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Leading anthologist Maxim Jakubowski presents the very best in crime writing from around the world - 40 short stories from an all-star line-up of international writers. They cover the full spectrum of crime fiction, from noir and thrillers, to whodunnits and procedurals, with settings that include Italy, Cuba, Scandinavia, Russia, USA, Japan, Germany, Mexico, France, Italy, Spain and the UK. Among the writers presented are: Ian Rankin, bestselling author of compelling, cerebral crime fiction set in Edinburgh, featuring the much-loved Inspector Rebus. John Mortimer, the English barrister and writer, famous for his much-loved fictional character Horace Rumpole of the Bailey. Boris Akunin, whose eccentric characters and surprising, inventive plots have earned him a reputation as one of the finest contemporary writers of classic crime fiction. Mark Billingham, whose series of taut procedural thrillers featuring London policeman Tom Thorne have won him numerous fans. Giorgio Faletti, author of the 5 million copy seller I Kill. Jo Nesbo, a hugely succesful Norwegian writer with a series featuring Detective Harry Hole, set in Oslo. Jeffrey Deaver, one of the very best US crime writers. His psychological thrillers feautring Lincoln Rhyme have been bestsellers around the world. Ruth Rendell, one of the UK's most respected crime writers.
Release date: August 27, 2009
Publisher: C & R Crime
Print pages: 623
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The Mammoth Book Best International Crime
Maxim Jakubowski
Maxim Jakubowski is a London-based novelist and editor. He was born in the UK and educated in France. Following a career in book publishing, he
opened the world-famous Murder One bookshop in London. He now writes full-time. He has edited a series of fifteen bestselling erotic anthologies and two books of erotic photography, as well as many
acclaimed crime collections. His novels include It’s You That I Want To Kiss, Because She Thought She Loved Me and On Tenderness Express, all three recently collected and
reprinted in the USA as Skin In Darkness. Other books include Life In The World of Women, The State of Montana, Kiss Me Sadly and Confessions Of A Romantic Pornographer. In
2006 he published American Casanova, a major erotic novel which he edited and on which fifteen of the top erotic writers in the world have collaborated, and his collected erotic short
stories as Fools For Lust. He compiles two annual acclaimed series for the Mammoth list: Best New Erotica and Best British Crime. He is a winner of the Anthony and the Karel
Awards, a frequent TV and radio broadcaster, crime columnist for the Guardian newspaper and Literary Director of London’s Crime Scene Festival.
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Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Maxim Jakubowski, 2009 unless otherwise indicated.
The right of Maxim Jakubowski to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84529-957-6
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in the United States in 2009
by Running Press Book Publishers
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
US Library of Congress Control Number: 2008944132
US ISBN 978-0-76243-725-2
Running Press Book Publishers
2300 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19103–4371
Visit us on the web!
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Printed and bound in the EU
Acknowledgments
Introduction Maxim Jakubowski
ITALY
A Crime for a Crime Giorgio Faletti
GREAT BRITAIN
Rumpole and the Christmas Break John Mortimer
NETHERLANDS
The Temp René Appel
NORWAY
Serum Jo Nesbø
NEW ZEALAND
Huxley Chad Taylor
GERMANY
Among Partisans Carmen Korn
FRANCE
Ethnic Cleansing Dominique Manotti
SWEDEN
A Really Shitty Day Camilla Läckberg
SPAIN
That Fat, Sadistic Bastard José Carlos Somoza
GREAT BRITAIN
The Strawberry Tree Ruth Rendell
NETHERLANDS
Out of the Blue Carla Vermaat
GERMANY
Wedding in Voerde Gunter Gerlach
SWEDEN
When He Finally Came Inger Jalakas
FRANCE
An Angel is Speaking Franois Rivière
RUSSIA
Table Talk, 1882 Boris Akunin
SPAIN
Dead End Julián lbáñez
ITALY
Die Wanderung Michael Gregorio
TRINIDAD
Pot Luck Lisa Allen-Agostini
SWEDEN
Angel Child Tove Klackenberg
GERMANY
All For Bergkamen Sebastian Fitzek
JAPAN
An Urban Legend Puzzle Norizuki Rintaro
NETHERLANDS
The Duel Jacob Vis
MEXICO
The Deepest South Paco Ignacio Taibo II
GERMANY
Escalator Obstructors Juergen Ehlers
INDIA
Voices in the Head Altaf Tyrewala
USA
The Christmas Present Jeffery Deaver
FRANCE
Scars Daniel Walther
CUBA
Staring at the Sun Leonardo Padura
NETHERLANDS
The Sword of God Josh Pachter
SPAIN
Now Let’s Talk About Laura Andreu Martin
CANADA
My Vacation in the Numbers Racket Howard Engel
GERMANY
Night Over Unna Bernhard Jaumann
USA
The Big Switch Mickey Spillane & Max Allan Collins
TURKEY
Hitching in the Lodos Feryal Tilmaç
ITALY
It’s Not True Diego De Silva
GREAT BRITAIN
Tell Me Who to Kill Ian Rankin
“A Crime for a Crime” by Giorgio Faletti, copyright © 2008 Giorgio Faletti. First published in CRIMINI ITALIANI. Reprinted by permission of the author’s
agent, Piergiorgio Nicolazzini Literary Agency.
“Rumpole and the Christmas Break” by John Mortimer, copyright © 2004 John Mortimer. First published in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the
author’s agent, United Agents Ltd.
“The Temp” by René Appel, copyright © 2002 René Appel. First published in ALGEMEEN DAGBLAD. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Serum” by Jo Nesbø, copyright © 1999 Jo Nesbø. First published in MISTANKEN BRER SEG. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent,
Salomonsson Agency.
