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Synopsis
Maxim Jakubowski has once again compiled a blockbuster collection of the year's most outstanding short crime fiction published in the UK. His aim is always to present the whole breadth of crime, mystery and thriller writing, from gentle stories of detection to puzzling historical labyrinths full of devious characters and sharp social comment about our imperfect society in some savage, and often scary stories.
Last year saw a fifth Crime Writers Association Short Story Dagger award for the series - for 'Homework' by Phil Lovesey, whose work features again in this year's collection.
There is a new story by Ann Cleeves, whose fictional sleuth Vera Stanhope has created such a buzz in ITV prime-time drama Vera, starring Brenda Blethyn.
Making their debut in Best British Crime are many established names such as Reginald Hill, R. J. Ellory, John Lawton and Stuart Neville. Also represented are writers such as L. C. Tyler, Chris Ewan, Ian Ayris, Col Bury, Matt Hilton and Christine Poulson, some of whom have already made a name for themselves, while others are at the start of hugely promising careers.
Release date: February 2, 2012
Publisher: C & R Crime
Print pages: 554
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9
Maxim Jakubowski
WELCOME TO YET another full year of British killers, investigators, femmes fatales, everymen and women in peril and the whole kitchen sink of crime and mystery fiction as practised on our hallowed shores.
These very shores where Conan Doyle gave birth to Sherlock Holmes, Colin Dexter to Inspector Morse, Raymond Chandler went to school and, less of a prestigious or nationalistic landmark, Jack the Ripper, the first universally feared serial killer, slashed his way into the hall of infamy.
Better critics than me have attempted to define where British crime and thrillers differ from their American or European counterparts. I will not attempt it. After all there are cosy US authors who work in the footsteps of Agatha Christie, as there are homegrown Brits who write as hardboiled blood-and-guts prose as Chandler and Hammett and their contemporary representatives. They have crooked and/or tormented cops; we have them too. They have long highways; we have motorways. But what they all have in common is the fact that on both continents crime and mystery writing thrives and not a year goes by without impressive new talent emerging and the genre we love is seen renewing itself constantly like waves lapping against the shore.
I’ve always tried to present the whole breadth of crime, mystery and thriller writing in these annual anthologies. So you won’t just find gentle stories of detection, puzzling historical labyrinths full of devious characters or sharp social comment about the imperfect society we live in beneath the surface of some savage and, often, scary stories. All life is here, moods, settings, villains and goodies and all characters in between. In a nutshell, all the variety and must-read qualities of crime writers at their best. And there is little doubt in my mind that we have on our British (and Celtic) shores a wonderful assortment of outstanding talents.
We welcome back many old favourites but also big “names” like Reginald Hill, Ann Cleeves, R. J. Ellory, John Lawton and Stuart Neville for the very first time. And, as ever, it’s with great joy that we have newcomers like L. C. Tyler, Chris Ewan, Ian Ayris, Col Bury, Matt Hilton and Christine Poulson on board; some are at an early stage in their careers while others have already made a mark for themselves.
Past volumes have enjoyed great critical and commercial success and we’ve gathered a couple of handfuls of nominations for prestigious short story awards. Phil Lovesey’s story in last year’s volume was shortlisted for and subsequently won the CWA Dagger, alongside John Lawton’s delightful spy tale in these pages, and Christine Poulson’s ingenious puzzler, also from this year’s volume, was selected for an American readers’ award, and I am confident more stories from this bumper edition will catch the attention in the best possible way and make crime pay, at any rate from a literary point of view.
So, close the windows tight, check the back door is locked and the front door bolts are safely in place, slip between the bedcovers and dive deep into our wonderful world of crime. When you emerge from the shimmering darkness, it will already be next year and we will have yet another menu of dark and sinister but enjoyable deeds ready for you.
Bon appétit criminel, as they say in France!
Maxim Jakubowski
Peter James
I WANT YOU, he texted.
I want you more! she texted back.
Trevor was fond of saying that the past was another country. Well, at this moment for Janet, it was the future that was another country. The future – and another man.
And tonight she was going to have him. Again.
A sharp erotic sensation coiled in the pit of her stomach at the thought of him. A longing. A craving.
Tonight I am going to have you. Again, and again and again!
Her past receded in the rear-view mirror with every kilometre she covered. The forest of winter-brown pines that lined the autobahn streaked by on both sides, along with road signs, turn-offs and other, slower cars. She was in a hurry to get there. Her heart beat with excitement, with danger. Her pulse revved. She had been running on adrenalin for forty-eight hours, but she wasn’t tired, she was wide, wide awake. Going into the unknown. Going to meet a man who had been a total stranger until just a few weeks ago.
