, the lot of you,” said Lemon. Then he glanced over the edge of the building. “That last little bastard just cost me big time. I hope he’s happy.”

  “Yeah,” said Kinane, “he’s looking down from his cloud right now Jerry and he’s laughing his little cock off at you.”

  They all laughed as well. Except Jerry Lemon. “Ha-fucking-ha,” he said.

  Lullaby

  Susan Everett

  There is a man outside in a blue car. He is trying to steal my baby. I first noticed him three days ago, when he parked, sat, waited, and then calmly drove away. I knew that he’d come back. I recognized his face.

  I am not being paranoid, though I may be quite hormonal. I wonder how he tracked down my address.

  The doorbell rings.

  Angry.

  Abrupt.

  Accusing.

  I feel my throat tighten. I pad slowly down the wooden floorboards to the door. Part of me wants it to be him.

  I must be free of him. We must be free of him.

  The door to number 47 opened a fraction when the postman arrived with a parcel. Her face was blocked, but he could see the curve of her hand on the doorframe. He could not make out if she was wearing a wedding ring.

  The door closed and the postman walked away. Ian started to hum an old song by the Carpenters, but it clashed with the sounds of his FM radio and made him feel quite ill. He didn’t think that he would ever hear another song that had the power to make him smile. He clicked the stereo off. Silence. Bar the buzz of a passing bike, its metal spokes spinning, reminding him of school days, happy days, sunny days. Not now.

  Cars passed by, children ate crisps and dropped the packets, an untended dog spat a shit out of its arse.

  He made a note on his off-white pad.

  10.22. Nothing to report.

  That didn’t seem worth reporting. He made more of an effort.

  Occupant in the house.

  Occupant?

  He pushed the car door open as the postman strode along.

  “Excuse me?”

  The postie looked back at him, put on his workmanlike smile.

  “D’you know the name of the lady in number 47?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Number 47?”

  The postman chewed his upper lip, contemplating company policy.

  “Sorry mate, I don’t know if I should . . .”

  “Can you tell me if she’s pregnant?”

  “Um . . .”

  “You’ve just seen her. Please.”

  The postman’s bag slid off his shoulder as he shrugged. “Dunno. She were fatter before.”

  “Is there a baby?”

  The postman’s boots clicked against the pavement as he quickly walked away.

  “Please! Is there a baby?”

  The postmark is from Leicester. I peel off a layer of brown sticky tape and find another layer beneath. I imagine the sender sealing it up with extra care. Folding the contents in her warm, bread-baked hands, one sleeve first, and then the other. Left over right. Flipping it up to bend the bottom half into a sandwich made of little legs in the softest terry cloth.

  I pull out the romper suit and place it on the table. It is a paler blue than I remember from the advert, with a navy anchor on the right side at the front. It looks like a pocket, but it isn’t. I lift it up and smell it, expecting to smell babies, baby talc, baby sick, baby breaths – but there’s just the strong odour of Lenor, mixed with stale air that travelled miles within the bubble wrap.

  I cannot tell if this was ever worn. The eBay advert didn’t specify, and presumably you’d pay more if it was new, not that I paid much at all.

  If it’s new, why was the vendor selling? Perhaps an unwanted gift, one of many showered upon her by friends and relatives. Perhaps her baby was so chubby he was too big for it from birth. Perhaps she had a girl, but had bought both blue and pink before she knew the sex. Or perhaps her baby fell asleep and didn’t wake. Or died before he took a breath.

  It isn’t good to think about these thi
ngs. It isn’t good to think.

  10.48. Nothing to report.

  Apart from he was hungry. He missed his wife’s cooking, and even though he used to groan when she scraped leftover meat, veggies and gravy straight into the dogs’ bowls without asking if he’d finished, he vowed never to pull a face or sigh again. No more arguments about him coming in second place to her beloved dogs, with their photos and trophies spread around the house, taking over every wall and mantelpiece. The only photo of him was from their wedding day, and the only thing he had ever won was a runner-up prize for sprouts.

  He’d left her before – twice. He came back with his tail between his legs. She promised to change, he promised to change, and they carried on the same. But the last time, he had an ultimatum. He knew that the dogs were like her children, but he wanted a human child.