“Huxley” by Chad Taylor, copyright © 2009 Chad Taylor. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Among Partisans” by Carmen Korn, copyright © 2004 by Carmen Korn. First published in DU SOLLST NICHT TOTEN. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Ethnic Cleansing” by Dominique Manotti, copyright © 2007 Dominique Manotti. First published in PARIS NOIR. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Really Shitty Day” by Camilla Läckberg, copyright © 2005 by Camilla Läckberg. First published in NOVELLER FOR VARLDENS BARN. Reprinted by
permission of the author and the author’s agent, Nordin Agency AB.
“That Fat, Sadistic Bastard” by José Carlos Somoza, copyright © 2008 José Carlos Somoza. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent, Agencia Literaria Carmen Balcells.
“The Strawberry Tree” by Ruth Rendell, copyright © 1990 Ruth Rendell. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, United Agents Ltd.
“Out Of The Blue” by Carla Vermaat, copyright © 2003 Carla Vermaat. First published in NACHTVAL. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Wedding in Voerde” by Gunter Gerlach, copyright © 2004 Gunter Gerlach. First published in English in 2005 in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted
by permission of the author.
“When He Finally Came” by Inger Jalakas, copyright © 2004 Inger Jalakas. First published in SVARTA DIAMANTER. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“An Angel Is Speaking” by François Rivière, copyright © 2003 François Rivière. First published in NOIRS COMPLOTS. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
“Table Talk, 1882” by Boris Akunin, copyright © 2000 Boris Akunin. First published in English in 2003 by ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by
permission of the author’s agent, Linda Michaels Ltd.
“Dead End” by Julian Ibañez, copyright © 2008 by Julián Ibáñez. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Die Wanderung” by Michael Gregorio, copyright © 2008 Michael Gregorio. First published in NERO PERUGIANO. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Pot Luck” by Lisa Allen-Agostini, copyright © 2008 Lisa Allen-Agostini. First published in TRINIDAD NOIR. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Angel Child” by Tove Klackenberg, copyright © 2005 Tove Klackenberg. First published in NOVELLER FOR VARLDENS BARN. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“All For Bergkamen” by Sebastian Fitzek, copyright © 2008 Sebastian Fitzek. First published in GRAFIT VERLAG. Reprinted by permission of the author’s
agent, Tanja Howarth.
“An Urban Legend Puzzle” by Norizuki Rintar, copyright © 2001 Norizuki Rintar. First published in English in 2003 by ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Duel” by Jacob Vis, copyright © 1995 Jacob Vis. First published in SPANNEND GEBUNDELD. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Deepest South” by Paco Ignacio Taibo II, copyright © 1988 Paco Ignacio Taibo II. First published in RAYMOND CHANDLER’S PHILIP MARLOWE. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
“Escalator Obstructors” by Juergen Ehlers, copyright © 2008 Juergen Ehlers. First published in In KÜRZE VERSTORBEN. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
“Voices in the Head” by Altaf Tyrewala, copyright © 2001 Altaf Tyrewala. First published in THE LITTLE MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Christmas Present” by Jeffery Deaver, copyright © 2003 Jeffery Deaver. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, Curtis Brown Ltd.
“Scars” by Daniel Walther, copyright © 2005 Daniel Walther. First published in NOIRS SCALPELS. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Staring At The Sun” by Leonardo Padura, copyright © 2007 Leonardo Padura. First published in HAVANA NOIR. Reprinted by permission of Achy Obejas and Akashic
Books.
“The Sword of God” by Josh Pachter, copyright © 2009 Josh Pachter. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Now Let’s Talk About Laura” by Andreu Martin, copyright © 2008 Andreu Martin. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“My Vacation in the Numbers Racket” by Howard Engel, copyright © 1989 Howard Engel. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Beverley Slopen
Literary Agency.
“Night Over Unna” by Bernhard Jaumann, copyright © 2006 Bernhard Jaumann. First published in MORD AM HELLWEG 3. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Big Switch” by Mickey Spillane & Max Allan Collins, copyright © 2008 Mickey Spillane Publishing, LLC. First appeared in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Reprinted
by permission of the author’s Estate.
“Hitching in the Lodos” by Feryal Tilmac, copyright © 2008 Feryal Tilmac. First published in ISTANBUL NOIR. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“It’s Not True” by Diego De Silva, copyright © 2008 Diego De Silva. First published in CRIMINI ITALIANI. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent, Marco Vigevani Agenzia Letteraria.
“Tell Me Who to Kill” by Ian Rankin, copyright © 2003 John Rebus Limited. First appeared in MYSTERIOUS PLEASURES. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent, Peter Robinson Literary Agency.
What with the world-wide popularity of crime and mystery fiction written in the English language – and how can one argue about the iconic heritage of Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle, Charles Dickens even, Edgar Allen Poe, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, etc. all the way to the many modern paragons of the genre that we all love and admire –
foreign language fiction has often been overlooked by readers and critics alike. Setting aside the economics of the publishing industry in which the added cost of translation remains a negative
factor and the de facto imperialism of the English language, there has always been a feeling that we produce enough interesting stories and novels and have a slight prejudice against culture from
different countries. The same applies to the cinema, where Hollywood still rules the roost to a large extent. But it is an unfortunate state of affairs.