His photograph, which she had printed from the jpeg he had emailed her, lay on the passenger seat of her elderly grey Passat. He was naked. A tall, muscular guy, semi-erect as if teasing her to make him bigger. A tight stomach, nearly a six-pack, and she could already feel it pressing hard against her own. He had brown hairs on his chest and on his legs, thick and downy and she liked that. Trevor was white and bony, and his body was almost hairless. This man was tanned, lean, fit.
Hans.
He looked wild, like a young Jack Nicholson, his hair thinning on the top. He looked just the way he had sounded on the internet chat room when she had first been attracted to him.
Feral.
The background to the photograph was strange. An enclosed, windowless space that might be the engine room of a ship, although she had a pretty good idea what it really was. Like everything about him, it excited her. Shiny floor-to-ceiling metal casings, beige coloured, with dials, gauges, switches, levers, knobs, winking lights. It could be some kind of control room in a nuclear reactor? Or Mission Control?
She felt on a mission very much under control!
Who had taken that photograph, she wondered? A lover? A self-timer? She didn’t care; she wanted him. All of him. Wanted that thing that half-dangled, half-rose, wanted to gather it deep inside her again. Wanted him so badly she was crazed with lust. Mosquitoes got crazed with blood lust. They had to land, take in the blood, even if it killed them. She had to have Hans, take him into her, into her body, into her life, even if that killed her, too.
She didn’t care. For now she was free. She had been free for two whole days and that was longer than she had been free for years.
On the scratchy reception of the car’s radio, struggling through the occasional interference of someone talking in German, Bob Dylan was singing “The Times They Are A-Changin’”.
They were, they really were! Flecks of sleet struck the windscreen, and the wipers cleared them. It was cold outside and that was good. It was good to make love in the warmth when it was cold outside. And, besides, the cold had plenty of other advantages.
I will never let you go, Trevor had said. Never. Ever. He had told her that for years.
Hans explained to her precisely what he was going to do to her. Exactly how he would make love to her the first time. And he had done so just the way he had described. She liked that Germanic precision. The way he had studied every detail of her photograph. The way he already knew her body when they met. The way he told her he loved her hair, and had buried his face into it. Into all of it.
My name is Hans. I am thirty-seven, divorced, looking to start a new life with a lady of similar age. I am liking brunettes. Slim. Excuse my bad English. I like you. I don’t know you, but I like you.
I like you even more!
She would be forty this year. Hans would be her toyboy, she had teased him. He had laughed and she liked that; he had a big sense of humour. A wicked sense of humour.
Everything about him was totally wicked!
She looked OK, she knew. She’d never been a beauty, but she understood how to make herself look attractive, sexy. Dressed to kill, plenty of men would look at her. She used to keep in shape with her twice-weekly aerobics classes, then, when Trevor had gone through one of his particularly nasty phases, she had turned to binge eating – and then binge drinking – for comfort. Then she enrolled in WeightWatchers, and the fat and the flab and the cellulite had come off again. Her figure was good, her stomach firm – not a distended pouch, like those of some of her friends who’d had children. And her boobs were still firm, still defying gravity. She’d like to have been a little taller, always had wished that. But you couldn’t have everything.
Anyhow, Trevor, who was much taller than her, told her, the very first time they had made love, that people were all the same size in bed. That had made her smile.
Trevor used to tell her that nothing you do in life is ever wasted. He was always coming up with sayings, and there was a time when Janet had listened to them intently, adored hearing them, filed them away in her memory and loved repeating them back to him.
Loved him so damned much it hurt.
And she hadn’t even minded the pain. Which was a good thing because pain was something Trevor did really, really well. The knots, the handcuffs, the nipple clamps, the leather straps, the spiked dog collar, the whips, the stinging bamboo canes. He liked to hurt her, knew how and where to inflict it, but that had been OK because she loved him. She would have done anything for him.
But that was then.
And sometime between then and now he had changed. They had both changed. His horizons had narrowed, hers had widened.
Every system can be beaten. That was one of his sayings.
He was right.
Now she was a lifetime away. So it seemed. And 1,212 kilometres away, driving through spartan December pine forest. Klick: 1,213. And in a few moments, travelling at 130 klicks an hour, with her life in the two large suitcases jammed on the rear seats, 1,214.
Hagen 3.
