The Mammoth Book Best International Crime

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He takes a step toward her.

  Then another.

  “Stay back,” Sara orders.

  “And you know that’s true,” Saggese says as he keeps moving forward “don’t you?”

  Sara’s lips tremble. She clenches her teeth and fires.

  The silence that follows the shot seems to be the beginning of something.

  Saggese looks at his left shoulder, appalled. Then he drops heavily to his knees.

  “He was no better than me,” he gasps, staring into Sara’s eyes. “He obeyed, just like I obeyed. He was my accomplice, whether you like it or not. And you can’t change that even if you kill me, you filthy slut!”

  Sara’s nostrils flare. She takes a breath, shoots again.

  This time she hits him in the chest.

  Saggese doesn’t cry out. The blast knocks him back.

  Someone runs out of the restaurant.

  Sara approaches Saggese’s lifeless body.

  She looks at him.

  “I know,” she tells him. She picks up her purse. Takes out her cell phone, and dials a number.

  There’s a small group of people milling around now in the area in front of the restaurant.

  Sara recognizes the headwaiter. Someone starts to approach, but she keeps the gun in her hand, and nobody comes very close.

  Commissioner Vanini answers on the third ring.

  “Sara Vallicelli. I just killed Saggese. Yes. Right now. I’m in the parking lot of a restaurant called Mesticanza, are you familiar with it? Fine. Come and take me in.”

  The parking lot is lit off and on by the flashing lights of police cars. The murder scene is marked by a yellow tape. The agents keep the curious spectators away and perform regulation inspections.

  Sara is leaning against a car, with her back to it. In front of her, a resigned Vanini is trying to get a word out of her.

  “What did you do,” he tells her.

  The ambulance arrives. The siren is turned off. The paramedics get out to retrieve the body.

  “Who gave you the gun,” Vanini asks.

  Sara looks at him and doesn’t answer.

  Vanini sighs.

  “Let’s go.”

  They walk over to the waiting car. The agents ask the Commissioner if they should handcuff her. He shakes his head no, opens the back door, lets Sara get in, and then climbs in himself. Two agents get in the front seat.

  They get back on the highway.

  Sara looks out the window. There’s a long silence.

  “What do you think you gained by it?” Vanini asks.

  Sara doesn’t know how to answer.

  The Commissioner shakes his head.

  “It wouldn’t have done any good anyway,” he adds, in a curiously confidential tone.

  “What? What did you say?” Sara asks him, feeling a sudden oppression.

  Vanini looks at her, then turns his head slightly and directs his gaze toward the flashing lights of an ambulance stopped on the opposite side of the road, not far away. There’s an overturned vehicle, just off the road.

  Sara flattens herself against the seat back, gripped by a flash of horror. She knows it, that car.

  “What’s that?” Sara asks.

  “What do you mean, what’s that,” Vanini replies. “Don’t you know?”

  Sara pales.

  Vanini taps the shoulder of the agent who is driving.

  “Pull over,” he says.

  They pull up almost opposite the accident scene. A couple of paramedics drag two bodies out of the overturned car.

  Sara covers her mouth with her hand.

  The first body is that of Daniele.

  Vanini puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “Sara,” he says softly.

  She turns her head in slow motion. She looks at him, shaken.

  The two agents turn towards her.

  Vanini nods his head in the direction of the accident. “They won, don’t you see?”

  Sara’s eyes fill with tears.

  “You have nothing to do with it. You did what you could.”

  “I just wanted to tell the truth.”

  “I know. But the truth . . . is used to being concealed.”

  Sara starts to cry.

  “That’s why they didn’t see you, that day in the park,” Vanini continues.

  Sara looks out the window again. It’s hers, the second body that they’ve just extracted from the twisted metal.

  She buries her head against Vanini’s shoulder, and gives way to fitful sobbing.

  The Commissioner holds her, and strokes her hair.

