The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 54

Maybe he wasn't on steroids after all, or my knee hadn't been on target last time, because the result here was the absolute opposite. He collapsed down on me, knees folding, and he spewed on the floor over my left shoulder. I got a hot and sticky wash all down my neck, and that kind of galvanized me to get the f.u.c.ker off me. I grabbed his precious ears, twisting his head with them as if they were handlebars and Gardy went over on to his back. I rolled with him, let go with one hand so I could punch his face to mush. I landed one, two, going for the third when someone grabbed my bicep. Couldn't help the natural reaction, I glanced up at who it was and got a smack in the teeth for my trouble.

Toad was back.

Bad Toad, bad.

I was going to swarm up, give him some, when I was surprised to hear Gardy shouting, "The f.u.c.k you doin'? Didn't you hear what I said?"

He wasn't shouting at me.

To be fair Toad hadn't been there when Gardy set the rules. But he got the message. Cowed, Toad let go of me and I swung back to Gardy, my fist c.o.c.ked.

He laughed through his split lips. "f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l, Alec, you've learned a thing or two since we last fought."

"Yeah," I agreed. "How's about this?"

Forgot about the punch and dropped my elbow instead. Smashed his head into the floor. Three times I got him just like that, and I could see his eyes rolling in his head. Wasn't finished though, so I bunched my fist, hit him again, seen his lips split under my knuckles. Rearing back again, I got ready, fist angled at his windpipe. Killer blow now that his throat was an open target.

Gardy's arms were by his sides. Not fighting now.

I pressed the fist on his chest. Not to hold him down but to help mesel up.

Standing over him, I looked around the crowd. They were like rabid things, all panting, their fingers twitching: the pack mentality about to let loose its fury. I coiled my hands, ready to give them as much as they brought.

"Alec won."

I blinked down at Gardy. While I was distracted he could've got me in the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks or stamped my knee out of joint. He was just lying there, breathing heavily, wearing a whimsical look on his face as if he'd just had the best s.h.a.g of his life.

I held out my palm for him, and he took it. I hauled him to his feet. He wouldn't release my hand and for a second I tensed, waiting for him to try and pull me on to a head-b.u.t.t.

"Take it easy, me ol' mucker," he said, his voice kind of John Lennon mixed with the Gallagher brothers. Don't know what he was going for this time. "You beat me, fair and square."

He shook hands with me, then let me go. He patted me on the shoulders for all to see. Friends again.

"We were good once," he said, touching his swollen ear. "Let's get back to the old days, huh?"

"Can't, Gardy. Not when you're into this s.h.i.+te."

"All I've done is traded one pile of s.h.i.+t for another, Alec."

"You're right there." I stood back, ma.s.saging my elbow. I looked at my old sergeant. He'd taught me well, made me the bad-a.r.s.e I'd turned out. He was the one who'd given me the physical tools to defend my family. Couldn't help but feel he hadn't been trying his hardest to break my arm. Once over he'd have done it in a second. He winked at me.

"You won, Alec. A deal's a deal in my book. Billy's back in the black."

I stared at him, mindless of the crowd round us all looking on in dumbfounded silence.

Gardy turned to his mates. "He won. Got it? Now give him the purse."

"Don't want the money. Just knowing that Billy's safe is enough."

He winked again, leaned in close to my ear. "Take the purse and you can give it to your ol' pal Gardy when we meet for a drink later."

Couldn't help but grin at the sneaky t.w.a.t. Made himself a heap of cash, paid off Billy's debt and got himself a whole lot more. And he'd done it in a way that bought me some respect and didn't dent any of his. I winked back at him. "You're on. The local, yeah?"

"Got it."

Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe he wasn't as far gone to the dark side as I'd a.s.sumed.

Nah, he was still a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I pulled my sweats.h.i.+rt on. Tucked the Browning into my belt. Picked up the large stack of notes someone had put on the next bin along.

When I looked back, Gardy and the others had all filed back up the stairs. Probably there'd be a celebratory spliff pa.s.sed around in the G.o.ds when he got back up there. I felt like it would be good to have a pint with my old friend, without the baggage of all the bulls.h.i.+t that life had served us lately.

