The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “But Dennis recognized it.”

  And there you go. What precisely is going on with you and Dennis, I want to ask. Am I supposed to lie here while she reveals how close they’ve become? But lie here is all I can do. My limbs are like tree trunks. There is an itch at my neck, where Dennis stuck me with his needle.

  “And those other women,” she continues. “The way you made it look random – the way you killed them to make it look random. How can you live with yourself, David? How could I have lived with you? You know what everyone thinks when this happens. They always think the same thing – that she must have known. They’ll think I must have known.”

  So it’s all about you, I want to tell her. But don’t.

  “You told me you were at a conference.”

  Well, I could hardly tell you where I really was, I want to explain. I was doing it for us, can’t you see that? To take Jane’s story and put it at a remove, so we could continue with our lives. Besides, I was at a conference. Or registered at one, anyway; was there enough to make my presence felt. It passed muster, didn’t it? Or it did until Dennis came back, and poured poison in your ear.

  Did you really just find the locket, Michelle? Or did you go looking for it? It was the one keepsake I allowed myself. Everything else, all those events of twelve years ago – my seven-year itch – they happened to somebody else. Or might as well have done.

  And I thought things were okay again. That’s why I came looking for you. I didn’t think your disappearance had anything to do with all that. All that was over long ago. And you said you loved me – in your note, you said I love you. Or was that just part of your trap?

  And now Dennis says, “She’s right, you know. All this will reflect on her. It always does. And that’s not right. You destroyed my life, you ended Jane’s. You killed those other poor women. You can’t destroy Michelle’s, too. We won’t let you.”

  At last I find my voice again. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “No,” Dennis says. “We’re going to leave you alone.”

  And very soon afterwards, that’s exactly what they do.

  I sometimes wonder whether anyone is looking for me, but not for very long. They’ll have parked my car far away, near an unpredictable body of water; the kind which rarely returns its victims. Besides, everyone I spoke to thought Michelle had disappeared of her own accord – only I believed otherwise; only I attached weight to the clue so carefully left me. I remember the conversation with her sister, and it occurs to me that of course Michelle had spoken to her – of course Elizabeth knew Michelle was fine. She had promised not to breathe a word to me, that was all. Just one more thing to be produced in evidence when Michelle returns, and I do not.

  She hadn’t known I’d take it so hard, she’ll say.

  I never imagined he’d take his own life—

  Meanwhile, I have drunk one hundred and three two-litre bottles of water; eaten eighty-nine tins of tuna fish, forty-seven of baked beans, ninety-four of corned beef. There are many hundreds left. Possibly thousands. I do not have the will to count them.

  I already know there’s a lifetime’s supply.

  CHRIS TAKES

  THE BUS

  Denise Mina

  THEY STOOD OUTSIDE the plate glass window at the bus station, because inside was so bright and cheerful, so full of happy milling people, that neither could bear it.

  The cold was channelled here, into a snaking stream that lapped at their ankles, a bitter snapping cold that chilled them both. His eyes were fixed on the ground and she could feel him shrinking, sinking into the concrete.

  “Jees-ho!” She shivered theatrically, trying to bring his attention back to her.

  Chris looked at her and pulled the zip up at his neck, making a defiant face that said, see? I can look after myself, I know to do my coat up against the cold. They were huddled in their coats, shoulders up at their ears, each alone.

  He tried to smile at her but she glanced down at the bag on the floor because his eyes were so hard to look into. The backlit adverts tinged the ground an icy pink and she saw that Chris had put the heel of his bag in a puddle.

  “Bag’s getting soggy,” she smiled nervously, keeping her eyes averted.

  He looked at it, dismayed at yet another fuck-up, and then shrugged, shaking his head a little, as if trying to shake off the concern she must be feeling. “Dry out on the bus.”

  She nodded, “Yeah, it’ll get hot in there.”

