The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I still could not believe that. Had Lord Foppington written them in the hope that with Annie dead, Miss Cherrington would be off her guard? Or had Mr Percy Trott hoped to ruin his rival’s suit? No. There had to be another solution.

  Vexed, my stomach began to object to the absence of a soothing breakfast, and even lacked enthusiasm for the dinner ahead. I could not contemplate taking the waters today, with the memories of Annie so vivid. My mind was in a whirl, a dizziness that came of too much imagination, and too little sustenance. If I was convinced the verses had to do with Annie’s death, I must first reason out why. Could I discount the pedlar and Black Micah from my thoughts on that basis? Possibly. Lord Foppington again assumed monstrous proportions in my mind, with Mr Trott leering over his shoulder.

  This is balderdash, Caleb, I told myself firmly, merely the results of an upset digestion. And to think I had brought no rhubarb powder with me! I took prompt action. I asked Mrs Thomas for directions to an apothecary.

  I had not far to go, and there I had the delight of meeting not only with rhubarb powder but with my dear Dorcas.

  “Parson Pennywick,” she said in delight. Caleb was used only on informal occasions. “Fancy that. I was here to buy you some rhubarb powder.”

  “And I was on the same mission.” We looked at each other, highly pleased. “Shall we attend the inquest together?” I asked.

  Dorcas was doubtful about the propriety of this, but I persuaded her, and having taken my rhubarb powder with water, we made our way back to the Lower Walk and along to the Sussex Tavern. I could still hear the strains of music and that, together with my faithful remedy, did much to calm me.

  “For what reason,” I asked her, “would Lord Foppington write those verses himself? Did he announce his plan to murder Annie Bright only because of his vanity as a poet?”

  “No, parson,” Dorcas declared sensibly. Her comfortable figure at my side, clad in the familiar caraco jacket, gave me strength. “These society folk know well how to look after themselves, when their skins are at stake.”

  “You are right. It would be too dangerous for him or for Mr Trott to do so.”

  We were already at the Sussex Tavern garden and we would shortly reach the room at the rear of the inn where the inquest would be held. And my mind was still in a jumble. And then Dorcas said: “I’ll take a cup of those waters tomorrow, in memory of Miss Bright.”

  I remembered pressing the coin into Annie’s hand. I remembered who had been at my side. Who had sought the excuse to come with me. Whose trade would give him ample opportunity to seize a paper-cutting knife. Whose wife was so devoted, he found it hard to get away. Yet he had got away. He said he had been playing cards that evening; he doubtless had the skills to copy Lord Foppington’s hand, and the opportunity to place the poems in the Book, thus to take the attention away from himself. Mr Edwin Thomas, beloved of the ladies. Had he expected Annie Bright to love him too, and when she refused his favours killed her?

  I was jubilant. I had the story. I was sure of it. Now I must speak to the coroner and to Sir John himself.

  “We will soon have this wheatear pie cooked,” I told Dorcas, thinking to please her by a reference to the dish she is so eager to try at Cuckoo Leas.

  “No. You will only eat it, Caleb,” she jested. “Tis the kitchen where the pie is put together.”

  I stared at her. The kitchen? My mind clarified like liquid passed through a jellybag.

  Not Mr Thomas, but Mrs Thomas. So possessive of her husband that she would be rid of the woman she falsely believed to be his light o’love. She did not wish her husband to be incriminated and so wrote those verses to deflect attention from him. Under pretence of being ill, she took a paper knife from their store and stabbed her supposed rival. It was she who had cooked this pie, and thought to enjoy the results.

  We were at the door of the inquest room now. Before we entered, I took Dorcas’s hand and pressed it to my lips. Jem Smith would owe his life to her – and, of course, to rhubarb.

