The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Read online

  Once he and Becky had left, I went upstairs and looked in on Alex. He was sleeping soundly, his hair covering his face. Despite my pleas, I found that I felt less afraid once Timothy had gone. I thought of one of our honeymoon photographs, one that could not possibly contain the blonde woman: Timothy in our en-suite bathroom at the Grand Hotel Tremezzo. He insisted on lavish holidays. Perhaps that was why we were always short of money. That and his book-collecting. In the picture, there is a mirror in front of him and one behind, reflecting an endless row of Timothies, each smaller than the last, each holding the camera to his eye, pressing the button. They dotted an invisible line that led from the foreground to the background. I knew why the picture had sprung to mind. It was the principle of magnification: seeing my own panic reflected in Timothy’s eyes had added to my paranoia.

  I went downstairs and began to look through all our photographs. This time I was methodical, unsuperstitious. I found the blonde woman with the upturned collars and the square hoop earrings again and again: on a boat, in a park, walking along a canal tow-path. Sometimes she was right behind us, sometimes nearby. Who was she? Why was she following us? I had no way of knowing. Neither would the police, not with only our photo albums to work from. Of course, they could track her down if they wanted to – they could appeal on television and somebody who knew her would be bound to come forward – but the idea of them doing such a thing was laughable. She had committed no crime. Stalking was against the law, I was fairly certain of that, but the direct accosting of one’s prey was surely a pre-requisite. What, I wondered, would the police have to say about a stalker so unobtrusive that, were it not for Becky’s meticulous eye, we might never have become aware of her? Her presence in our lives, unnoticed for all these years, felt more ghostly than criminal. I was suddenly very aware of myself, my thoughts and my actions, and looked around the room, up at the ceiling, half-expecting to find someone watching me.

  I concentrated on the woman’s face, trying to see a character or a motive behind it. She was either beautiful in a classical, well-proportioned way, or very bland-looking; I couldn’t decide. I found it unsettling that, however hard I stared, I couldn’t commit her face to memory; it was almost impossible to take in as a coherent whole. I looked at her features one by one and judged each of them regular, flawless, but together they made no lasting impression. I’d had this feeling before, usually about famous people: Sharon Stone, the late Jill Dando. They too had faces one could study in detail and still not know what they looked like.

  In one photograph our blonde ghost was touching me. Her shoulder was pressed against mine in a crowded wine bar. Hay-on-Wye? No, Cheltenham. Another of Timothy’s literary holidays. I was holding a tall cocktail, dark red and fizzy, like carbonated blood. I pointed to it, an apprehensive expression on my face. Timothy had labelled the photo “Am I really expected to drink this?” He assigned titles to all our pictures; his parents did it too. It was a Treharne family tradition.

  The blonde woman had a book in her hand. It was on the edge of the picture, some of it missing. I screwed up my eyes to read the title. “The Octopus” – that was all that was visible. My heart jolted. “The Octopus Nest,” I whispered. It was a novel I hadn’t thought about for years. Timothy used to own it, probably still did. He’d tried to persuade me to read it, but I gave up. Sometimes it is apparent from the first page of a book that nothing is going to happen. A Timothy book.

  I slammed the photo album shut and rang his mobile phone. It was switched off. I paced up and down the lounge, desperate to talk to somebody. I nearly rang Becky’s mobile, but I didn’t want her to make excuses when I asked her to babysit in the future. If I started to talk to her about obscure novels with strange titles, she’d think I was insane. Timothy had said he’d be back within half an hour. This could wait half an hour.

  I forced myself to calm down, sit down, and think about how I was feeling. Was this surge of adrenaline justified? Seven years ago, the blonde woman had been in a wine bar, holding a novel that Timothy once raved about. It was a link, but then, I reminded myself, I did not need to look for a link. A woman we didn’t know was in the backgrounds of dozens of our photographs; wasn’t that connection enough?

  Still, I was too agitated to do nothing. I searched all the bookshelves in our house. There was no copy of “The Octopus Nest”. I tried Timothy’s phone again, swearing under my breath, furious with impatience. How could he not have remembered to switch it on? He knew what a state I was in. Irrationally, I took my not being able to speak to him while he was out as an omen that it would take him much longer to return, that he might never come back. I needed to occupy myself, to drive away these groundless fears. That was when I thought of the internet.