One might even argue, at a stretch, that crime fiction began with the slaying of Abel in the Bible, which was of course not written in English, and the dreadful passions and emotions which give
rise to crime, both fictional and real, are a factor which is inherent to the human condition. As a result, crime has dominated history and parallels the rise of civilization everywhere, from the
massacres and plots of Ancient Greece and Rome, the bloody Middle Ages, the Borgias, the rise of gangsterism in the American Depression; the examples are countless. And far from a British or
American phenomenon. Crime is, sadly, universal.
As a result, there has always existed a vital stream of crime and mystery writing in almost all languages and cultures, but all too often it is we who have been too preoccupied with what was
happening in our homes and countries who have chosen to partly ignore it. This lack of interest became self-generating and for many years it proved increasingly difficult for foreign authors (and
not just in the crime area) to get their books translated into English, thus shielding us generally from an immense reservoir of talent. Some prominent names managed to break through such as
Georges Simenon, Sjowall & Wahloo, Friedrich Durrenmatt, Boileau-Narcejac, but they were the exceptions, and similar major crime talents including Jean-Pierre Manchette, Friedrich Glauser and
Giorgio Scerbanenco were overlooked.
Over recent years, the fortuitous success and acceptance of occasional Scandinavian writers in translation (Henning Mankell, Stieg Larsson) have somehow opened the doors wide and a grateful
crime-reading public has for the first time in ages been able to enjoy foreign writers like never before. Fred Vargas, Boris Akunin, Jean-Claude Izzo, Arnaldur Indridason and Andrea Camilleri are
also now widely available and enjoyed. There are now even some, admittedly small and independent, publishing houses who have generously decided to devote their efforts to exclusively promoting
crime in translation, both out of intellectual curiosity and the well-known fact that success breeds success.
As someone who has for several decades vociferously supported genre writing from other countries, I personally find it difficult to explain why this has happened now, rather than earlier. Maybe
Scandinavian sleuths ring a familiar chord in the souls of English and American readers who find their habits and preoccupations reflected in their travails and investigations; maybe globalization
has made us more aware of foreign mores; maybe we were growing tired of our familiar sleuths; maybe the exotic attraction of foreign and alien shores and cultures has been a determining factor? And
here I remind you of the undoubted success of English and American writers like HRF Keating, Donna Leon, Michael Dibdin and many others who set their books in foreign countries – as well as
US authors such as Elizabeth George, Martha Grimes or Deborah Crombie who write about England while, conversely, many Brits (and Irish) mostly set their books in the USA: Lee Child, John Connolly,
Ken Bruen, even myself … At any rate, it is a state of affairs we can only be grateful for and which, as I write, appears still to be flourishing as we continue to discover the talent of so
many new writers with fascinating characters, locales and plots.
But there is a long way to go: a high proportion of English and American crime writers is translated into foreign languages, while the reverse movement is far from true. It might appear to the
untrained eye that every single Scandinavian mystery writer is now available to us, when in fact we are still only seeing the tip of the iceberg. And from my own knowledge of the French, Italian
and Spanish writing scene, I am painfully aware of how many major authors remain untranslated. There is a whole world of crime out there begging to be discovered by us. Which certainly whets the
appetite.
For several years, I have been editing an annual anthology of the best of British crime writing in this series, and I was delighted when Pete Duncan and Nick Robinson at Constable & Robinson
invited me to edit this volume, and broaden the scope to international crime writing. I am often invited to crime writing festivals across Europe and have met many foreign writers on these
occasions and this affords me a way to get some of them published in English for the first time. It has been a fascinating book to edit, in so far as I was naturally limited to reading stories in
the handful of languages I knew, so I recruited a group of advisers, all wonderful writers in their own right, to recommend some of the best stories they had recently come across in their own
language. I must therefore thank Juergen Ehlers in Germany, Camilla Läckberg in Sweden, Paco Taibo in Mexico who advised on Spanish crime writing, Hirsh Sawney in India, Carla Vermaat in the
Netherlands, as well as Johnny Temple at Akashic Books, who provided contacts and encouragement and, of course, publishes an increasing number of foreign writers himself in his Noir Cities series.
I’m also grateful to Trisha Telep and Helen Donlon for advice on translators and Janet Hutchings at Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Without all of them, this volume would not
have been truly international.
I am customarily reluctant to highlight any particular story in an anthology as part of the introduction, and even more so in the present instance. How can one compare a story from Italy to one
written in Russian, one from New Zealand to another from India, a Canadian story to a British one? They all have one thing in common: they are excellent crime stories which will grip, fascinate,
intrigue, often surprise and trick you … which is the virtue of the best of crime and mystery writing. You will also find here some British and American authors, many well-loved and
familiar: how could an anthology truly be international if we didn’t include ourselves on the basis of the universality of crime writing? Some of the foreign authors I’ve been
privileged to select have already had books translated, while as many others haven’t yet (but hopefully will). I hope this sampler of their immense talents will encourage readers to open
their investigative nets even wider in times to come and help us make foreign crime authors even more widespread and popular.
Maxim Jakubowski
Giorgio Faletti
The station is the usual small town railroad stop.
Tracks behind and tracks in front, cables striping the sky and rust-brown ties coloring the ground as far as the curve that can be pictured back there. Alongside, a long, low building which from
its design and color could only be a station. The blue sign hanging there suggests “ASTI” to passengers going by on trains and inflicts it on those who stop there. The train’s
brakes and iron screech until it grinds to a stop and the doors open.
Passengers step off as a voice announces connections. Names that don’t arouse dreams, ordinary nearby towns, merely places to return to. The end of a journey which in places like this is
hardly ever an adventure. They are simple everyday events that in recompense offer the rigid, ineluctable monotony of a pendulum.
