The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  God, how could I be so stupid?

  He doesn’t want me to have children! They would only complicate matters for him, make leaving me more problematic … most expensive. His twenty-six thousand pounds wouldn’t go too far then …

  This serpent of thought is now alive and feeding hungrily. Within seconds it is all that there is in her soul.

  He made me abort Belle. He said that it was for the best, but whose best?

  He made me murder her.

  She might have been beautiful, like that little girl. Sweet and passive and somehow luminous in her innocence.

  All so that his life would be easier, so that he could screw around.

  He will say that he is leaving me because he wants children and I haven’t given him any.

  Gilly looks down at the phone, decides that it is time to call for help.

  There is yet another creak from the wheel.

  Gilly looks down at Greg. He is only half conscious.

  “Greg?” she calls.

  He responds slowly, first of all looking around, only raising his eyes after a while. His face contains pain, his voice is husky as if he has phlegm in his throat.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve rung for help.”

  “Thank God … ”

  “She may take some time to get here.”

  He does not realize what she has said for a few seconds.

  “She? Who do you mean?”

  Gilly smiles.

  “Nikki.”

  She enjoys the look on his face, savours it for a moment, then in a single movement grasps the plank of wood that is jamming the wheel.

  “I hope she’s in time,” she says.

  She pulls the plank free and the wheel at once begins to turn. Greg screams but it is a very short scream, ended abruptly as he is taken beneath the water and then wedged against the bed of the stream.

  As Gilly walks out of the cottage she sees the little girl again. She is sitting on the wall of the bridge talking to a woman. The woman is laughing and joking with her, clearly her mother.

  Gilly walks across to them to experience their shared pleasure.

  I will have a child one day. I will be free of this curse.

  I am the same as I always was.

  I am the same as I always was.

  OUT OF THE FLESH

  Christopher Brookmyre

  RESTORATIVE JUSTICE, THEY cry it. That’s what happens when wee scrotes like you get sat doon wi’ their victims, mano a mano, kinda like you and me are daein’ the noo. It’s a process of talking and understanding, as opposed tae a chance for the likes ay me tae batter your melt in for tryin’ tae tan my hoose. The idea is that us victims can put a face tae the cheeky midden that wheeched wur stereos, and yous can see that the gear you’re pochlin’ actually belongs tae somebody. Cause you think it’s a gemme, don’t you? Just aboot no’ gettin’ caught, and anyway, the hooses are insured, so it’s naebody’s loss, right? So the aim is tae make you realize that it’s folk you’re stealin’ fae, and that it does a lot mair damage than the price ay a glazier and a phone call tae Direct Line.

  Aye. Restorative justice. Just a wee blether tae make us baith feel better, that’s the theory. Except it normally happens efter the courts and the polis are through wi’ their end, by mutual consent and under official supervision. Cannae really cry this mutual consent, no’ wi’ you tied tae that chair. But restorative justice is whit you’re gaunny get.

  Aye. You’re shitin your breeks ’cause you think I’m gaunny leather you afore the polis get here, then make up whatever story I like. Tempting, I’ll grant you, but ultimately futile. See, the point aboot restorative justice is that it helps the baith ay us. Me batterin’ your melt in isnae gaunny make you think you’re a mug for tannin’ hooses, is it? It’s just gaunny make ye careful the next time, when ye come back wi’ three chinas and a big chib.

  Believe me, you’re lucky a batterin’s aw you’re afraid of, ya wee nyaff. Whit I’m gaunny tell you is worth mair than anythin’ you were hopin’ tae get away wi’ fae here, an’ if you’re smart, you’ll realize what a big favour I’m daein’ ye.

  Are you sittin’ uncomfortably? Then I’ll begin.

  See, I used tae be just like you. Surprised are ye? Nearly as surprised as when you tried tae walk oot this living room and found yoursel wi’ a rope roon ye. I’ve been around and about, son. I never came up the Clyde in a banana boat and I wasnae born sixty, either. Just like you, did I say? Naw. Much worse. By your age I’d done mair hooses than the census. This was in the days when they said you could leave your back door open, and tae be fair, you could, as long as you didnae mind me and ma brer Billy nippin’ in and helpin’ oursels tae whatever was on offer.