  I rushed to Timothy’s study and switched on the computer, certain that Amazon, the online bookshop, would have “The Octopus Nest” listed. I wanted to know who it was by, what it was about. It might lead nowhere, but it was the only thing I had to go on. In none of the other photographs did our ghost have any identifiable accessories.

  “The Octopus Nest” was available from Amazon, but not easily. Delivery might take up to six weeks, I read. This didn’t matter to me. I didn’t necessarily want a copy of the book. I just wanted to know more about it. The author was a K.V. Hammond. I clicked on the small picture of the novel’s cover, a white background with one black tentacle running diagonally across it.

  The book was number 756,234 in the Amazon chart. If Timothy and the blonde woman hadn’t bought it all those years ago it would probably have been number 987,659, I thought, half-smiling. I was surprised I was able to joke, even inside my head. Somehow our ghost didn’t seem quite so threatening, now that I had seen her holding a book that Timothy had once thought highly of, though I didn’t understand why this should be the case. The optimist in me reasoned that she hadn’t done us any harm in nearly a decade. Maybe she never would.

  No description of the novel was offered. I had bought books from Amazon before, and there was usually a short synopsis. I clicked on the “Google” button and typed “K.V. Hammond” into the search box. The first result was the author’s own website. Perhaps here I would discover more about “The Octopus Nest”. I drummed my fingers on the desk, impatient for the home page to load.

  A photograph began to appear on the screen, from the top down. A blue sky, a tree, a straw hat. Blonde hair. Gold, square hoop earrings. I gasped, pushing my chair away from the computer. It was her. A letter welcomed me to her site, was signed “Kathryn”. Only minutes ago it had seemed out of the question that we would ever know her identity. Now I knew it beyond the slightest doubt.

  I tried Timothy’s mobile again, with no luck. “Please, please,” I muttered, even though no one could hear me, even though a mechanical voice was already telling me to try again later. I felt as if Timothy had let me down badly, deserted me, though I knew he was probably too preoccupied to think about a detail such as whether his phone was on or off. He would be back soon, in any case.

  Fear and excitement rioted in my mind, my whole body. I had to do something. Now that I was in possession of certain knowledge, calling the police did not seem such an absurd proposition. I didn’t want to go into the whole story on the phone, so I said only that I wanted to report a stalker, that I knew who it was, that I had evidence. The woman I spoke to said she would send an officer to interview me as soon as possible.

  Willing the computer to work faster, I moved from one section of Kathryn Hammond’s website to another. She had published no books since “The Octopus Nest”, but her newsletter said she was working on her next novel, the story of fifty years in the life of a ventriloquist’s dummy, passed from one owner to another. Another Timothy book, I thought. The newsletter also informed fans (it seemed to take for granted that everyone who visited the site would be a fan) that Kathryn and her sister – the frizzy-haired woman, I assumed – were going on holiday to Sicily early next year.

  For a second, I felt as if my blood had sto
pped moving around my body. We were going to Sicily too. In February. Kathryn Hammond and her sister were staying at the Hotel Bernabei. I had a horrible suspicion we were too. My terror returned, twice as strong as before. This was as real, as inexplicable as ever.

  I rummaged through the drawers of the desk, thinking I might find a letter from Timothy’s travel agent or a booking confirmation. There was nothing. I flew round the house like a trapped fly, opening drawers and pulling books off shelves. I couldn’t understand it; there had to be some paperwork somewhere relating to our holiday.

  I was crying, about to give up, when it occurred to me that Timothy kept a filing cabinet in the garage. “Why not?” he’d said. “The thing’s hideous and the house is too cluttered.” I rarely went into the garage. It was dusty and messy, and smelled of damp, turpentine and cigarettes; since Alex was born, Timothy hadn’t smoked in the house.

