The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Read online

  “Psychologically they carry a sexual implication?” enquired Luke innocently.

  Paul stiffened. “It could be,” he replied defensively. “However I am inclined to think these are deodands.” He looked round at their blank faces, and added modestly, “As a solicitor, I have a knowledge of legal history.”

  “I thought everyone knew what they were,” Luke immediately put in. “They’re relicts of medieval law which held that the object was a guilty party in the crime and as such forfeit to the crown, sometimes being passed to the victim’s family in compensation.”

  “Quite,” Paul said patronizingly. “Not repealed until the middle of the nineteenth century, when a rail company objected to forfeiting one of their express trains. In the case of poor Janice and now Charles, the peppermill and the knife are to be held responsible for their deaths.”

  “Try telling that to the Old Bailey,” David snorted. “No way. It’s a copy-cat murder. You’ll see.”

  They did. Or rather the Kent police did. This time, excluding Jonathan and Mavis, the number of regulars was down to three: David, who said he had a duty to be present because as an ex-policeman he could keep an eye on things; Paul, who was set on proving his deodand theory; and Luke who was set on disproving anything that anyone else suggested.

  Jonathan had considered whether it would be wise to hold this course at all, but he had been heartened to find there was no such thing as bad publicity. So numerous were the applications from newcomers that he was forced to turn students away. Mavis Sharp had hesitated about instructing at another course, but on discovering that her young friend Beatrice Worthy wished to sign up she decided she would join her. Unfortunately on arrival at the Kentish hotel, she quickly discovered that Beatrice’s motives for wishing to come were mixed. First, she wrung Mavis’s mind dry of every detail about the murders at which she had been first on the scene. Thereafter, Beatrice devoted her attention to Luke, and from Mavis’s glimpse of the canoodling at the rear of the room during the Saturday workshop, she had broadened her sphere of interest.

  David, Paul and even Luke (when he could detach himself from Beatrice) were all eager to outdo each other in the “My theory about the murders” stakes, and the newcomers were equally eager to detect which of the regulars could have been the killer.

  It made for an interesting forum and Mavis, having recovered from the shock of discovering two corpses earlier in the year, was in her element. Her nose twitched continuously with the sharpness the investigating officer had commented on over Janice’s death.

  Discussion continued almost until dinnertime on the Saturday, and then resumed over the meal. Jonathan had abandoned the buffet approach to dinner, to everybody’s obvious relief, after much earlier debate about Janice’s murder. With set places, he could more easily keep an eye on everyone’s presence and prevent any lone excursions.

  However, after dinner, he could exercise no such control. When Luke promulgated an evening walk, Beatrice eagerly accepted. Mavis gently insisted that she should accompany them, but when she returned after powdering her nose she was annoyed to find that they had left without her. A mistake she told herself firmly, and spent ten minutes chatting to Jonathan, Paul and David before they parted for their separate rooms.

  David, through his special knowledge, had told them that the police were as baffled over Charles’ murder as over Janice’s, even though the Hampshire and Suffolk police forces had consulted their modus operandi files and were in constant contact with each other. Neither the knives nor the plastic mac nor the shoes had revealed any DNA or useful fibres, and thus there seemed to be little progress, though from time to time one or other of the witnesses was thoroughly grilled.

  Jonathan himself had endured several such grillings, which was hardly surprising. After Charles’s death, he had feared that the Mystery Unravelled company would be ordered to suspend all further courses, but no such injunction was laid on him although his credit and company details had been checked. What he could not satisfy the police about, naturally enough, was whether any of the participants would have reason to murder any of the others. Was there jealousy over a publishing contract? These students were nowhere near that happy stage, he had explained. Were there any romantic affairs between them? If there were, he would hardly be privy to them, he had reasonably replied. Had he, with his expert knowledge, noticed anything untoward in any of his students’ characters, especially the regular ones? Jonathan hesitated over this. Did Luke’s edginess or Paul’s sexual obsession count? Or David’s need to be involved in police work again? He decided not, and did not mention them.

