Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Surprising them? You just said it was a tradition.”

  “We had no idea which day he would arrive.”

  “From what I hear, he was better at springing surprises than receiving them.”

  “His heart condition, you mean? Yes, he had to be careful. He’d had two coronaries since retiring. He withdrew entirely from the business. I’ve been running it for years.”

  “But he remained the senior partner?”

  “Sleeping partner is a better description, but ‘partner’ is the operative word.”

  “So he still had a slice of the profits?”

  “Fifty-fifty. We’re still Merriman & Palmer, a respected name in Bath. He deserved some reward for all the years he put in.”

  “And will his family get a share of any future profits?”

  “There is no family.”

  “So it all comes to you now?”

  Maurice Palmer turned deep pink above his striped collar. “Unless I take on another partner.”

  Diamond glanced around the room. “Let’s talk about the party. What kind of bash was it?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “Did you finish the sherry between you?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Three bottles between four of you would have been good going. Were they all freshly bought?”

  “Yes, indeed, from the wine merchant in Broad Street.”

  “Who opened them?”

  “Fletcher – and he did the pouring as well. He liked us to be aware that he was the provider.”

  “You didn’t keep the bottles, by any chance?”

  “The dead men?” He shook his head. “They went out the same evening with the rest of what was left.”

  “And was the mistletoe put to good use?”

  Palmer glanced towards the door and lowered his voice. “You must understand that my esteemed ex-colleague belonged to a generation before PC came in, when a little of what you fancy was no offence.”

  “He was an old goat?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Would the women?”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t be so disrespectful.”

  “But you didn’t have to be kissed under the mistletoe.”

  “Hardly.”

  “I’ll speak presently to someone who did. Tell me, Mr Palmer, did you try one of the mince pies?”

  “I had three. And very good they were. He always bought them from Maisie’s, the best baker in town. They were still warm.”

  “No ill-effects?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And how did the party end?”

  “With Fletcher complaining of stomach pains and saying he needed to get home. We called a taxi. Next morning I heard he was in hospital and some hours later he had a fatal heart attack. Sad, but not unexpected, allowing for his medical history.”

  “You didn’t shed any tears, then?”

  “He was not an easy person to have as a business partner. But that doesn’t mean I wished him to suffer.”

  Diamond had heard all he needed at this stage, so he asked to Palmer to send in Sylvie Smith.

  “In here?” Palmer said in surprise.

  “The scene of the crime – if, indeed, there was a crime. Where better?”

  “You wish to interview her in my presence?”

  “No, I suggest you wait outside and see if her double-entries are up to the mark.”

  Sylvie Smith looked nervous, and more so when Diamond waved her towards her boss’s high-back executive chair. “Give yourself a treat. One day all this could be yours.”

  “I doubt that very much.” She perched uneasily on the edge of the chair.

  Diamond preferred to stand. “So how many of old Mr Merriman’s surprise parties have you attended?”

  “This was the second. I joined the firm after leaving college, towards the end of last year.”

  “The first time it happened you must have wondered what was up when he rolled through in his wheelchair primed with mistletoe and sherry. Did he insist on a kiss?”

  Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “He called it his Christmas cuddle. I’d hardly ever met him.”

  “He took it as his right?”

  “It makes me sick to think of it.”

  “If you’d complained, your job would have been at risk – and there aren’t many openings in Bath for freshly qualified accountants.”

  She rolled her eyes upwards. “That’s for sure.”

  “Did you know this was an annual ordeal?”

  “Donna said something about it, but I thought she was winding me up.”

  “Donna is the other woman who works here?”

  She nodded. “She’s been here six years. She’ll be chartered next year if all goes well.”

  “But she isn’t in today?”

  “Decided to take some of her annual leave.”

  “Gone away for Christmas?”

  “I don’t think so. She has a flat in Walcot Street.”

  “Lives alone, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What age is Donna? All right. Indiscreet question. Is she under forty?”

  “I expect so.”

  Diamond looked up at the bare ceiling. There was no central light. There were wall-lights representing candles. “I’m trying to picture this party. Presumably the old boy sat in his wheelchair under some mistletoe. I can’t see where it was attached.”

  “We had to tie string across the room, from one of the wall-lights to the one opposite. Then the mistletoe was hung over the string just above where you’re standing.”

  “Got it. When you say ‘we’ . . . ?”

  “Me and Donna.”

  “I’m getting the picture now. So whoever attached the mistletoe to the string must have stood on this table beside me to do it. Who was that?”

  Sylvie rolled her eyes again. “He insisted it was me. Said I had the longer reach.” She hesitated and turned as red as a Christmas card robin. “I happened to be wearing a short skirt.”

  “The picture is even clearer. Where was Mr Palmer while you were on the table?”

  “Mr Palmer? Some way off, by the fireplace, I think. It was Mr Merriman who had the ringside view, almost underneath me in his wheelchair.”

  “Did he hand you the mistletoe himself?”

  “No. He was far too busy looking up my skirt. It was Donna who helped me.”

  “So when he’d got over that excitement, and the mistletoe was in place, the party got under way. Drinks all round, no doubt?”