I didn't go back through the pool hall. Didn't want another runin with Toad or the perfumed s.k.a.n.k; I was hurting too much. I climbed up on the bonnet of the Ford Escort, boosted mesel over the high wall and into a narrow alley running alongside the hall. Walked out, across the street towards the Spar shop.

Billy's Golf was still in the shadows. Some get-away driver, I thought, has he fallen asleep?

The engine was purring, but that was it. Couldn't hear any snoring.

"Billy? Billy." I shot forward, yanking open the driver's door. "Oh, s.h.i.+t, Billy!"

He was dead.

Didn't need to be a doctor to tell. His head was arched back over the headrest. Mouth open, full to the brim of spew. His left arm was splayed out across the gear stick, sleeve rolled up. Rubber tube hanging loosely round his bicep, b.l.o.o.d.y smear on his arm, among all the other scabby wounds where he'd jabbed needles. There was a hypodermic syringe lying in the foot-well, a burnt spoon and lighter, all the paraphernalia. To think I'd just fought the battle of my life for things to end this way. What good had I done?

I stood there. My little cousin, Billy Reid. Seventeen years old, a junkie for the last four. Dead.

"Billy, you stupid dumb f.u.c.k."

I ma.s.saged my elbow. Shook my head. Looked down at the forlorn waste of a young life. Why'd he do that? Obviously he didn't trust me to make things right. Or he didn't trust himself. Maybe Gardy wasn't the only one unhappy with the skin he was in.

Me neither if the truth was told.

Only one consolation I could think of: my granny's house wouldn't be burgled by Billy now.

The day was saved.

Who dares wins?

Yeah, right.

Some f.u.c.king hero me.

LITTLE RUSSIA.

Andrew Taylor.

"LITTLE RUSSIA?" JILL said. "Where?"

Amy Gwyn-Thomas looked up from her shorthand pad. "It's on the other side of the river. You can see it from the road to the Forest."

"That can't be its real name."

"It's what everyone calls it. It's a little valley that doesn't get much sun even in summer. It's always cold. Anyway, it's where Stalin lives."

"What are you talking about?"

"His real name's Mr Joseph, but people call him Stalin or Uncle Joe. He's a widower and a frightful stick-in-the-mud. He's always writing to us about how awful everything is. You know the sort."

Jill did. "What's this about a crash?"

"It's the children I feel sorry for," Amy continued, turning the pages of her notebook. "The girl's a sweet little thing. I hear she's in the accounts department at Broadbent's. At least the boy's got away from home there's something to be said for National Service."

"But this crash?" Jill said.

"I made a note here." Amy tapped the tip of her pencil on the page. "They think the driver took the bend too fast it's a hairpin and the car went over the edge. It's a steep drop."

Jill glanced at her watch. "When did it happen?"

"Yesterday evening."

"I think I'll go to the press briefing." Jill avoided Amy's eyes and opened a drawer of her desk. "The police must know more by now, and it would do as the lead. It's not as if we've got much else."

"But Miss Francis we haven't done the post yet, and I know Mr Marr wanted to see you about the advertising figures."

"Later." Jill found her notebook, slammed the drawer shut and stood up. "Everyone else is out. You might as well type those letters now."

Amy departed, tight-lipped with suppressed irritation. Jill put on her coat and adjusted her hat in front of the mirror. It was only a few hundred yards from the Gazette office to police headquarters. She walked quickly down the High Street. She had spent the last few days in London and by comparison Lydmouth looked grubby and undersized, like a slum child who has never had much of a chance in life.

At the police station the desk sergeant gave her a nod of recognition and waved her into the conference room. The press briefing had already started. Jill's arrival caused heads to twitch around the big mahogany table; after several years in London she had only recently returned to Lydmouth to edit the Gazette. She took a seat near the door, unb.u.t.toned her coat and let it fall behind her on the chair. A fog of smoke blurred the outlines of the uniformed officer at the head of the table, who was talking in a soft Welsh accent.