Tic, toc, tic, toc …
One oscillation going and another coming, the same each day, until the momentum winds down and all that’s left to do is to ascertain if the final second corresponds to a tic or a toc. As
he steps off the train, the man who made his decision thinks that fundamentally this is also his life, a train in the morning and one in the evening, uninterruptedly, until he is too tired to go
on.
Or until life decides that he is too tired to go on …
In any case, the man who made his decision promised himself that today would be a special day. The day when tears would be justified and pain would find a semblance of payback. The day when he
will go in search of a smile, not for himself but for someone who is dead. Or for everyone who is dead.
If things were better, if things were just, if things came close to even a semblance of that law which should be the same for everyone, there would be no reason to do what he has decided to
do.
If things had been different …
These thoughts are so powerful inside that he instinctively clenches his jaws. So clear are they, and so clear is his motivation, that he wouldn’t be surprised if it were stamped on his
face. He’s amazed that his determination isn’t a color or height or size that would make him stand out among the people around him like an abnormal character in a grotesque cartoon.
Instead his face, his expression and his height are what they always are, and he sails through the crowd like a tempest-free ship without a flag. No one pays any attention to him. They all have
their minds on something they have found or are about to find at the beginning or end of their brief or long or easy or boring trip. To them he’s just another anonymous passenger grappling
with time and space, who melts into the piazza outside the station.
As soon as he steps out, he stops and with an accustomed gaze looks around at a town that he has seen numerous other times.
There and elsewhere.
A small town, a railroad station panorama: trees, taxis, buses, a fountain, shops on either side. The coolness of an ice cream parlor for summer days. A spurious population that is the sum of
that station and of all the stations in the world. At the other end of that daily trip which for years has been his life lies a scene just like that one. The name on the sign where the train pulls
in changes, the theater changes, the actors change, but not the characters. All it takes is a minute or so to figure out who’s who, if one has the desire or will to do so. He shrugs faintly
and starts walking, unhurriedly because he has no deadline to meet, only a result to accomplish. As he crosses the piazza, the town his sole objective, he thinks that the following day, when he
will again board that train, he will leave behind a stopped clock. He doesn’t know how his stride will be and what his breathing and his thoughts will be like, but he is certain that they
will not be the same. He moves off, his anonymity protected by the unremarkable overcoat he’s wearing, though it does not manage to enliven his step or conceal his slightly curved back.
In the right-hand pocket of that coat, the man who made his decision is hiding a gun.
1
The Sloth had two voices.
One was for everybody, the one he used when speaking to the world: he called it the Good Voice. It was the voice that discussed, that greeted people and said thank you and excuse me, but was
nothing more than a kind of sonorous mask, a screen to hide behind during those times when he had to go out among people. And then there was the voice reserved for him alone, the one he heard
inside him, which argued and talked as if it came from an autonomous part of his brain. In all that time he had been so good at hiding it that no one suspected it existed. That was his real
voice.
It was the Bad Voice.
The one that was now moving wordlessly on his mouth, as he watched the girls and licked his lips.
He left the car in the parking lot behind the hotel and emerged from the dark on foot along the tree-lined avenue in front of the stadium. He turned right and left the hotel behind him, the
glare of the lights from the salons like a stamp on his leather jacket. Walking slowly and staring straight ahead of him, he crossed the street and approached the mesh fencing only when he was away
from the fire house.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong but, given his prior record, he wanted to avoid attracting attention in any way. The fire house was still, but the station might come to life at any moment,
and then, too, there was always some bored fireman glancing out the window once too often. They were people trained to see, as well as watch. And he didn’t want to be either watched or
seen.
Not in that place and at that hour, at least.
He crossed the street only when he reached a clump of oleanders that marked the boundary between the fence and the wall, where the avenue curved and the wall became the archway of the
stadium’s service entrance. He hunkered down in such a way that those shrubs found in the brief grassy stretch that bordered the pavement would protect him as much as possible from the eyes
of anyone who happened to be passing by, on foot or by car. Even though it was no longer the season for going out for walks. And at that hour of the evening cars drove straight ahead, square bodies
and round wheels carrying people home to dinner. He turned up the collar of his leather jacket and leaned his hands on the wire-mesh coated with green plastic. With hooked fingers he clung to the
fence like a parasite to its host. On the other side of the fence was the bright green grass of a soccer field, glittering with moisture under the lights. On the other side was the world that each
day populated his fantasies. In front of the door nearest to him, the members of a female soccer team were training under the lights of the reflectors. Almost all of them wore tracksuits but a few,
despite the cool evening, had on shorts, and their firm, naked legs shone under the almost brash glow of the scoreboards riddled with floodlights, high above.
There was one in particular, taller than the average height of her companions, with a sweet face and a lean, lithe body that was more reminiscent of a model’s figure than an
athlete’s. At that moment she moved off from the group which stood listening to the coach’s words, accompanied by lots of gestures. She was a few yards away and was dribbling the ball
with amazing skill, bouncing it easily from her left foot to her right, to her knee and back to her foot, with a movement which lent that technical action a strange sensuality, the color of a dance
beneath the white light.
She was still tan, though summer was by now a memory, and the Sloth thought she must go under a sunlamp in a tanning salon every so often to maintain that amber color. He imagined her taking off
her clothes and entering the tanning booth naked, her firm tits and unripe buttocks open to being frisked by the violet fingers of the UVA rays.
