The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 33

I was still drinking port and brandies when the church bell tolled midnight, and shortly afterwards I locked up. I remember waving to Pepe and blowing a kiss on my fingers to Mimi, or at least that's what I had intended to do, it just came out the wrong way round. No matter. The important thing is that Carla took herself off to her side of the bed, I bolted all four sections of the small stable doors, and that's the last thing I remember until your flat-footed sergeant hauled me off the bed and into a pair of handcuffs. I gave them back to him several times, but he insisted on replacing them.

I have them in my pocket, by the way, if you'd like me to return them.

The caravan is delightful. Round, like a barrel, with sailmaker's canvas stretched over the frame, the oak from which it is made is intricately carved and even more exquisitely painted. The cold is banished by a cast-iron "Queenie" stove, and the interior is so sumptuous, it rivals the most opulent hotel. Lavishly painted and comfortably furnished, it boasts a small bow window with lattice panes at the back, under which the bed frame has been built. Meaning one is not then obliged to draw the rich velvet curtains that hang over the window, but is at liberty to lie in bed and gaze up at the stars. With its mahogany panelling and gold leaf on the mouldings, the caravan provides luxury and comfort, and combined with the gentle rock of the horse drawing it along, offers a lifestyle which has much to recommend it.

Except, it appears, when it comes to privacy.

You tell me the police were called after Colonel Tom Thumb peered through the latticework, saw carnage on the bed and promptly raised the alarm. My first comment here is that you should go gently when interviewing him. Far from the Peeping Tom you take him to be, he is, in fact, a normal, lively six-year-old boy who just happens to have an unnaturally deep voice and has been coached to walk, talk and behave as a man, even to smoking cigars, drinking whisky and yes, I admit it, even cussing. The latter being a family trait dear me, the mouth on his mother!

On the other hand, there's no need to tread softly when interviewing the bearded lady. She is none other than Samson O'Reilly, blessed, as luck would have it, with delicate, sculpted features not usually found in a family of dockers, and a minuscule Adam's apple that is easily disguised by a sparkling ruby necklace. As always with illusion, sir, it is a question of distracting the eye. Rather like our "Southseas Mermaid", I suppose. A testimony to the skill of the taxidermist, the creature is half-fish, half-monkey to which blonde human hair has been glued, but all this is beside the point.

Namely, was the discovery of Carla's body down to a young boy's natural curiosity, or a bit of prompting from a third party?

A question that hadn't occurred to you, I can see, but ask yourself this. What circ.u.mstances would make a man drive a bread knife into his sleeping wife's heart, knowing he'd get blood all over his precious stage suit, then fall into so heavy a stupor that he doesn't wake up even when the alarm has been raised, and is still sleeping when the police break down the door?

Wait, wait, wait. That was a rhetorical question, not a challenge, Inspector, though I do see your dilemma.

If I didn't kill Carla, then who did? Professional to the core as she was, and exceedingly pleasant on the eye, she wasn't popular with the troupe. Not at all. And I doubt you will find anyone who'll admit to liking her, not even Pepe, and usually he looks up to everyone. Which makes it a doubly difficult situation for me, given that a woman who makes no friends makes no enemies, either. Indeed, I defy you to find anyone who hated her for that matter, and a lukewarm dislike is hardly a motive for murder!

So then. We've ruled out love, hate, jealousy, greed, and even revenge can be crossed off the list, since she was not a person who aroused high emotions in others, having no pa.s.sion herself- Oh, no, that screaming match when she caught me in flagrante was pure theatrics, I a.s.sure you. Granted, Inspector, it was ungentlemanly conduct on my part to seduce my a.s.sistant in the marital bed. But Jeannette dropped by unexpectedly to discuss the act, and somehow it just happened. One moment I was minding my own business, waxing my moustache in front of the mirror. The next I had a contortionist coiled round me like an anaconda, dislocating her joints in every direction.

