The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries Page 4

  Oh no! The Gang! In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten about him, and now I’m out of spray. A second later, he comes into the room – twenty-five stone of muscle and jelly. The guy’s amazingly fast for one so immense, I have to give him that.

  “Run!” shouts Vanya rather unnecessarily, but he’s almost upon me, leering like a demented clown and, worse still, The Knife is starting to get to his feet, obviously not quite as knocked out as I’d thought.

  I strike The Gang with a three-punch combination, every blow slamming into his tiny, childlike face, but they might as well be kisses for all the damage they’re doing, and he keeps coming forward, wrapping great arms round my torso, and dragging me into a vice-like bearhug that quite literally takes my breath away. I try to say something but no sound comes out. I feel my ribs giving way. I have never been in such pain in my life, and I think that if I die like this, it will be a truly terrible way to go. And it’s all because of that arsehole, Kevin.

  In the background, I can see The Knife rubbing his eyes. He hisses to his colleague not to kill me. He wants to end my life himself. It almost seems preferable to what I’m going through now.

  But then The Gang’s grip loosens, and he suddenly goes boss-eyed. I get my right arm free and deliver an uppercut that catches him under the chin. The grip loosens still more and I struggle free, bumping into Vanya, whose hand is thrust between The Gang’s legs, twisting savagely. As the Americans would say, this girl has spunk.

  We turn together, just in time to see The Knife slashing his weapon in a throat-high arc, and it takes all my old reactions to fend off the blow, using my right arm to block his, and my left to deliver two vicious little jabs – bang bang – right into his pockmarked mug.

  He actually says “Ouch!”, then goes straight over backwards, landing on the carpet, only to be trampled on by The Crim, who is still blundering around the room like a drunk gatecrashing a ballet performance.

  And then we’re out the door and down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and I can hear The Gang lumbering behind us. Vanya stumbles and I grab her arm and pull her upright. We hit the street at a mad dash, veering right in the direction of the BMW. She starts fiddling in the pocket of her jeans for the keys, thinking that’s she’s going to be the one driving, but there’s no way that’s going to happen.

  “This is my car, darling!” I shout, pulling out the spares and flicking off the central locking.

  Reluctantly, she jumps in the passenger side, while I leap in the driver’s seat and switch on the ignition. The engine purrs into life, and I pull out into the road. I can see The Gang in the rear view mirror, coming down the road after us. He’s gaining but there’s not a lot he can do now and I accelerate away, feeling pleasantly satisfied, at least until Vanya tells me that the Bow-bury Gardens is actually a dead end road, and I’m going in the wrong direction.

  I do a quick three-point turn in the middle of the road, and swing the car back round, accelerating. Twenty yards away, The Gang is in the middle of the road, looming up like an immovable stone monolith, but this is a strong car, and a good deal more substantial than the man currently standing in front of me.

  I think The Gang must belatedly realize this because at the last second, he leaps to one side, belly-flopping onto the bonnet of some poor sod’s Renault Megane with a huge crash. It takes me a moment to realize that it is in fact The Wolverine’s car and that now he’s definitely going to be walking home tonight.

  I keep driving, gliding round the bend and onto the main road. Mission almost accomplished.

  “Thanks for that,” says Vanya, leaning over and putting a hand on my arm. She smells nice, and I think there might be passion in her pale eyes, although to be fair, I’ve been wrong about this sort of thing before.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I ask her, and she tells me.

  Apparently, Stephen Humphrey is providing lucrative defence contracts to one of The Crim’s front companies in return for cash. A very big contract is coming up and, on hearing that The Crim is driving one of the new BMWs, Humphrey wants to take possession of the car in lieu of his usual payment. The Crim reluctantly agrees and Humphrey and Vanya go for a spin. Vanya, however, has been tiring of Humphrey of late, and they end up having a violent argument. In the ensuing mêlée, Vanya physically removes the MP from the car, damaging his toupee in the process, and then drives off home, concluding that actually London life isn’t for her. She decides to take the 7-Series and drive it, and her meagre possessions, back to Slovakia.

