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The must-have annual anthology for every crime fiction fan - the year's top new British short stories selected by leading crime critic Maxim Jakubowski. This great annual covers the full range of mystery fiction, from noir and hardboiled crime to ingenious puzzles and amateur sleuthing. Packed with top names like Colin Dexter, Christopher Fowler, Alexander McCall Smith, Robert Barnard, Peter James, Natasha Cooper, Sophie Hannah, and many more
Release date: April 29, 2010
Publisher: C & R Crime
Print pages: 508
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The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7
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 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. His latest novel is I Was Waiting for You. 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, a past crime columnist for the Guardian newspaper, Literary Director of London’s Crime Scene Festival
and now edits the MaXcrime imprint.
Also available
The Mammoth Book of 20th Century Science Fiction
The Mammoth Book of Best Crime Comics
The Mammoth Book of Best Horror Comics
The Mammoth Book of Best of Best New SF
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19
The Mammoth Book of Best New Manga 3
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 21
The Mammoth Book of Best War Comics
The Mammoth Book of Bikers
The Mammoth Book of Boys’ Own Stuff
The Mammoth Book of Brain Workouts
The Mammoth Book of Celebrity Murders
The Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Comic Quotes
The Mammoth Book of Cover-Ups
The Mammoth Book of CSI
The Mammoth Book of the Deep
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Dirty, Sick, X-Rated & Politically Incorrect Jokes
The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Online Diaries
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Women
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Funniest Cartoons of All Time
The Mammoth Book of Hard Men
The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Illustrated True Crime
The Mammoth Book of Inside the Elite Forces
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra
The Mammoth Book of Killers at Large
The Mammoth Book of King Arthur
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Limericks
The Mammoth Book of Maneaters
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories
The Mammoth Book of Modern Battles
The Mammoth Book of Monsters
The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters
The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica
The Mammoth Book of New Terror
The Mammoth Book of On the Edge
The Mammoth Book of On the Road
The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance
The Mammoth Book of Pirates
The Mammoth Book of Poker
The Mammoth Book of Prophecies
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs and Rock ’N’ Roll
The Mammoth Book of Short SF Novels
The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels
The Mammoth Book of Sorcerers’ Tales
The Mammoth Book of True Crime
The Mammoth Book of True Hauntings
The Mammoth Book of True War Stories
The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance
The Mammoth Book of Vintage Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Women Who Kill
The Mammoth Book of Zombie Comics
Constable & Robinson Ltd
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www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
Copyright © Maxim Jakubowski, 2010 (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 & 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 978-1-84901-197-6
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First published in the United States in 2010
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
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US ISBN 978-0-7624-3846-4
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Printed and bound in the EU
Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION
Maxim Jakubowski
MR E. MORSE, BA OXON (FAILED)
Colin Dexter
GHOSTS
John Harvey
THE BLOOD PEARL
Barry Maitland
THE COMMON ENEMY
Natasha Cooper
BLOODSPORT
Tom Cain
THE RAT IN THE ATTIC
Brian McGilloway
ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT ALREADY
Tony Black
HOGMANAY HOMICIDE
Edward Marston
FRUITS
Steve Mosby
A PLACE FOR VIOLENCE
Kevin Wignall
FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS
Simon Levack
HISTORY!
Toby Litt
THE MASQUERADE
Sarah Rayne
TAKE DEATH EASY
Peter Turnbull
THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN
Judith Cutler
SPECIAL DELIVERY
Adrian Magson
A BLOW ON THE HEAD
Peter Lovesey
CHICAGO
Jon Courtenay Grimwood
THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT
Barbara Nadel
THE OCTOPUS NEST
Sophie Hannah
WALKING THE DOG
Peter Robinson
THE VELOCITY OF BLAME
Christopher Fowler
SOMEONE TAKE THESE DREAMS AWAY
Marc Werner
ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE
Alexander McCall Smith
12 BOLINBROKE AVENUE
Peter James
APPETITE FOR MURDER
Simon R. Green
THE OTHER HALF
Mick Herron
SWORD LILIES
Sally Spedding
LOVE HURTS
Bill Kirton
FUNERAL WEATHER
Kate Ellis
A YEAR TO REMEMBER
Robert Barnard
TIME OF THE GREEN
Ken Bruen
VIVISECTION
Bernie Crosthwaite
STAR’S JAR
Kate Horsley
THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A VICTIMLESS CRIME
Paul Johnston
AND HERE’S THE NEXT CLUE . . .
Amy Myers
FRECKLES
Allan Guthrie
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Val McDermid
“MR E. MORSE, BA OXON (FAILED)” by Colin Dexter © 2008. First appeared in the Daily Mail as “THE MYSTERY OF THE DRUNKEN DRIVER”. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
“GHOSTS” by John Harvey © 2008. First appeared in Il Giornale (Italy). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE BLOOD PEARL” by Barry Maitland © 2008. First appeared in the Newcastle Herald (Australia). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE COMMON ENEMY” by Natasha Cooper © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Gregory & Co.
“BLOODSPORT” by Tom Cain © 2009. First appeared online at THE RAP SHEET. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE RAT IN THE ATTIC” by Brian McGilloway © 2008. First appeared in the Sunday Express. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT ALREADY” by Tony Black © 2008. First appeared online at PLOTS WITH GUNS. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“HOGMANAY HOMICIDE” by Edward Marston © 2008. First appeared as a chapbook published by Crippen & Landru. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FRUITS” by Steve Mosby © 2008. First appeared online at SPINETINGLER MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A PLACE FOR VIOLENCE” by Kevin Wignall © 2008. First appeared online at STORYGLOSSIA. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS” by Simon Levack © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Gregory & Co.
