The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Part 23

Upholstered loungers were scattered around the terrace, and off to one side was a barbecue bay big enough to roast a small elephant. In the background, the garden extended into a thick carpet of trees which ran up a slope for half a mile before meeting the sky.

"There's drink 'n stuff over there," said Frank, indicating a table in the shade. "You fancy a swim, go right ahead there's towels there, too. Won't cost you nuthin'." He smiled genially, his face creasing up like old, soft leather. "Don't go in the house, though, y'hear?"

This last sounded like he meant it, so I nodded. He pottered away, leaving me with the hum of the pool pump and the trickle of a small fountain at the end of the terrace.

I dropped my bag by the table and poured some chilled orange juice. I slugged it back, feeling the coldness seeping outwards as it went down. It felt so good I topped it up and went for a stroll around the pool.

Out in the open the sun bounced off the water's surface like liquid fire. I hadn't brought a costume, but suddenly it seemed too good an opportunity to waste. I stripped off and fell into the water, feeling the freshness soaking right into my pores. I hadn't been skinny-dipping since I was ten years old.

I kicked my way to the far end, counting tiles on the bottom. It had been a while since I'd done any swimming, too, and I had to stop for the occasional cough when I breathed in at the wrong moment. After a couple of lengths I rolled on my back, squinting against the sun. When I looked towards the house, to check I hadn't gathered an audience of old ladies from the local church harmony group, my heart bounced off my rib cage.

My clothes had disappeared. Along with my bag.

The bag contained the envelope from Alvin Culzac. It was my sole reason for being here. Without it, I might as well consign myself to a life-long exile somewhere so remote even G.o.d wouldn't find me.

I came out of the pool like a floundering walrus. When I rubbed the water from my eyes, I saw my bag over by the table.

"For a second, there, I thought I was going to have to come in and rescue you."

The voice was soft and languid and came from the shadows near the table. I squinted through the glare of the sun and saw a long, bare leg swinging back and forth, a stylish sandal hanging from five elegantly-painted toes.

The owner of the voice appeared, holding my s.h.i.+rt. As she shook out the creases, a faint jangling came from a clutch of bracelets on her wrist.

That's when I remembered I was naked. Before I had to choose between going back in the pool or sucking in my stomach and smiling bravely, she handed me my s.h.i.+rt and turned away.

"I moved your things to save them getting creased," she said, her voice a slow, Bacall-type drawl. "Down here everything wilts in the humidity, y'know?" She glanced back with a raised eyebrow and the barest hint of a smile.

"I'm sorry." I retrieved my trousers and grabbed a large towel. "The gardener Frank? said it was okay to take a dip. I didn't have a costume . . ."

"Costume? Oh, you mean swim-shorts. You're from England, aren't you?"

While she obligingly turned her gaze away I towelled myself dry, studying her profile. She was tall and slim, with auburn-tinted, glossy hair. I'd already seen clear, dark eyes that seemed full of humour and a mouth that curled at the edges, and one eyebrow was slightly c.o.c.ked as though she found the world permanently puzzling. She wore a thin cotton sundress with brown polka-dots on a cream background, which set off her tanned skin to perfection. I put her age at somewhere in the late thirties.

She stepped closer, bringing with her a delicate trace of lemons. She tilted her head sideways. "I'm Lilly-Mae Breadon. How 'bout we go for a walk? Gus'll be along soon." As she walked away round the end of the pool, I couldn't help but admire the movement of muscle down the back of her thighs under the sundress. Well, it would have been impolite not to.

"In case you're wondering," she said conversationally, "I work for Gus." She turned her head and gave me a grave look, and I realized she'd dropped the country drawl. "No more, no less. Other people think otherwise, but I don't care." The smile had gone, signifying she probably cared more than she pretended. "So, how about you, Jake? What do you do?"

"I carry things," I explained.

"Things?"

"Small packages mostly usually doc.u.ments but increasingly electronic storage devices. To anyone, anywhere." It sounded lame but it pays well and suits my way of life. A lot of my work comes from the agency run by Culzac.

"Is it legal?"