Carla did not usually return before noon, and hand on my heart, I never intended to hurt or humiliate her. I was in the wrong, I admitted it, and took great pains to apologize for my behaviour. On the other hand, the manner of her outburst was completely unjustified, a cheap theatrical ploy designed to publicize my shabby conduct, thus adding to the list of reasons why I should not a.s.sault her icy virtue. I am not ashamed to say that, once Jeannette left, I threw the whole lot back at her, albeit in the form of a tired, old joke.

About how I'd picked this up poor, bedraggled waif, who told me she hadn't eaten for three days.

"In my compa.s.sion, Carla, I brought her home and warmed up the shepherd's pie I cooked for you last night, the meal you wouldn't eat because it was too fattening."

Not the first dinner I had prepared for her that had been pa.s.sed to the dogs.

"And since the orphan's clothes were so ragged, I gave her that blue dress I bought you on our honeymoon, which you never wore because you said it's too tight. Along with the straw bonnet I bought as an anniversary present, but which has never come out of the box, because you feel the flowers on the brim aren't dignified enough."

Again, all true.

I pressed on. "I donated the velvet choker Mimi gave you for Christmas that you don't use simply to annoy her, along with those expensive b.u.t.ton boots you never wear because Chief Red Sky's wife has an identical pair, as well as the jade brooch you've never put on, because you say I have no taste."

Carla was taken aback by my bitterness, Inspector, but I wasn't done.

"In fact, the waif was so grateful for my sympathy and support," I continued, "that as I walked her to the door, the poor girl turned to me with tears in her eyes and said, "Please, sir. Do you have anything else your wife doesn't use?"

The joke was intended to soften the effect, though too late I remembered Carla had no sense of humour. But if motive is a sticking point in her murder, so, too, is opportunity. Knowing as we do that all four parts of the twin stable doors were bolted from the inside, how could anyone get in? And it has already been established that the lattice window is too small for even my contortionist to squeeze through, which means, and apologies if I appear to be doing your job, the solution lies in the character.

Take you, for example, Inspector. From what I've seen, you obviously pride yourself on being objective, and do not readily accept theories without proof. Neither do you suffer fools gladly. But what of the qualities that are not quite as apparent? Let me see ...

Yes, I'm starting to sense that much of the time you are unruffled and in control, yet when you are alone with your thoughts, there are times when you are p.r.o.ne to worry. About your family, at a guess. Your wife and your children, and also over your finances. Feelings are also coming to me that you are self-critical, constantly strive to do well and earn the respect that you deserve, especially from your superior officers, and that you also read books to broaden your mind. In addition, I'd say you thrive on a certain amount of challenge and change not too much, though but become deeply frustrated when your efforts are hampered by pettiness, bureaucracy and shortage of time. I will even go out on a limb and suggest there have been times in your life, Inspector, and more than one, when you have had serious doubts about whether you've made the right decision. Am I right? Of course I am, but my skills are nothing compared to Carla's.

Now I don't wish to disillusion you, sir. Not at all. But that character reading applies to one hundred per cent of the population in one way or another, being so vague and ambiguous that the a.s.sessment cannot help but fit. A few frown lines indicate a tendency to worry, your frayed cuffs point to money problems, and the library card on your desk is well used. Carla, though, was far better at manipulating her public, relying on them reading a lot more into her words than there was substance. After all, sceptics don't pay to visit psychics and mind-readers. Only those who already believe.

What, to the "psychic", is a vague but nonetheless suggestive a.s.sertion is simply bait for the sitter to take. If there is no response, or the a.s.sessment falls wide of the mark, the "psychic" will quickly change tack and fish for alternative clues, constantly reading the sitter's response and taking their lead from that. Like illusionists, they bank on people seeing what they want to see. Never underestimate the human desire to make sense out of the most incongruous rubbis.h.!.+

So there we are, Inspector. Now we know how Carla was killed, and by whom. It will soon lead us to why.

Ooh, more tea. How lovely. When it comes to hospitality, you English just cannot be beaten.