The Sloth ran his tongue over his lips again. He got no relief from it, because his mouth was dryer than his lips. He felt the bulk of an erection swell his pants. He would have liked to enter
the tight space of that booth with her, naked and furtive, and talk to her with the Bad Voice while he shoved it in her. The sudden thought that she might be a virgin made a hot flush rise from his
stomach to his temples. It would be even more satisfying to take her feverishly, without any regard for her, knowing that the rough act would cause her a little bit of pain …
Jerk off, the Bad Voice said.
Not here, he answered in a half-hearted murmur using the Good Voice.
He barely resisted the urge to unzip his pants, pull out his prick and masturbate to the rhythm of the girl’s dribbling. What the Bad Voice said shouldn’t always be done. He had
already gotten into too much trouble because of it and had had to learn to restrain it.
At least a little. At least in public.
On the field the girl stopped dribbling, as if rousing herself from an intimate moment, from that exclusive dialogue with a ball which in that situation perhaps represented more than what it
should logically represent. With a nimble flick of her foot she lifted the ball off
opened the world-famous Murder One bookshop in London. He now writes full-time. He has edited a series of fifteen bestselling erotic anthologies and two books of erotic photography, as well as many
acclaimed crime collections. His novels include It’s You That I Want To Kiss, Because She Thought She Loved Me and On Tenderness Express, all three recently collected and
reprinted in the USA as Skin In Darkness. Other books include Life In The World of Women, The State of Montana, Kiss Me Sadly and Confessions Of A Romantic Pornographer. In
2006 he published American Casanova, a major erotic novel which he edited and on which fifteen of the top erotic writers in the world have collaborated, and his collected erotic short
stories as Fools For Lust. He compiles two annual acclaimed series for the Mammoth list: Best New Erotica and Best British Crime. He is a winner of the Anthony and the Karel
Awards, a frequent TV and radio broadcaster, crime columnist for the Guardian newspaper and Literary Director of London’s Crime Scene Festival.
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Constable & Robinson Ltd
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First published in the UK by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Maxim Jakubowski, 2009 unless otherwise indicated.
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Acknowledgments
Introduction Maxim Jakubowski
ITALY
A Crime for a Crime Giorgio Faletti
GREAT BRITAIN
Rumpole and the Christmas Break John Mortimer
NETHERLANDS
The Temp René Appel
NORWAY
Serum Jo Nesbø
NEW ZEALAND
Huxley Chad Taylor
GERMANY
Among Partisans Carmen Korn
FRANCE
Ethnic Cleansing Dominique Manotti
SWEDEN
A Really Shitty Day Camilla Läckberg
SPAIN
That Fat, Sadistic Bastard José Carlos Somoza
GREAT BRITAIN
The Strawberry Tree Ruth Rendell
NETHERLANDS
Out of the Blue Carla Vermaat
GERMANY
Wedding in Voerde Gunter Gerlach
SWEDEN
When He Finally Came Inger Jalakas
FRANCE
An Angel is Speaking Franois Rivière
RUSSIA
Table Talk, 1882 Boris Akunin
SPAIN
Dead End Julián lbáñez
ITALY
Die Wanderung Michael Gregorio
TRINIDAD
Pot Luck Lisa Allen-Agostini
SWEDEN
Angel Child Tove Klackenberg
GERMANY
All For Bergkamen Sebastian Fitzek
JAPAN
An Urban Legend Puzzle Norizuki Rintaro
NETHERLANDS
The Duel Jacob Vis
MEXICO
The Deepest South Paco Ignacio Taibo II
GERMANY
Escalator Obstructors Juergen Ehlers
INDIA
Voices in the Head Altaf Tyrewala
USA
The Christmas Present Jeffery Deaver
FRANCE
Scars Daniel Walther
CUBA
Staring at the Sun Leonardo Padura
NETHERLANDS
The Sword of God Josh Pachter
SPAIN
Now Let’s Talk About Laura Andreu Martin
CANADA
My Vacation in the Numbers Racket Howard Engel
GERMANY
Night Over Unna Bernhard Jaumann
USA
The Big Switch Mickey Spillane & Max Allan Collins
TURKEY
Hitching in the Lodos Feryal Tilmaç
ITALY
It’s Not True Diego De Silva
GREAT BRITAIN
Tell Me Who to Kill Ian Rankin
“A Crime for a Crime” by Giorgio Faletti, copyright © 2008 Giorgio Faletti. First published in CRIMINI ITALIANI. Reprinted by permission of the author’s
agent, Piergiorgio Nicolazzini Literary Agency.
“Rumpole and the Christmas Break” by John Mortimer, copyright © 2004 John Mortimer. First published in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the
author’s agent, United Agents Ltd.
“The Temp” by René Appel, copyright © 2002 René Appel. First published in ALGEMEEN DAGBLAD. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Serum” by Jo Nesbø, copyright © 1999 Jo Nesbø. First published in MISTANKEN BRER SEG. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent,
Salomonsson Agency.
“Huxley” by Chad Taylor, copyright © 2009 Chad Taylor. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Among Partisans” by Carmen Korn, copyright © 2004 by Carmen Korn. First published in DU SOLLST NICHT TOTEN. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Ethnic Cleansing” by Dominique Manotti, copyright © 2007 Dominique Manotti. First published in PARIS NOIR. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Really Shitty Day” by Camilla Läckberg, copyright © 2005 by Camilla Läckberg. First published in NOVELLER FOR VARLDENS BARN. Reprinted by
permission of the author and the author’s agent, Nordin Agency AB.
“That Fat, Sadistic Bastard” by José Carlos Somoza, copyright © 2008 José Carlos Somoza. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent, Agencia Literaria Carmen Balcells.