  But just as she’s leaving, The Crim and his boys turn up, along with a crooked-haired Humphrey thirsting for revenge. Which is where I came in.

  I ask her if she’s going to take the plane home now.

  She looks disappointed. “Is this really your car?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid it is,” I tell her.

  “So,” she says, looking at me with an interest she’s never shown before, “what are you going to do? The men you attacked are going to be pretty upset and I understand that Mr Sneddon is a very powerful man.”

  It’s a good question, and one I haven’t really given a lot of thought to. “We’ll have to see,” I say enigmatically.

  By this time, we’ve pulled up outside Aunt Lena’s house. I know that whatever happens, I’ve got to keep her out of the way of The Crim, who’s going to be looking to settle scores in any way he can.

  But there’s something odd here. In Aunt Lena’s one-car carport sits another 7-Series, brand new like mine. I park up behind it and, taking the spare keys from Vanya, just in case she decides to do another runner, tell her to wait for me.

  As I reach the front door, it opens and who should I see standing there but the fugitive himself, cousin Kevin? He immediately opens fire with a barrage of excuses for his absence, as well as heartfelt apologies and gestures of thanks. The whole tirade’s a pile of bullshit, of course, but you have to give him ten out of ten for effort.

  “Where’s your mum?” I ask him, and then remember that I actually told her to stay round her friend Marjorie’s house on the next street until all this boiled over.

  “Have you got The Crim’s money?” I demand. “He reckons it’s thirty-four grand.”

  “Thirty-four thousand?” he pipes up. “That’s ruinous. Tell you the truth,” he adds, which is usually the prelude to a lie, “I’ve been down in Monaco. Made some money on the tables. Had everything ready for The Crim, but then I saw this motor in the showroom near the casino . . .” He motions towards the car, “and I just had to have it. It’s beautiful, Billy,” he says. “Supreme engineering.”

  “I know,” I answer, “I’ve got one. So, I’m taking it you haven’t got the money.”

  He gives me a rueful expression. “Supreme engineering doesn’t come cheap.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I say, pondering the evening I’ve had, then clap him on the shoulder. “Look, stay here tonight, Kevin, and we’ll straighten out The Crim in the morning. I’m just popping off back home.”

  We say our goodbyes and I get back in the car, and put a call into The Crim on my mobile as we drive away. Not surprisingly, he’s none too pleased to hear from me and is full of curses and bluster until I tell him that Kevin’s waiting for him at Aunt Lena’s house with a present that I guarantee will make him happy, and which will simultaneously clear the debt.

  I also add that it would be a lot better for everyone if my family stayed in one piece and no one got to hear about The Crim’s crooked relationship with Mr Hairpiece himself, Stephen Humphrey MP.

  Before he can say anything else, I end the call, settle back and turn to Vanya.

  “So,” I ask, as we reach the bottom of the road. “Which way to Slovakia?”

  THE CASE OF THE CURIOUS QUORUM

  Colin Dexter

  Triply marked had been the white envelope, Personal Private Confidential; and after reading its contents, Inspector Lewis’s forehead registered considerable puzzlement. Furthermore, after re-rea
ding the two-page letter, such puzzlement appeared compounded with each succeeding paragraph.

  53 Cumberland Place

  London W2 5AS

  0207 3736642

  10 April 2006

  Dear Inspector,

  My only connection with you is via the late Chief Inspector Morse, who once came to talk at the Detection Club’s annual jamboree at The Ritz. We had known of him because one of our number had written accounts of some of his high-profile investigations, particularly into murder, a crime ever nourishing the life-blood of our distinguished membership. Morse spoke rather stiffly, we thought, although after his speech he was somewhat more relaxed with his plentiful supply of single-malt Scotch.