It's a question I've often asked myself, but I live with the thought that it's best not to know. Before I could reply, a car roared up to the front of the house, followed by doors slamming and the sound of footsteps. Lilly-Mae looked past me and muttered, "Shoot." Then her face a.s.sumed a welcoming smile and she waved her fingers in greeting. "Hi, Gus, darlin'. . . guess who I've got here?" The drawl, I noticed, was back in place.

"I know who you've got there, Lil," a harsh voice replied sourly. "Just where'n h.e.l.l were you taking him, is what I want to know."

The muscles in my back flinched at the accusation in the man's voice. I turned to see a bear of a figure standing by the pool. Gus Krasky was dressed in work jeans and a check s.h.i.+rt, and two other large men hovered behind him, both wearing suits and look-alike faces. Their stance gave them the look of a wrestling tag team, but they were nowhere near as worrying as their boss.

He was holding a rifle pointed right at my chest.

Krasky wore the aura of a bad-tempered construction foreman, as if the entire world was there solely to annoy him. His hair was cut in a military-style brush-cut, and I guessed his age at fifty-plus but it was hard to tell. I knew we weren't going to become best buddies even without the cold look he gave Lilly-Mae, as if we'd been caught red-handed in the bushes.

He looked pointedly at my feet. I'd forgotten to put my shoes back on. "You some kinda nature freak?" he muttered. Then he turned and went inside, leaving me to follow. The wrestler twins watched me go, their dull expressions no doubt the result of too much in-breeding.

Inside, Krasky jerked his head at Lilly-Mae, who went round opening the curtains and revealing a scattering of armchairs and coffee tables and, in one corner, a desk bearing a telephone, a small lamp and a laptop computer. When she was finished he said, "You got things you gotta be doing." It wasn't a question. She flushed slightly, then walked to the door, a faint frown on her face.

"Nice to meet you," she drawled in that low voice, "Mr Crompton."

"Umm . . . you, too," I said neutrally.

Krasky scowled and put the rifle down by the desk. I dropped the envelope in front of him and made for the door. I could do without the alpha male stuff.

"Where are you going?" he snapped.

"Package delivered," I said. "I'm booked on a flight from Charlotte."

"Uh-uh. Take a seat." He pointed at a chair across the desk.

"Pardon?"

"Relax," he growled. "I have a delivery for you. It's what you do, isn't it deliveries?"

"Yes. But I work for Mr Culzac."

"I know that. I already checked with him, and he said it was okay. Now, you want to earn some easy money or just go back to London with what you've got?"

Actually, I was in no hurry to get back just yet, but I had no idea what Krasky wanted me to do for him. And why didn't he use his own people, of whom at least three were within snarling distance?

"All right," I said. "But no drugs."

He gave me a hard look. "What is it with you Brits? You think everyone over here's a crack-dealer?" He reached in one of the desk drawers and pulled out a bulky envelope, which he tossed across to me. "Your fee. In advance. I got an envelope to go to Palm Springs. It'll be ready for you in the morning, with an address. And no, I can't spare any of my own people. Any questions?"

"Only one. Is there a hotel near here?"

He nodded. "Ask Frank on the way out."

I found Frank waiting for me, idly ripping the heads off some flowers. He looked sour but gave me directions to the hotel. As I drove back down the drive, I looked back and noticed Lilly-Mae at an upstairs window. She was still frowning.

By eight next morning I was back at the Krasky gates leaning on the bell. It was probably earlier than planned, but I was hoping it would get me away from here sooner rather than later. While waiting I stepped over to the wounded mailbox for a closer look. The flap hung open like a drunk's mouth and I poked my forefinger through the hole and felt the sharp edges on the inside. On the other side of the box was an identical hole. Some squirrel gun.

I went back and pressed the entry b.u.t.ton again, then noticed the iron gates were already off the latch. I pushed them back and drove up to the house.

The door-knocker brought reverberations inside the house but no response. After a few heartbeats I walked around the side of the house towards the pool.

That's where I found Frank. Only he wasn't doing any gardening.

He was floating in the shallow end, head down as if he was searching for something on the bottom. A widening ribbon of red was coming from a large hole in his back.