“HISTORY!” by Toby Litt © 2008. First appeared in ’68. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE MASQUERADE” by Sarah Rayne © 2008. First appeared in Crime Scenes. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“TAKE DEATH EASY” by Peter Turnbull © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN” by Judith Cutler © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“SPECIAL DELIVERY” by Adrian Magson © 2008. First appeared in Crime Scenes. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A BLOW ON THE HEAD” by Peter Lovesey © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“CHICAGO” by Jon Courtenay Grimwood © 2008. First appeared in Sideways in Crime. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT” by Barbara Nadel © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE OCTOPUS NEST” by Sophie Hannah © 2009. First appeared in Criminal Tendencies. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“WALKING THE DOG” by Peter Robinson © 2008. First appeared in Toronto Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE VELOCITY OF BLAME” by Christopher Fowler © 2008. First appeared in The 2nd Humdrum Book of Horror Stories. Reprinted by permission of
the author.
“SOMEONE TAKE THESE DREAMS AWAY” by Marc Werner © 2008. First appeared in ’68. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE” by Alexander McCall Smith © 2008. First appeared in The Strand Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent David
Higham Associates Limited.
“12 BOLINBROKE AVENUE” by Peter James © 2008. First appeared in Women’s Day. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent
Blake Friedmann.
“APPETITE FOR MURDER” by Simon R. Green © 2008. First appeared in Unusual Suspects. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE OTHER HALF” by Mick Herron © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“SWORD LILIES” by Sally Spedding © 2008. First appeared in Bluechrome Publishing. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“LOVE HURTS” by Bill Kirton © 2008. First appeared online at SHORTBREADSTORIES.COM. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FUNERAL WEATHER” by Kate Ellis © 2008. First appeared in M.O. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A YEAR TO REMEMBER” by Robert Barnard © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Gregory & Co.
“TIME OF THE GREEN” by Ken Bruen © 2008. First appeared in Killer Year. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“VIVISECTION” by Bernie Crosthwaite © 2008. First appeared in M.O. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“STAR’S JAR” by Kate Horsley © 2008. First appeared online at STORYGLOSSIA. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A VICTIMLESS CRIME” by Paul Johnston © 2009. Written for Victim Support Scotland. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Broo Doherty.
“AND HERE’S THE NEXT CLUE . . .” by Amy Myers © 2008. First appeared in M.O. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FRECKLES” by Allan Guthrie © 2008. First appeared online at SPINETINGLER MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“HAPPY HOLIDAYS” by Val McDermid © 2008. First appeared in the Daily Mail. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent Gregory
& Co.
Another fruitful year has passed by in the world of British crime and mystery fiction, which has witnessed the end of Ian Rankin’s wildly popular Inspector Rebus
Edinburgh-set series, as well as the Crime Writers’ Association annual Dagger awards’ achievement of a major new sponsor and television exposure, which should provide the genre with
much increased visibility.
But, in the world of crime, you never say never, as the return of Sherlock Holmes from his fall at the Reichenbach Falls once ably demonstrated, and I’m most proud, in this seventh volume
of our own series, to lead off with a brand new Inspector Morse story by Colin Dexter, years after the demise of the legendary Oxford cop. In addition, Val McDermid closes the book with a new tale
featuring her main character Dr Tony Hill. And a genuine pleasure it is to be able to feature these much-loved characters.
A sterling year, then.
The health, vigour and imagination of the field in the UK continues to amaze me, and after poring through magazines, anthologies, newspapers, the internet and beyond, I have again been
confronted by an embarrassment of fictional choices for this selection. Many writers make a welcome return but I am also pleased to greet the arrival of those authors who have not graced our pages
before. They include established writers whose reputation needs no introduction: Sophie Hannah, Peter James, Tom Cain, Paul Johnston, Barbara Nadel, Barry Maitland and, from the fantasy field, the
estimable Simon R. Green – accompanied on this occasion by another talented genre transfuge who makes a second appearance in the series, Jon Courtenay Grimwood – with also still
relatively unknown newcomers such as Bernie Crosthwaite, Marc Werner, Kate Horsley and Tony Black.
Alongside them are many recidivists, British writers who make it a wonderful habit to contribute to our cornucopia of outstanding crime and mystery stories on a fairly regular basis and are most
definitely worthy of being listed amongst the best: (in no particular order) John Harvey, Christopher Fowler, Ken Bruen, Alexander McCall Smith, Peter Robinson, Peter Lovesey, Amy Myers, Adrian
Magson, Kate Ellis, Peter Turnbull, Simon Levack, Natasha Cooper, Robert Barnard, Judith Cutler, Edward Marston, Brian McGilloway, Allan Guthrie, Sally Spedding and Kevin Wignall. In addition, we
also are pleased to offer a spot to established authors who’ve never before climbed aboard our ongoing project, such as Bill Kirton, Steve Mosby, Sarah Rayne and Mick Herron. A powerful
line-up, I think you will agree, and none disappoint.
Ingenious plots, mysteries, thrills, puzzles, memorable characters, much food for thought and brilliant storytelling in both cosy and hardboiled moods – as ever, the crime and mystery
short story has it all.
It’s been another delightfully criminal year to remember.