  We werenae fae the village originally; we were fae the Soothside. Me and Billy hud tae move in wi’ oor uncle when ma faither went inside. Two wee toerags, fifteen and fourteen, fae a tenement close tae rural gentility. It wasnae so much fish oot ay watter as piranhas in a paddlin’ pool. Easy pickin’s, ma boy, easy pickin’s. Open doors, open windaes, open wallets. Course, the problem wi’ bein’ piranhas in a paddlin’ pool is it’s kinda obvious whodunnit. At the end of the feedin’ frenzy, when the watter’s aw red, naebody’s pointin’ any fingers at the nearest Koi carp, know what I’m sayin’? But you’ll know yoursel’, when you’re that age, it’s practically impossible for the polis or the courts tae get a binding result, between the letter ay the law and the fly moves ye can pull. Didnae mean ye were immune fae a good leatherin’ aff the boys in blue, right enough, roon the back ay the station, but that’s how I know applied retribution’s nae use as a disincentive. Efter a good kickin’, me and Billy were even mair determined tae get it up them; just meant we’d try harder no tae get caught.

  But then wan night, aboot October time, the Sergeant fronts up while me and Billy are kickin’ a baw aboot. Sergeant, no less. Royalty. Gold-plated boot in the baws comin’ up, we think. But naw, instead he’s aw nicey-nicey, handin’ oot fags, but keepin’ an eye over his shoulder, like he doesnae want seen.

  And by God, he doesnae. Fly bastard’s playin’ an angle, bent as a nine-bob note.

  “I ken the score, boys,” he says. “What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh. Thievin’s in your nature: I cannae change that, your uncle cannae change that, and when yous are auld enough, the jail willnae change that. So we baith might as well accept the situation and make the best ay it.”

  “Whit dae ye mean?” I asks.

  “I’ve a wee job for yous. Or mair like a big job, something tae keep ye in sweeties for a wee while so’s ye can leave folk’s hooses alane. Eejits like you are liable tae spend forever daein’ the same penny-ante shite, when there’s bigger prizes on offer if you know where tae look.”

  Then he lays it aw doon, bold as brass. There’s a big hoose, a mansion really, a couple ay miles ootside the village. Me and Billy never knew it was there; well, we’d seen the gates, but we hadnae thought aboot what was behind them, ’cause you couldnae see anythin’ for aw the trees. The owner’s away in London, he says, so the housekeeper and her husband are bidin’ in tae keep an eye on the place. But the Sergeant’s got the inside gen that the pair ay them are goin’ tae some big Halloween party in the village. Hauf the toon’s goin’ in fact, includin’ him, which is a handy wee alibi for while we’re daein’ his bidding.

  There was ayeways a lot o’ gatherings among the in-crowd in the village, ma uncle tell’t us. Shady affairs, he said. Secretive, like. He reckoned they were up tae all sorts, ye know? Wife-swappin’ or somethin’. Aw respectable on the ootside, but a different story behind closed doors. Course, he would say that, seein’ as the crabbit auld bugger never got invited.

  Anyway, the Sergeant basically tells us it’s gaunny be carte blanche. This was the days before fancy burglar alarms an’ aw that shite, remember, so we’d nothin’ tae worry aboot regards security. But he did insist on somethin’ a bit strange, which he said was for all of oor protection: we’d
tae “make it look professional, but no’ too professional”. We understood what he meant by professional: don’t wreck the joint or dae anythin’ that makes it obvious whodunnit. But the “too professional” part was mair tricky, it bein’ aboot disguisin’ the fact it was a sortay inside job.

  “Whit ye oan aboot?” I asked him. “Whit’s too professional? Polishin’ his flair and giein’ the woodwork a dust afore we leave?”

  “I’m talkin’ aboot bein’ canny whit you steal. The man’s got things even an accomplished burglar wouldnae know were worth a rat’s fart – things only valuable among collectors, so you couldnae fence them anyway. I don’t want you eejits knockin’ them by mistake, cause it’ll point the finger back intae the village. If you take them, he’ll know the thief had prior knowledge, as opposed tae just hittin’ the place because it’s a country mansion.”

  “So whit are these things?”

  “The man’s a magician – on the stage, like. That’s what he’s daein’ doon in London. He’s in variety in wan o’ thae big West End theatres. But that’s just showbusiness, how he makes his money. The word is, he’s intae some queer, queer stuff, tae dae wi’ the occult.”

  “Like black magic?”