  She nodded. “I needed one.”

  “The sherry was where?”

  “On the table.”

  “And the glasses?”

  “Mr Palmer keeps some in his drawer.”

  “As every boss should. Did Mr Palmer pour?”

  “Mr Merriman did.”

  “Did you notice if the sherry was new, the bottles sealed at the neck?”

  “I’m certain of it. He had to borrow scissors.”

  “You know why I’m interested? Something upset his stomach and if the sherry was new I’m thinking it must have been the mince pies.”

  She shook her head. “They were fresh, too, fresh as anything, in boxes from Maisie’s. Actually they were delicious.”

  Diamond felt his stomach juices stirring. “So you had one?”

  “Three, at least. We all did.”

  “And could anyone have slipped the old man a mince pie from anywhere else?”

  “I don’t see how. We were all in here together.”

  “Making merry?”

  “Making a stab at it.”

  “I expect a few glasses of sherry helped.”

  She took a sharp breath. “Not when he grabbed me and forced me on to his lap for the kiss under the mistletoe. That was disgusting. His bony old hands were everywhere.” She shuddered. “It went on for over a minute. I could have strangled him.”

  “But you didn’t. Did Donna get the same treatment?”
/>
  “Not quite the same. She was wearing trousers.”

  “And did you also get a kiss from Mr Palmer?”

  “That was no problem. Just a peck on the cheek. He doesn’t fancy me, anyway.”

  Diamond thanked her and returned to the outer office. “I’ll need the address of your other member of staff,” he told Palmer.

  “Donna? There’s nothing she can add.”

  “How do you know? Maybe she saw something you and Miss Smith missed.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, superintendent. Nothing untoward happened here. Fletcher died from natural causes.”

  “I’ll let you know if I agree – after I’ve heard from Donna.”

  First, he returned to the police station and asked his eager-to-please detective sergeant, Ingeborg, to get on the internet. Encouraged by her findings, he called the forensic lab that had analysed the post-mortem samples and suggested a second specific examination of the stomach contents. He was told the chances were not high of finding anything they hadn’t already reported and anyway it would have to wait until after the holiday.

  “Typical,” he said to Ingeborg. “We’re working. Why can’t they?”

  The third surviving accountant lived in a classy flat. Donna was a classy lady with a sexy drawl to her voice. Not at all unfazed by Diamond’s arrival, she offered him coffee. While she was in the kitchen he used 1471 to check the last call she’d received. It was timed just after he’d left the Merriman & Palmer office – and that had been the source of the call.

  It was no crime, of course, to tip her off. Any colleague would do the same.

  “Here’s my problem,” he told her over the coffee. “Old Fletcher Merriman was taken home ill at the end of the party. The pains got worse and he ended up in hospital. I’ve seen the medical notes. Abdominal pain, blurred vision, nausea and low pulse. We’re bound to check if he was poisoned, triggering the heart attack that killed him.”

  “Poisoned?” she said with a disbelieving smile.

  He nodded. “Yet we aren’t sure how the poison could have been administered, allowing that he brought his own food and drink to the party and everything was fresh. Poured the drinks himself, in full view of everyone.”

  “Did they find poison inside him?” she asked as calmly as if she were enquiring about last night’s rain.

  “Nothing obvious, but the traditional poisons like arsenic and strychnine are so easy to detect these days that they aren’t often used. I’ve suggested something else and they’re testing for it.”

  She didn’t ask the obvious question. Instead, she said, “Why would anyone want to kill a retired accountant?”

  “This is pure speculation and shouldn’t be repeated,” he said. “Maurice Palmer stood to gain financially. The old man’s death leaves him in sole charge of the firm.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect Maurice?”

  Diamond didn’t comment. “And Sylvie Smith told me she felt like strangling him after the groping she had to endure.”

  “She’s young. She’s got a lot to learn about men.”

  “His behaviour didn’t bother you, then?”

  “I’ve been six years with the firm. I know what to expect from Fletcher the lecher.” She ran her fingertip thoughtfully around the rim of her cup. “Here’s a theory for you, Mr Diamond. Is it possible during a kiss to pass a capsule into someone’s mouth?”

  “I expect so. Nasty.”

  “Something like digitalis that is taken by heart patients, but dangerous in an overdose?”

  “Ingenious. What gave you this idea?”

  She shrugged. “He insisted on a full mouth-to-mouth kiss. In the absence of any other theory . . .”

  “Ah, but I do have another theory. A better one than yours. The mince pies killed him.”

  She shook her head. “We all had mince pies. Rich food, I’ll grant you, but the rest of us felt no ill-effects. There was nothing wrong with them.”

  “Something was wrong with at least one of the pies Fletcher Merriman ate.”

  “I can’t see how.”

  “It was laced with poison. Bear with me a moment.” He took a notebook from his pocket. “Tyramine and betaphenylethylamine.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “But you’ve heard of mistletoe. These are the toxic substances contained in mistletoe berries. The symptoms are similar to enteritis, but with blurred vision and a marked lowering of the pulse. In a tired old body susceptible to heart problems, as Merriman’s was, the poison induced a failure of the cardiovascular system. Killed him.”