Maxim Jakubowski
Colin Dexter
In summer 2008 I returned to the UK after teaching for many years in the USA, having now been appointed Ancient History tutor at Lonsdale College, Oxford. Only then did I
learn, with sadness, of the death, several years earlier, of the man with whom in 1968 I had spent one year in undergraduate digs in North Oxford – a man who remains a legend in the
Thames Valley Police Force: Chief Inspector E. Morse. The Bursar of Lonsdale had decided to collect, in book form, a series of articles and anecdotes about the great man, and he invited me to
contribute my own chief memory of him. For obvious reasons, I have changed the names of those principally concerned (except for myself and Morse) together with the house and the road of which I
shall write. My memory of the incident that occurred there is still very vivid, and I have tried, for example, to recapture the spirit of the original dialogue by frequent use of direct
quotation marks, although such a practice can only afford approximate, not verbatim, records of the conversations reported.
WE HAD FIRST met, both aged eighteen, in November 1967 when sitting the Oxford Entrance examinations. Physically Morse was
of medium height, with a palish, slightly dolichocephalic face, and full light-brown hair, with the merest hint of ginger. Mentally, as I realized from the beginning, he had an extraordinarily
gifted and subtle brain. We spoke together after leaving a three-hour English essay stint in the examination room. The paper we had tackled had given us all a wide range of topics, arranged in
vaguely alphabetical order: Assyrian Archaeology; Buddhist Beliefs; County Boundaries and so on.
“Ye gods!” I said. “I couldn’t write more than a couple of relevant sentences on any of them. Could you?”
“One or two of them, I suppose.”
“Which one did you choose?”
“County Boundaries.”
“Honestly? What do you know about them?”
“Nothing. I wrote about cricket.”
“You must know a lot about cricket!”
“Very very little,” Morse said, with a grin.
I knew at that point that some of us have been given a fifth gear in life, and that some others of us haven’t. And it was no surprise to me to learn later on that Morse had been awarded a
Major Scholarship in Classics at Lonsdale College – where we met each other again at the Michaelmas Term Freshers’ party in October 1968, discovering that we had been allocated digs
together in leafy North Oxford.
The childless Mr & Mrs Lloyd, with whom Morse and I spent our first year, lived at The Firs, a largish detached house in Daventry Road, off the Banbury Road, and just below
the A40 Ring Road. Truth to tell, the property seemed not so well furbished and furnished as most of its neighbours, but it had plenty of space both inside and out; and Pagan and I each had a
fair-sized bed-sit at the rear of the house, with a shared loo-cum-bathroom. Why “Pagan”? Well, it was the soubriquet by which he was known to his fellow undergrads, since it had leaked
out that in the “Religion?” section of his University Application form he had written “High-church atheist”. If we had rooms in College (which Morse, as an open scholar,
would have for the next three years) we would have prof ted from the services of a “scout”; but things were quite satisfactory. Mrs Lloyd did virtually everything herself –
cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing – and although the loo was not exactly given regular five-star treatment, we agreed not to complain. Mr Lloyd was a rather superior car-salesman at a
Banbury Road garage, but his real pride and joy were the lawns at the back and front of the house which he treated (well, so I thought) with rather more affection than he did his wife; and most
weekends saw him marching up and down with the lawn-mower. How did we all get on together? Pretty well, really. I took the majority of my lunches and dinners in the College Hall; Pagan, just
dinners, preferring a liquid lunch in one of the city-centre hostelries. On Sundays, however, we had a regular lunch with the Lloyds, and one such occasion I recall with unusual clarity.
There were just the three of us, since Mr Lloyd was away in London at some jumbo second-hand car sale: just Pagan, myself, and Mrs Lloyd – she looking particularly attractive; and I swear
I noticed Pagan glancing appreciatively more than once at the décolletage of her skimpy white blouse, its top button (by accident or design, I know not) left rather provocatively unfastened.
When after the main course she had returned to the kitchen, Pagan asked:
“What’s your favourite present-participle in the English language, Philip?”
For once, I was ready for him: “I’d go for ‘bird-hatching’”, I think. Remember when Tess sets off for the Vale of the Great Dairies? ‘On a thyme-scented,
bird-hatching morning in May . . .’ Lovely sentence.”
Morse nodded. “Chapter sixteen, isn’t it?”
But I was not prepared to congratulate my friend on his knowledge of Hardy’s novels. Instead, I asked him what his own choice would be.
“I’ll go for ‘unbuttoning’,” he said quietly, as Mrs Lloyd came in with the stewed plums and custard.
I mention this incident for a reason the reader may soon appreciate. Each week in term-time, either on the Monday or the Tuesday, Morse would receive a pale-blue envelope, its
flap always firmly sellotaped, from someone in Lincolnshire. Morse never mentioned her – for of course it was a “her”! – not even her Christian name, although I did
eventually learn it. Oh, yes!
During our first few weeks as co-lodgers, only one thing was a matter of initial discord. Morse had an ancient portable gramophone, on which continually, and sometimes continuously, he played
highlights from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. I would myself have preferred the Beatles to Brünnhilde; but after Morse had one day given me a tutorial on the story and structure of that
extraordinary work, fairly soon I began to appreciate, and later to love it. As Morse had explained: Wagner’s music was never half as bad as it sounded.
We were both reading Classics, a four-year course, requiring success in two major public examinations: “Mods” after two years; “Greats” after a further
two. Mods involved, mainly, translation from Greek and Latin, and composition into those languages. In these particular skills, Morse was paramount, having the facility to read each
language with the fluency and speed of an average English ten-year-old following the fortunes of his favourite football team. On the other hand, Greats was centred more generally upon the history
and philosophy of Greece and Rome, neither of which areas kindled much interest in Morse’s mind. What fascinated him was the study of the manuscripts of the classical authors, frequently
corrupted in their transmission to future generations. He fervently believed that if only he was given the chance of considering many of the puzzling problems in these fields, he would usually make
some better sense of virtually anything, like his great hero in life, A. E. Housman. It was so often a bit like making sense of a story where many of the key facts have been misreported and muddled
up.