  A baby.

  A baby boy.

  A beloved baby boy.

  My baby was born by Caesarean section. Some women opt for these for lifestyle reasons, but with me there was no choice. There would simply be no life.

  Years ago, my grandma died in childbirth. The baby sucked the life from her, wedged inside her belly, kicking, kicking, but never getting out. Her husband would not let anybody come into the house. No one knew for over a week that they were dead in there. Home births are not safe.

  People get it wrong about the Caesarean myth. Those women chit-chatting in cosy pre-natal sessions, thinking that Julius Caesar was the first, hence the impressive name, and their own impressive impending child, the future mayor of Bingley, the manager of Leeds United or B & Q. They’re all wrong. It wasn’t Caesar, but an ancestor of his, who was ripped from his dead mother, and given the nickname as a reward. The lie became the truth.

  Caesarean derives from Latin. To kill. To cut.

  Caedo.

  Caedere.

  Cecidi

  Caesum.

  There are internet sites about it, with photos, explanations. It is good to do research. You can get a practical grasp of the process, its combination of sharp instruments and blunt dissection. It is not for the faint-hearted or the squeamish.

  It begins with the multiple layer incision, when the blade cuts through the crust of human skin. Then the uterine incision, slicing into the uterus, sliding through slimy liquid, stopping the point of the blade before nicking the babe himself. This is the danger point, when, unless you suction the amniotic fluids from the baby’s mouth, he can quickly drown. His little face, unable to take a breath, like a naked water vole plucked from a sewer.

  That’s why Caesareans don’t work at home. You need the right equipment.

  The cries begin as I walk upstairs with the romper suit.

  “Ssh. Be quiet.”

  Scratching against the door. Little paws with claws.

  “You’re not coming out.”

  I walk past the spare room door, the whimpering behind it. I should not have bought a dog. They do not mix with babies.

  I push open the door to the nursery; its yellow walls make me feel warmer as I enter the calm space. A waft of air tickles the mobile above the cot, bright birds and butterflies spinning.

  Adam is lying on his back, and if his eyes were open he could see red admirals and robins up above him. I read a book that said babies cannot see that far, but I’m not sure I believe it. I’d rather he had something to look at, not just an empty ceiling.

  “How’s my baby, hey? Are you all right?”

  I hang the romper suit over the side of the cot and reach in to lift him out. I know some people think newborn babies wrinkly and ugly, that only a mother can love them. But they are wrong. He is beautiful. His thin, hopeful lips. His eyes, so dark that they are almost black. His bubble of a nose and dimpled chin.

  “My boy.”

  I carry him to the changing table and carefully lay him down. I un-pop the press-studs on his clothing and peel it all away.

  “This one will suit you better, don’t you think?”

  I’m sure that he just smiled.

  He likes it. Sailor boy.

  11.15. Nothing to report.

  Other than that the police should be doing this, not him. He’d told them, his wife would never have gone off and left the dogs. She was eight months pregnant. They looked at him, nodded, said he could put in a missing person’s report, but he knew what they were thinking. She has left because you are a loser. Perhaps it’s not your child.

  “She would not have left the dogs.”

  When he came home from work five days before, the pugs were barking and twirling their question-mark tails, and Helen wasn’t there. She hadn’t left a note. It didn’t look like any of her clothes were missing, but in truth he couldn’t tell. Her car was gone. Her handbag. Her purse. Her mobile, which wasn’t on, so he left a garbled message. He imagined that she was at the supermarket, then lost hope when he saw the fridge was full. He rang her friends, her mother. They all told him not to worry. But they were worried now.

  He’d been driving around looking for her, even took the dogs for walks, not that they could walk for long, with their legs being so short. That’s when he realized that there was something missing. He was sure there were five puppies. He only counted four.

  I close the nursery door and let Adam rest in peace. I stop outside the spare room, can hear sniffling by my toes.

  “You want your mummy? Bet you do.”

  The first time that I saw Helen McNiece she was in the local newspaper, her smiling face alongside a smug pug. Both of them proudly pregnant, but only one a winner at Crufts. I remember touching my own belly as I looked at them, feeling a nervous kick against my hand.

