The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Page 12

  “Okay, sure.”

  The silence breaks into uproar.

  “Woop-woop-woop,” carries down the hall and Brad’s buddies try to lift him up. The noise brings out Mr Martinez from the history department and he smacks his hands together to get everyone to shut the hell up.

  Soon all I hear is the queen bitches slipping past me and muttering, “slut” over and over.

  Like I give a fuck, now.

  The black Porsche 911 is sat outside our front porch for, like, maybe a minute before Brad’s hitting the horn and yelling.

  “Who is that?” asks Mom.

  “No one,” I say.

  “Don’t you lie to me, missy!” She goes to the window, pulls back the drapes, “What in the name . . . who do you know drives a car like that, Alana?”

  “No one!” I’m pulling on my Ugg boots and then I’m running for the door when Mom starts to flap.

  “Now, just you hold on a minute my girl . . . I know you’ve been a little out of sorts but remember what Dr Morgan said about taking things easy!”

  “Mom . . .”

  The horn again.

  “Alana, I don’t think running about all over town is the way to get your head together.”

  “I’m not running about, Mom . . . I’m just . . .”

  “Alana, I never . . . I didn’t mean that.” She looks concerned, starts to undo her apron strings at her back, then moves towards me with her hands reaching for my face.

  “Mom, please.”

  She clasps her hands round my face, her eyes are all misty as she speaks, “You’re such a pretty, pretty girl my darling . . . You could have anything you want, anything in the whole world.”

  I want to say, “Anything?” Like it’s a real choice or something, but I know it’s not. I can’t have Steve.

  I pull away and run for the door.

  I can hear Mom yelling after me as I get into the Porsche.

  We drive, like, forever. Brad talks and talks about a whole heap of crap, what the Dodgers need to do next, how his daddy knows President Bush, his vacation in France and England and wherever. Eventually, we’re parked out by the flats. They have crags and rocks out here and they say some serial killer used a scope-gun to shoot kids who were making out way back. I dunno if that’s true, but it’s what they say. I think about that a little as Brad turns off the engine and swivels round to face me. He has that shit-eating grin of his on. I never noticed before now but the grin’s crooked, too.

  “So, here we are,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  He’s sat on the edge of his seat with his crotch facing me, like maybe that serial killer’s scope-gun once looked.

  He touches his lips, sways a bit. Goes on and on. Says Steve’s name, like three, maybe four times, I lose count. I’m, like, hearing Steve,

  Steve,

  Steve,

  Steve, and I’m thinking, why? Why’s he keep on him?

  Enough. Enough already.

  All the while I just look into him and want to hear this is all, like, a nightmare or something. That my life’s a bad dream I’m soon gonna wake from. But I don’t hear it. Nothing like it.

  “Hey, c’mon, you know I wanna fuck you again, Alana, and I know you ain’t getting none from old loverboy Steve, so I’m guessing you could do with the action.”

  This is the best he can do?

  I’m tuned in to what he’s saying and I’m, like, is that it? We done? You had your say already?

  He reaches out and tries to pull me towards him but I pull away.

  “Oh, I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, you want some stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  Brad goes into his jacket and pulls out a baggie, I can see a little white powder in the corner. He takes a few pinches and lays out a line on the dash and offers it to me.

  “Go on, it’s what you want.”

  I shake my head.

  “Go on, go on.”

  “I don’t do drugs, Brad.”

  Now he does the eye-roll thing, looks through me. “Oh, yeah.”

  “What do you mean, oh yeah?”

  He starts to tie a knot in the baggie, tucks it back in his pocket.

  I ask him again, “What do you mean, oh yeah?”

  “Nothing, I mean, well . . . you were pretty out of it back at Trish’s place.”

  I feel my heart beat fast again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  He leans in again. I feel him start to breathe close to my neck. He starts to kiss me, then his hands move over me.

  “Where did you get the coke, Brad?”

  A laugh, then, “Connections.”

  I feel his tongue come out, it runs up and down my neck, onto my chest. He starts to unbuckle his belt. It seems to take him, like, forever to draw down his zipper, but when I look up at his face I see he’s grinning and trying to tease me or something, yeah, like he was some strip-joint dream boy, I don’t think.

