The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “And you?”

  “I want variety.”

  “Then what say we ’ave a little bargain. A deal you call it, no? You come to bed with me for an hour or two. That is a pleasure for both of us. And I give you the key to my ’usband’s library. ’Is and ’is first wife’s, the book people.”

  Declan was sorely tempted. His devotion to his habitual parade of a respectable façade never applied once he was behind closed doors. None of his wives had been in any doubt as to what he did when exposed to sexual temptation. He did what Oscar Wilde recommended.

  “Done,” he said.

  When he banged on the peeling door of the small, ancient house in Via Dante, Terry had no idea what to expect. The steps to the door were so faint that he could hardly hear them. Or the voice, either.

  “Si – chi è?”

  “Signora Spagnoli? I am English. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, a little. What do you want?”

  “I want to speak to you on important business.”

  There was a pause. Then he was shocked to hear the chains on the door being taken down – just what he had always advised his mother never to do. It’s a good job it’s just me, he thought. The door was pulled open with difficulty.

  “Well, come in,” said the tiny lady, all skin and bone, wrapped up against the cold that did not exist. She closed the door as he came in, and led the way through the unlighted hall to a high-ceilinged room, once rather grand, but now dirty, peeling, without pictures, almost without furniture – nothing more than two chairs and a cupboard. She led him to one chair and sat down herself in the other.

  “It’s very good of you to see me,” said Terry. “But you really shouldn’t—”

  “Open the door. So people tell me. But why not? If it was someone who wanted to batter me and rob me, wouldn’t he see at once there was nothing to be gained? And if he did assault me and leave me to die, what would I be losing? A few months of a life that is no longer worth living. As I’m sure you can see, and guess, all is gone, little by little. To the man who gives little bits of money for nice things. Now there are no nice things, and no money. That is why I do not offer you even a cup of coffee.”

  Terry was struck by the precise, almost literary English she spoke.

  “You have excellent English,” he said.

  “Oh, it was Miss Cavendish, who helped in the shop. A very precise and prim person. She came to live in Italy because of her admiration for Mussolini – one I did not understand or share. After the war she had nothing except her beautiful voice and her precise and grammatical English. Some of the English tourists thought she was funny, but luckily Siena does not attract many of that type.”

  “You had a shop. What was it? A bookshop?”

  “Oh dear, no. Leather goods, just off the Piazza del Duomo. Lovely soft gloves, elegant handbags, evening shoes. All beautiful and expensive. But when my husband died—” She gestured with her hand, downwards. Terry nodded.

  “Your name was given to me as a possible descendant of an English – well, Irish – novelist called Charles Lever.” He saw no response in her eyes. “He was fairly well known in his time – the Victorian era.”

  “I have never heard of him. I have seen Charles Dickens on television and Jane Austen. Oh, I like Jane Austen very much. But the television broke down and could not be repaired, and of course I could not afford … The Bible says we take nothing out of this world. I shall soon have nothing even though I am still in it.”

  “So you have never heard of Lever?”

  “Never in my life. I know my grandfathers and my great-grandfathers. I assure you there were no English novelists among them. One fought for a time in Garibaldi’s red-shirted army, but that is as near to fame as we have ever got.”

  “And your husband? You never heard him talk of a writer in his family tree?”

  She laughed, almost merrily.

  “Never! Not a chance of it. My Aldo, he fought the Germans all the way up Italy, and was wounded in Pisa. Perhaps one day those brave Italians will be as famous as Garibaldi’s men. But he and his family were shopkeepers, men of commerce. There was not a literary person among them.”

  “So you have no copy of Malcolm Merrivale, no first edition?”

  “No, alas. I have never heard of it, yet it must be famous for you to come all this way in search of it.”

  “Not famous at all. Almost unknown, even to specialists in Irish literature. But we collectors – we must have our holding complete: a first of every title.” He saw incomprehension in her gaze. “I am wasting your time.”