  “But the mistletoe was above our heads.”

  “Not when he arrived. You and Sylvie fixed it up.”

  “Excuse me. Sylvie tied it to the string.”

  “And while she was getting all the men’s attention in her short skirt, you were stripping a number of the white berries from the branch before you handed it up to her.”

  She frowned. “Untrue.”

  “You waited for the next opportunity, and it came when the old man was kissing Sylvie. You lifted the lid of the mince pie on his plate and tucked the mistletoe berries under it. Lethal and almost undetectable.”

  She was as silent as a child waiting for Santa.

  He stood up. “Might I look into your bedroom?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To test my theory. This door?”

  She was in no position to stop him.

  “So you’re planning a holiday?” There was a packed suitcase on the bed.

  “People do.”

  He stepped closer and looked at the label. “Tenerife. Shame. You’re not going any further than Manvers Street nick. I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Fletcher Merriman.”

  “So she’s singing?” Georgina, the Assistant Chief Constable, said.

  “She sang. Better than the Bath Abbey choir.”

  “You sound positively festive, Peter.”

  “It is Christmas Eve, ma’am.”

  “What was her motive?”

  “She’s a cool lady. Worked hard at her accountancy, filling in the columns, promising herself a promotion when she’s chartered next year. She saw the young woman, Sylvie, bright and ambitious, and decided she wasn’t willing to wait and be overtaken. Cosied up to Maurice Palmer and promised to spend Christmas in Tenerife with him. She reckoned she could persuade him to take her on as his new partner, but first old Fletcher Merriman had to be sent to the great audit in the sky. She knew his annual ritual, so she could plan how to do it. A mince pie contains a rich mix. After digestion is anyone likely to detect some mistletoe berries in it?”

  “Did they?”

  “Not yet, but she thinks it’s a done deal, and she’s confessed.”

  “Murder by mince pie. Who would have thought of it?”

  “An ambitious woman with time running out.”

  “You don’t think Palmer had a hand in it?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s not that brave, or bright.”

  “Case solved, then, and all in one day. You can get back to your family and enjoy the rest of Christmas.”

  Diamond took a sharp, audible breath. “Not for some time. There’s all the paperwork.”

  “Leave it for later.”

  “No, I don’t trust my memory. I’ll be here for a while yet. I know where to put my hands on a beer or two. And the odd mince pie.”

  “Not too odd, Peter. We need you.”

  Dead Man’s Socks

  David Hewson

  1

  Peroni bent down to take a good look at the two bodies in front of him and said quite cheerily, “You don’t see that every day.”

  “Actually,” Silvio Di Capua replied. “I do. This is a morgue. Dead people find their way here all the time.”

  The cop was early fifties, a big and ugly man with a scarred face and a complex manner, genial yet sly. He frowned at the corpses, both fully clothed, lying on gurneys next to the silver autopsy table. One was grey-haired, around
Peroni’s age, short with a black – clearly dyed – goatee beard, tubby torso stretching against a dark suit that looked a size too small for him. The other was a taller, wiry kid of twenty-two or so with a stubbly, bruised face and some wounds Peroni didn’t want to look at too closely. Dark-skinned, impoverished somehow, and that wasn’t just the cheap blue polyester blouson and matching trousers. Rome was like everywhere else. It had its rich. It had its poor. Peroni felt he was looking at both here. Equal at last.

  “What I meant was you don’t see that . . .” He pointed at the feet of the first body. “And that . . .” Then the second.

  Di Capua grunted then put down his pathologist’s clipboard and, with the back of a hand cloaked in a throwaway surgical glove, wiped his brow.

  Peroni was staring at him, a look of theatrically outraged disbelief on his battered features. Di Capua, immediately aware of his error, swore then walked over to the equipment cabinet, tore off the present gloves, pulled on a new pair.

  It was 9 a.m. on a scorching July morning. Peroni and Di Capua had just come on shift. The day was starting as it usually began. Sifting through the pieces the night team had swept up from the busy city beyond the grimy windows of the centro storico Questura. Today was a little different in some ways. The head of the forensic department, Teresa Lupo, had absented herself for an academic conference in Venice, leaving the Rome lab in Di Capua’s care. Leo Falcone, Peroni’s inspector, was on holiday in Sardinia. Nic Costa, his immediate boss, was taking part in some insanely pointless security drill at Fiumicino airport. Their absence left Peroni at a loose end, with no one to rein in his inquisitive and quietly rebellious nature.

  “Don’t try to distract me with minutiae,” the pathologist said.

  “I like minutiae,” Peroni replied. “Little things.” He looked down at the kid in the cheap blue bloodstained clothes and thought: little people too. “Who are they?”

  Di Capua glanced at his clipboard and indicated the older man. “Giorgio Spallone. Aged fifty-one. An eminent psychiatrist with a nice villa in Parioli, fished out from the river this morning. Probable suicide. His wife said he’d been depressed for a while.”