Invisible Blood Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  by Maxim Jakubowski

  ALL THE SIGNS AND WONDERS

  by Denise Mina

  THE WASHING

  by Christopher Fowler

  BLOOD LINES

  by Stella Duffy

  SMILE

  by Lee Child

  FALLEN WOMAN

  by Mary Hoffman

  BLOOD ON THE GALWAY SHORE

  by Ken Bruen

  #METOO

  by Lauren Henderson

  THE LIFEGUARD

  by James Grady

  THE GHOST OF WILLIAMSBURG

  by Jason Starr

  BLACK DOG

  by Cathi Unsworth

  VIRGINIA RACER

  by Bill Beverly

  THE BELL

  by Lavie Tidhar

  BORROWED TIME

  by R. J. Ellory

  IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

  by Johana Gustawsson

  IN ADVANCE OF DEATH

  by A. K. Benedict

  YESTERDAYS

  by John Harvey

  CONNECTING THE DOTS

  by Jeffery Deaver

  About the Authors

  Also Available from Titan Books

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  Dark Cities: All-New Masterpieces of Urban Terror

  Dead Letters: An Anthology of the Undelivered, the Missing, the Returned…

  Exit Wounds

  New Fears

  New Fears 2

  Phantoms: Haunting Tales from the Masters of the Genre

  Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse

  Wastelands 2: More Stories of the Apocalypse

  Wastelands: The New Apocalypse

  Sherlock Holmes: The Sign of Seven

  Associates of Sherlock Holmes

  Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

  Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

  Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

  TITAN BOOKS

  Print edition ISBN: 9781789091328

  Electronic edition ISBN: 9781789091335

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First edition: July 2019

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  Introduction and selection © 2019 Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘All the Signs and Wonders’ © 2019 Denise Mina

  ‘The Washing’ © 2019 Christopher Fowler

  ‘Blood Lines’ © 2019 Stella Duffy

  ‘Smile’ © 2019 Lee Child

  ‘Fallen Woman’ © 2019 Mary Hoffman

  ‘Blood on the Galway Shore’ © 2019 Ken Bruen

  ‘#MeToo’ © 2019 Lauren Henderson

  ‘The Lifeguard’ © 2019 James Grady

  ‘The Ghost of Williamsburg’ © 2019 Jason Starr

  ‘Black Dog’ © 2019 Cathi Unsworth

  ‘Virginia Racer’ © 2019 Bill Beverly

  ‘The Bell’ © 2019 Lavie Tidhar

  ‘Borrowed Time’ © 2019 R. J. Ellory

  ‘In the Belly of the Beast’ © 2019 Johana Gustawsson

  ‘In Advance of Death’ © 2019 A. K. Benedict

  ‘Yesterdays’ © 2019 John Harvey

  ‘Connecting the Dots’ © 2019 Jeffery Deaver

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Introduction

  BLOOD, ON THE STREETS AND IN THE MIND

  MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI

  We are experiencing a Golden Age of crime and mystery writing, when every single week at least two-thirds of the US and UK bestseller lists are populated by mysteries and thrillers, notwithstanding the profusion, excellence and diversity of so many other titles originating in the genre that don’t reach such a status. Indeed, I would argue that since what is considered the traditional Golden Age of crime, as represented by Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh and countless others (and wonderfully foreshadowed by Sherlock Holmes and his rivals and foes), there have been further ceaseless, if not continuous generations of Golden Ages, epitomised by the likes of, successively, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Erle Stanley Gardner and later the emergence of Ed McBain, Ruth Rendell and P. D. James, all the way through to our modern times where James Patterson, Lee Child, Ian Rankin, John Grisham and so many wonderful contemporaries excel on a regular basis. The Golden Age has never gone away!

  Why is that?

  Because crime and mystery writing, at its best, entertains, intrigues, and on many occasions also makes us question the world we inhabit, the way we live.

  I have been reading crime and mystery since my teens and have gone on not just to read it on an epic scale but also throughout my career in the world of books to edit it, publish it, sell it (when I owned Murder One, London’s foremost mystery bookstore), write it, judge it on behalf of major literary awards, collect it, even, and it has never disappointed. All the world is there – in the form of fiendish puzzles – scary in the description of crimes beyond the newspaper headlines, fascinating when it gazes into the face of everyday evil, conjuring abominable and worryingly often super-intelligent villains, enlightening when it delves into the psychology that tips the balance between good and evil, as well as educational and also entertaining.

  I have had the opportunity to edit many anthologies, whether selecting best-of-the-year stories or focusing on a particular theme amongst the wild selection the genre offers, from cosies to noir, from police procedurals to amateur sleuths and private eyes, from spy thrillers to psychological thrillers, from famous fictional detectives to their counterpart villains, from domestic drama to action and suspense, and so many other variations in the almost unlimited palette crime and mystery writing allows. But, on this occasion, I decided to offer carte blanche to some of my favourite writers and friends, asking them to come up with a brand new story to celebrate the genre, irrespective of theme, period, or style, and I’m truly delighted to say that each and every one came up trumps with a tale that epitomises their storytelling talent.