Sergeant Lumb was chairing the briefing. Not Richard Thornhill, Jill thought; not important enough for him or the Deputy Chief Constable. Lumb was talking about a spate of shoplifting. She began to make notes. Not Richard. Her vision blurred. Her eyes were watering. The smoke was irritating them.

There was a sound behind her, and a sudden draught of cool air on her neck. Once again, the heads twitched around the table. She did not look round.

"And then there's last night's fatality," Lumb said, and paused with a sense of occasion to relight his pipe. "Nasty business." The match went out and there was another pause. "Car went off the Forest road about 11 p.m. Misty night, as you know. He took the Little Russia bend too fast by the look of it. Nasty drop there. Poor chap was dead when we got there."

"Who was he?" Fuggle of the Post asked. He glanced at Jill as he spoke no, not at her, but past her.

"Timothy Wynoll young chap," Lumb replied, glancing down at his notes. "He was at university in London. Parents are abroad. Singapore. They've been notified by now. His aunt lives up near Ashbridge. It was her car, as a matter of fact."

"Isn't it term-time?" Jill asked, wondering if there was someone behind her, and if so, who. "What was he doing in Lydmouth?"

"The aunt's away on a cruise, lucky for some, eh? and he promised he'd come down and check the pipes hadn't frozen after that cold snap. There was a letter from her in his pocket."

"These students. All paid for with our taxes. Marvellous." Fuggle rearranged the phlegm in his throat, making a sound like s.h.i.+ngle s.h.i.+fting beneath a retreating wave on the seash.o.r.e. "Been drinking, had he?"

"I'm afraid I can't say, Mr Fuggle." Lumb sat back in his chair. "No doubt the details will come out at the inquest."

Jill raised her hand. "Anyone else involved? Another car?"

"Not that we know of, Miss Francis."

She glanced over her shoulder. Richard Thornhill was in the doorway. He gave her a hint of a smile and retreated. The door closed behind him.

"Chicken," she murmured to herself or perhaps to him. "Chicken."

Fuggle stared at her with hard, s.h.i.+ny eyes like a pair of boiled sweets.

"The thing is, sir," PC Porter said, "it was odd. That's all."

"What was?" Thornhill asked.

"The car, sir. The one in Little Russia." Porter had waylaid Thornhill on the stairs at police headquarters. He was a very large young man, and he loomed like a mountain of flesh over the Detective Chief Inspector. "Sergeant Lumb sent me out to fetch it with the truck from the garage," he went on apologetically. "There it was, little Ford Popular, terrible state, windscreen gone. Shame really, couldn't have been more than a year or two old but it's only good for sc.r.a.p. Mind you, could have been worse he was smoking, look, and the whole thing could have gone up in flames if the petrol had leaked, yes and him too, not that it-"

"But what was odd?"

"Sorry, sir. Well, for a start, the car was in first gear."

"d.a.m.n it, Porter, what's so odd about that?"

The young constable flinched as if Thornhill had hit him. "If he was coming up the hill from Lydmouth he'd be in third, maybe, and then change down to second for the bend. But not first. Not unless he'd stopped for some reason."

"Why would he have done that?"

"Maybe he pulled over on to the layby. But then why would he have gone over the edge? So I still don't understand how it could have happened. And anyway, if he was coming up and missed the bend he wouldn't have gone over the edge there. It it doesn't feel right. Even if he was plastered."

Porter ran out of words and stared with dumb hope at Thornhill. He had a childish faith in the Chief Inspector. Thornhill tried to ignore the knowledge that the briefing would soon be over, and therefore Jill Francis might come out of the conference room at any moment. Most of his colleagues thought Porter was stupid, and with some justification. But, as Thornhill knew, sometimes Porter's stupidity was more effective than mere cleverness could ever be; and, besides, he had a strangely profound understanding of cars and their ways.

"This layby," Thornhill said. "It's actually on the outer edge of the bend, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Old line of the road, maybe. There's a fence over the drop, but that's mainly gone. He went over at the downhill end. But, sir, if he'd missed the bend, he'd have gone over higher up."

"Witnesses? Anyone live around there?"

"Only the Josephs, sir, down the bottom of the valley. Sarge went to see them, said they'd heard nothing."