  I had no choice but to go in there now. If the police arrived before Timothy got back, I wanted to be able to show them our holiday details and Kathryn Hammond’s website. What more proof could they ask for? Even as I thought this, I was aware that it was not illegal for a novelist to go on holiday to Sicily. Terror gripped me as it occurred to me for the first time that perhaps we would never be able to stop her following us, never force her to admit to her behaviour or explain it. I didn’t think I’d be able to stand that.

  The cabinet wasn’t locked. I pulled open the first drawer. A strangled moan escaped from my mouth as I stared, stunned, at what was inside. Books. Dozens of them. I saw the title “The Octopus Nest”. Then, underneath it, “Le Nid du Poulpe”. The same title, but in French. Numb with dread, I pulled the books out one by one, dropping them on the floor. I saw Hebrew letters, Japanese characters, a picture of a purple octopus, a green one, a raised black one that looked as if it might spin off the cover and hit me in the chest.

  Kathryn Hammond’s novel had been translated into many languages. I pulled open the next drawer down. More copies of “The Octopus Nest” – hardbacks, paperbacks, hardback-sized paperbacks, book club editions.

  “Fifty-two in total.”

  I screamed, nearly lost my balance. Timothy stood in the doorway of the garage. “Timothy, what . . .?”

  He stared blankly at me for several seconds, saying nothing. I backed away from him until I was against the wall. I felt its rough texture through my blouse, scratching my skin.

  “I was telling the truth,” he said. “I’ve never spoken to her. I don’t know her at all. She doesn’t even know I exist.”

  The doorbell rang. The police. I’d said only that I wanted to report a stalker, that I knew who it was, that I had evidence.

  WALKING THE DOG

  Peter Robinson

  THE DOG-DAYS CAME to the Beaches in August and the boardwalk was crowded. Even the dog-owners began to complain about the heat. Laura Francis felt as if she had been locked in the bathroom after a hot shower as she walked Big Ears down to the fenced-off compound on Kew Beach, where he could run free. She said hello to the few people she had seen there before while Big Ears sniffed the shrubbery and moved on to play with a Labrador retriever.

  “They seem to like each other,” said a voice beside her.

  Laura turned and saw a man she thought she recognized, but not from the Beaches. She couldn’t say where. He was handsome in a chiselled, matinee-idol sort of way, and the tight jeans and white T-shirt did justice to his well-toned muscles and tapered waist. Where did she know him from?

  “You must excuse Big Ears,” she said. “He’s such a womanizer.”

  “It’s nothing Rain can’t handle.”

  “Rain? That’s an unusual name for a dog.”

  He shrugged. “Is it? It was raining the day I picked her up from the humane society. Raining cats and dogs. Anyway, you’re one to talk, naming dogs after English children’s book characters.”

  Laura felt herself flush. “My mother used to read them to me when I was little. I grew up in England.”

  “I can tell by the accent. I’m Ray, by the way. Ray Lanagan.”

  “Laura Francis. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Laura? After the movie?”

  “After my grandmother.”

  “Pity. You do look a bit like Gene Tierney, you know.”

  Laura tried to remember whether Gene Tierney was the one with overbite or the large breasts. As she had both, herself, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She blushed again. “Thank you.”

  They stood in an awkward, edgy silence while the dogs played on around them. Then, all of a sudden, Laura remembered where she had seen Ray before. Jesus, of course, it was him, the guy from the TV commercial, the one for some sort of male aftershave or deodorant where he was stripped to the waist, wearing tight jeans like today. She’d seen it on a photo in a magazine, too. She had even fantasized about him, imagined it was him there in bed with her instead of Lloyd grunting away on top as if he were running a marathon.

  “What is it?” Ray asked.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her hot cheek. “Nothing. I just remembered where I’ve seen you before. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

  “For my sins.”

  “Are you here to make a movie?” It wasn’t as stupid a question as it might have sounded. The studios were just down the road, and Toronto had almost as big a reputation for being Hollywood North as Vancouver. Laura ought to know; Lloyd ran a post-production company, and he was always telling her so.

  “No,” Ray said. “I’m resting, as we say in the business.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve got a couple of things lined up,” he went on. “Commercials, a small part in a new CBC legal drama. That sort of thing. And whatever comes my way by chance.”

  “It sounds exciting.”