  I’d wondered if this was her first child. If she’d had years of trying.

  That monthly dribble of disappointment.

  It was easy to track her down, as the newspaper gave the name of where she lived, and there was only one McNiece listed in the phonebook. She said it was lucky that I rang; it gave me the first pick of the litter. She would call me back when they were born. We became quite chatty on the phone, not that I told her anything personal, but we bonded. She emailed me photos of the pups when they arrived, and then, on the big day, we met.

  Helen McNiece was blooming as she welcomed me into her home and asked how far along I was. I told her just six months, though in my head it’s less than five. She rubbed her own belly in a soft, circular motion, and I copied. Though I’d tried to move my hand in the opposite direction to hers it somehow wasn’t possible. She laughed.

  I pulled my rubber gloves on in her kitchen as she went to fetch the pups. I avoided touching door handles and surfaces. I need not have brought a knife with me, her utensil jars were brimming. I felt blood rush to my head as I waited for her return. I had forgotten the rope; I’d left it in the garage. My eyes skirted round the surfaces, but all I could see was a roll of clingfilm and a spaghetti jar. I considered using clingfilm, I could have got behind her, stretched it across her face and started to wrap. Pulled it tight around, again, again, her mouth gulping like a giant carp. Hanging on until the air dripped out of her and she dropped on to the floor.

  I flicked my arms behind my back as she returned with an armful of pug pups. She tipped them on to the kitchen lino and they bumped around her ankles, sniffing her shoes, snapping at her laces as she laughed. Their smudged faces rippling with heavy thought lines on their brows.

  I could do it now, I plotted, as she leant over, the pups jumping up and snapping at her long hair.

  I could move round behind her.

  Do it.

  As I took a step, the largest pup bounded towards me, yelping.

  Helen smiled. “I think she’s chosen you.”

  The pup dribbled on my boot. Dark chocolate eyes looked up at me, trusting. I thought I heard a growl, then realized it was a car engine approaching. Tyres crunched along the gravel drive. We had company.

  Helen noticed my rubber gloves and gave me a quizzical look.

  “Urine,” I shrugged. “Just i
n case.”

  She didn’t understand. I felt conspicuous.

  “I have allergies.” I smiled. She looked relieved, as if I wasn’t mad.

  Her husband barely glanced at me as he came through the door, mumbling something about work. I patted all the puppies, and made a big show of taking photos on my mobile phone, saying I needed more time to decide. This was a life-changing decision, after all.

  She had looked disappointed.

  * * *

  11.30. Action needed. About to approach the house.

  He had arrived at number 47 through the work of a detective. Not any of those he had spoken to, but something he had once seen on the telly. He’d gently rubbed a pencil over the notepad by the phone, and made out the indentations of the last words his wife had written.

  baked beans

  coleslaw

  worms

  47 Atherton Rd

  There were two Atherton Roads within a twenty-mile radius, and he had been to both. He’d parked outside, in the hope that his wife would step out of the front door.

  He slid from the driver’s seat, taking his notebook with him. Snapped the door shut and locked it. Walked towards the house and rang the bell.

  Nobody answered so he rang again. He considered going through the little gate at the side of the house and knocking round the back.

  The front door opened.

  Ian was heavy with disappointment. It wasn’t Helen. He had so wanted this to be her, but deep down knew it wouldn’t be. He hadn’t wanted to ring the bell because he knew that she was lost to him. He’d had that feeling, since the moment he came home to an empty house. That he wouldn’t see his wife again, and that he’d never meet his son.

  The woman on the doorstep looked uneasy. He tried to explain himself.

  “I’m looking for my wife. I wondered if you’d seen her?”

  He pulled a photo from his wallet, the one he’d carried with him for eight years.

  “Her name’s Helen McNiece. She’s pregnant. Not in the photo, but now. And she’s younger then. But she still looks the same.”

  The woman’s eyes flickered as she took a closer look. Ian stared at her, his eyes stinging. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it. He guessed that she was older than Helen, who was thirty-five. This woman was at least forty, not that he was an expert on these things. But she was familiar . . . He realized. She looked like a plumper version of that American actress, the one in the film with the boiling rabbit and the knife.