Like this one.
I had not seen much of Morse during the Michaelmas Term of our second year in Oxford. Although I was myself still with the Lloyds, he now had rooms in College; and in any case his former
accommodation was in the slow process of some refurbishment. He had, I suspect, attended no more than two or three lectures in the latter half of that term; and although we occasionally sat
together in Hall, we now appeared to be going very much our separate ways. Yet we did meet one morning in mid-December at the Gardenia Café in Cornmarket, quite unexpectedly, since coffee
was hardly his favourite a.m. beverage. We chatted briefly, expressing mutual surprise that neither of us would be spending Christmas at home. I explained that my parents were on a Saga cruise in
the Med, and that in any case I really ought to catch up on some much needed study.
Morse had nodded. He had helped me considerably during our first year together, and was clearly aware of my limitations.
“And you’re staying with Helen?” he’d asked.
It seemed to me surprising that he’d referred to Mrs Lloyd by her first name – something I myself had never dared to do.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m going to Coventry for a couple of days just before Christmas. What about you?”
He had ever been reticent about his home, his parents, his siblings (if any), although I knew his father was a taxi-driver. And now, too, he was as vague as usual:
“Staying in college or burying my head in the Bodley,” he said, tapping the two books beside his empty coffee-cup: The Oxford Text of Homer, and Autenrieth’s Homeric
Dictionary.
“I thought the College was closed over Christmas.”
“Only the 22nd to the 26th. I’ve booked in at The Randolph those nights.”
“Well, well. Not many of us could afford that.”
He got to his feet and picked up his books.
“Dad’s had a win on the gee-gees, Philip. And,” he spoke very quietly, “if I can be of any help again . . .”
“Thank you,” I said, equally quietly, feeling strangely moved by his offer, perhaps because I’d noticed a certain sadness in his eyes as he turned to leave.
I’d noticed something else, too – no doubt about it! Acting presumably as a book-mark in the Oxford Text, there was an envelope, a pale-blue envelope. And I knew who that was from.
Or, as he would have said, “from whom that was”.
I was to see no more of Morse until much nearer Christmas.
On December 22 I left Oxford by rail for Coventry, where one of my best pals had arranged a party that evening – girls included, me included – and had invited me to
stay overnight at his home. I was anticipating the outing with relish; but as I returned to Oxford earlyish the following morning, I was feeling sorely disappointed. The girl I was looking forward
to seeing again . . . Augh! Forget it! I could only recall Jane Austen’s observation that often it was the expectation of happiness which turned out to be better than the thing itself.
Anyway, I’d soon be seeing Mrs Lloyd again, although my expectations in that quarter were sadly very low.
I took a taxi from the railway station, and as I stood outside The Firs taking out my wallet, I saw immediately that something was terribly wrong. Twenty or so feet of the
recently creosoted fence which ran along the front of the wide property were down, lying flat, smashed and splintered across the lawn. And clearly the stout left-hand gatepost had received a hefty
bash from something, and was now leaning drunkenly a good many degrees from the vertical. As for the precious front lawn itself? Oh dear! It was churned up with sundry indentations, and
criss-crossed with tyre-marks, reminiscent of an aerial photograph of the railway-tracks at Crewe station.
“What on earth . . .?” I began, turning to the driver.
“Dunno, mate. Some drunken sod, I s’pose.”
“You hadn’t noticed it before?”
“Wasn’t out yesterday, was I? Shoppin’ with the missus for Christmas.”
For a few seconds after he had gone I stood staring at the mutilated lawn, but noticed that Mrs Lloyd’s red Mini was standing in its usual place, apparently undamaged, in front of the
equally undamaged doors of the double garage. Of Mr Lloyd’s old Rolls Royce, which was normally parked alongside, there was no sign. I slowly walked halfway up the drive, and stopped. Pretty
obviously the intruder had driven in, managed to stop, and promptly reversed out again. QED. I turned back towards the house, and there, framed in the doorway, stood the slim figure of Mrs
Lloyd.
Five minutes later, we were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, and as she passed over my coffee, for a few seconds her delicate fingers rested upon my wrist
– magical moments! – before looking at me steadily with sad, sad eyes, and told me the story.
On the previous evening she had been alone in the house. Jeff had been picked up at about 7 p.m. to go to a Christmas party in Linton Road. His own car was in for something to do with the
gaskets, she thought – whatever they were. She had been watching a sit-com on TV; and, yes, she had heard some sort of bang or crash at about 9.30 p.m. But it hadn’t worried her
much – probably the temperamental central-heating, or a firework perhaps. Anyway, she’d kept watching the rather good programme until the news at 10 p.m. Jeff had promised (almost!) to
be home by just after 11 p.m., and she decided to go upstairs to bed. But before doing so, she’d put the light on in the front porch (for Jeff to find the keyhole!) and stepped outside to
make sure she’d locked the Mini. “And you’ve seen, Philip, what’s happened! Some – drunken – irresponsible – vandal – has . . .”
Twin tears, like a pair of synchronized Olympic divers, were slowly sliding down her cheeks.
I reached forward and put my hand over her wrist – knowing immediately that I had overstepped the mark, for she withdrew her hand, got to her feet, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose
noisily as she reached for the kettle again.