  “Not really. It’s a living. To be honest, it’s mostly a matter of hanging around while the techies get the sound and light right. But what about you? What do you do?”

  “Me?” she pointed her thumb at her chest. “Nothing. I mean, I’m just a housewife.” It was true, she supposed: “housewife” was about the only way she could describe herself. But she wasn’t even that. Phaedra did all of the housework and Paula handled the garden. Laura had even hired a company to come in and clear the snow from the steps and the driveway in winter. So what did she do with her time, apart from shop and walk Big Ears? Sometimes she made dinner, but more often than not she made reservations. There were so many good restaurants on her stretch of Queen Street East – anything you wanted, Japanese, Greek, Indian, Chinese, Italian – that it seemed a shame to waste them.

  The hazy bright sun beat down mercilessly and the water looked like a ruffled blue bedsheet beyond the wire fence. Laura was feeling embarrassed now that she had openly declared her uselessness.

  “Would you like to go for a drink?” Ray asked. “I’m not coming on to you or anything, but it is a real scorcher.”

  Laura felt her heart give a little flutter and, if she were honest with herself, a pleasurable warmth spread through her lower belly.

  “OK. Yes, I mean, sure,” she said. “Look, it’s a bit of a hassle going to a café or a pub with the dogs, right? Why don’t you come up to the house? It’s not far. Silver Birch. There’s cold beer in the fridge and I left the air conditioning on.”

  Ray looked at her. He certainly had beautiful eyes, she thought, and they seemed especially steely blue in this kind of light. Blue eyes and black hair, a devastating combination. “Sure,” he said. “If it’s OK. Lead on.”

  They put Big Ears and Rain on leashes and walked up to Queen Street, which was crowded with tourists and locals pulling kids in bright-coloured carts, all OshKosh by Gosh and Birkenstocks. People browsed in shop windows, sat outdoors at Starbucks in shorts drinking their frappucinos and reading the Globe and Mail, and there was a queue outside the ice-cream shop. The traffic was moving at a crawl, but you could smell the coconut sunblock over the gas fumes.

  Laura’s large detached house stood
at the top of a long flight of steps sheltered by overhanging shrubbery, and once they were off the street, nobody could see them. Not that it mattered, Laura told herself. It was all innocent enough.

  It was a relief to get inside, and even the dogs seemed to collapse in a panting heap and enjoy the cool air.

  “Nice place,” said Ray, looking around the modern kitchen, with its central island and pots and pans hanging from hooks overhead.

  Laura opened the fridge. “Beer? Coke? Juice?”

  “I’ll have a beer, if that’s OK,” said Ray.

  “Beck’s all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  She opened Ray a Beck’s and poured herself a glass of orange juice, the kind with the extra pulp. Her heart was beating fast. Perhaps it was the heat, the walk home? She watched Ray drink his beer from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When she took a sip of juice, a little dribbled out of her mouth and down her chin. Before she could make a move to get a napkin and wipe it off Ray had moved forward just as far as it took, bent forward, put his tongue on the curve under her lower lip and licked it off.

  She felt his heat and shivered. “Ray, I’m not sure . . . I mean, I don’t think we should . . . I . . .”

  The first kiss nearly drew blood. The second one did. Laura fell back against the fridge and felt the Mickey Mouse fridge-magnet that held the weekly to-do list digging into her shoulder. She experienced a moment of panic as Ray ripped open her Holt Renfrew blouse. What did she think she was doing, inviting a strange man into her home like this? He could be a serial killer or something. But fear quickly turned to pleasure when his mouth found her nipple. She moaned and pulled him against her and spread her legs apart. His hand moved up under her long, loose skirt, caressing the bare flesh of her thighs and rubbing between her legs.

  Laura had never been so wet in her life, had never wanted it so much, and she didn’t want to wait. Somehow, she manoeuvred them towards the dining-room table and tugged at his belt and zip as they stumbled backwards. She felt the edge of the table bump against the backs of her thighs and eased herself up on it, sweeping a couple of Waterford crystal glasses to the floor as she did so. The dogs barked. Ray was good and hard and he pulled her panties aside as she guided him smoothly inside her.