  “What else can I do with my time but waste it?”

  Terry stood up and fumbled in the back pockets of his jeans.

  “I must pay you for it nevertheless,” he added hurriedly, in case she was insulted. “Please regard this like any other commercial transaction, like selling a pair of gloves.”

  But she was not insulted, and sat fingering and looking at the note.

  “Oh, it’s the new stuff. So shoddy-looking … ”

  “But much the best stuff for buying things: food, coffee, medicines.”

  “Oh, I know that. But the old stuff was so much more like real money, and the price looked so good on a pair of gloves in the window – so many lovely noughts in it, you felt like a millionaire if you sold anything.”

  Terry escaped from the room, feeling as if he had escaped from a very classy sort of madhouse.

  Declan Donnelly got out of bed, after two eventful hours. Every part of him seemed exhausted, and his legs seemed to have gone off on a separate existence. He pulled on his trousers and then put on his shirt, buttoning down the front in the wrong buttonholes. He tried to tie his tie, failed, and threw it down on the floor in disgust. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on. He was aware of a movement from the bed.

  “You want to see the library?”

  “Delightful and exciting though the last few hours have been,” he said in his suavest voice, “the library was part of our deal, as I’m sure you remember.”

  “It is very good. You like,” said Signora di Spagna, jumping to the floor and leading him from the bedroom. They went back to the sitting room, the signora fetching a key from the mantelpiece and throwing open a door in the corner of the room and switching on a light.

  Declan found himself looking into something between a large cupboard and a small room. It was packed with books, almost all paperbacks. The first title that met Declan’s eye was Kane and Abel. Then he saw a whole shelf-ful of Wilbur Smith. Then Riders, Joanna Trollope, Andy McNab. Another shelf-ful, this time of Barbara Cartland. Gaudy Night, which Declan had often thought the dullest book he had ever read. Goldfinger and Casino Royale. Several James Hiltons and The Blue Lagoon.

  Declan Donnelly turned to his hostess.

  “I ought to recommend you to take up reading,” he said. “There is a lifetime of experience awaiting you here. However, I am loath to direct you away from the activity which clearly you do best.”

  And he turned tail and fled the flat.

  There were many small bars between the Via Dante and the railway station. Terry went into several of them, and began to lose sight of which direction the railway station lay in. It was as he was coming out of the bar in the Via Rossi that he saw a familiar face.

  “Scellerato! Ladro! Traditore!”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Declan, putting out a hand to steady Terry’s wavering body (though the hand itself shook). “Perfectly normal behaviour between competing collectors.”

  “I saw you talking to that bloody Finn.”

  “Why shouldn’t I talk to a Finn? Particularly one with information for a Leverite.”

  “Ha! Information! Well, I can save you a bit of time if you’re on your way to talk to Signora Spagnoli.”

  “To who? Never heard of her. I’ve been talking to Signora di Spagna. I can save you a bit of time if you’re on your way to talk to her.”

  “I’m not.” They looked at each other.
“That bloody Finn,” said Terry. “He couldn’t even remember her name, he was so drunk.”

  “Finns are always drunk,” said Declan. “I wouldn’t mind betting there’s no descendant of Lever here, legit or illegit … Here’s a bar. Have another drink. Then we’ll get a taxi and take the last train home.”

  So they had a last drink, swore eternal friendship, swore the finding of a first edition of Malcolm Merrivale was a game not worth the candle, and they’d give it up pronto. Then they went back out into the street, hailed lots of taxis, none of whose drivers wanted to pick up two drunken Brits (for they were both, in their different ways, respectable and casual, very recognizable) then began to make their way on foot to the station.