  “Your connections, they can get you anything you want?”

  He’s on top of me now, pops it out, starts grinding, pulling at my panties. “They can get me anything I want.”

  He’s grinning and acting like some frat boy who’s just got the town slut in the back-seat of his daddy’s Buick.

  I lay there feeling my head pushed against the door and my ass jammed against the stick shift and I want to scream but my voice is so weak I can hardly get the words I have to say out. “Like Rohypnol?”

  He puts his hand on my ass, says, “You know, Steve ain’t coming back, Alana, why don’t you relax?”

  He moves fast, now. There’s no, like, struggling with buttons or straps or whatever, he’s ripping at me.

  “Stop!” I tell him.

  “What?” He looks pissed with me. “I can’t stop now!”

  His hands move fast but mine move faster as I slip the Beretta out of the leg strap and point it at his crotch. As he feels the cold metal touch his balls his face looks white as death, but that might just be the moonlight. He’s sure as hell stock-still . . . until I pull the trigger.

  Blood splatters the window behind him instantly. I move the gun about and I’m firing and firing until there’s smoke everywhere, so much I can taste it.

  For a moment, I lie there.

  I can feel the gun smoke burning my throat.

  My lungs fill up and I start to cough.

  Brad’s mouth isn’t crooked any more. It flops open and his lips spill blood on me. I’m like, yeuch. He’s a dead weight on top of me as I slide out from under him. I wonder, does he know why?

  Oh yeah, like I’d care if he did.

  HOGMANAY HOMICIDE

  Edward Marston

  New Year’s Eve, 1906

  FROM THE MOMENT the Frenchman crossed his threshold, Crippen was suspicious of Landru. The newcomer unsettled him. What annoyed him more than anything else was that his wife, Cora, liked the man so much. Her predilection for the opposite sex was something to which he’d grown wearily accustomed. Now that they slept apart, Cora was able to entertain male friends at will in her own room, forcing Crippen into a half-hearted complaisance. While he was ready to turn a blind eye to some of her conquests, however, he was determined to prevent her from adding the name of Henri Desiré Landru to her list.

  “What exactly is the fellow doing here?” he demanded.

  “He’s our guest,” replied Cora, adjusting her hair in the mirror.

  “I thought we agreed to stop taking guests.”

  “We could hardly turn him away. Besides, he came on Mr Richards’ recommendation. When he met Henri in Paris, Mr Richards assured him that we’d offer him accommodation.” Reaching for the glass, she downed the last of her gin. “You remember Mr Richards, surely?”

  Crippen remembered him only too well. Richards had been one of a number of boarders at 39 Hilldrop Crescent and, like the others, had been a source of irritation and resentment to him. Because his wife refused to engage a
servant, they had to do all the chores, cooking meals, changing beds and – the job Crippen found most demeaning – cleaning the dirty boots of their guests every morning. Relieved when they stopped taking in lodgers, he was suddenly thrust back into the role of a landlord.

  “I don’t want Landru here,” he said, petulantly.

  “Show some hospitality on New Year’s Eve,” said Cora, shooting him a look of reproof. “Henri is delightful. I know his English is poor but I like having him around. It’s the same with Mr Rennie. Angus was always one of my favourites. When he needed somewhere to stay for a few days, I welcomed him with open arms.”

  “Mr Rennie, I can accept but I find Landru so shifty.”

  “Gee, Hawley, can’t you try to enjoy yourself for once?”

  “Not while that Frenchman is here.”

  “You’ve gotten so dull and boring lately.”

  The rebuke silenced Crippen. It was horribly true. He was no longer able to arouse his wife’s interest let alone her affection. When he first met her in New York, he’d been entranced by the beauty and effervescence of a seventeen-year-old girl. He hadn’t minded that her voice was so strident. She, in turn, had been attracted by his politeness, his diffidence and his status as a doctor. Cora wasn’t daunted by the age gap between them of over a decade or by the fact that Crippen was a short, slight, bespectacled man with thinning hair. Beside him, she could shine and he bathed in her glow. But that glow had now been removed to a spare bedroom and was reserved for interlopers like Landru. It was humiliating.