  Sara reopens her eyes. She’s lying in an ambulance, connected to a monitor, an intravenous drip in her arm. A paramedic is holding her hand. He has Commissioner Vanini’s face. On the stretcher nearby lies Daniele, pale, eyes half-closed, his clothes soaked with blood. Beside him, another paramedic.

  She tries to speak. Her voice won’t come.

  “Don’t get upset, miss, try to stay calm,” the paramedic says.

  Sara can feel her legs trembling spasmodically. She raises her head a little to see them, it seems so strange that they’re able to rebel on their own. The siren is deafening. She clings tightly to the hand of the paramedic, who with his other hand, raps loudly against the glass that separates the rear compartment from that of the driver.

  “Faster. We’re losing her.”

  The other fellow looks at the monitor, then looks at him, and doesn’t say a word.

  Howling, the ambulance burns up the road, its hysterical voice imposing a right of way born of desperation. Passersby, hearing it approach, stand stock-still. They stop what they’re doing and follow it with their eyes, even if there’s nothing to see. Sometimes they wait for it to disappear around the corner. Then they lower their heads, think of something else and slowly continue walking.

  Translation © 2009 Anne Milano Appel

  Tell Me Who to Kill

  Ian Rankin

  Saturday afternoon, John Rebus left the Oxford Bar after the football results and decided that he would try walking home. The day was clear, the sun just above the horizon, casting ridiculously long shadows. It would grow chilly later, maybe even frost overnight, but for now it was crisp and bright – perfect for a walk. He had limited himself to three pints of IPA, a corned beef roll and a pie. He carried a large bag with him – shopping for clothes his excuse for a trip into the city centre, a trip he’d known would end at the Ox. Edinburgh on a Saturday meant day-trippers, weekend warriors, but they tended to stick to Princes Street. George Street had been quieter, Rebus’s tally finally comprising two shirts and a pair of trousers. He’d gone up a waist size in the previous six months, which was reason enough to cut back on the beer, and for opting to walk home.

  He knew his only real problem would be The Mound. The steep slope connected Princes Street to the Lawnmarket, having been created from the digging out of the New Town’s foundations. It posed a serious climb. He’d known a fellow cop – a uniformed sergeant – who’d cycled up The Mound every day on his way to work, right up until the day he’d retired. For Rebus, it had often proved problematical, even on foot. But he would give it a go, and if he failed, well, there was a bus-stop he could beat a retreat to, or taxis he could flag down. Plenty of cabs about at this time of day, ferrying spent shoppers home to the suburbs, or bringing revellers into town at the start of another raucous evening. Rebus avoided the city centre on Saturday nights, unless duty called. The place took on an aggressive edge, violence spilling on to the streets from the clubs on Lothian Road and the bars in the Grassmarket. Better to stay at home with a carry-out and pretend your world wasn’t changing for the worse.

  A crowd had gathered at the foot of Castle Street. Rebus noticed that an ambulance, blue lights blinking, was parked in front of a stationary double-decker bus. Walking into the middle of the scene, Rebus overheard muttered exchanges of information.

  “Just walked out . . .”

  “. . . right into its path . .
.”

  “Wasn’t looking . . .”

  “Not the first time I’ve seen . . .”

  “These bus drivers think they own the roads, though . . .”

  The victim was being carried into the ambulance. It didn’t look good for him. One look at the paramedics’ faces told Rebus as much. There was blood on the roadway. The bus driver was sitting in the open doorway of his vehicle, head in his hands. There were still passengers on the bus, reluctant to admit that they would need to transfer, loaded down with shopping and unable to think beyond their own concerns. Two uniformed officers were taking statements, the witnesses only too happy to fulfil their roles in the drama. One of the uniforms looked at Rebus and gave a nod of recognition.

  “Afternoon, DI Rebus.”