  By chance, as they made their way like silent-film drunks, they walked along Via d’Orti, where at number 46, in a neat little upstairs flat, Valentine della Spanna was eating from a large box of chocolates, drinking from a bottle of finer wine than she had drunk for years, and contemplating a small gap in the dusty books on a high shelf in a dim part of the room – books written by some old geezer who somehow or other was connected with her, and which the slightly tipsy man from a country she had barely heard of had bought from her for a price (for he was a fair-minded man, this Finn, drunk or sober) which was a bargain for him and a prodigious windfall for her. He was a nice man, she thought, as she took another soft centre. And he had a lovely sense of humour.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: It should be emphasized that there is no resemblance in the characters or events in this story to the characters or events at the International Conference on Charles Lever in Pisa in September 2006, which the author attended.

  DEAD CLOSE

  Lin Anderson

  DOUG CAMERON STARED wide-eyed into the darkness, his heart racing, fear prickling his skin. The dream. As fresh now as it had been seventeen years ago. For a few moments Rebecca was alive, the swell of her pregnancy as clear as her terrified expression, then she was running from him as though he was the source of her fear.

  A police siren wailed past in tune with his thoughts, its blue light flickering his rain-splattered window. He rose and went to watch the squad car’s progress, leaning against the window frame, reminding himself that in forty-eight hours that sound would belong to his past. Just like the view from the bedroom window. Just like Rebecca.

  When he felt steadier, he went through to the kitchen and began the process of making coffee, glancing at the photograph on the fridge door as he fetched out the milk carton. He’d taken the picture from the garden of his future home. A view of the flat-topped slopes of Dun Caan on the Island of Raasay instead of Edinburgh Castle. Not a bad exchange, he decided.

  Cameron settled at the kitchen table, pulled over his work box and began the intricate task of tying a new fishing fly. The only thing that helped him forget the dream, and the past.

  Detective Sergeant James Boyd woke with a start. Immediately his body reacted to its cramped position on the sofa sending waves of pain through his knees and lower back. Boyd wasn’t sure which noise had wakened him, the screaming baby or his mobile. Through the open bedroom door he could see Bev put their young son to the breast, silencing his cries. Boyd answered the duty officer in monosyllables, pulling on his trousers and shirt as he did so. He turned, sensing Bev in the doorway. She looked pointedly at him.

  “I have to go to work.”

  Bev said nothing, but her expression was the same as always. Tired, resentful, desperate.

  “I’m sorry,” he tried.

  “Will Susan be there?” she said sharply.

  Boyd covered guilt with irritation. “She’s forensic. If there’s a crime she’s there.”

  Bev turned on her heel, Rory still attached to her breast. The last thing Boyd saw before the bedroom door banged shut was a small chubby hand clutching the air.

  When his phone rang, Cameron contemplated ignoring it. The only call he would get at this time was one he didn’t want.

  “Glad you’re up, sir,” his Detective Sergeant’s voice was suspiciously cheery. “We’ve had a call out.”

  “I’ve retired,” Cameron tried.

  “Not till Tuesday,” Boyd reminded him.

  Cameron listened in silence to the details. A serious incident had been reported at Greyfriars Churchyard, a stone’s throw from his flat.

  “I’ll walk round,” he offered.

  “No need, sir. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

  Cameron wondered if Boyd suspected he wouldn’t come otherwise.

  Boyd’s car stank of stale vinegar, the door pocket stuffed with fish and chip wrappers, a sure sign he wasn’t eating at home. His DS looked rough, stubble-faced and bleary-eyed.

  “How’s the new arrival?” Cameron asked.

  “Only happy when he’s attached to Bev’s tit.”

  “A typical male then.”

  Boyd attempted a smile. Cameron thought about adding something, like “Hang on in there. Things’ll get better”, but didn’t know if that was true.

  They were at the graveyard in minutes, sweeping past the statue of Greyfriars Bobby and through the gates of the ancient churchyard. Ahead, the pale edifice that was the church loomed out of an early morning mist.

  A couple of uniforms stood aside to let the two men enter the mausoleum, one of many that lined the walls of the graveyard. Inside, the air was musty and chill. The light-headed feeling Cameron had experienced earlier returned and he reached out to steady himself against the doorframe, bowing his head to relieve the sudden pressure between his eyes. The beam from Boyd’s high-powered torch played over the interior, finally settling on a pool of fresh blood next to a stone casket.