  We have authors from the US, the UK, France, and even Israel, and all are at the top of their form. Some are major stars in their own right, others are still emerging talents, but all have established a sterling reputation previously with their fascinating books and ably demonstrate how wide the range of ideas, imagination and readability is that contemporary mystery writing has to offer.

  Not all the stories actually feature blood, of course, but I guarantee each will have you glued to the page!

  ALL THE SIGNS AND WONDERS

  DENISE MINA

  William Halligan looked from the flashing tip of the knife to Claire’s hand on the white handle. He wasn’t afraid but his brow rose a fraction, sceptical. He thought she wouldn’t do it, that she was just upset, that she had no reason to hurt him. But Halligan didn’t know her. Claire was willing to risk it all. She had killed the king before.

  * * *

  When young she had jumped on a man’s back and punched him in the back of t
he head over and over. She broke a knuckle, but she didn’t notice at the time because she was so carried away, in the moment, not afraid or sorry, not worried about what would happen next, as she usually was. It felt as if she had dared to walk through a doorway and become one of those people who refused to accept what was given to them.

  She’d been thinking about doing it for so long, imagining, rehearsing. She knew the arithmetic of violence was not who was the strongest but who was willing to get most hurt. She did get hurt.

  The man tried to get her off, twisting and spinning as if she was a spider he could shake off. He clawed up at her face: “Claire! Get off, you stupid girl!” But Claire was young and fit, and her legs were strong. She managed to stay up there for quite a long time, get a lot of blows in. Then she fell heavily into a table, landing on her side, bruising a rib and her hip.

  The man who threw her off was her Dad. It was a seminal moment in their family. Claire had always been afraid of him, but after that futile gesture she was never afraid of him again. She’d turned it around.

  While she was up there, part of her mind stayed calm, rolling through possibilities, formulating a defence in case she killed him. This is what she would tell the cops: Claire walked into the living room and found him kicking her mother in the stomach. Her mother was on the ground, lying curled on her side, holding tight to his shin as he kicked her with the other foot. No daughter could watch that unfold without being moved to action. These thoughts were rattling around her head as her thighs burned at the effort, her hands numb from hitting bone.

  It would be a good defence. Claire was fourteen and looked younger. She would weep in the dock. She would wear a blouse. They had the intensive care reports from the time he broke her Mum’s jaw to back it up.

  It was true: that was the scene Claire had walked in on. Normally she’d have backed out and shut the door and left them to it. It was futile to intervene. But standing in the doorway she’d heard a small “no” pop in her head. A tiny “no”, like a twitch or a burp. No. She would not play her role tonight. Not tonight. She would object, not to him doing that to her, not to her doing it to him, but to Claire having to see it.

  She didn’t kill her Dad. She fell off and even before she hit the ground she knew what would happen afterwards. He sat down, holding the back of his head where she had hit him, gasping with pain, looking shocked and wronged, deeply offended at the breach of protocol. “What are you think—what the heck?” He didn’t approve of swearing. They were trying to raise her right.

  “Claire!” Her mother was up off the floor, bent double, arms crossed over her bruised stomach. “You could have really hurt him!”

  Claire had broken the ritual of silent acquiescence. She had stopped being the passive child, lost her special role, but it was worth it. They were looking at her.

  Her Mum crouch-walked over to his side, cupping a protective hand near the back of his head, not quite bold enough to touch him. He looked up at her, eyebrows tented. “Why? I mean, look what she made me do!”

  “I know!” said her Mum.

  Her Mum’s lower jaw was swelling up. The wires were not long out. He’d shattered it and knew better than to hit her there again. They didn’t want to end up back in hospital with all the questions and the exasperated policewomen trying to convince her Mum to bring charges.

  He hurt Claire. Her cheek was scratched, pierced with two of his fingernails, drawn down an inch. She could feel the skin swelling around the cuts and the warm blood dripping from her jaw.

  Claire said she was sorry and backed out, but she wasn’t sorry. She felt wonderful. She had thrown off a spell by daring to defy the consensus.

  After that she walked taller. At school she started to do well. No longer cowed, she became quite popular. People sensed the shift in power.

  She left home at sixteen and got a job, worked hard, got a flat: life was good. She started to attend a church with a flatmate and found great comfort in her faith. There was no drama to it. She didn’t have to give anything up because faith and the practice of prayer, attending Mass, taking the sacraments, they filled a hole that had always been there.

  In the years to come she thought about the moment often, that “no” and how it changed her life. She wondered if it had been God-inspired. That moment laid eggs in her. She told no one but she was proud that she’d dared. The arithmetic of daring.