  Rebus just nodded back. There was nothing for him to do here, no part he could usefully play. He made to cross the road, but noticed something lying there, untouched by the slow crawl of curious traffic. He stooped and picked it up. It was a mobile phone. The injured pedestrian must have been holding it, maybe even using it. Which would explain why he hadn’t been paying attention. Rebus turned his head towards the ambulance, but it was already moving away, not bothering to add a siren to its flashing lights: another bad sign, a sign that the medics in the back either didn’t want or didn’t feel the need of it. There was either severe trauma, or else the victim was already dead. Rebus glanced down at the phone. It was unscathed, looked almost brand new. Strange to think such a thing could survive where its owner might not. He pressed it to his ear, but the line wasn’t open. Then he looked at it again, noting that there were words on its display screen. Looked like a text message.

  TELL ME WHO TO KILL

  Rebus blinked, narrowed his eyes. He was back on the pavement.

  TELL ME WHO TO KILL

  He scrolled up and down the message, but there wasn’t any more to it than those five words. Along the top ran the number of the caller; looked like another mobile phone. Plus time of call: 16.31. Rebus walked over to the uniformed officer, the one who’d spoken to him.

  “Larry,” he said, “where was the ambulance headed?”

  “Western General,” the uniform said. “Guy’s skull’s split open, be lucky to make it.”

  “Do we know what happened?”

  “He walked straight out into the road, by the look of it. Can’t really blame the driver . . .”

  Rebus nodded slowly and walked over to the bus driver, crouched down in front of him. The man was in his fifties, head shaved but with a thick silvery beard. His hands shook as he lifted them away from his eyes.

  “Couldn’t stop in time,” he explained, voice quavering. “He was right there . . .” His eyes widened as he played the scene again in his head. Shaking his head slowly. “No way I could’ve stopped . . .”

  “He wasn’t looking where he was going,” Rebus said softly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Busy on his phone maybe?”

  The driver nodded. “Staring at it, aye . . . Some people haven’t got the sense they were born with. Not that I’m . . . I mean, I don’t want to speak ill or anything.”

  “Wasn’t your fault,” Rebus agreed, patting the man’s shoulder.

  “Colleague of mine, same thing happened not six months past. Hasn’t worked since.” He held up his hands to examine them.

  “He was too busy looking at his phone,” Rebus said. “That’s the whole story. Reading a message maybe?”

  “Maybe,” the driver agreed. “Doing something anyway, something more important than looking where he was bloody well going . . .”

  “Not your fault,” Rebus repeated, rising to his feet. He walked to the back of the bus, stepped out into the road, and waved down the first taxi he saw.

  Rebus sat in the waiting area of the Western General Hospital. When a dazed-looking woman was led in by a nurse, and asked if she wanted a cup of tea, he got to his feet. The woman sat herself down, twisting the handles of her shoulder-bag in both hands, as if wringing the life out of them. She’d shaken her head, mumbled something to the nurse, who was now retreating.

  “As soon as we know anything,” were the nurse’s parting words.

  Rebus sat down next to the woman. She was in her early thirties, blonde hair cut in a pageboy style. What make-up she had applied to her eyes that morning had been smudged by tears, giving her a haunted look. Rebus cleared his throat, but she still seemed unaware of his close presence.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.” He opened his ID, and she looked at it, then stared down at the floor again. “Has your husband just been in an accident?”

  “He’s in surgery,” she said.

  Rebus had been told as much at the front desk. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t even know his name.”

  “Carl,” she said. “Carl Guthrie.”

  “And you’re his wife?”

  She nodded. “Frances.”

  “Must be quite a shock, Frances.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure you don’t want that tea?”

  She shook her head, looked up into his face for the first time. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Seems he was starting to cross Princes Street and didn’t see the bus coming.”

  She squeezed shut her eyes, tears glinting in her lashes. “How is that possible?”

  Rebus shrugged. “Maybe he had something on his mind,” he said quietly. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Breakfast this morning. I was planning to go shopping.”

  “What about Carl?”

  “I thought he was working. He’s a physiotherapist, sports injuries mostly. He has his own practice in Corstorphine. He gets some work from the BUPA hospital at Murrayfield.”

  “And a few rugby players too, I’d guess.”