  “Aye. The man’s got whit ye cry ‘artefacts’. Noo I’m no’ sayin’ ye’d be naturally inclined tae lift them, and I’m no’ sure you’ll even come across them, ’cause I don’t know where they’re kept, but I’m just warnin’ you tae ignore them if ye dae. Take cash, take gold, take jewels, just the usual stuff – and leave anythin’ else well enough alone.”

  “Got ye.”

  “And wan last thing, boys: if you get caught, this conversation never took place. Naebody’d believe your word against mine anyway.”

  So there we are. The inside nod on a serious score and a guarantee fae the polis that it’s no’ gaunny be efficiently investigated. Sounded mair like Christmas than Halloween, but it pays tae stay a wee bit wary, especially wi’ the filth involved – and bent filth at that, so we decided tae ca’ canny.

  Come the big night, we took the wise precaution of takin’ a train oot the village, and mair importantly made sure we were seen takin’ it by the station staff. The two piranha had tae be witnessed gettin’ oot the paddlin’ pool, for oor ain protection. We bought return tickets tae Glesca Central, but got aff at the first stop, by which time the inspector had got a good, alibi-corroboratin’ look at us. We’d planked two stolen bikes behind a hedge aff the main road earlier in the day, and cycled our way back, lyin’ oot flat at the side ay the road the odd time a motor passed us.

  It took longer than we thought, mainly because it was awfy dark and you cannae cycle very fast when you cannae see where you’re goin’. We liked the dark, me and Billy. It suited us, felt natural tae us, you know? But that night just seemed thon wee bit blacker than usual, maybe because we were oot in the countryside. It was thon wee bit quieter as well, mair still, which should have made us feel we were alone tae oor ain devices, but I couldnae say that was the case. Instead it made me feel kinda exposed, like I was a wee moose and some big owl was gaunny swoop doon wi’ nae warnin’ and huckle us away for its tea.

  And that was before we got tae the hoose.

  “Bigger prizes,” we kept sayin’ tae each other. “Easy money.” But it didnae feel like easy anythin’ efter we’d climbed over the gates and started walkin’ up that path, believe me. If we thought it was dark on the road, that was nothin’ compared tae in among thae tall trees. Then we saw the hoose. Creepy as, I’m tellin’ you. Looked twice the size it would have in daylight, I’m sure, high and craggy, towerin’ above like it was leanin’ over tae check us oot. Dark stone, black glass reflectin’ fuck-all, and on the top floor a light on in wan wee windae.

  “There’s somebody in, Rab,” Billy says. “The game’s a bogey. Let’s go hame.”

  Which was a very tempting notion, I’ll admit, but no’ as tempting as playin’ pick and mix in a mansion full o’ goodies.

  “Don’t be a numpty,” I says. “They’ve just left a light on by mistake. As if there wouldnae be lights on doonstairs if somebody was hame. C’mon.”

  “Aye, aw right,” Billy says, and we press on.

  We make oor way roon the back, lookin’ for a likely wee windae. Force of habit, goin’ roon the back, forgettin’ there’s naebody tae see us if we panned in wan o’ the ten-footers at the front. I’m cuttin’ aboot lookin’ for a good-sized stane tae brek the glass, when Billy reverts tae the mair basic technique of just tryin’ the back door, which swings open easy as you like. Efter that, it’s through and intae the kitchen, where we find some candles and matches. Billy’s aw for just stickin’ the lights on as we go, but I’m still no’ sure that sneaky bastard Sergeant isnae gaunny come breengin’ in wi’ a dozen polis any minute, so I’m playin’ it smart.

  Oot intae the hallway and I’m soon thinkin’, knackers tae smart, let there be light. The walls just disappear up intae blackness; I mean, there had tae be a ceiling up there somewhere, but Christ knows how high. Every footstep’s echoin’ roon the place, every breath’s bein’ amplified like I’m walkin’ aboot inside ma ain heid. But maistly it was the shadows … Aw, man, the shadows. I think fae that night on, I’d rather be in the dark than in candle-light, that’s whit the shadows were daein’ tae me. And aw the time, of course, it’s gaun through my mind, the Sergeant’s words … “queer, queer stuff … the occult”. Black magic. Doesnae help that it’s Halloween, either, every bugger tellin’ stories aboot ghosts and witches aw week.