“The Strawberry Tree” by Ruth Rendell, copyright © 1990 Ruth Rendell. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, United Agents Ltd.
“Out Of The Blue” by Carla Vermaat, copyright © 2003 Carla Vermaat. First published in NACHTVAL. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Wedding in Voerde” by Gunter Gerlach, copyright © 2004 Gunter Gerlach. First published in English in 2005 in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted
by permission of the author.
“When He Finally Came” by Inger Jalakas, copyright © 2004 Inger Jalakas. First published in SVARTA DIAMANTER. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“An Angel Is Speaking” by François Rivière, copyright © 2003 François Rivière. First published in NOIRS COMPLOTS. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
“Table Talk, 1882” by Boris Akunin, copyright © 2000 Boris Akunin. First published in English in 2003 by ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by
permission of the author’s agent, Linda Michaels Ltd.
“Dead End” by Julian Ibañez, copyright © 2008 by Julián Ibáñez. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Die Wanderung” by Michael Gregorio, copyright © 2008 Michael Gregorio. First published in NERO PERUGIANO. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Pot Luck” by Lisa Allen-Agostini, copyright © 2008 Lisa Allen-Agostini. First published in TRINIDAD NOIR. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Angel Child” by Tove Klackenberg, copyright © 2005 Tove Klackenberg. First published in NOVELLER FOR VARLDENS BARN. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“All For Bergkamen” by Sebastian Fitzek, copyright © 2008 Sebastian Fitzek. First published in GRAFIT VERLAG. Reprinted by permission of the author’s
agent, Tanja Howarth.
“An Urban Legend Puzzle” by Norizuki Rintar, copyright © 2001 Norizuki Rintar. First published in English in 2003 by ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Duel” by Jacob Vis, copyright © 1995 Jacob Vis. First published in SPANNEND GEBUNDELD. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Deepest South” by Paco Ignacio Taibo II, copyright © 1988 Paco Ignacio Taibo II. First published in RAYMOND CHANDLER’S PHILIP MARLOWE. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
“Escalator Obstructors” by Juergen Ehlers, copyright © 2008 Juergen Ehlers. First published in In KÜRZE VERSTORBEN. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
“Voices in the Head” by Altaf Tyrewala, copyright © 2001 Altaf Tyrewala. First published in THE LITTLE MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Christmas Present” by Jeffery Deaver, copyright © 2003 Jeffery Deaver. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent, Curtis Brown Ltd.
“Scars” by Daniel Walther, copyright © 2005 Daniel Walther. First published in NOIRS SCALPELS. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Staring At The Sun” by Leonardo Padura, copyright © 2007 Leonardo Padura. First published in HAVANA NOIR. Reprinted by permission of Achy Obejas and Akashic
Books.
“The Sword of God” by Josh Pachter, copyright © 2009 Josh Pachter. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Now Let’s Talk About Laura” by Andreu Martin, copyright © 2008 Andreu Martin. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“My Vacation in the Numbers Racket” by Howard Engel, copyright © 1989 Howard Engel. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Beverley Slopen
Literary Agency.
“Night Over Unna” by Bernhard Jaumann, copyright © 2006 Bernhard Jaumann. First published in MORD AM HELLWEG 3. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Big Switch” by Mickey Spillane & Max Allan Collins, copyright © 2008 Mickey Spillane Publishing, LLC. First appeared in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Reprinted
by permission of the author’s Estate.
“Hitching in the Lodos” by Feryal Tilmac, copyright © 2008 Feryal Tilmac. First published in ISTANBUL NOIR. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“It’s Not True” by Diego De Silva, copyright © 2008 Diego De Silva. First published in CRIMINI ITALIANI. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent, Marco Vigevani Agenzia Letteraria.
“Tell Me Who to Kill” by Ian Rankin, copyright © 2003 John Rebus Limited. First appeared in MYSTERIOUS PLEASURES. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent, Peter Robinson Literary Agency.
What with the world-wide popularity of crime and mystery fiction written in the English language – and how can one argue about the iconic heritage of Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle, Charles Dickens even, Edgar Allen Poe, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, etc. all the way to the many modern paragons of the genre that we all love and admire –
foreign language fiction has often been overlooked by readers and critics alike. Setting aside the economics of the publishing industry in which the added cost of translation remains a negative
factor and the de facto imperialism of the English language, there has always been a feeling that we produce enough interesting stories and novels and have a slight prejudice against culture from
different countries. The same applies to the cinema, where Hollywood still rules the roost to a large extent. But it is an unfortunate state of affairs.
One might even argue, at a stretch, that crime fiction began with the slaying of Abel in the Bible, which was of course not written in English, and the dreadful passions and emotions which give
rise to crime, both fictional and real, are a factor which is inherent to the human condition. As a result, crime has dominated history and parallels the rise of civilization everywhere, from the
massacres and plots of Ancient Greece and Rome, the bloody Middle Ages, the Borgias, the rise of gangsterism in the American Depression; the examples are countless. And far from a British or
American phenomenon. Crime is, sadly, universal.
As a result, there has always existed a vital stream of crime and mystery writing in almost all languages and cultures, but all too often it is we who have been too preoccupied with what was
happening in our homes and countries who have chosen to partly ignore it. This lack of interest became self-generating and for many years it proved increasingly difficult for foreign authors (and
not just in the crime area) to get their books translated into English, thus shielding us generally from an immense reservoir of talent. Some prominent names managed to break through such as
Georges Simenon, Sjowall & Wahloo, Friedrich Durrenmatt, Boileau-Narcejac, but they were the exceptions, and similar major crime talents including Jean-Pierre Manchette, Friedrich Glauser and
Giorgio Scerbanenco were overlooked.