I stared at him for a few seconds, as if he might suddenly flip over and ask me if I wanted some juice and by the way, why not take a swim while you're waiting? Then reaction kicked in. I ran and grabbed a long-poled skimmer for collecting debris from the surface of the water. I slid it under his body, taking care not to let him sink. I dragged him to the side; the last thing I needed was to have to go in and fish him off the bottom. As he b.u.mped against the side, he turned with a slow-motion roll and stared up at me with a look of surprise on his weathered face.

Have you seen those films where the hero finds a floater in the pool and drags it out single-handed for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Hah. One tug at Frank's body told me there was no way I could lift him out. Dry and alive, he was lightweight; dead and wet, it was like lifting a small family car. And he was leaking.

I decided to leave him where he was.

Using the buoyancy of the water I flipped him over again and studied the hole in his back. There were scorch marks around the wound. No wonder he looked surprised.

Since he wasn't going anywhere, I let him drift away, then went over to the house. I tried the french doors, but they were locked. Same with the windows. I eventually arrived at the front door and tried the handle.

It's the one thing cinema audiences always expect the hero to do, but he rarely does. Mainly because it's more fun to take out a gun and blow holes in the woodwork. All very useful if you have a large gun to hand. I didn't.

As I touched it, the door swung open, emitting a wave of cool air.

"h.e.l.lo?" I called out politely, feeling desperately English. If I were Hugh Grant I'd be holding a tennis racket and wearing flannels and pumps. What should I do next announce the bad news about how they'd got a dead gardener floating in the pool? I just hoped his replacement could tell a camellia from a giant redwood.

Across a large foyer was the living room where I'd had my chat with Krasky. It looked the same, even down to the laptop, its power light winking at me.

The kitchen was empty and clean. No notes, no open drawers, no ransacking. I was halfway up the stairs when a little voice of caution kicked me in the ear and shouted at me. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing? Frank didn't commit suicide the killer could be up here waiting to blow your stupid head off!"

In rapid succession I found two bathrooms, a dressing room and four bedrooms, all yielding a deserted, opulent if slightly garish interior and no signs of anyone with a grudge against inept gardeners. One of the front bedrooms held a familiar lemony aroma and an array of clothing scattered carelessly across the bed. No bodies in the bathroom, just a whole load of jars and bottles. That Lilly-Mae was a messy bird.

Whoever had shot Frank hadn't come inside and gunned down the rest of the household, but where were they? Then another thought occurred; what if Frank's a.s.sailant had come from the house rather than to it? Had Gus finally got fed up with Frank's attempts at horticulture and taken up his gun in a fit of rage? Had Lilly-Mae-?

Ridiculous. That kind of thing doesn't happen. I should call the police. What was the number Americans dialled in the movies? 555 or 911? On the other hand, what would I tell them? That I'd come to pick up a package to take to Palm Springs and no, officer, I had no idea what was in it nor who it was for and found Frank the gardener trying to drink the pool dry? I'd seen programmes about how gun-toting law officers in LA dealt with suspects even innocent ones. They beat the c.r.a.p out of them.

I ran down the stairs and was about to open the front door when I saw a dark, broken line on the tiles leading through to the kitchen. Somehow I'd missed it on my way in.

A line of blood.

I stopped, breathing heavily. This was getting worse. I stepped over to the front door and pulled it open . . . and found myself face to face with a gawky youth in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt bearing a company logo. Behind him was a bright red van with the same logo down the side.

"Hi," he greeted me with a cheery wave. "Should I just go on round back?"

No! The inner voice screamed, and I managed to shake my head, quickly pulling the door to behind me so he couldn't see the blood on the floor. Somehow I didn't think blood and bodies were what pool cleaners usually found when doing their job.

He looked at me. "Is there a problem?"

"Sorry," I gabbled. "Heavy night last night. Can you come back later?"

He grinned in understanding. There's nothing another man can relate to more than an obvious hangover and the need for absolute silence. "Hey sure thing," he chuckled. "I got plenty of other stuff to do."

I nodded and waved a hand to avoid the need to talk further. He probably wouldn't recognize my accent but I didn't want to risk it. With my luck he'd studied at Oxford for three years and could spot a UK regional accent at a hundred paces.