  “Phew,” he looked away down the concrete fairway. “Last time I only had a T-shirt and jeans on and I was sweating like a menopausal woman.”

  His turn of phrase made her mouth twitch.

  “When I got off I had salt rings under my arms.”

  She tutted disbelievingly.

  “True,” he insisted. “I stood still at King’s Cross and a couple of deer came up and licked me.”

  She smirked away from him, felt her eyes brimming up at the same time and frowned to cover it up.

  “One of them offered me a tenner for a gobble, actually.”

  She was crying and laughing at the same time, spluttering ridiculously, the pink glow from the adverts glinting off her wet cheeks. His whole fucking venture depended on a lie and she wasn’t a good liar.

  “So,” she wiped her face and turned back to him, “so when you get there you’re off to—”

  “My Auntie Margie’s, yeah.” He had done her the courtesy of looking away, giving her the chance to get it together before he looked back. “Yeah, she’ll be waiting in for me, got my room ready.”

  “D’you get on with her?”

  Chris shrugged, “She’s my auntie … ”

  He tipped gently forward on his heels, leaning out into the brutal wind beyond the shelter. A coach pulled past the mouth of the bus station, slowly, dim yellow lights behind the shaded windows. They both saw the rabbit-ear side mirrors. It was a luxury coach, luxury in as much as coaches ever could be. Full of fat tourists coming to see the Castle and the Mile, the pantomime of the city. Not the London Bus, not Chris’s bus.

  He stepped back and they watched the bus pass, heads swinging around in unison like a pair of kittens watching a ball swing in front of them.

  “I’ll not get that one,” he said, joking that he had a choice. “I’ll just wait for the shit bus and get that one.”

  “Yeah,” she said cheerfully, and looking up saw him flinch, arcing his head back as his neck stiffened. He was still bleeding, she knew, had asked her if it was showing through the seat of his jeans, made her look. It wasn’t showing. She’d given him a fanny pad to put down there and he joked about having a period. She didn’t know who’d raped him, but it was someone they both knew, or else he wouldn’t be leaving. He confided in her because she was mousey, would give him the money for the ticket without asking too much detail, wouldn’t make him go to the police.

  It came suddenly, a hot molten gush of dread from the base of her gut, rolling up her chest until it bubbled and burst out of her mouth: “Don’t go.” Her voice was flat and loud, ridiculous, a voice from the middle of a heated argument.

  Chris looked at her, eyebrows tented pitifully. “I have tae … ”

  She nodded, looked away.

  “I have,” he whispered. “Have to. You’ll come and visit me.”

  “Of course. Of course, and we’ll phone all the time.”

  “Yeah, phone. We’ll phone.”

  As a coach slowly eased its way around the sharp turn into the St Andrew Bus Station, the destination lit up brightly above the windscreen.

  The passengers who had waited inside, in the warm, filtered out behind them, talking excitedly, swinging bags, forming a messy queue.

  Conscious of the company, Chris shifted his weight, brushing her shoulder lightly, shifting away. She felt the loss quite suddenly, a wrench, another cherished friend swallowed by the promise of London, loading the coach boot with bags stuffed with the offal of their own history.

  THE MADWOMAN
/>   OF USK

  Edward Marston

  1188

  OF ALL THE gifts with which I’ve been blessed by the Almighty, none is perhaps as striking as my ability to sense the presence of evil. It’s uncanny. I can detect venom behind a benign smile, lust in the loins of a virgin and blackness in the heart of the outwardly virtuous. The first time I was acquainted with this strange power was when I was still a youth, studying in Paris. One of the many churches I visited harboured such a wondrous collection of holy relics that it had become a place of pilgrimage. Local people and visitors to the city flocked to view the sacred bones, leaving coins beside them as a mark of respect. One old woman, to whom my attention was drawn, came to the church every day to pay homage.

  “She’s an example to us all,” I was told in a respectful whisper. “Though she’s seen seventy summers or more, she never misses her daily visit to the shrine. Behold her, Gerald.”