  SUCKER PUNCH

  Nick Quantrill

  I TRIED NOT to flinch in my chair as the punches landed. One after another. Relentless. The taller boxer was on top. A left hook connected with his opponent’s nose, which exploded on impact. Those nearest the ring were on their feet, encouraging the fighters to continue. Another left hook landed, quickly followed by a sharp right. The combination rocked the smaller fighter and forced him backwards, and on to the defensive. And then it happened. The smaller man sprung forward, and with one vicious swipe of his right hand sent the taller man sprawling on to the canvas. The crowd went silent for a brief moment. Even the winning boxer looked surprised.

  A click of the remote and the television screen faded to black. A drink was placed in front of me. I didn’t want alcohol at this time of the day.

  “What do you think?”

  I turned to Burrows, not sure what I was expected to say. “Looks like it was a good fight.”

  Burrows laughed. “Not from where I was sitting. It cost me a lot of time and money to organize that fight.”

  I swallowed the alcohol, forcing it down, not sure why he’d called me to his office. I didn’t want the job. I didn’t have a choice.

  “The tall lad is called Jordan. He’s fought for me a few times. Not a bad fighter as it goes, but as you can see, he lacks ring craft. He’s got a punch, but he’s not really going anywhere. Too many flaws. You were a rugby player, weren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “You’ll understand there are certain things you can’t coach into people, then. They’ve either got it or they haven’t. It’s about natural talent. The point is, Joe, I can’t do any more for Jordan, so we came to an arrangement.”

  He left it hanging there, forcing me to ask what the arrangement was.

  “I’m a man who cares, so when I have to part company with someone, I make sure they’re well looked after.”

  Burrows reeked of insincerity. I knew of him by reputation but this was the first time I’d met him. One of his men had collected me from my office. I was hired. End of discussion.

  “There’s a problem, though.” He flicked the fight back on and searched for the final punch. We watched it again in silence. “I’m told you’re good, Joe. Probably the best in this city.” He forced me to meet his stare. “Jordan took a dive and cost me a lot of money. And as the bookmaker, I think I’m entitled to a few answers. Now I can’t find him.”

  I’d left Burrows’s office with a list of Jordan’s known haunts and a couple of hundred pounds in my pocket. I’d get the same again if I found my man. The nearest place on the list was a boxing club on the edge of the city centre. I decided to walk there, feeling like I needed the fresh air. The club was situated in the loft of an old warehouse. Downstairs was a fitness gym. I assumed the club had little spare money. The room was dominated by a tired-looking ring. Two teenagers were sparring and feeling each other out in front of a watchful coach and small crowd of other boxers.

  “Help you?”

  I turned around. He was in his early sixties, but he was still in good shape and I had no wish to mess with him.

  I passed him a business card and introduced myself. “I hope so. I’m looking for someone.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to speak to Jordan.”

  “He doesn’t have anything to do with us any more. He left a while back.”

  “I was told he did.”

  “I’m telling you he doesn’t.”

  “Fair enough.” I looked around the club. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “And it’ll be staying that way.” He introduced himself as Bill Armstrong. “I opened this place over thirty years ago to give teenagers somewhere to go, something positive to do. I got nothing given to me, so I built it up over the years by myself. I’ve even produced some good boxers over the years. Some have gone on to bigger and better things. It’s a shame Jordan’s gone down this road. I thought he was really going to kick on, but the lad
he was fighting the other night, Shane, he was something else. He could really have pulled up some trees.” He stared at me. “I assume Burrows sent you?”

  I nodded. “I need a quick word with Jordan, get last week’s fight straightened out.”

  The man laughed. “It’s unlicensed boxing. Things happen. You take your chances in that kind of game. I understand the attraction of it for people like Jordan, but it’s not something I approve of or encourage my fighters to get involved in. It’s a dangerous game.” He paused and stared at me. “For everyone.”

  It didn’t take me long to find Jordan. I sat in the pub opposite his flat with a newspaper and waited it out. He had to go home at some point. It seemed the most likely option on the list of potential places. He wouldn’t be looking out for me. He sat down in the corner, watching Sky Sports News, well away from the front door. I’d done my job, but I held off making the call to Burrows. I walked across to Jordan and sat down.