I closed the door and leaned against it, breathing slowly to lower my pounding heart rate. That had been way too close. I waited until he'd gone, counted to fifty, then stepped outside and closed the door after me.

The gates were still open. I paused at the road, about to drive away, when something caught my eye. It was the mailbox; balanced carefully on top was a small, brown envelope.

I jumped out and picked it up. It was one of those with a padded interior. Through the padding I could feel a familiar outline. Attached to the front of the envelope was a sticky note bearing the words: D. Selecca Hyatt Regency Palm Springs. Leave at front desk.

It must be the package Gus had wanted me to deliver. But why wasn't he here to give it to me himself? And where were his two goons, the inbred Twins? And Lilly-Mae?

Two minutes later I had my answer. A short drive along the road I spotted a small, dark Toyota. Standing by the door was Lilly-Mae.

As I pulled over she detached herself from the car and walked on shaky legs towards me. She looked sick, like all the buzz of yesterday had been sucked out of her.

"Are you okay to drive?" I said. She nodded dumbly. "Okay, follow me." I wasn't sure where to go, but anywhere away from here seemed a good idea. Once I was sure she was following, I headed towards Charlotte and civilization. On the way I prayed we didn't meet a testosterone-charged SWAT team coming the other way. Somehow "English tourist dies in police shoot-out on lonely mountain road" wasn't quite the obituary I'd been planning.

At the first shopping mall I pulled in and Lilly-Mae followed. We found a fast-food joint with two bored waitresses and no customers. I ordered coffees and sat her down across from me. She looked worse up close.

"What the h.e.l.l happened back there?" I asked. Call me Mr Delicate, but I hate puzzles.

"Did you find Frank?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

I felt a chill down my back. I'd been hoping she hadn't seen that much. "Yes. You?"

She nodded. "I knew something had happened, but not what, exactly. It was all a blur, y'know." She s.h.i.+vered and sipped her coffee, dribbling a little down the side of the cup. By the way her hands were shaking, events of the last few hours were catching up with her.

"So what happened?" I asked softly. Uncle Jake the psychologist. A problem shared is a problem pushed on to someone else, according to my mother.

"Ab . . . about two this morning, I heard Gus and Frank shouting at each other downstairs. Frank sounded really mad. He was accusing Gus of being a snake and saying how he'd get us all killed. I thought I heard your name mentioned and the police. Gus told him to watch his mouth or he'd regret it. There was a lot more shouting then a shot, followed by a splash from out back. I figured someone fell in the pool but I couldn't see because my room's at the front. Next thing, Gus yells up to say I should grab my things and get out."

"What about the twins?"

"Jesse and Dino? I didn't see them."

"Where is Gus now?"

She shrugged, her eyes filling up. "I don't know. When I got downstairs he was gone. There was some . . . blood on the floor. It looked real bad. I couldn't see him anywhere."

"You went looking?"

"Sure . . . why not? I didn't think he'd do me any harm. I wasn't thinking straight. That's when I saw Frank in the water." She sniffed and wiped her nose on a paper napkin. "I didn't know what to do. He was dead, so I figured I'd best get away from there. I didn't know who to trust, so I drove to a quiet spot I know and slept in the car. Then this morning I rang your hotel but you'd already checked out. I came back to see if you were here. Or if Gus was."

"To do what?"

She looked totally lost. "I don't know. Something. To make sure it wasn't a bad dream, I guess. It's my home, too . . . sort of. I also wanted to stop you getting caught up in . . . whatever it was." She stared back at me. "You seemed a nice guy. Besides, I thought you might be able to help me."

"Had they ever argued before?"

"A few times. Quite a lot recently. Frank was a real straight-talking guy, even though he worked for Gus. He openly disapproved of Gus's business deals, but I never figured it would come to this." She shook her head. "Gus has been acting strange for weeks. He can be such an a.s.shole sometimes."

She was right; it takes an a.s.shole to shoot an employee. Yet there had to be more to it than a simple divergence of views. "What kind of business is he in?"

She gave me an odd look. "You don't know?"

"Why should I?"