  It was at that point he came to speak of you, and in a most complimentary fashion. Clearly you formed an illustrious partnership and I know you will have learnt a great deal from him about the solving of crime. Indeed, one of our cruciverbalist members wrote an anagrammatic clue about his rank and name: “Person with crimes to resolve (9, 5)”. And it is in order to resolve a crime that I write to you now. Please, Inspector, consider the following facts.

  I was myself, until a few years ago, the President of the Detection Club, during which time I naturally held an open cheque book on the Club’s account. I attended a committee meeting two weeks ago in the hotel lounge at Paddington Railway Station, taking with me the cheque book and intending (belatedly) to surrender it to the current President. There were five of us there, all male: our President, myself, and three other senior members. The business was conducted expeditiously; and before repairing to the bar with my colleagues, I collected up my own material, consisting of a few personal letters, the minutes of the last meeting, the morning’s agenda, my notes, etc, and stuffed them into my briefcase.

  On returning home and taking out these papers, I found that the cheque book was missing, although I clearly remember that I had forgotten (yet again) to hand it over. Was my memory playing cruel tricks on me? I am certain this was not the case. My brain cells have not let me down for many a decade, to be frank – eight of them almost! I did not allow this matter to disturb me unduly, but it should have done. Why? Because two days ago I learnt that a considerable amount had been withdrawn from the Club’s account on a cheque from that very book, a cheque ostensibly signed by me.

  My mind has been going round whirlygigwise this last forty-eight hours, since I am certain that it was one of us at the committee meeting who was responsible for the theft, as well as for the criminal usage made of it thereafter. One of those men is a complete monster – bit of one, anyway! One of them is a d— arrant robber! One of them ought to be roasted under a grill – he deserves it! Do I sound a little incoherent? So be it.

  Where does this leave my reputation? I used to be called the Crime King – Father of Detection! And now I am left in much anger and despair as I see myself the victim of a person who is that most despicable thing – faker of cheques! He would need a cheque, of course, as well as a copy of my signature, which he could (did) practise. It may therefore be of some help to you to have a list of those members to whom, reasonably recently, I wrote and signed semi-official letters: Len Deighton, Anthony Lejeune, Simon Brett, Lionel Davidson, Peter Lovesey, James Melville, Reginald Hill, Robert Barnard, Jonathan Gash, John Malcolm, Ian Rankin, John Harvey, and Robert Goddard. All men. But it was a man. And the only reason I am not listing the names of those members attending the committee meeting must be fairly obvious. I find myself unwilling to point a finger at any specific person.

  Now that Morse is no longer with us, I am looking to you, Inspector, feeling confident that after working for so many years with that remarkable man, some of his skills will have rubbed off on you. Yes, I am certain you can help me, if you will. Alas, the resolution of this sorry affair is urgent and imperative. We need no private eye on the assignment: let’s have it under your eye – let’s prove, between us, who this villain is!

  Yours truly,

  HRF Keating

  PS On looking through what I have written, I notice that the phrase “I am certain” is used three times. Please know that what I tell you three times is true.

  Later that morning, rather more quickly than Lewis, it had been Detective Sergeant Hathaway who read the letter.

  “Puzzling, don’t you think?” queried Lewis.

  “Well, yes. I don’t suppose everybody knows what a cruciver—”

  “I know,” interrupted Lewis sharply. “I worked with a chronic cruciverbalist for twenty years.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Lewis pointed to the letter. “Don’t you find it all a bit of a mystery?”

  Hathaway hesitated. “To be truthful, sir, I don’t, no. It seems pretty clear that either it’s all a joke or else this fellow’s more than halfway round the twist.”

  “Really? Doesn’t read much like a joke to me. And I don’t reckon the fellow’s lost his marbles, either. I remember Morse talking about this Keating chap. Said he’d got one of the shrewdest brains in the business.”

  “But no one could expect us to take this sort of stuff seriously. He’s told us next to nothing—”

  “Except his home address and his telephone number.”

  “So?”

  “So ring him up.”

  “And say what?”

  “You think of something. You’re a university graduate, remember.”

  Lewis pushed the telephone across the desk; and a few moments later both men could hear the words: “This number is not receiving incoming calls. I repeat, this . . .”