  Frances Guthrie was dabbing at her eyes with a paper tissue. “How could he get hit by a bus?” She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.

  “Do you know what he was doing in town?”

  She shook her head.

  “This was found lying in the road,” Rebus said, holding up the phone for her to see. “There’s a text message displayed. You see what it says?”

  She peered at the screen, then frowned. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Rebus admitted. “Do you recognise the caller’s number?”

  She shook her head, then reached out a hand and took the phone from Rebus, turning it in her palm. “This isn’t Carl’s.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t Carl’s phone. Someone else must have dropped it.”

  Rebus stared at her. “You’re sure?”

  She handed the phone back, nodding. “Carl’s is a silver flip-top sort of thing.” Rebus stared at the black, one-piece Samsung.

  “Then whose is it?” he asked, more to himself than to her. She answered anyway.

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  “But it’s a joke surely.” She nodded at the screen. “Someone’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “Maybe,” Rebus said. The same nurse was walking towards them, accompanied by a surgeon in green scrubs. Neither of them had to say anything. Frances Guthrie was already keening as the surgeon began his speech.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Guthrie . . . we did everything we could.”

  Frances Guthrie leaned in towards Rebus, her face against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, feeling it was the least he could do.

  Carl Guthrie’s effects had been placed in a large cardboard box. His blood-soaked clothes were protected by a clear polythene bag. Rebus lifted them out. The pockets had been emptied. Watch, wallet, small change, keys. And a silver flip-top mobile phone. Rebus checked its screen. The battery was low, and there were no messages. Rebus told the nurse that he wanted to take it with him. She shrugged and made him sign a docket to that effect. He flipped through the wallet, finding bank-notes, credit cards, and a few
of Carl Guthrie’s own business cards, giving an address in Corstorphine, plus office and mobile numbers. Rebus took out his own phone and punched in the latter. The silver telephone trilled as it rang. Rebus cancelled the call. He nodded to the nurse to let her know he was finished. The docket was placed in the box, along with the polythene bag. Rebus pocketed all three phones.

  The police lab at Howdenhall wasn’t officially open at weekends, but Rebus knew that someone was usually there, trying to clear a backlog, or just because they’d nothing better to do. Rebus got lucky. Ray Duff was one of the better technicians. He sighed when Rebus walked in.

  “I’m up to my eyes,” he complained, turning away to walk back down the corridor.

  “Yes, but you’ll like this,” Rebus said, holding out the mobile.

  Duff stopped and turned, stared at it, then ran his fingers through an unruly mop of hair.

  “I really am up to my eyes . . .”

  Rebus shrugged, arm still stretched out. Duff sighed again and took the phone from him.

  “Discovered at the scene of an accident,” Rebus explained. Duff had found a pair of spectacles in one of the pockets of his white lab-coat and was putting them on. “My guess is that the victim had just received the text message, and was transfixed by it.”

  “And walked out in front of a car?”

  “Bus actually. Thing is, the phone doesn’t belong to the victim.” Rebus produced the silver flip-top. “This is his.”

  “So whose is this?” Duff peered at Rebus over the top of his glasses. “That’s what you’re wondering.” He was walking again, heading for his own cubicle, Rebus following.

  “Right.”

  “And also who the caller was.”

  “Right again.”

  “We could just phone them.”

  “We could.” They’d reached Duff’s work-station. Each surface was a clutter of wires, machines and paperwork. Duff rubbed his bottom lip against his teeth. “Battery’s getting low,” he said, as the phone uttered a brief chirrup.

  “Any chance you can recharge it?”

  “I can if you like, but we don’t really need it.”

  “We don’t?”

  The technician shook his head. “The important stuff’s on the chip.” He tapped the back of the phone. “We can transfer it . . .” He grew thoughtful again. “Of course, that would mean accessing the code number, so we’re probably better off hanging on to it as it is.” He reached down into a cupboard and produced half a dozen mains adaptors. “One of these should do the trick.”