If no one got in and no one got out, ipso facto the killer must be in the caravan. Yet your men found only Carla and me, which brings us, Inspector, to the open and shut case.

Earlier I mentioned my "Slicing the Lady in Three" trick. Providing you give me your oath not to tell anyone else, I shall enlighten you as to how it is done. The knives are real, so are the hands, the feet and the face that smiles through dismemberment. Yet there is a gaping hole in the middle where my a.s.sistant's torso should be, and a compartment at the side where it actually is.

Or where it appears to be, I should say.

Once my a.s.sistant steps into the box, she puts her face through the window, and also her hands, and her feet through the holes at the bottom. She wiggles them all to prove it is real, and the audience pa.s.s her their personal items to hold. But once they have returned to their seats, she kicks off her left shoe and twists her body flat to the side of the box. Using her right foot, she manoeuvres the shoe to make it look like it's moving, alternating with the foot that is actually poking through the hole. Her hands remain in position.

The dangerous part comes when I push in the blades. If you look closely, you will see that the blades are not quite as wide as the box, the operative words there being "not quite". The contortionist has to really flatten herself against the wall, while still keeping her face pointing forward. This, sir, is no mean feat. The trick will not work without the most accomplished contortionist.

And of course the other thing is, such is the optical illusion of the wavy lines painted on the woodwork, that the box appears to be the same thickness on both sides. In reality, the left side is a good few inches wider, which, when coupled with the slightly narrower blades, allows just enough s.p.a.ce for my a.s.sistant's body turned sideways. After that, it is simply a question of her stretching her arm in the part I slide sideways, and hey presto, the illusion is complete.

There is nothing in the middle except air!

And unfortunately it is air that lies at the heart of this mystery. While I drink my tea and read your excellent Times newspaper, I suggest you return to the caravan, Inspector, and examine the suitcase on top of the wardrobe. I'm betting it has holes bored in the back. Curled up inside, you see, Mademoiselle Ridoux would have needed to breathe.

I suspect you will also find traces of blood on the inside. Carla's blood, obviously, for one cannot drive knives into people without certain consequences. And at the same time, I suggest you have men search Jeannette's caravan, where you will surely find the bloodstained leotard that she hasn't yet had time to wash. Why not? Oh, for the same reason you haven't interviewed her. She was still coiled inside the suitcase when the police broke in this morning, and with your men tramping in and out, undertakers and so on, she'd have been obliged to remain there until the coast was clear.

Let me tell you what I believe happened last night.

After Carla finished her mind-reading act, she returned to the wagon, where she stowed her dazzling white gown in the suitcase, as she did after every performance, to protect it. Clad in an ordinary frock, she then attended the regular post-performance party a short celebration, but an important one. The troupe need to know they are appreciated, even those who work behind the scenes. Jeannette would have used the diversion to slip in to the Rivorsky wagon, remove Carla's gown and at the same time taking the opportunity to drug the port or the brandy with bromide, possibly both.

When you search her quarters, I daresay you will also find the white sequinned dress, and I suggest you ignore any a.s.sertion that Carla asked her to look after it for her, because, dear me, this of all items? The gown she wore every night on the stage? Carla Bonetti would never entrust such a precious gown to anyone, much less the woman she'd found in her own bed with her husband!

Yes, as to that unfortunate incident as a man of the world, Inspector, I am well aware when a woman has no deep emotional feelings for me. But a lonely heart will take comfort where it is offered, though once again, I failed to see that the affair was set up. A smoke-screen to cover Jeannette's plan to kill Carla, then frame me for the murder.

What I suspect happened is this.

Jeannette asked Carla for a reading, little realizing it was nothing more than a cheap display of manipulation, suggestion and flattery. Like illusion, where people see what they are expecting to see, when it comes to mind-reading, fortune-telling and psychics, sittters are also predisposed to hear what they expect to hear, and invariably remember the successes over the failures.