Over recent years, the fortuitous success and acceptance of occasional Scandinavian writers in translation (Henning Mankell, Stieg Larsson) have somehow opened the doors wide and a grateful
crime-reading public has for the first time in ages been able to enjoy foreign writers like never before. Fred Vargas, Boris Akunin, Jean-Claude Izzo, Arnaldur Indridason and Andrea Camilleri are
also now widely available and enjoyed. There are now even some, admittedly small and independent, publishing houses who have generously decided to devote their efforts to exclusively promoting
crime in translation, both out of intellectual curiosity and the well-known fact that success breeds success.
As someone who has for several decades vociferously supported genre writing from other countries, I personally find it difficult to explain why this has happened now, rather than earlier. Maybe
Scandinavian sleuths ring a familiar chord in the souls of English and American readers who find their habits and preoccupations reflected in their travails and investigations; maybe globalization
has made us more aware of foreign mores; maybe we were growing tired of our familiar sleuths; maybe the exotic attraction of foreign and alien shores and cultures has been a determining factor? And
here I remind you of the undoubted success of English and American writers like HRF Keating, Donna Leon, Michael Dibdin and many others who set their books in foreign countries – as well as
US authors such as Elizabeth George, Martha Grimes or Deborah Crombie who write about England while, conversely, many Brits (and Irish) mostly set their books in the USA: Lee Child, John Connolly,
Ken Bruen, even myself … At any rate, it is a state of affairs we can only be grateful for and which, as I write, appears still to be flourishing as we continue to discover the talent of so
many new writers with fascinating characters, locales and plots.
But there is a long way to go: a high proportion of English and American crime writers is translated into foreign languages, while the reverse movement is far from true. It might appear to the
untrained eye that every single Scandinavian mystery writer is now available to us, when in fact we are still only seeing the tip of the iceberg. And from my own knowledge of the French, Italian
and Spanish writing scene, I am painfully aware of how many major authors remain untranslated. There is a whole world of crime out there begging to be discovered by us. Which certainly whets the
appetite.
For several years, I have been editing an annual anthology of the best of British crime writing in this series, and I was delighted when Pete Duncan and Nick Robinson at Constable & Robinson
invited me to edit this volume, and broaden the scope to international crime writing. I am often invited to crime writing festivals across Europe and have met many foreign writers on these
occasions and this affords me a way to get some of them published in English for the first time. It has been a fascinating book to edit, in so far as I was naturally limited to reading stories in
the handful of languages I knew, so I recruited a group of advisers, all wonderful writers in their own right, to recommend some of the best stories they had recently come across in their own
language. I must therefore thank Juergen Ehlers in Germany, Camilla Läckberg in Sweden, Paco Taibo in Mexico who advised on Spanish crime writing, Hirsh Sawney in India, Carla Vermaat in the
Netherlands, as well as Johnny Temple at Akashic Books, who provided contacts and encouragement and, of course, publishes an increasing number of foreign writers himself in his Noir Cities series.
I’m also grateful to Trisha Telep and Helen Donlon for advice on translators and Janet Hutchings at Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Without all of them, this volume would not
have been truly international.
I am customarily reluctant to highlight any particular story in an anthology as part of the introduction, and even more so in the present instance. How can one compare a story from Italy to one
written in Russian, one from New Zealand to another from India, a Canadian story to a British one? They all have one thing in common: they are excellent crime stories which will grip, fascinate,
intrigue, often surprise and trick you … which is the virtue of the best of crime and mystery writing. You will also find here some British and American authors, many well-loved and
familiar: how could an anthology truly be international if we didn’t include ourselves on the basis of the universality of crime writing? Some of the foreign authors I’ve been
privileged to select have already had books translated, while as many others haven’t yet (but hopefully will). I hope this sampler of their immense talents will encourage readers to open
their investigative nets even wider in times to come and help us make foreign crime authors even more widespread and popular.
Maxim Jakubowski
Giorgio Faletti
The station is the usual small town railroad stop.
Tracks behind and tracks in front, cables striping the sky and rust-brown ties coloring the ground as far as the curve that can be pictured back there. Alongside, a long, low building which from
its design and color could only be a station. The blue sign hanging there suggests “ASTI” to passengers going by on trains and inflicts it on those who stop there. The train’s
brakes and iron screech until it grinds to a stop and the doors open.
Passengers step off as a voice announces connections. Names that don’t arouse dreams, ordinary nearby towns, merely places to return to. The end of a journey which in places like this is
hardly ever an adventure. They are simple everyday events that in recompense offer the rigid, ineluctable monotony of a pendulum.
Tic, toc, tic, toc …
One oscillation going and another coming, the same each day, until the momentum winds down and all that’s left to do is to ascertain if the final second corresponds to a tic or a toc. As
he steps off the train, the man who made his decision thinks that fundamentally this is also his life, a train in the morning and one in the evening, uninterruptedly, until he is too tired to go
on.
Or until life decides that he is too tired to go on …
In any case, the man who made his decision promised himself that today would be a special day. The day when tears would be justified and pain would find a semblance of payback. The day when he
will go in search of a smile, not for himself but for someone who is dead. Or for everyone who is dead.
If things were better, if things were just, if things came close to even a semblance of that law which should be the same for everyone, there would be no reason to do what he has decided to
do.