The turn-off was coming up. She felt a tightening of her throat, and a prick of excitement deep inside her. How many villages, small towns, big cities had she driven through or passed by in her travels, during her life, and wondered, each time, What would it be like to stop here? What would it be like to drive into this place as a total stranger, knowing no one, then check into a hotel, or rent a small flat, and start a totally new life?
She was about to realize her dream. Hagen. So far it was just images she had googled on websites. Hagen. The thirty-seventh largest town in Germany. She liked that. A population of two hundred thousand. On the edge of the Ruhr. A town few knew about outside of its inhabitants. A once important industrial conurbation that was now reinventing itself as a centre of the arts, the websites proclaimed. She liked that. She could see herself in a place that was the centre of the arts.
Up until now, she had not had much contact with the arts. Well, there had never been time, really. During the weekdays she was always on the road, driving from place to place, as an area sales representative for a company that made industrial brushes. Finishing brushes for the printing trade. Brushes for vacuum cleaners. Brushes for the bottom of elevator doors. For electrical contacts. She would miss her flirting and banter with her clients, the almost exclusively male buyers at the factories, the components wholesalers, the plant hire stores and the hardware stores. She was missing her comfortable new company Ford Mondeo, too, but the Passat was OK, it was fine, it was a small price to pay. Tiny.
Then at the weekends, Trevor wasn’t interested in any area of the arts. He didn’t want to know about theatre, or art galleries or concerts – except for Def Leppard, great music if you like that kind of thing, which she didn’t – but they were not art, at least, not in her view. He just wanted to watch football, then either go to the pub or, more preferably, up to a particular S&M club he had discovered in London, where they had become regulars. He liked, most of all, to hurt and humiliate her in front of other people.
Ahead of her and to her left, across the railings on the elevated road, she could see the start of a town. It lay in a valley, surrounded by low, rounded, wintry hills. Everything she could see was mostly grey or brown, the colours bleached out by the gloomy, overcast sky. But to her, it was all intensely beautiful.
Hagen. A place where no one knew her, and she knew no one. Except just one man. And she barely knew him. A place where a stranger she was going to have sex with tonight, for just the second time, lived and worked. She tried to remember what his voice sounded like. What he smelled like. A man so crude he could send her a photo of himself naked and semi-erect, but a man so tender he could send her poetry by Aparna Chatterjee.
Lust is what I speak tonight,
Lust is what I see tonight,
Lust is what I feel tonight,
And I Lust You.
Show me your Body
Inside out …
No clothes on,
No holds barred …
Bit by bit,
Part by part,
Give me your smells.
And your sweat …
Trevor had never read a poem in his life.
The road dipped down suddenly beneath a flyover that seemed, from this angle, as if it went straight through the middle of a row of grimy, pastel-blue townhouses. She halted at a traffic light in the dark shadow beneath the flyover, checked in her mirror, for an instant – just checking – then saw a yellow road sign. There was an arrow pointing straight ahead, with the word Zentrum. Another arrow pointed left, and bore the word Theater.
She liked that. Liked the fact that the second word she saw on arriving in the town was Theater. This was going to be a good place; she felt it in her bones, in her heart, in her soul.
Hagen. She said the word to herself and smiled.
Behind her a car hooted. The lights were green.
She drove on past a road sign that read Bergischer Ring, and realized from the directions she had memorized that she was close to her hotel. But anxious as she was to see Hans, she wanted to get her bearings. She wanted to arrive slowly, absorbing it all, understanding the geography. She had all the time in the world, and she wanted to get it right, from the very beginning. It seemed too sudden that one moment she was on the autobahn, the next she was slap in the centre of the town. She wanted to feel it, explore it slowly, breathe it in, absorb it.
She turned right at the next road she came to, and drove up a steep, curving hill, lined with tall, terraced townhouses on both sides, then past a grimy church. She made a left turn at random, up an even steeper road, and then suddenly she was in scrubby, tree-lined countryside, winding up a hill, with the town below her.
She pulled over into the kerb, parked in front of a butane gas cylinder that was partially concealed by a threadbare hedge, stopped and climbed out. The central locking had packed up a long time ago, so she went around the car, making sure the doors and the boot were locked. Then she walked over to the hedge and looked down, across the valley, at her new home.
Hagen. A place that boasted, among its tourist attractions, Germany’s first crematorium. Which had a certain convenient ring to it.
The town lay spread out and sprawling in the bowl beneath her. Her eyes swept the grey, grimy urban landscape beyond the gas cylinder, below the grey, sleeting skies. She saw a cluster of industrial buildings, with a white chimney stack rising higher than the distant hills. A small nucleus of utilitarian apartment buildings. A church spire. A Ferris wheel brightly lit, although it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, reminding her that darkness would start to fall, soon. She saw a narrow river bordered by grimy, industrial buildings. Church spires. Houses, some with red roofs, some grey. She wondered who lived in them all, how many of their inhabitants she would get to meet.