  Breakfast on the Sunday morning was a quiet affair with people arriving in ones and twos between 7.30 and 8.30. Some chose to go for a run first “for inspiration”, Luke had explained, since the workshop this morning would be a set exercise of a short criminal story of a thousand words. Others of the group ran nowhere, or in some cases attended early church services. They were fortunate, because it was Luke who therefore came across the dead body of Beatrice Worthy on the woodland path. His white-faced appearance back at the hotel as he blurted out the gruesome details put the latecomers entirely off their Full English breakfasts.

  In the all but certain knowledge that this would surely spell the end for Mystery Unravelled courses, if only because no hotel would offer them any facilities in future, Jonathan alerted the police and the hotel manager, and bravely set off with Luke to guard the body. Mavis, rejoicing that it was not she who had found poor Beatrice, waited for the arrival of the police.

  “Round the next bend,” Luke instructed Jonathan, stopping abruptly on the path. At this stage Jonathan too decided to wait for the police, not sure he could face a corpse again. After their arrival, however, he and Luke followed them cautiously to the scene of the crime, watching from the sidelines as they proceeded with their grim task. Even from where they stood they could glimpse the tongue protruding through blue lips, and blood and froth on the face of what had once been an attractive girl. And even from here they could see the distinctive supermarket plastic bag. They could also see something far more horrible.

  Taped to Beatrice’s bosom were two severed human hands.

  On this occasion by unspoken accord, the workshop was abandoned. No one had the stomach for the intricacies of the psychopathic mind (fictional version) when the factual version was all too prominent in everyone’s thoughts. Nor was there much stomach for lunch either, particularly for those most concerned in the investigation: the regulars.

  The Kent police were assiduously interviewing every member of the hotel staff, and everyone at the Mystery Unravelled course. In addition to Jonathan and Mavis, particular attention was paid to David, Luke and Paul as the three present at all the workshops where murders had occurred.

  Again by unspoken accord, most of the group drifted back to the workshop after lunch, as if a black cloud separated it from the rest of humanity. As it was hard for the newcomers to voice any natural speculation as to the guilty party, there was silence reigning in the room when David returned from a trip to the crime scene. There he had successfully managed to infiltrate the crime scene and circulate for ten whole minutes until ejected by the crime scene manager.

  “He left his socks in the bag this time,” David told them. “And the shoes looked much larger than last time. There was a pair of leather gloves, but no disposable ones.”

  “So he went barefoot this time?” Luke asked.

  “Or had spare socks with him.”

  “What else?” Mavis asked, having had the scene fully described to her by Luke. “An axe?”

  Not having been first on the scene, she felt more objective about this murder, even though it was poor Beatrice. She had her suspicions about this case. Miss Marple always did, and even though Luke was the front runner, David and Paul were still in the frame. That phrase pleased her as it showed that she was keeping Agatha’s tradition up to date.

  “Yes.” David glanced at Mavis’ large capable hands. �
�But she was strangled manually.”

  “So it couldn’t have been a woman,” Luke sounded disappointed.

  “It could. Sex,” Paul announced darkly.

  “Charles wasn’t a sex object,” David said scornfully.

  “There’s sexual jealousy of the young. And the change of life,” Paul diagnosed.

  Mavis bristled with fury. “As I explained, Paul, in yesterday’s workshop, modern medicine and technology have rendered many crime clichés unusable. Real life has moved on. HRT disposes of such problems far more efficiently than carrying out axe murders.”

  “She wasn’t murdered by an axe,” Jonathan pointed out in the interests of accuracy. “The hands were taped on, not the axe.”

  Paul nodded solemnly. “I’m glad you’re a convert to my deodand theory, Jonathan.”

  Mavis frowned. “You said the deodand was the object that committed the crime. But the hands were Beatrice’s own. They’d been chopped off. Are you saying she strangled herself?” The awfulness of it caught up with her, and she began to weep.