“Did you ring the police?” I asked.
She shook her head: “Not then, no. The duty bobbies would all be out breathalizing the boozers.”
“Let’s just hope they breathalized that wretched man—”
“Or woman, perhaps.”
“I wish you had rung the police immediately, though,” said a new voice – that of Jeff Lloyd, who now stood at the kitchen door, unshaven, with slightly bloodshot eyes,
wearing a pair of grubby beige trousers, and a new-looking flat cap, appearing more like a council road-sweeper than his usual smart-suited self, and carrying a pair of gardening gloves. He poured
himself a coffee and came to stand behind his wife. “I mustn’t blame the old girl, though, and I don’t blame her. My fault, Philip,” he said, “not
Helen’s. It’s shock, you know, at the time. It disorientates you. If only I’d got in earlier . . .”
“Anyway,” Helen said as she turned round to look up at his tall figure, “we did ring this morning, didn’t we?” Then she turned to me: “Said
they’d be round asap.”
Jeff Lloyd grinned weakly: “Probably early in the New Year!” He swallowed his coffee quickly and kissed his wife on the top of her head. “I’m just going to nip do
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 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. His latest novel is I Was Waiting for You. 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, a past crime columnist for the Guardian newspaper, Literary Director of London’s Crime Scene Festival
and now edits the MaXcrime imprint.
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Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION
Maxim Jakubowski
MR E. MORSE, BA OXON (FAILED)
Colin Dexter
GHOSTS
John Harvey
THE BLOOD PEARL
Barry Maitland
THE COMMON ENEMY
Natasha Cooper
BLOODSPORT
Tom Cain
THE RAT IN THE ATTIC
Brian McGilloway
ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT ALREADY
Tony Black
HOGMANAY HOMICIDE
Edward Marston
FRUITS
Steve Mosby
A PLACE FOR VIOLENCE
Kevin Wignall
FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS
Simon Levack
HISTORY!
Toby Litt
THE MASQUERADE
Sarah Rayne
TAKE DEATH EASY
Peter Turnbull
THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN
Judith Cutler
SPECIAL DELIVERY
Adrian Magson
A BLOW ON THE HEAD
Peter Lovesey
CHICAGO
Jon Courtenay Grimwood
THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT
Barbara Nadel
THE OCTOPUS NEST
Sophie Hannah
WALKING THE DOG
Peter Robinson
THE VELOCITY OF BLAME
Christopher Fowler
SOMEONE TAKE THESE DREAMS AWAY
Marc Werner
ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE
Alexander McCall Smith
12 BOLINBROKE AVENUE
Peter James
APPETITE FOR MURDER
Simon R. Green
THE OTHER HALF
Mick Herron
SWORD LILIES
Sally Spedding
LOVE HURTS
Bill Kirton
FUNERAL WEATHER
Kate Ellis
A YEAR TO REMEMBER
Robert Barnard
TIME OF THE GREEN
Ken Bruen
VIVISECTION
Bernie Crosthwaite
STAR’S JAR
Kate Horsley
THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A VICTIMLESS CRIME
Paul Johnston
AND HERE’S THE NEXT CLUE . . .
Amy Myers
FRECKLES
Allan Guthrie
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Val McDermid
“MR E. MORSE, BA OXON (FAILED)” by Colin Dexter © 2008. First appeared in the Daily Mail as “THE MYSTERY OF THE DRUNKEN DRIVER”. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
“GHOSTS” by John Harvey © 2008. First appeared in Il Giornale (Italy). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE BLOOD PEARL” by Barry Maitland © 2008. First appeared in the Newcastle Herald (Australia). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE COMMON ENEMY” by Natasha Cooper © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Gregory & Co.
“BLOODSPORT” by Tom Cain © 2009. First appeared online at THE RAP SHEET. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE RAT IN THE ATTIC” by Brian McGilloway © 2008. First appeared in the Sunday Express. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT ALREADY” by Tony Black © 2008. First appeared online at PLOTS WITH GUNS. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“HOGMANAY HOMICIDE” by Edward Marston © 2008. First appeared as a chapbook published by Crippen & Landru. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FRUITS” by Steve Mosby © 2008. First appeared online at SPINETINGLER MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A PLACE FOR VIOLENCE” by Kevin Wignall © 2008. First appeared online at STORYGLOSSIA. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS” by Simon Levack © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Gregory & Co.
“HISTORY!” by Toby Litt © 2008. First appeared in ’68. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE MASQUERADE” by Sarah Rayne © 2008. First appeared in Crime Scenes. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“TAKE DEATH EASY” by Peter Turnbull © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN” by Judith Cutler © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“SPECIAL DELIVERY” by Adrian Magson © 2008. First appeared in Crime Scenes. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A BLOW ON THE HEAD” by Peter Lovesey © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“CHICAGO” by Jon Courtenay Grimwood © 2008. First appeared in Sideways in Crime. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT” by Barbara Nadel © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE OCTOPUS NEST” by Sophie Hannah © 2009. First appeared in Criminal Tendencies. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“WALKING THE DOG” by Peter Robinson © 2008. First appeared in Toronto Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE VELOCITY OF BLAME” by Christopher Fowler © 2008. First appeared in The 2nd Humdrum Book of Horror Stories. Reprinted by permission of
the author.
“SOMEONE TAKE THESE DREAMS AWAY” by Marc Werner © 2008. First appeared in ’68. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE” by Alexander McCall Smith © 2008. First appeared in The Strand Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agent David
Higham Associates Limited.