I don't know what secret Jeannette was hiding, but for a sceptic to resort to consulting someone like Carla, she must have been very afraid. She'll probably tell you she was running away from a violent husband, and was terrified he'd track her down. I suggest a more likely scenario involves the police, and since Carla's murder was so meticulously planned, I doubt it was beginner's luck.

Naturally, I don't know what Carla told Jeannette, either. Indeed, I doubt she'd even remembered herself. To her, this would have been just another routine exercise, picking up clues then feeling her way as she went along. Whatever she'd told her, it would have been exceedingly nebulous, yet that scam, sir, cost Carla her life.

Jeannette would have seen things from a different angle entirely. In her eyes, Carla knew her every dark secret and, for that reason, had to be silenced. So she seduces the Great Rivorsky in his own bed, no doubt planting something of Carla's in the caravan knowing my poor wife would be needing it during rehearsals. The steaming row would have been the icing on the cake.

I'll bet the b.i.t.c.h even sharpened my own bread knife while she was at it.

Ah, there you are, Inspector. And me not halfway through this excellent paper. You found the holes in the empty suitcase? Blood on the inside? Carla's stage dress under Jeannette's bunk. Good. Well, not good. For all her faults, poor Carla is dead, and this is not how I would have wished the marriage to end.

And you have also unmasked Jeannette Ridoux? Amazing detective work, sir, I compliment you. Janet Reed from Basingstoke, eh? Wanted for poisoning three elderly gentlemen for their life savings, and no doubt planning to spend it, once she was free of your English borders. Probably why she chose this particular troupe. In a matter of days, we'll be gone again, won't we? Budapest, my home town, as it happens.

I must say, I feel partly responsible for Carla's death. If I hadn't succ.u.mbed to Jeannette's entwining charms, she could not have put her plan into action.

Or yes. Maybe, Inspector, you have hit the nail on the head. Maybe she would have found someone else to frame for the murder. A man who would not have been able to prove his innocence, and been hanged for a crime he didn't commit ...

But I, of course, am the Great Rivorsky. I can get out of any tight spot.

Contortionists, on the other hand, twist their joints and their bodies, just as in Jeannette's case they twist the truth.

Though I fear that, this time, the hangman's noose is one thing Janet Reed won't wriggle out of.

QUEEN OF THE HILL.

Stuart Neville.

CAM THE HUN set off from his flat on Victoria Street with fear in his heart and heat in his loins. He pulled his coat tight around him. There'd be no snow for Christmas, but it might manage a frost.

Not that he cared much about Christmas this year. If he did this awful thing, if he could actually go through with it, he intended on drinking every last drop of alcohol in the flat. He'd drink until he pa.s.sed out, and drink some more when he woke up. With any luck he'd stay under right through to Boxing Day.

Davy Pollock told Cam the Hun he could come back to Orangefield. The banishment would be lifted, he could return and see his mother, so long as he did as Davy asked. But Cam the Hun knew he wouldn't be able to face her if he did the job, not on Christmas, no matter how badly he wanted to spend the day at her bedside. He'd been put out of the estate seven years ago for "running with the taigs", as Davy put it. Still and all, Davy didn't mind coming to Cam the Hun when he needed supplies from the other side. When Es and blow were thin on the ground in Armagh, just like any other town, the unbridgeable divide between Loyalist and Republican narrowed pretty quickly. Cam the Hun had his uses. He had that much to be grateful for.

He crossed towards Barrack Street, the Mall on his right, the old prison on his left. Christmas lights sprawled across the front of the gaol, ridiculous baubles on such a grim, desperate building. The Church of Ireland cathedral loomed up ahead, glowing at the top of the hill, lit up like a stage set. He couldn't see the Queen's house from here, but it stood just beneath the cathedral. It was an old Georgian place, three storeys, and would've cost a fortune before the property crash.

She didn't pay a penny for it. The Queen of the Hill won her palace in a game of cards.