  Paul was not to be daunted by tears. “No, but it’s part of the psychology of the killer. We all appear quite normal to each other, but so would the psychopath who committed these murders. Two different faces, one for us, and another one for himself.”

  His listeners stirred uneasily, avoiding looking at each other.

  Pleased that he had made his point, Paul continued: “After all, look at Agatha Christie and her famous disappearance. She took time off to pretend she was someone else.”

  “But not a psychopath,” Mavis said sharply. “Poor woman, she was simply—”

  “Why?” David cut across the conflict. “Why the hands at all? It’s plain evil.”

  “That’s just what Miss Marple would have said,” Mavis said, looking at him very carefully.

  It was Mavis who by chance did prove to be an achiever after all. Sharp by name and sharp by nature, as the police had said. When she called in at her local police station over a very trifling point of false claims, it was her sheer perseverance and downright bullying that drove them to look into the matter. By subsequent patient tracking of phone records they reached their quarry and then through sheer chance they discovered the murderer of Janice, Charles and Beatrice.

  Mr Percy Pip was rudely awakened from a peaceful doze in which he was being presented with the Crime Writers’ Diamond Dagger award, and was shattered to find upon his doorstep a CID officer plus a uniformed police constable, holding up ID cards.

  “Mr Percy Pip?” And when he nodded, he heard those familiar words: “We have a warrant here for your arrest . . .”

  Percy’s face was ashen. He had been given to understand that all policemen were either Plods and thus easily outfoxed, or drunk and disorderly with severe psychological problems. The three investigating officers he had so far met had given no indications to the contrary. What therefore had gone wrong?

  “But there was no forensic evidence,” Percy babbled. “No DNA. I was most careful. They were, I assure you, the perfect murders. All of them—”

  He stopped, aware that they were looking at him in a strange way. “We’ll look into that, sir, now you’ve mentioned it. Meanwhile, we’re here to arrest you on a fraud charge, identity theft.”

  Percy Pip couldn’t believe it. Caught through the mere matter of providing utility bills, driving licence, etc. to establish bank accounts, signatures, accommodation address and rented office and living space, mostly achieved through one simple house clearance. And, he remembered, a false doctorate.

  “The identity theft of the late Mr Jonathan Fuller. I have to warn you . . .”

  FRECKLES

  Allan Guthrie

  “I LOVE YOU,” Freddy said. “Can I have a kiss?”

  “Away and shite, Freckles,” Karen said, the sole of one foot planted against the wall she was leaning against as she stared at the other kids in the playground.

  Freddy bowed his head. “Why not?” he said, into his chest.

  “You what?”

  He looked up, whispered, “Why not?”

  She breathed hard. “Cause you’re an ugly fucker.”

  Freddy held back his tears. “I’m not,” he said. “Mum says—”

  “Aye, you are,” Karen told him, turning her head to face him. “Those freckles. Dead fuckin’ ugly, man.”

  He wanted to ask her why it didn’t bother her that she didn’t have any friends. But she’d turned away again and was looking straight ahead.

  When he got home, he told his mum. Didn’t use the words Karen had used, though. He’d have got smacked.

  His mum laughed.

  He went to his room and punched the stuffing out of Clown. When he was hot and sweaty he shoved the stuffing back in Clown and threw him out of sight under the bed where he couldn’t see the bastard’s smile. Freddy walked in front of his mirror, stood there and looked at his reflection.

  He counted his freckles. Last time he checked, there were four hundred and thirty-seven. He didn’t know many other kids his age who’d ever counted that high. Most of them didn’t need to.

  The knock at the door made him jump.

  His mum walked in. “What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head.

  “Freddy? Are you counting again?”

  He looked at his feet.

  “Don’t listen to Karen,” she said. “She’s nothing but trouble, that one.”

  He didn’t look up.