“12 BOLINBROKE AVENUE” by Peter James © 2008. First appeared in Women’s Day. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent
Blake Friedmann.
“APPETITE FOR MURDER” by Simon R. Green © 2008. First appeared in Unusual Suspects. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THE OTHER HALF” by Mick Herron © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“SWORD LILIES” by Sally Spedding © 2008. First appeared in Bluechrome Publishing. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“LOVE HURTS” by Bill Kirton © 2008. First appeared online at SHORTBREADSTORIES.COM. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FUNERAL WEATHER” by Kate Ellis © 2008. First appeared in M.O. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A YEAR TO REMEMBER” by Robert Barnard © 2008. First appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Gregory & Co.
“TIME OF THE GREEN” by Ken Bruen © 2008. First appeared in Killer Year. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“VIVISECTION” by Bernie Crosthwaite © 2008. First appeared in M.O. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“STAR’S JAR” by Kate Horsley © 2008. First appeared online at STORYGLOSSIA. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A VICTIMLESS CRIME” by Paul Johnston © 2009. Written for Victim Support Scotland. Reprinted by permission of the author and the
author’s agent Broo Doherty.
“AND HERE’S THE NEXT CLUE . . .” by Amy Myers © 2008. First appeared in M.O. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“FRECKLES” by Allan Guthrie © 2008. First appeared online at SPINETINGLER MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“HAPPY HOLIDAYS” by Val McDermid © 2008. First appeared in the Daily Mail. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent Gregory
& Co.
Another fruitful year has passed by in the world of British crime and mystery fiction, which has witnessed the end of Ian Rankin’s wildly popular Inspector Rebus
Edinburgh-set series, as well as the Crime Writers’ Association annual Dagger awards’ achievement of a major new sponsor and television exposure, which should provide the genre with
much increased visibility.
But, in the world of crime, you never say never, as the return of Sherlock Holmes from his fall at the Reichenbach Falls once ably demonstrated, and I’m most proud, in this seventh volume
of our own series, to lead off with a brand new Inspector Morse story by Colin Dexter, years after the demise of the legendary Oxford cop. In addition, Val McDermid closes the book with a new tale
featuring her main character Dr Tony Hill. And a genuine pleasure it is to be able to feature these much-loved characters.
A sterling year, then.
The health, vigour and imagination of the field in the UK continues to amaze me, and after poring through magazines, anthologies, newspapers, the internet and beyond, I have again been
confronted by an embarrassment of fictional choices for this selection. Many writers make a welcome return but I am also pleased to greet the arrival of those authors who have not graced our pages
before. They include established writers whose reputation needs no introduction: Sophie Hannah, Peter James, Tom Cain, Paul Johnston, Barbara Nadel, Barry Maitland and, from the fantasy field, the
estimable Simon R. Green – accompanied on this occasion by another talented genre transfuge who makes a second appearance in the series, Jon Courtenay Grimwood – with also still
relatively unknown newcomers such as Bernie Crosthwaite, Marc Werner, Kate Horsley and Tony Black.
Alongside them are many recidivists, British writers who make it a wonderful habit to contribute to our cornucopia of outstanding crime and mystery stories on a fairly regular basis and are most
definitely worthy of being listed amongst the best: (in no particular order) John Harvey, Christopher Fowler, Ken Bruen, Alexander McCall Smith, Peter Robinson, Peter Lovesey, Amy Myers, Adrian
Magson, Kate Ellis, Peter Turnbull, Simon Levack, Natasha Cooper, Robert Barnard, Judith Cutler, Edward Marston, Brian McGilloway, Allan Guthrie, Sally Spedding and Kevin Wignall. In addition, we
also are pleased to offer a spot to established authors who’ve never before climbed aboard our ongoing project, such as Bill Kirton, Steve Mosby, Sarah Rayne and Mick Herron. A powerful
line-up, I think you will agree, and none disappoint.
Ingenious plots, mysteries, thrills, puzzles, memorable characters, much food for thought and brilliant storytelling in both cosy and hardboiled moods – as ever, the crime and mystery
short story has it all.
It’s been another delightfully criminal year to remember.
Maxim Jakubowski
Colin Dexter
In summer 2008 I returned to the UK after teaching for many years in the USA, having now been appointed Ancient History tutor at Lonsdale College, Oxford. Only then did I
learn, with sadness, of the death, several years earlier, of the man with whom in 1968 I had spent one year in undergraduate digs in North Oxford – a man who remains a legend in the
Thames Valley Police Force: Chief Inspector E. Morse. The Bursar of Lonsdale had decided to collect, in book form, a series of articles and anecdotes about the great man, and he invited me to
contribute my own chief memory of him. For obvious reasons, I have changed the names of those principally concerned (except for myself and Morse) together with the house and the road of which I
shall write. My memory of the incident that occurred there is still very vivid, and I have tried, for example, to recapture the spirit of the original dialogue by frequent use of direct
quotation marks, although such a practice can only afford approximate, not verbatim, records of the conversations reported.
WE HAD FIRST met, both aged eighteen, in November 1967 when sitting the Oxford Entrance examinations. Physically Morse was
of medium height, with a palish, slightly dolichocephalic face, and full light-brown hair, with the merest hint of ginger. Mentally, as I realized from the beginning, he had an extraordinarily
gifted and subtle brain. We spoke together after leaving a three-hour English essay stint in the examination room. The paper we had tackled had given us all a wide range of topics, arranged in
vaguely alphabetical order: Assyrian Archaeology; Buddhist Beliefs; County Boundaries and so on.