  I did as I was bidden and watched her with care. After trudging down the aisle with the help of a stick, she lowered herself painfully to her ancient knees, dropped a coin on to the pile before her then bent her head in prayer. There she stayed until the discomfort grew too great. Hauling herself to her feet, she genuflected before the altar then struggled back down the aisle. It was a touching sight and I was duly moved – until, that is, she passed within a foot of me.

  “Isn’t she remarkable?” said my companion.

  “In some ways, she is,” I conceded.

  “Such dedication is inspiring. Truly, she is a species of saint.”

  I was blunt. “I don’t feel that she’s ready for canonization yet.”

  My comment was felt to be unkind but I held my ground with characteristic tenacity. I knew something was amiss. Witnessed from a distance, the old woman’s commitment was stimulating. She herself had become an object of veneration. When she brushed past me, however, I caught a scent that was less than saintly. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I returned to my studies and lost myself in the beauty of the Scriptures.

  On the following day, I made sure that I was in the same church at exactly the same time. The woman was punctual. Through the door she came as the bell of the nearby abbey was signalling tierce. I let her shuffle past me and make her way to the side chapel where the relics were housed. She was so preoccupied with the effort of lowering herself to her knees that she didn’t see me sink down a yard away from her. Like me, she deposited a small coin on the altar rail then lowered her head in prayer. The difference between us was that I kept my eyes open so that I could watch her.

  What I saw outraged me. Down went her head and up it came again in a movement so slight as to be invisible to anyone not right beside her. As it went down once more, her lips fastened upon a coin and lifted it up before dropping it into a fold in her gown. Instead of praying to her Maker, she was instead plundering the church. In place of the one coin she had deposited, I counted over a dozen that she took. She was nothing but a common thief. I reported what I’d seen and, though nobody believed me, it was agreed that the old woman would be kept under surveillance the next day. Almost twenty coins were filched by her greedy lips on that occasion. Arrest and retribution soon followed.

  I was thanked and congratulated. “How on earth did you spy her out?” I was asked.

  “It’s a gift from God,” I replied.

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Gerald de Barri – though some call me Gerald of Wales.”

  By the time I accompanied Archbishop Baldwin on his journey around my native country to find recruits for the Third Crusade, I was in my early forties and held, among other positions, that of archdeacon of Brecon in the diocese of St David’s. Instances of my remarkable skill in unmasking wrongdoers wherever I went are far too numerous to recount so I’ll merely offer one case that’s emblematic of them all. It occurred near Usk and tested my powers to the limit.

  Thanks to a sermon by Archbishop Baldwin, an address by that good man, William, Bishop of Llandaff, and some stirring words in both Latin and French from myself – my contribution was much admired – a large group of men was signed for the Cross. To the astonishment of all but me, many of those converted were notorious robbers, highwaymen and horse thieves from the area, evil men who sought to cleanse themselves by taking part in a holy crusade. Their strong arms could now be put to a useful purpose. Before we could make our way to Caerleon, we were diverted by a commotion in Usk itself. I was sent to investigate.

  Murder was afoot. Idwal the Harpist, a man renowned for his glorious voice and nimble musicianship, had been a guest at the home of Owain ap Meurig where he’d entertained the family for three nights. The harpist was due to visit Monmouth Castle but he never arrived and nobody who lived along the road that would have taken him there had seen him pass by. Idwal had vanished into thin air. Foul play was suspected. It fell to Roger de Brionne to accuse Owain of the crime to his face. Tempers flared up into a veritable inferno.

  Nobody is better placed than I to understand the deep hatred and mutual fear that exists between the Welsh and the Norman aristocracy. Born at Manorbier Castle in Dyfed, I’m a man of mixed blood, having kinsfolk from both nations. I share in the privileges of conquest while sympathizing, to a lesser extent, with the conquered. When it came to mediating in a dispute between two sworn enemies, Owain and Roger, who could doubt my credentials or match my wide experience? I felt obliged to offer my services.