It is neither fish nor meat, Hans said, telling her about Hagen. But she didn’t mind what it was, or was not. It looked huge, vast, far bigger than a town of two hundred thousand. It looked like a vast city. A place where she could get lost, and hide, for ever.
She loved it more every second.
She noticed a strange, cylindrical building, all glass, lit in blue, above what looked like an old water tower, and she wondered what that was. Hans would tell her. She would explore every inch of this place with him, in between the times they lay in bed, naked, together. If they could spare any time to explore anything other than each other’s bodies, that was!
She turned away from the view and walked on up the hill, hands dug into the pockets of her black suede jacket, the sleet tickling her face, her scarf tickling her neck, breathing in the scents of the trees and the grass. She followed the road up into a wooded glade, until it became a track, which after a few minutes came out into a knoll of unkempt grass, with a row of trees on the far side, and a rectangular stone monument at the highest point.
She climbed up to it, and stopped at a partially collapsed metal fence was that screening it off, for some kind of repair work. She knew it was the Bismarck monument, because she recognized it from every website – one of Hagen’s landmarks. She stared at it silently, then took her little digital camera from her bag and photographed it. Her first photograph of Hagen! Then she stood still, licking the sleet off the air, feeling a moment of intense happiness, and freedom.
I’m here. I made it! I did it!!!!!
Her heart was burning for Hans, and yet strangely, she still felt in no hurry. She wanted to savour these moments of anticipation. To savour her freedom. To relish not having to hurry home to make Trevor his evening meal (always a variation on meat and potatoes, he would eat nothing else). To be able to stand for as long as she wanted beneath the statue of Otto Eduard Leopold von Bismarck, a man partly responsible for shaping the country that was about to become her adopted home, for however many days of freedom she had remaining. And she did not know how many those might be.
Better to live one day as a lion, than one thousand years as a lamb, Trevor was fond of saying, strutting around in his studded leathers and peaked cap.
Of course, he would not have approved of her being here. And particularly not of her standing like an acolyte worshipping at the statue of Bismarck. Trevor had a thing about Germany. It wasn’t the War, or anything like that. He said the Germans had no humour – well, Hans had proved him wrong!
He also said the Germans were efficient, as if that was a fault!
Trevor had a thing about all kinds of stuff. He had a particularly big thing about crematoriums. They gave him the creeps, he said.
Whereas she found them fascinating.
Yet another thing on which they disagreed. And she always found his dislike of crematoriums particularly strange, since he worked in the funeral business.
In fact, thinking back on fifteen years of marriage, what exactly had they agreed on? Rubber underwear? Handcuffs? Masks? Inflicting modest pain on each other? Bringing each other to brutal climaxes that were snatched moments of release, escape from their mutual loathing? Escapes from the realities they did not want to face? Such as the one – fortunately, thank God now (!) – that they could not have children?
Time was, when she really had been in love with him. Deeply, truly, crazily do-anything-for-him, unconditional love. She had always been attracted by death. By people who worked close to death. Trevor was an embalmer with a firm of funeral directors. He had a framed certificate, which was hung in pride of place in the sitting room, declaring him to be “A Member Of The Independent Association of Embalmers”.
She used to like his hands to touch her. Hands that had been inserting tubes into a cadaver, to pump out the blood and replace it with pink embalming fluid. Hands that had been applying make-up on a cadaver’s face. Brushing a cadaver’s hair.
The closer she was to death, the more alive she felt.
She liked to lie completely naked, and still, and tell Trevor to treat her as if she was a cadaver. She loved to feel his hands on her. Probing her. Slowly bringing her alive.
The best climax – absolutely the best ever, in her entire life – was one night when they had made love in the embalming room at the funeral director’s. With two naked corpses lying, laid out on trolleys, beside her.
Then she had truly felt alive! The way she felt now!
And those same feelings would happen again with Hans, she knew it, she absolutely knew it! She was going to be so happy with Hans.
Love doesn’t last, Trevor responded one night, when she had told him she was not happy. Happiness is an illusion, he had said. Only an idiot can be happy twenty-four-seven. The wise man seeks to be content not happy. Carpe diem.
You have to face reality, he had carped on, after she had told him she was leaving him. You can run but you can’t hide.
She was running now.
Hit someone over the head with a big stick hard enough and for long enough and one day they will hit you back. Even harder.