  “All right?” I said.

  He looked like he was going to run, but I’d angled my chair to block his only escape route.

  “Who are you?” he asked me.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Touch me and I’ll go to the police.”

  “I’m not going to touch you.” His face was a mess from the fight.

  He looked younger in the flesh. On the fight footage I couldn’t see the acne or the wispy facial hair. Still a teenager.

  “I know who sent you,” he said.

  “He needs to speak to you.”

  “About the fight?”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t talk to him.”

  I said nothing. I wanted to walk away, but I knew Burrows would hold me responsible. I’d been warned at the boxing club. Unlicensed boxing was a dangerous game and I didn’t want to be involved. “He won’t go away,” I said. “It needs to be dealt with.”

  “I know.”

  I saw a tear in his eye.

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know you are.”

  “I hate those fights. Everyone’s stood right up close to you, shouting at you. You can’t hear yourself think and it gets so hot. Part of me wishes I was back in Billy’s gym, doing it the right way, but it’s gone too far for that now. If I fight, it’s for people like Burrows. I hate it. I hate what I’ve become.” He paused. “You need to speak to Shane.”

  Jordan called Shane on his mobile and he joined us five minutes later.

  “That was quick,” I said. Shane’s face was in a similar state to Jordan’s.

  “I’m staying in Jordan’s flat until this blows over,” he said.

  “Until what blows over?”

  Shane shrugged. “Burrows was going mental after the fight, so we got out of the place. I got a text message from a mate at the gym telling me he was looking for me.”

  “Looking for you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t realize you two are friends.”

  They both nodded.

  “It was just a fight,” Shane said. “Nothing personal.”

  I gave Jordan a note from the bundle I had and told him to buy us all some drinks. I waited for him to leave. “Unlicensed boxing?” I said to Shane. “And Burrows?”

  He shrugged. “I need the money.”

  “I spoke to Bill at the club. He said you were a good boxer. You don’t need to be doing this.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Of course you do.” Any sport requires dedication if you’re going to do it at a high level, but it’s the price of the ticket. “Why don’t you go back to the club?”

  “There’s no point.”

  “Why not? You can start again, work your way back up?”

  “I can’t. I’m diabetic.”

  Jordan put the drinks on the table.

  “I was good, wasn’t I?” Shane said to Jordan. “A couple of years ago, I could really fight.”

  Jordan nodded.

  “It was going well. I was clearing up at junior level and I had a chance of making it as a pro. Bill was going to put me in touch with some people who could sort me out.”

  “Burrows?”

  He shook his head. “Proper boxing people. A proper manager.”

  “But the diabetes stopped that?”

  He nodded. “It’s not easy to fight professionally with it. It’s a big hassle and nobody would touch me now I’ve got it. I’m damaged goods.”

  I sympathized with him. My rugby career had been ended by injury when I was barely out of my teens. “So you turned to unlicensed boxing?”

  “It’s not illegal.”

  “I know it’s not.”

  “I’ve got debts to pay. I need to earn some money and all I know is how to fight. There’s no jobs about, anyway.”

  Fair point. “How did you end up fighting for Burrows?”

  “He runs all the unlicensed stuff in the area. Billy wasn’t able to help me any more, so I went to see Burrows, told him what my position was like. Said I needed the work.”

  “And he signed you up?”

  “He’s always looking for new fighters.”

  I didn’t know much about unlicensed boxing but it was obviously going to be more dangerous. I knew I’d be wasting my breath. He needed to fight.

  We drank up in silence. I suggested we go back to their flat.

  ***

  “How did you end up fighting each other?” I asked. I’d moved the newspapers and cans until there was space to sit on the settee.

  “Burrows told us we had to,” Jordan said.