If things had been different …
These thoughts are so powerful inside that he instinctively clenches his jaws. So clear are they, and so clear is his motivation, that he wouldn’t be surprised if it were stamped on his
face. He’s amazed that his determination isn’t a color or height or size that would make him stand out among the people around him like an abnormal character in a grotesque cartoon.
Instead his face, his expression and his height are what they always are, and he sails through the crowd like a tempest-free ship without a flag. No one pays any attention to him. They all have
their minds on something they have found or are about to find at the beginning or end of their brief or long or easy or boring trip. To them he’s just another anonymous passenger grappling
with time and space, who melts into the piazza outside the station.
As soon as he steps out, he stops and with an accustomed gaze looks around at a town that he has seen numerous other times.
There and elsewhere.
A small town, a railroad station panorama: trees, taxis, buses, a fountain, shops on either side. The coolness of an ice cream parlor for summer days. A spurious population that is the sum of
that station and of all the stations in the world. At the other end of that daily trip which for years has been his life lies a scene just like that one. The name on the sign where the train pulls
in changes, the theater changes, the actors change, but not the characters. All it takes is a minute or so to figure out who’s who, if one has the desire or will to do so. He shrugs faintly
and starts walking, unhurriedly because he has no deadline to meet, only a result to accomplish. As he crosses the piazza, the town his sole objective, he thinks that the following day, when he
will again board that train, he will leave behind a stopped clock. He doesn’t know how his stride will be and what his breathing and his thoughts will be like, but he is certain that they
will not be the same. He moves off, his anonymity protected by the unremarkable overcoat he’s wearing, though it does not manage to enliven his step or conceal his slightly curved back.
In the right-hand pocket of that coat, the man who made his decision is hiding a gun.
1
The Sloth had two voices.
One was for everybody, the one he used when speaking to the world: he called it the Good Voice. It was the voice that discussed, that greeted people and said thank you and excuse me, but was
nothing more than a kind of sonorous mask, a screen to hide behind during those times when he had to go out among people. And then there was the voice reserved for him alone, the one he heard
inside him, which argued and talked as if it came from an autonomous part of his brain. In all that time he had been so good at hiding it that no one suspected it existed. That was his real
voice.
It was the Bad Voice.
The one that was now moving wordlessly on his mouth, as he watched the girls and licked his lips.
He left the car in the parking lot behind the hotel and emerged from the dark on foot along the tree-lined avenue in front of the stadium. He turned right and left the hotel behind him, the
glare of the lights from the salons like a stamp on his leather jacket. Walking slowly and staring straight ahead of him, he crossed the street and approached the mesh fencing only when he was away
from the fire house.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong but, given his prior record, he wanted to avoid attracting attention in any way. The fire house was still, but the station might come to life at any moment,
and then, too, there was always some bored fireman glancing out the window once too often. They were people trained to see, as well as watch. And he didn’t want to be either watched or
seen.
Not in that place and at that hour, at least.
He crossed the street only when he reached a clump of oleanders that marked the boundary between the fence and the wall, where the avenue curved and the wall became the archway of the
stadium’s service entrance. He hunkered down in such a way that those shrubs found in the brief grassy stretch that bordered the pavement would protect him as much as possible from the eyes
of anyone who happened to be passing by, on foot or by car. Even though it was no longer the season for going out for walks. And at that hour of the evening cars drove straight ahead, square bodies
and round wheels carrying people home to dinner. He turned up the collar of his leather jacket and leaned his hands on the wire-mesh coated with green plastic. With hooked fingers he clung to the
fence like a parasite to its host. On the other side of the fence was the bright green grass of a soccer field, glittering with moisture under the lights. On the other side was the world that each
day populated his fantasies. In front of the door nearest to him, the members of a female soccer team were training under the lights of the reflectors. Almost all of them wore tracksuits but a few,
despite the cool evening, had on shorts, and their firm, naked legs shone under the almost brash glow of the scoreboards riddled with floodlights, high above.
There was one in particular, taller than the average height of her companions, with a sweet face and a lean, lithe body that was more reminiscent of a model’s figure than an
athlete’s. At that moment she moved off from the group which stood listening to the coach’s words, accompanied by lots of gestures. She was a few yards away and was dribbling the ball
with amazing skill, bouncing it easily from her left foot to her right, to her knee and back to her foot, with a movement which lent that technical action a strange sensuality, the color of a dance
beneath the white light.
She was still tan, though summer was by now a memory, and the Sloth thought she must go under a sunlamp in a tanning salon every so often to maintain that amber color. He imagined her taking off
her clothes and entering the tanning booth naked, her firm tits and unripe buttocks open to being frisked by the violet fingers of the UVA rays.
The Sloth ran his tongue over his lips again. He got no relief from it, because his mouth was dryer than his lips. He felt the bulk of an erection swell his pants. He would have liked to enter
the tight space of that booth with her, naked and furtive, and talk to her with the Bad Voice while he shoved it in her. The sudden thought that she might be a virgin made a hot flush rise from his
stomach to his temples. It would be even more satisfying to take her feverishly, without any regard for her, knowing that the rough act would cause her a little bit of pain …
Jerk off, the Bad Voice said.
Not here, he answered in a half-hearted murmur using the Good Voice.
He barely resisted the urge to unzip his pants, pull out his prick and masturbate to the rhythm of the girl’s dribbling. What the Bad Voice said shouldn’t always be done. He had
already gotten into too much trouble because of it and had had to learn to restrain it.
At least a little. At least in public.
On the field the girl stopped dribbling, as if rousing herself from an intimate moment, from that exclusive dialogue with a ball which in that situation perhaps represented more than what it
should logically represent. With a nimble flick of her foot she lifted the ball off
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