  * * *

  But Halligan didn’t know that story. They’d never met before. He didn’t know how daring she was. He seemed old, though she knew he wasn’t. He was deeply freckled and his pale blue eyes were rimmed with red. The boundaries of his lips were indistinct. A pale-skinned man who had spent a lot of time in the sun.

  Claire pointed the knife at his heart. It was a big carving knife, long and sharp. Halligan held her gaze, so sure she wouldn’t do it that he didn’t even raise his hands to defend himself.

  “What are you doing?” he said quietly.

  “I should have done this a long time ago,” said Claire.

  “I’ve done nothing to you.”

  He was right. Claire stabbed him in the heart.

  Halligan’s eyes widened with surprise, his mouth dropped open. He didn’t believe it. He blinked over and over, trying to reboot reality.

  She was still holding the knife. She thought of Halligan with an ambulance crew gathered around him, the knife still in his chest, lifting him, shocked and blinking still, onto a stretcher. But Claire thought No. Kill the king. Dare. She pulled the knife out not out of a wish to undo, but because she knew it would make her actions irreversible. She dared. She killed him.

  A bloody mist sprayed her face and she turned away, startled by the sudden sensation of warmth, spluttering to get the blood off her lips as he crumpled to the floor.

  Claire stood over him, watching blood scorch the white square of his priest’s collar. She could hear his mother humming along to the radio in the kitchen.

  She stood there, for what might have been a second or an hour, and then took her phone out of her pocket and called the police on herself.

  A second or an hour or a day later, she couldn’t say which, they arrived and broke down the door and found Claire still standing in the living room, soaked in his blood and Father William Halligan dead on the floor.

  “I killed him,” she said. “It was me.”

  * * *

  In prison, held on remand, Claire had time to think. Far from the sense of euphoria she had expected, her mood was very low. She felt at first shocked by herself, by the visceral nature of what she had done. Then disgusted. She lay on the bed-shaped slab of concrete, feeling the cold seep in through the rubber mattress, awake, ceiling-staring, mind blank. This was not what she hoped would happen. She had hoped to walk taller, do well, be popular. Oddly enough, she did become popular for a brief spell because people thought they understood what she had done.

  “A priest, aye?” This from a grizzled woman in the refectory. “Child-abusing bastards. Kill the lot of them.”

  A lot of people made assumptions, of course. He was a priest, after all. People like to think they know things. Then it came out that Halligan had just returned from working in the Sudan. He had been teaching young children at a chaotic refugee camp on the border. Everyone thought they knew why Claire had killed him. She knew something, had heard rumours, knew there would be no consequences for him within the church.

  During that phase Claire got letters of congratulations from strangers, survivors of abuse within the church and also random people who couldn’t bear what had gone on. Thank you for taking a stand, they said. Some told her their stories. Claire skipped the abuse details and only read the aftermath: drugs and drink, depression, sexual misdemeanours, self-harm and suicide. She was looking for herself in the aftermath, for a comradely sense of fellowship, but none of the stories were as bad as her own. She didn’t reply to any of them.

  Because she didn’t contradict any of it her reputation as a defender of children snowba
lled. Auntie Mags, the heavy-set drug dealer who ran the convicted block, sent a lackey to give Claire the gift of a phone card and a box of teabags. Don’t worry if you get convicted, said the lackey, Mags is saying you’ll get looked after. They didn’t know what she had done.

  A rumour went around that Halligan had been abusing Claire’s own children. Good for her, was the consensus of opinion. Finally someone took a stand. She seemed to stand for all of the women who’d been through that. A lot of the women on remand had come from abusive backgrounds, some of them had children who were abused and had been either too ignorant or powerless to stop it. Claire became a hero to those women. She got extra potatoes at lunch from a young woman who made eye contact for too long. She got extra books from the library trolley.

  It was nonsense. Claire didn’t have children. She was twenty-six and couldn’t have children. She’d had a full hysterectomy when she was first diagnosed at twenty-two. It was a brutal treatment option for such a young woman, but best in the circumstances. Cut the cancer out completely.

  No one knew that, though, because she didn’t speak two words. She was shocked and waiting for God, who never came. He just never came.

  They must have realised that she didn’t have children at some point, but those who needed the redemption story hung on to it regardless of the evidence. No children came to visit her. No one but her church friend Valerie came to see her. Still Claire didn’t speak. Just as her star was waning, Lilly Spenser declared herself Claire’s lawyer.

  Spenser wore lipstick the colour of a village burning at night. She wore trouser suits the colour of stab vests and had ironed black hair that hung down her back like chain mail.

  “I am going to save you,” she said.

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” said Claire. “I’m guilty.”

  Spenser sat across the table from Claire in a rarely-used room. The sun shone in through the window all day and super-heated it. Where the mildew smell was coming from was anyone’s guess.

  “Had you met Father Halligan before?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know people who knew Father Halligan?”

  “No.”