Anne Mahon and her then boyfriend had rented a flat on the top floor from Paddy Dolan, a lawyer who laundered cash for the IRA through property investment. She was pregnant, ready to pop at any moment, when Dolan and the boyfriend started a drunken game of poker. When the boyfriend was down to his last ten-pound note, he boasted of Anne's skill, said she could beat any man in the country. Dolan challenged her to a game. She refused, but Dolan wouldn't let it be. He said if she didn't play him, he'd put her and her f.u.c.kwit boyfriend out on the street that very night, pregnant or not.

Her water broke just as she laid out the hand that won the house, and Paddy Dolan's shoes were ruined. Not that it mattered in the end. The cops found him at the bottom of Newry Ca.n.a.l, tied to the driver's seat of his 5-Series BMW, nine days after he handed over the deeds. The boyfriend lasted a week longer. A bullet in the gut did for him, but the 'Ra let Anne keep the house. They said they wouldn't evict a young woman with newborn twins. The talk around town was a Sinn Fein councillor was sweet on her and smoothed things over with the balaclava boys.

Anne Mahon knew how to use men in that way. That's what made her Queen of the Hill. Once she got her claws into you, that was that. You were clean f.u.c.ked.

Like Cam the Hun.

He kept his head down as he pa.s.sed the shaven-headed men smoking outside the pub on Barrack Street. They knew who he was, knew he ran with the other sort, and glared as he walked by. One of them wore a Santa hat with a Red Hand of Ulster badge pinned to the brim.

As Cam the Hun began the climb up Scotch Street, the warmth in his groin grew with the terror in his stomach. The two sensations b.u.t.ted against each other somewhere beneath his navel. It was almost a year since he'd last seen her. That long night had left him drained and walking like John Wayne. She'd made him earn it, though. Two likely lads had been dealing right on her doorstep, and he'd sorted them out for her.

Back then he'd have done anything for a taste of the Queen, but as she took the last of him, his fingers tangled in her dyed crimson hair, he noticed the blood congealing on his swollen knuckles. The image of the two boys' broken faces swamped his mind, and he swore right then he'd never touch her again. She was poison. Like the goods she distributed from her fortress on the hill, too much would kill you, but there was no such thing as enough.

He walked to the far side of the library on Market Street. Metal fencing portioned off a path up the steep slope. The council was wasting more money renovating the town centre, leaving the area between the library and the closed-down cinema covered in rubble. Christmas Eve revellers puffed on cigarettes outside the theatre, girls draped with tinsel, young men s.h.i.+vering in their s.h.i.+rtsleeves. The sight of them caused dark thoughts to pa.s.s behind Cam the Hun's eyes. He seized on the resentment, brought it close to his heart. He'd need all the anger and hate he could muster.

He'd phoned the Queen that afternoon and told her it had been too long. He needed her.

"Tonight," she'd said. "Christmas party at my place."

The house came into view as Cam the Hun climbed the slope past the library. Last house on the terrace to his left, facing the theatre across the square, the cathedral towering over it all. Her palace, her fortress. The fear slammed into his belly, and he stopped dead.

Could he do it? He'd done worse things in his life. She was a cancer in Armagh, feeding off the misery she sowed with her powders and potions. The world would be no poorer without her. She'd offloaded her twin sons on their grandmother and rarely saw them. No one depended on her but the dealers she owned, and they'd have Davy Pollock to turn to when she was gone. No, the air in this town could only be sweeter for her pa.s.sing. The logic of it was insurmountable. Cam the Hun could and would do this thing.

But he loved her.

The sudden weight of it forced the air from his lungs. He knew it was a foolish notion, a symptom of his weakness and her power over him. But the knowledge went no further than his head. His heart and loins knew different.

One or two of the smokers outside the theatre noticed him, this slight figure with his coat wrapped tight around him. If he stood rooted to the spot much longer, they would remember him. When they heard the news the next day, they would recall his face. Cam the Hun thought of the ten grand the job would pay and started walking.