“Ye gods!” I said. “I couldn’t write more than a couple of relevant sentences on any of them. Could you?”
“One or two of them, I suppose.”
“Which one did you choose?”
“County Boundaries.”
“Honestly? What do you know about them?”
“Nothing. I wrote about cricket.”
“You must know a lot about cricket!”
“Very very little,” Morse said, with a grin.
I knew at that point that some of us have been given a fifth gear in life, and that some others of us haven’t. And it was no surprise to me to learn later on that Morse had been awarded a
Major Scholarship in Classics at Lonsdale College – where we met each other again at the Michaelmas Term Freshers’ party in October 1968, discovering that we had been allocated digs
together in leafy North Oxford.
The childless Mr & Mrs Lloyd, with whom Morse and I spent our first year, lived at The Firs, a largish detached house in Daventry Road, off the Banbury Road, and just below
the A40 Ring Road. Truth to tell, the property seemed not so well furbished and furnished as most of its neighbours, but it had plenty of space both inside and out; and Pagan and I each had a
fair-sized bed-sit at the rear of the house, with a shared loo-cum-bathroom. Why “Pagan”? Well, it was the soubriquet by which he was known to his fellow undergrads, since it had leaked
out that in the “Religion?” section of his University Application form he had written “High-church atheist”. If we had rooms in College (which Morse, as an open scholar,
would have for the next three years) we would have prof ted from the services of a “scout”; but things were quite satisfactory. Mrs Lloyd did virtually everything herself –
cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing – and although the loo was not exactly given regular five-star treatment, we agreed not to complain. Mr Lloyd was a rather superior car-salesman at a
Banbury Road garage, but his real pride and joy were the lawns at the back and front of the house which he treated (well, so I thought) with rather more affection than he did his wife; and most
weekends saw him marching up and down with the lawn-mower. How did we all get on together? Pretty well, really. I took the majority of my lunches and dinners in the College Hall; Pagan, just
dinners, preferring a liquid lunch in one of the city-centre hostelries. On Sundays, however, we had a regular lunch with the Lloyds, and one such occasion I recall with unusual clarity.
There were just the three of us, since Mr Lloyd was away in London at some jumbo second-hand car sale: just Pagan, myself, and Mrs Lloyd – she looking particularly attractive; and I swear
I noticed Pagan glancing appreciatively more than once at the décolletage of her skimpy white blouse, its top button (by accident or design, I know not) left rather provocatively unfastened.
When after the main course she had returned to the kitchen, Pagan asked:
“What’s your favourite present-participle in the English language, Philip?”
For once, I was ready for him: “I’d go for ‘bird-hatching’”, I think. Remember when Tess sets off for the Vale of the Great Dairies? ‘On a thyme-scented,
bird-hatching morning in May . . .’ Lovely sentence.”
Morse nodded. “Chapter sixteen, isn’t it?”
But I was not prepared to congratulate my friend on his knowledge of Hardy’s novels. Instead, I asked him what his own choice would be.
“I’ll go for ‘unbuttoning’,” he said quietly, as Mrs Lloyd came in with the stewed plums and custard.
I mention this incident for a reason the reader may soon appreciate. Each week in term-time, either on the Monday or the Tuesday, Morse would receive a pale-blue envelope, its
flap always firmly sellotaped, from someone in Lincolnshire. Morse never mentioned her – for of course it was a “her”! – not even her Christian name, although I did
eventually learn it. Oh, yes!
During our first few weeks as co-lodgers, only one thing was a matter of initial discord. Morse had an ancient portable gramophone, on which continually, and sometimes continuously, he played
highlights from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. I would myself have preferred the Beatles to Brünnhilde; but after Morse had one day given me a tutorial on the story and structure of that
extraordinary work, fairly soon I began to appreciate, and later to love it. As Morse had explained: Wagner’s music was never half as bad as it sounded.
We were both reading Classics, a four-year course, requiring success in two major public examinations: “Mods” after two years; “Greats” after a further
two. Mods involved, mainly, translation from Greek and Latin, and composition into those languages. In these particular skills, Morse was paramount, having the facility to read each
language with the fluency and speed of an average English ten-year-old following the fortunes of his favourite football team. On the other hand, Greats was centred more generally upon the history
and philosophy of Greece and Rome, neither of which areas kindled much interest in Morse’s mind. What fascinated him was the study of the manuscripts of the classical authors, frequently
corrupted in their transmission to future generations. He fervently believed that if only he was given the chance of considering many of the puzzling problems in these fields, he would usually make
some better sense of virtually anything, like his great hero in life, A. E. Housman. It was so often a bit like making sense of a story where many of the key facts have been misreported and muddled
up.
Like this one.
I had not seen much of Morse during the Michaelmas Term of our second year in Oxford. Although I was myself still with the Lloyds, he now had rooms in College; and in any case his former
accommodation was in the slow process of some refurbishment. He had, I suspect, attended no more than two or three lectures in the latter half of that term; and although we occasionally sat
together in Hall, we now appeared to be going very much our separate ways. Yet we did meet one morning in mid-December at the Gardenia Café in Cornmarket, quite unexpectedly, since coffee
was hardly his favourite a.m. beverage. We chatted briefly, expressing mutual surprise that neither of us would be spending Christmas at home. I explained that my parents were on a Saga cruise in
the Med, and that in any case I really ought to catch up on some much needed study.
Morse had nodded. He had helped me considerably during our first year together, and was clearly aware of my limitations.