  “Never mind,” said Lewis. “The President – ring him.”

  “How do we know—?”

  “The Club’ll be on Google, man.”

  Hathaway looked up from the screen a minute later. “Fellow called Simon Brett. There’s a telephone number, too.”

  But again both men were shortly to hear an automated voice. “The person you require is not available. Please try again later”.

  Lewis grinned wryly. “They all seem to be telling us next to nothing, just like you said.”

  But his eyes remained steadfastly on the letter as he wondered what Morse would have thought in the same situation . . .

  He was still wondering a few minutes later when Hathaway interrupted whatever might have been going through the inspector’s mind.

  “You remember we’re due out at ten o’clock, sir?” “Yep. But just you get a copy of that letter and take it home with you tonight. You see, I’m beginning to think we may be wrong about it not telling us anything. If I’d said that to Morse, do you know what he would have said?” Hathaway shook his head indifferently. “He’d have said that fellow’s probably told us everything.”

  “Not told us how the guilty party sorted out the transfer of the money; not told us which bank it was or how much dosh was taken out . . . Ridiculous, really, that letter!”

  Lewis made no reply, and Hathaway continued:

  “Tell you something else, sir. My old tutor once told me that if I kept on using as many exclamation marks in my essays as this fellow’s done, he’d refuse to read ‘em. And any writer who kept on using those long dashes all the time hadn’t much idea on how to write the Queen’s English.”

  Again Lewis made no reply, but something – some small, vague idea – was struggling into birth in the depths of his brain as Hathaway spoke again.

  “I wonder whether Morse would think he was much of a writer, our man here. Things like ‘arrant monster’—”

  “Arrant robber,” corrected Lewis.

  “Ugh! Would your old boss have written that?”

  “Dunno. He never wrote much. And if he had to read a lot of bumph, it was always the commas he was most particular about.”

  “Wish I’d known him, sir,” said Hathaway with gentle irony as he closed the door behind him.

  “A lot of people would!” said Lewis quietly to himself in the empty room.

  Hathaway had finished his supper, and was looking through the evenin
g’s fare in the TV Times when his mind drifted back to the Keating letter. He’d won himself no Brownie points when he’d misquoted “arrant robber” from the letter. “Robber” . . . not all that different from “Robert”, was it? And Lewis’s Christian name must surely be Robert, with his senior colleagues always calling him “Robbie” . . . He took out the letter from his jacket-pocket: yes, there it was, “arrant robber”. What was this stupid bloody letter all about?

  But suddenly something clicked in his mind and his eyes were gleaming as he wrote out the letters of “arrant robber” and crossed them off one by one against a name on the members’ list. One letter short, agreed. But there it was, immediately before those two words: the letter “d—”, which he’d assumed to have been the way some people who’d never sworn in their lives expressed “damned”.

  “Wow!”

  It was 8.45 pm and he rang Lewis immediately. Almost. But if one of the four names was hidden there in the text, in “anagrammatic” form (the very word Keating had used), yes! If one of the names was nestling there, what about the other three?

  Lewis was watching the 10 o’clock news on BBC1 when Hathaway rang.

  “I went through that letter line by line, sir, letter by letter, and I’ve found them, found all of them. All four: ‘d—arrant robber’ is an anagram of Robert Barnard. Next one: ‘monster – bit’ is an anagram of Simon Brett, our honourable President. Then we’ve got ‘grill – he’, not quite so clear, but it must be Reg Hill. The last, near the end, is ‘eye – let’s prove’, which works out as Peter Lovesey. I checked all the other names on the list, but there’s no one else lurking there. No one!”

  After finally replacing the receiver, Hathaway felt an inner glow of forgivable pride. Yet he realised that four names didn’t help all that much when the problem was deciding on just one name. But the other four would go down to three if the President (surely) could be shunted along with Caesar’s wife into the above-suspicion bracker. Which left him with Barnard, Hill, Lovesey . . .