  Cora rose to her feet. “How do I look?” she asked, turning full circle then striking a pose. “Am I ready to see in the New Year?”

  “Yes, my dear,” he said, dutifully.

  “You’re not even looking at me.”

  “I don’t need to, Cora. You always look swell.”

  “I’ve made a special effort for tonight. It’s the first time we’ve celebrated Hogmanay with a real Scotsman. I don’t want to let Angus down. Now take a proper look at me,” she ordered. “What do you see?”

  What he saw was the bird of paradise he’d married after the death of his first wife. Cora was an attractive, raven-haired woman in her thirties with an unquenchable vivacity. Russian and Polish blood coursed through her veins. She had put on a little weight over the years but could still turn heads. From her colourful wardrobe, she’d chosen an evening dress of blue silk with a tight, boned bodice, lace motifs, velvet ribbons and short puff sleeves. A silver necklace, silver earrings and large silver bracelet lent an additional glitter. Crippen’s eye fell on an elaborate silver brooch.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” he said.

  “It was a present from an admirer,” she replied, airily. “There was a time when you gave me presents, Hawley. Now I have to rely on others.” She spread her arms wide. “Well?”

  Crippen heaved a sigh. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, my dear. In fact,” he went on, venturing a rare pun, “you’ll be the Belle Elmore of the ball.”

  Cora laughed. When she appeared in music hall, Belle Elmore was her stage name. Her ambitions to be an opera singer may have foundered but she could still win applause in the world of variety. Applause and alcohol were her twin necessities.

  “Cheer up,” she urged, taking him by the shoulders to shake him. “Hogmanay is a time for celebration. We’ll have some real fun for a change. This is going to be a truly amazing night.”

  “Yes, my dear,” he said through gritted teeth.

  There were five guests in all. Angus Rennie, staying again at the house where he’d once been a lodger, was a thin, angular, hairy man in his thirties with a jocular manner. Otto Helsing, Master of Magic, was a music hall artiste, tall, portly, ever-smiling and carrying his sixty years with extraordinary lightness. Dorothy Quinn, his assistant, was, like all of her predecessors, young, petite and excessively pretty. Mabel Roy was another of Cora’s music hall friends, a handsome woman in her late thirties with the grace of a dancer and an exquisite dress of red velvet accentuating her figure. Then there was Landru, also in his thirties, short, frail, well-mannered and with dark eyes that smouldered quietly in the presence of a woman. He stroked his thick red beard like the fur of a much-loved cat.

  All of them, Crippen noted, had been invited by his wife. He disliked Helsing intensely. The magician had called on Cora recently and might well have been the admirer who gave her the silver brooch. Crippen was certain that the Master of Magic had earlier bestowed the bracelet on her, a clear sign that she’d succumbed to his oily charms. Dorothy Quinn had a bloom and innocence that suggested she hadn’t yet been seduced by her employer. She reminded Crippen of Ethel le Neve, the bookkeeper and secretary at the firm he managed. Both women had an elfin loveliness. For Mabel Roy, he had some respect. She was the least obnoxious of Cora’s theatrical friends, most of whom competed shamelessly for attention. Mabel, by contrast, an excellent dancer, singer and pianist, had poise and restraint. Her beloved husband, another Scot, had died in tragic circumstances the previous year and Crippen had been impressed by the bravery with which she bore his loss.

  Landru was the odd one out. In fact, it was his oddness that worried Crippen. The Frenchman seemed furtive, ill at ease and rather sinister. There was a sense of suppressed power in his small frame. He was as dapper as his host but not as much of a dandy. The difference was that none of the women there even looked at Crippen whereas they all showed considerable interest in Landru. Cora was characteristically over-familiar with him, Mabel was friendly and Dorothy, who spoke a little French, conversed haltingly with him in his native language. While the rest of them drank, laughed and made merry, Crippen stood on the sidelines, plucking at his moustache and watching Landru.