  After prising accused and accuser apart, I first talked to Owain ap Meurig at his house. A local chieftain whose family had held estates in the region for generations, he was a proud, fierce, white-haired man in his sixties with the build and attitudes of a warrior. It took me some time to calm him down and to assure him that – unlike Roger de Brionne – I had no prejudice against the Welsh. He was impressed by the fact that I’d heard Idwal the Harpist and was able to talk knowledgeably about him. The Welsh consider the playing of the harp to be the greatest of all accomplishments. Idwal was without peer.

  “I hear that he stayed with you for three nights,” I said.

  “That’s true,” answered Owain. “He bewitched us all with the magic of his art. My late wife and my niece learned to master the instrument but they could not compare with Idwal.”

  “Did you see him off at your door?”

  “I waved until he was out of sight. He’d delighted us so much that I rewarded him handsomely and pressed him to come again.”

  “Who else saw him leave?” I asked.

  Owain bristled. “Is my word not good enough for you?”

  “Of course, my friend – but corroboration is always useful.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe me.”

  “I accept your word without question, Owain.”

  That seemed to reassure him. “Well, then,” he said. “There was someone else who bade him farewell – my niece, Gwenllian. She had cause to be grateful to Idwal. He found time to listen to her playing the harp and favoured her with advice. Gwenllian was thrilled.”

  “May I speak with her?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I would like to hear what she thought of Idwal’s playing.”

  A defensive look had come into his eye. It was clear that he didn’t want me to talk to his niece yet, at the same time, he calculated that his refusal might count against him, leading to the suspicion that he was trying to hide something. Owain eventually capitulated. He despatched a servant to fetch his niece. Gwenllian soon appeared.

  Entering the room out of obedience to her uncle rather than enthusiasm to meet me, she was both wary and slightly fearful, as if fearing a rebuke. She glanced at Owain, at me, then back again at him. When she spoke, her voice was sweet and melodic.

  “You wanted me, Uncle?” she enquired, politely.

  While he explained who I was and why I was there, I took the opportunity to subject the girl to scrutiny. Gwenllian was beautiful. Natural modesty and my vow of celibacy prevent me from going into anatomical detail abou
t a member of the fairer sex. Suffice it to say that I had seen few fairer and none so graceful. Gwenllian could have been no more than seventeen, combining the bloom of youth with a rare maturity. After telling her that she’d nothing to fear, Owain eased her gently towards me.

  “I understand that you’re a harpist,” I began.

  Her laugh was deprecating. “After hearing Idwal play,” she said, “I realize that I’m a mere beginner on the harp. He makes it produce the most enchanting music.”

  “Which of his songs did you enjoy most?”

  It was a clever question, allowing her to lose some of her anxiety as she talked about Idwal’s visit. The longer she went on, the more she relaxed and – I duly noted – the more relaxed Owain became. I wasn’t there to subject the girl to a rigorous interrogation and he was relieved by that. What I was simply trying to do was to assess her character and disposition. The information I sought was volunteered before I even asked for it.

  “Uncle and I waved him off until our arms ached,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Our loss is Monmouth’s gain.”

  I had the feeling that she was repeating a phrase that Owain had first used but I didn’t hold it against her. Gwenllian had been honest and unguarded. There’d been no dissemblance. I turned back to her uncle with my searching gaze.

  “Is there any truth in Roger de Brionne’s accusation?” I said.

  “None at all!” was the defiant reply.

  I believed him and thanked them both for their help. As I took my leave of them, I warned them that I’d probably call on them again before the matter was cleared up. Spreading his arms wide, Owain told me that I was always welcome. As he led me to the front door, I passed close to Gwenllian and had a curious sensation. It was similar to the unease I’d felt in that Parisian church all those years ago. Though I concealed my feelings, I was quite upset. Could this innocent girl have been involved in an evil act?