  “You’ll grow out of the freckles,” his mum said. “When you get older, they’ll disappear.”

  He looked at her. “Promise?”

  She nodded.

  Liar.

  Ten years later, hundreds of the fucking things still dotted his face. They were worse in the summer, but they were pretty bad all year round.

  Last summer, he’d taken to wearing make-up. You could tell he was wearing make-up but you couldn’t tell he had freckles. At least, that’s what he hoped. He was all set to pay Karen a visit with his new face, but his confidence had left him as he got off the bus. He was sure she’d be able to see through the make-up.

  This summer, he’d felt braver. Or so he thought. But the summer passed, and he’d stayed at home. By autumn, though, he felt ready. No doubt about it. His freckles weren’t so bad, and with the make-up, well, Karen would see an improvement. And that had to be good.

  He knew where she lived. She’d moved into a flat with her big sister, Edie.

  Twice he went to see her, but both times he turned back before he got there. His stomach played up when he was nervous.

  Third time, he made it up the garden path. He stared at the door, practising what he was going to say. He fought back a rush of nausea, knocked, but she didn’t answer.

  No one home.

  He ran back down the path and threw up by the side of the road.

  Fourth time, he got lucky.

  The door opened and he stared at her, blood rushing to his head, his ears ringing.

  Part of him had hoped her sister would answer and he could just make his apologies and leave.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  He opened his mouth.

  “What?”

  He licked his lips. They were so dry they hurt his tongue. “It’s me,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Fuckin’ Freckles. I can see that. Well?”

  “I don’t have freckles,” he said.

  “Aye, you fuckin’ do,” she said. “Under all that foundation, you fuckin’ poof.”

  He shook his head slowly. He turned.

  “The fuck did you want anyway?” she shouted after him.

  He carried on walking till it started to rain. It was dark by then and he had no idea where he was.

  Time passed. He heard she got pregnant. Then he heard she was getting married.

  He celebrated by trying to kill himself with sleeping pills and whisky. Woke up to the stench of vomit and shit, and felt more revolting than ever.

  Six months in a
psychiatric hospital helped, though.

  When he got out, first thing he did was to try various bleaching creams. He spent a fortune, and the cream did help lighten the freckles. Or so he thought until he bumped into her one night in a pub. An accident.

  “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  For a moment, he allowed himself to get excited. She remembered him. She was interested in him. She wanted to have a conversation. She hadn’t called him Freckles.

  But she turned to the guy sitting next to her, a man hardly five foot tall with large ears and a scarred bald head. “Ain’t that the freckliest fuckin’ face you’ve ever seen, Babe?”

  She got pregnant again. Then she got divorced from the dwarf.

  Freddy tried to persuade his doctor to prescribe tretinoin, even though he knew by now that freckles couldn’t be treated on the NHS. He claimed it would help with his depression. No joy. So he got hold of some himself. It certainly helped lighten his freckles, but at a cost. His skin turned red, itched, flaked and became painful to the touch.

  Substituting one blemish for another, that’s all he was doing. Made him feel even uglier. He looked around for another option. Chemical peel. Cryosurgery. Laser treatment.

  The chemical peel was likely to cause scarring, so that was easily dismissed.

  It seemed that cryosurgery was considered inferior to laser treatment, so that was the way to go.

  He paid for two treatments, eight weeks apart.

  When he went back to see her again a year later, a guy he’d never seen before answered the door.

  “Is Karen in?” Freddy asked.

  “Fuck’s it to you?” he said.

  “I’m an old friend.”

  The guy nodded. “She’s gone,” he said after bit. “Fucked off with her brats.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Didn’t ask.”

  Freddy shuffled his feet. “You think you might see her again?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “If you do, could you tell her Freddy called by?”

  “Freddy?” the guy said, and peered at Freddy. “Freckles? Fuck, aye,” he said. “Heard about you. That’s a fuckin’ faceful of freckles, right enough.”