  Questions burned in his mind. Why had the fellow turned up on their doorstep unannounced? Didn’t he have a family and friends with whom to see in the New Year? What made him keep looking over his shoulder? How long was he staying? Who was he?

  “Music!” shouted Cora, clapping her hands. “We must have some music. Play for us, Mabel.”

  “Very well,” said Mabel, putting her drink aside and moving to the piano. “Give us a song, Cora.”

  “Yes,” encouraged Rennie, patting Cora on the back. “Let’s hear one of Marie Lloyd’s songs.”

  Cora was offended. “You’ll hear one of Belle Elmore’s songs,” she said with indignation. “They have more taste.”

  With her friend at the piano, she launched into an aria from a Puccini opera, singing with well-rehearsed emotion and using a series of dramatic gestures to enhance her performance. She acknowledged the generous applause with a curtsy. Crippen noticed that Landru clapped with more enthusiasm than anybody, his eyes roving over Cora’s body with undisguised hunger.

  “Now it’s your turn, Mabel,” said Cora.

  “I can sing,” boasted Rennie. “Let me go first.”

  “You can wait, Angus.”

  “This is Hogmanay. Scotland takes priority. Mrs Roy knows that because she was married to a Scot.” He put an arm around Mabel’s shoulder. “Play something from bonnie Scotland.”

  Cora tried to intervene but Rennie was too drunk to brook any refusal. Wearing the tartan of his clan, he banged the top of the piano with a fist. In order to placate him, Mabel played a Scottish air and Rennie got through one verse before he completely forgot the lines. He was outraged when some of them laughed at him and vented his spleen on Landru.

  “What are you grinning at, you frog-faced, bloody Frenchman?” he shouted. “This is Hogmanay. We don’t need foreign turds like you here.” After gulping down some whiskey, he beat his chest. “I’m going to show you a Highland dance.”

  “Later on, perhaps,” said Crippen, taking him by the arm. “I think you need to sit down for a while.”

  Rennie shrugged him off. “Go away.”

  “Try to calm down.”

  “Who wants to calm down on Hogmanay? It’s the greatest night of the year for a Scot. Get a wee dram inside you,
Dr Crippen, and enjoy the party. You’ve a face like a smacked arse.”

  “There’s no need for vulgarity, Mr Rennie.”

  “If you won’t touch whiskey, drink some of that quack medicine you palm off on people. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.”

  Crippen was hurt. “I’m not a quack,” he asserted, “I’m a qualified doctor. It just so happens that my qualifications aren’t recognized in England. Now please do us all a favour and sit down.”

  “Let him alone, Hawley,” chided Cora. “Angus is entitled to show us how he can dance.”

  “Yes,” said Helsing, dryly. “We need some amusement.”

  While the Scotsman moved to the centre of the room, the others drew back to the walls. Crippen moved two chairs out of the way and Cora shifted an aspidistra to safety. A small, cluttered parlour was hardly the ideal dance floor but Rennie was undeterred. While Mabel supplied the stirring music on the piano, he danced a Highland fling by the flickering light of the gas lamps. Rennie showed surprising nimbleness at first, dancing on his toes and holding an arm aloft. At the height of his performance, however, he suddenly lost his balance and tumbled to the floor amid mocking jeers. Hauling himself angrily to his feet, Rennie turned on Helsing this time.

  “All right,” he challenged, “let’s see you dance, Mr Magic.”

  “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to try,” replied Helsing.

  “Then what can you do?”

  “I can hold my whiskey a lot better than you, my friend.”

  Rennie bristled. “Are you saying that I’m drunk?”

  “Otto is saying nothing of the kind,” explained Cora, taking Rennie by the elbow. “Now you come and sit over here with me while Otto shows us one of his tricks.”

  “They’re not tricks,” corrected Helsing. “They’re pure magic.”

  “There’s no such thing,” sneered Rennie.

  “Wait and see, my friend.”

  Helsing moved them all to one end of the room and took up a position near the door. Dorothy, meanwhile, had run out into the hall to retrieve the Master of Magic’s voluminous cloak from its peg. When she handed it to him, Helsing whisked it through the air, making the gaslight dance crazily.