  Shane nodded. “Since we were kids. We practically live together like a married couple nowadays.”

  I mulled it over and got down to business. “Why did you throw the fight, Jordan?”

  Jordan looked terrified. “I didn’t throw no fight.”

  “Burrows says you did.”

  He looked at Shane. “I wouldn’t throw a fight, would I?”

  “Course not. We’re proper fighters.”

  “Why would Burrows tell me you’d thrown it?”

  Jordan slumped back further into chair. “He’s mentioned it to me before. He said it was the only way I’d make some money because he was thinking of getting rid of me.”

  “Why would he get rid of you?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s his business.” He leant towards me. “You’ve got to tell him I didn’t throw the fight. I wouldn’t do that.”

  I doubted Burrows would listen. I looked up as Billy walked into the flat. He unzipped his jacket and sat down with us. “I take it you’ve all got yourselves into a spot of bother?”

  Billy sat there silently as I explained what had happened. And the overriding problem of Burrows.

  “Throwing unlicensed fights?” Billy looked appalled, but I suspected not too surprised. “Is that what it’s come to? If you needed money, Jordan, you only had to ask. I would have found you something. I always need people at the gym. Anything so you didn’t have to mix it with the likes of Burrows.”

  Both Shane and Jordan were shaking their heads. “We wouldn’t do that to you, Billy,” Shane said.

  “I didn’t throw the fight,” Jordan repeated.

  “Neither did I,” said Shane.

  I looked at both of the fighters. “I believe you. Both of you.”

  “What do you mean?” said Billy.

  “Jordan didn’t throw the fight,” I said.

  “Why is Burrows looking for him, then?” asked Billy.

  “Because he knew Shane wouldn’t be far away. He’s the one Burrows really wants.”

  We all turned to Shane. “I didn’t throw the fight.” He looked away from us. “I didn’t get the chance. I was supposed to go down in the third. It wasn’t meant to happen. I didn’t mean to put Jordan down.”

  It would have been an unpleasant surprise for Burrows. An expensive one, seeing as he was the bookmaker and organizer. Shane was the one with the talent, the youth champion. I assumed most of the pun
ters would have been betting on him winning. Maybe he wasn’t able to help himself. Maybe he got lucky. Either way, one punch was enough to bring the fight to an end. It could happen. I looked at Billy. “Can you sort this?”

  He nodded. “I run a gym full of the city’s finest boxers. I can sort it.” He paused. “I could use some new equipment for the gym, though.”

  I smiled and took the money I’d got from Burrows out of my pocket. Passed it to him. “Will that cover it?”

  He counted it before putting it in his pocket. “Perfect. I guess sucker punches can come in many forms, Mr Geraghty.”

  TOP HARD

  Stephen Booth

  THE LORRY I’D been watching was a brand new Iveco with French registration plates. All tarted up with flags and air horns and rows of headlights, it was like the space shuttle had just landed in a layby on the A1.

  I’d got myself a position no more than thirty yards away, slumped in the driver’s seat of a clapped-out four-year-old Escort that had last been driven by a clapped-out brewery rep. Or that was the way it looked, anyway. It was one o’clock on an ordinary Monday afternoon. And all I had to do was wait.

  The trouble was, the lorry hadn’t been doing very much. So all I had to look at was a red and white sticker on the Escort’s dashboard thanking me for not smoking, and a little dangling plastic ball that told me what direction I was going in. I might have been facing the soft south, but at least I was nicotine free.

  I already knew a few things about this French truck by now, of course. I’d counted its sixteen wheels and admired the size of its tail pipes. I’d seen the sleeping compartment behind the cab, which contained a little ten-inch colour telly, a fridge and even a microwave oven for warming up the driver’s morning croissant. I knew that its forty-foot trailer was packed full of leather jackets, jeans and denim shirts – all good stuff that’s really easy to shift. And I also knew that somebody was going to be really pissed off about that trailer very soon.