“And you’re staying with Helen?” he’d asked.
It seemed to me surprising that he’d referred to Mrs Lloyd by her first name – something I myself had never dared to do.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m going to Coventry for a couple of days just before Christmas. What about you?”
He had ever been reticent about his home, his parents, his siblings (if any), although I knew his father was a taxi-driver. And now, too, he was as vague as usual:
“Staying in college or burying my head in the Bodley,” he said, tapping the two books beside his empty coffee-cup: The Oxford Text of Homer, and Autenrieth’s Homeric
Dictionary.
“I thought the College was closed over Christmas.”
“Only the 22nd to the 26th. I’ve booked in at The Randolph those nights.”
“Well, well. Not many of us could afford that.”
He got to his feet and picked up his books.
“Dad’s had a win on the gee-gees, Philip. And,” he spoke very quietly, “if I can be of any help again . . .”
“Thank you,” I said, equally quietly, feeling strangely moved by his offer, perhaps because I’d noticed a certain sadness in his eyes as he turned to leave.
I’d noticed something else, too – no doubt about it! Acting presumably as a book-mark in the Oxford Text, there was an envelope, a pale-blue envelope. And I knew who that was from.
Or, as he would have said, “from whom that was”.
I was to see no more of Morse until much nearer Christmas.
On December 22 I left Oxford by rail for Coventry, where one of my best pals had arranged a party that evening – girls included, me included – and had invited me to
stay overnight at his home. I was anticipating the outing with relish; but as I returned to Oxford earlyish the following morning, I was feeling sorely disappointed. The girl I was looking forward
to seeing again . . . Augh! Forget it! I could only recall Jane Austen’s observation that often it was the expectation of happiness which turned out to be better than the thing itself.
Anyway, I’d soon be seeing Mrs Lloyd again, although my expectations in that quarter were sadly very low.
I took a taxi from the railway station, and as I stood outside The Firs taking out my wallet, I saw immediately that something was terribly wrong. Twenty or so feet of the
recently creosoted fence which ran along the front of the wide property were down, lying flat, smashed and splintered across the lawn. And clearly the stout left-hand gatepost had received a hefty
bash from something, and was now leaning drunkenly a good many degrees from the vertical. As for the precious front lawn itself? Oh dear! It was churned up with sundry indentations, and
criss-crossed with tyre-marks, reminiscent of an aerial photograph of the railway-tracks at Crewe station.
“What on earth . . .?” I began, turning to the driver.
“Dunno, mate. Some drunken sod, I s’pose.”
“You hadn’t noticed it before?”
“Wasn’t out yesterday, was I? Shoppin’ with the missus for Christmas.”
For a few seconds after he had gone I stood staring at the mutilated lawn, but noticed that Mrs Lloyd’s red Mini was standing in its usual place, apparently undamaged, in front of the
equally undamaged doors of the double garage. Of Mr Lloyd’s old Rolls Royce, which was normally parked alongside, there was no sign. I slowly walked halfway up the drive, and stopped. Pretty
obviously the intruder had driven in, managed to stop, and promptly reversed out again. QED. I turned back towards the house, and there, framed in the doorway, stood the slim figure of Mrs
Lloyd.
Five minutes later, we were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, and as she passed over my coffee, for a few seconds her delicate fingers rested upon my wrist
– magical moments! – before looking at me steadily with sad, sad eyes, and told me the story.
On the previous evening she had been alone in the house. Jeff had been picked up at about 7 p.m. to go to a Christmas party in Linton Road. His own car was in for something to do with the
gaskets, she thought – whatever they were. She had been watching a sit-com on TV; and, yes, she had heard some sort of bang or crash at about 9.30 p.m. But it hadn’t worried her
much – probably the temperamental central-heating, or a firework perhaps. Anyway, she’d kept watching the rather good programme until the news at 10 p.m. Jeff had promised (almost!) to
be home by just after 11 p.m., and she decided to go upstairs to bed. But before doing so, she’d put the light on in the front porch (for Jeff to find the keyhole!) and stepped outside to
make sure she’d locked the Mini. “And you’ve seen, Philip, what’s happened! Some – drunken – irresponsible – vandal – has . . .”
Twin tears, like a pair of synchronized Olympic divers, were slowly sliding down her cheeks.
I reached forward and put my hand over her wrist – knowing immediately that I had overstepped the mark, for she withdrew her hand, got to her feet, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose
noisily as she reached for the kettle again.
“Did you ring the police?” I asked.
She shook her head: “Not then, no. The duty bobbies would all be out breathalizing the boozers.”
“Let’s just hope they breathalized that wretched man—”
“Or woman, perhaps.”
“I wish you had rung the police immediately, though,” said a new voice – that of Jeff Lloyd, who now stood at the kitchen door, unshaven, with slightly bloodshot eyes,
wearing a pair of grubby beige trousers, and a new-looking flat cap, appearing more like a council road-sweeper than his usual smart-suited self, and carrying a pair of gardening gloves. He poured
himself a coffee and came to stand behind his wife. “I mustn’t blame the old girl, though, and I don’t blame her. My fault, Philip,” he said, “not
Helen’s. It’s shock, you know, at the time. It disorientates you. If only I’d got in earlier . . .”
“Anyway,” Helen said as she turned round to look up at his tall figure, “we did ring this morning, didn’t we?” Then she turned to me: “Said
they’d be round asap.”
Jeff Lloyd grinned weakly: “Probably early in the New Year!” He swallowed his coffee quickly and kissed his wife on the top of her head. “I’m just going to nip do
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