  “The caller reported seeing a figure run in through the gate. Then they heard a woman scream.”

  Cameron said nothing. He wanted to make it plain that if Boyd expected to take over as DI, this was the time to start.

  “We’ve done an initial search of the graveyard. Nothing so far. And no blood except in here.”

  Cameron registered the oddity of this, but made no comment. He didn’t want to be drawn in. He didn’t want his brain to focus on anything other than his departure.

  They emerged to find a parked forensic van and two SOCOs getting kitted up. Cameron watched as Boyd and the young woman exchanged looks. He walked out of hearing, not wanting to be party to something he couldn’t prevent. Besides, what could he say? Don’t piss on your wife or you could end up like me?

  He had no idea what made him look up. The medieval stone tenement behind him merged with the back wall of the crypt. It was blank-faced except for one narrow window. The young woman who watched him was in shadow but Cameron briefly made out a pale face and long dark hair, before she stepped out of sight.

  It took him five minutes to circumnavigate the building and gain entry. The internal stairwell spiralled swiftly from ground level, one door on each floor. He climbed to the second landing and knocked.

  When the young woman opened the door, Cameron’s voice froze in his throat.

  Cameron had been a detective long enough to read body language pretty accurately. Susan was on her knees on the muddy grass, Boyd trying hard not to look at her upturned buttocks. He stood to attention when he spotted Cameron. Another sign.

  “I spoke to a girl living up there,” Cameron pointed at the window. “She says she was wakened by the siren. Didn’t see or hear anything before that.”

  Boyd gave him an odd look. Cameron wasn’t planning to say the girl looked so like Rebecca it’d almost given him a heart attack, but wondered if the shock still showed on his face.

  “Well the police dog was right. It is a grave, but not a fresh one.” Susan sat back to reveal a sunken area in the muddy trampled grass. “They buried plague victims here in medieval times. There were so many it raised the ground level by twenty feet. Heavy rain sometimes washes the top soil away, exposing the remains.”

  Cameron stepped closer, his eye caught by a glint of metal.

  “What’s
that?”

  Susan fished it out and wiped off the mud. “Looks like a brooch.” She handed it over.

  Cameron felt the prick as the pin caught his thumb. Blood oozed from the wound to form a red bubble. The sight of it made him nauseous.

  “The plague bacteria are way out of date,” Susan quipped, “but I’d renew your tetanus if I were you.” She slipped the brooch into an evidence bag. “I should have something for you on the blood in the crypt in twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s Boyd’s department now,” Cameron told her.

  He left them to it, giving the excuse of packing to cover his early departure. The truth was, in his head he was no longer a policeman. Thirty-five years of detective work had come and gone and the city was no better or safer now than when he’d begun. Worse than that, the dream this morning and the young woman he’d spoken to in the flat above the graveyard had only served to remind Cameron that the one case he should have solved, he never had.

  It wasn’t much for a lifetime. Cameron surveyed the meagre group of boxes. Everything had been packed except the books. There wasn’t much shelf space at the cottage. He would have to be ruthless.

  He started well, splitting the books into two piles, one for Cancer Research, the other destined for Raasay. There were at least half a dozen on fly fishing, all of which went on the Raasay pile. The last book on the shelf was one about Edinburgh’s past. Cameron recognized it as belonging to Rebecca. Not a native to the city, she’d taken an amused interest in its medieval history, both fact and fiction. The photograph fell out as he transferred the book to the Raasay pile.

  Rebecca stood by a dark expanse of water, laughing as she tried to anchor her long dark hair against the wind. On the lapel of her jacket she wore a brooch. Cameron suddenly remembered buying her the brooch from a silversmith near Glendale as a birthday present – a swirling Celtic pattern not unlike the one they’d found in the ancient grave.