For a moment he considered veering right, into the theatre bar, shouldering his way through the crowd, and ordering a pint of Stella and a shot of Black Bush. Instead, he thought of his debts. And there'd be some left over to pay for a home help for his mother, even if it was only for a month or two. He headed left, towards the Queen's house.

His chest strained as he neared the top of the hill, his breath misting around him. He gripped the railing by her door and willed his heart to slow. Jesus, he needed to get more exercise. That would be his New Year's resolution. Get healthy. He rang the doorbell.

The m.u.f.fled rumble of Black Sabbath's "Supernaut" came from inside. Cam the Hun listened for movement in the hall. When none came, he hit the doorbell twice more. He watched, through the gla.s.s above the front door, a shadow move against the ceiling. Something obscured the point of light at the peephole. He heard a bar move aside and three locks snap open. Warm air ferried the sweet tang of cannabis and perfume out into the night.

"Campbell Hunter," she said. "It's been a while."

She still wore her hair dyed crimson red with a black streak at her left temple. A black corset top revealed a trail from her deep cleavage, along her flat stomach, to the smooth skin above her low-cut jeans. Part of the raven tattoo was just visible above the b.u.t.ton fly. He remembered the silken feel against his lips, the scent of her, the firmness of her body. She could afford the best work; the surgeons left little sign of her childbearing, save for the scar that cut the raven in two.

"A year," Cam the Hun said. "Too long."

She stepped back, and he crossed her threshold knowing it would be the last time. She locked the steel-backed door and lowered the bar into place. Neither bullet nor battering ram could break through. He followed her to the living room. Ozzy Osbourne wailed over Tony Iommi's guitar. A black artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner, small skulls, crows and inverted crosses as ornaments among the red tinsel. Men and women lay about on cus.h.i.+ons and blankets, their lids drooping over distant eyes. Spoons and foil wraps, needles and rolled-up money, papers and tobaccos, crumbs of resins and wafts of powder.

"Good party," Cam the Hun said, his voice raised above the music.

"You know me," she said as she took a bottle of Gordon's gin and two gla.s.ses from the sideboard. "I'm the hostess with the mostest. Come on."

As she brushed past him, sparks leaping between their bodies, Cam the Hun caught her perfume through the room's mingled aromas. A white-hot bolt crackled from his brain down to his groin. She headed to the stairs in the hall, stopped, turned on her heel, showed him the maddening undulations of her figure. "Well?" she asked. "What are you waiting for?"

Cam the Hun forced one foot in front of the other and followed her up the stairs. The rhythm of her hips held him spellbound, and he tripped. She looked back over her naked shoulder and smiled down at him. He returned the smile as he thanked G.o.d the knife in his coat pocket had a folding blade. He found his feet and stayed behind her as she climbed the second flight to her bedroom on the top floor.

The decor hadn't changed in a year, blacks and reds, silks and satins. Suspended sheets of s.h.i.+mmering fabric formed a canopy over the wrought-iron bedstead. A huge mound of pillows in all shapes and sizes lay at one end. He wondered if she still had the cuffs, or the- Cam the Hun stamped on that thought. He had to keep his mind behind his eyes and between his ears, not let it creep down to where it could do him no good.

"Take your coat off," she said. She set the gla.s.ses on the dressing table and poured three fingers of neat gin into each.

He hung his coat on her bedpost, careful not to let the knife clang against the iron. She handed him a gla.s.s. He sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip. He tried not to cough at the stinging juniper taste. He failed.

Somewhere beneath the gin's cloying odour, and the soft sweetness of her perfume, he caught the hint of another smell. Something lower, meaner, like ripe meat. The alcohol reached his belly. He swallowed again to keep it there.

The Queen of the Hill smiled her crooked smile and sat in the chair facing him. She hooked one leg over its arm, her jeans hinting at secrets he already knew. She took a mouthful of gin, washed it around her teeth, and hissed as it went down.

"I'm glad you called," she said.