  But I tell myself: screw the nut, got a job tae dae here. Get on, get oot, and we’ll be laughin’ aboot this when we’re sittin’ on that last train hame fae Central. So we get busy, start tannin’ rooms. First couple are nae use. I mean, quality gear, but nae use tae embdy withoot a furniture lorry. Big paintin’s and statues and the like. Then third time lucky: intae this big room wi’ aw these display cabinets. A lot ay it’s crystal and china – again, nae use, but we can see the Sergeant wasnae haverin’. There’s jewellery, ornaments: plenty of gold and silver and nae shortage of gemstones embedded either.

  “If it sparkles, bag it,” I’m tellin’ Billy, and we’re laughin’ away until we baith hear somethin’. It’s wan o’ thae noises you cannae quite place: cannae work oot exactly whit it sounded like or where it was comin’ fae, but you know you heard it: deep, rumbling and low.

  “Whit was that?”

  “You heard it an’ aw?”

  “Aye. Ach, probably just the wind,” I says, no even kiddin’ masel.

  “Was it fuck the wind. It sounded like a whole load ay people singin’ or somethin’.”

  “Well I cannae hear it noo, so never bother.”

  “Whit aboot that light? Whit if somebody is up there?”

  “It didnae sound like it came fae above. Maist likely the plumbing. The pipes in these big auld places can make some weird sounds.”

  Billy doesnae look sure, but he gets on wi’ his job aw the same.

  We go back tae the big hallway, but stop and look at each other at the foot of the stairs. We baith know what the other’s thinkin’: there’s mair gear tae be had up there, but neither ay us is in a hurry to go lookin’ for it. That said, there’s still room in the bags, and I’m about to suggest we grasp the thistle when we hear the rumblin’ sound again. Could be the pipes, I’m thinkin’, but I know what Billy meant when he said lots ay folk singin’.

  “We’re no’ finished doon here,” I says, postponin’ the issue a wee bit, and we go through another door aff the hall. It’s a small room, compared to the others anyway, and the curtains are shut, so I reckon it’s safe to stick the light on. The light seems dazzling at first, but that’s just because we’d become accustomed tae the dark. It’s actually quite low, cannae be mair than forty watt. The room’s an office, like, a study. There’s a big desk in the middle, a fireplace on wan wall and bookshelves aw the way tae the ceiling, apart fae where the windae is.

  Billy pulls a book aff the
shelf, big ancient-lookin’ leather-bound effort.

  “Have a swatch at this,” he says, pointin’ tae the open page. “Diddies! Look.”

  He’s right. There’s a picture ay a wummin in the scud lyin’ doon oan a table; no’ a photie, like, a drawin’, an’ aw this queer writin’ underneath, in letters I don’t recognize. Queer, queer stuff, I remember. Occult. Black magic.

  Billy turns the page.

  “Euuh!”

  There’s a picture ay the same wummin, but there’s a boay in a long robe plungin’ her wi’ a blade.

  “Put it doon,” I says, and take the book aff him.

  But it’s no’ just books that’s on the shelves. There’s aw sorts o’ spooky-lookin’ gear. Wee statues, carved oot ay wood. Wee women wi’ big diddies, wee men wi’ big boabbies. Normally we’d be pishin’ oorsels at these, but there’s somethin’ giein’ us the chills aboot this whole shebang. There’s masks as well, some of wood, primitive efforts, but some others in porcelain or alabaster: perfect likenesses of faces, but solemn, grim even. I realize they’re death masks, but don’t say anythin’ tae Billy.

  “These must be thon arty thingmies the sergeant warned us aboot,” Billy says.

  “Artefacts. Aye. I’m happy tae gie them a bodyswerve. Let’s check the desk and that’ll dae us.”

  “Sure.”

  We try the drawers on one side. They’re locked, and we’ve no’ brought anythin’ tae jemmy them open.

  “Forget it,” I say, hardly able tae take my eyes aff thae death masks, but Billy gies the rest ay the drawers a pull just for the sake ay it. The bottom yin rolls open, a big, deep, heavy thing.

  “Aw, man,” Billy says.

  The drawer contains a glass case, and inside ay it is a skull, restin’ on a bed ay velvet.

  “Dae ye think it’s real?” Billy asks.

  “Oh Christ aye,” I says. I’ve never seen a real skull, except in photies, so I wouldnae know, but I’d put money on it aw the same. I feel weird: it’s giein’ me the chills but I’m drawn tae it at the same time. I want tae touch it. I put my hands in and pull at the glass cover, which lifts aff nae bother.