She could not put a time or a date on when it had all started to go south. Not the exact moment. Could not get a fix on it the way you can pinpoint your position with a set of navigation co-ordinates. It was more of a gradual erosion.
But once you had made your decisions, there was no going back. You just had to keep running. As Trevor used to say, It’s not the fall that gets you, it’s the sudden stop.
And now of course, Hagen was that sudden stop. It scared her almost as much as it thrilled her. In truth, she had learned a lot from him.
I will never let you go, ever, he said, when she had once suggested that they might be happier apart.
Then he had punched her in the face so hard for suggesting it, she had not been able to go to work for several days, until the bruises had subsided, and the stitches had been removed. As usual she covered up for him, with a lame excuse about being knocked off her bicycle.
It was his diabetes that caused his mood swings, she had come to learn over many years. Too little sugar and he became edgy and aggressive. Too much and he became sleepy and docile as a lamb.
She retraced her steps from the Bismarck monument to her car, then threaded her way back down the network of roads, noting the pleasant houses, wondering what kind of house Hans had lived in until his marriage break-up. After a few minutes she found herself back on the Bergischer Ring, where she turned right. She drove along, past a market square where the Ferris wheel had been erected on the edge of a small fairground. She saw a row of kerbside Christmassy tableaux, one after the other, with puppets acting out fairytale scenes. One was full of busy bearded goblins with hammers. Two small girls, clutching their mother’s hands, stared at them in wonder.
Janet stared at the girls as she waited at a traffic light, and then, wistfully, at the mother. Forty was not too old. Maybe she and Hans could have children. Two little girls? And one day, she would stand here, holding their hands, a contented hausfrau of Hagen, while they looked at the hammering goblins.
Just three weeks to Christmas! She would wake up on Christmas morning, in her new country, in the arms of her new man.
As she drove on she saw, on her left, a brightly lit shop, the windows full of sausages hanging in clumps, like fruit, the name Wursthaus Konig above the door. She stopped for a moment, and checked her map. Then after a short distance she turned left into a side street, past a restaurant, then pulled over outside the front entrance of the hotel she had found on the internet.
Hans had invited her to stay with him. But after only one date – even if it had finished – or rather climaxed – with the bonk at the end of the universe!!!! – she wanted to keep her options open. And her independence. Just in case.
She tugged one bag off the rear seat of the car, and wheeled it in through the front door of the hotel. Inside was dark and gloomy, with a small reception desk to her right and a staircase in front of her. A living cadaver of a man stood behind the desk and she gave him her name. The place smelled old and worn. The kind of place travelling salespeople would stay in. The kind of dump she occasionally had found herself in during her early years on the road.
He passed her a form to fill in, and asked if she would like help with her luggage. No, she told him, emphatically. She filled in the form and handed him her passport.
And he handed her an envelope. “A message for you,” he said.
Using the one word of German that she knew, she said, “Danke.”
Then as she went back outside to get her second suitcase, she tore it open, with eager fingers, and nails she had varnished to perfection for him. For Hans.
The note read: Meet me at the crematorium. xx
She smiled. You wicked, wicked, man!
The cadaver helped her up two flights of stairs to a room that was as tired and drab as the rest of the place. But at least she could see down into the street, and keep an eye on her car, and she was pleased about that. She popped open the lid of one case, changed her clothes, and freshened herself up, spraying perfume in all the places – except the one that she remembered Hans had liked to press his face into most of all, last time.
Twenty minutes later, in the falling dark, after getting lost twice, she finally pulled into the almost deserted crematorium car park. There was just one other car there, an elderly brown Mercedes that tilted to one side, as if it had a broken suspension.
As she climbed out, carefully locking the car, she looked around. It was one of the most beautiful car parks she had seen in her life, surrounded by all kinds of carefully tended trees, shrubs, flowers, as if she were in botanical gardens. It barely felt like December here, it felt more like spring. No doubt the intention – a perpetual spring, for mourners.
She walked up a tarmac footpath that was wide enough for a vehicle, and lined with manicured trees and tall black streetlamps. Anticipation drove her forwards, her pace quickening with every step, breathing deeper and faster. God, her nerves were jangling now! A million butterflies were going berserk in her stomach! Her boots crunched on grit; her teeth crunched, grinding from the cold, but more from nerves.
She walked through open wrought-iron gates, and continued along, passing a cloistered single-storey building, clad in ivy, its walls covered in memorial plaques.
And then, ahead of her, she saw the building.
And she stopped in her tracks.
And her heart skipped a beat.
Oh, fuck! Oh wow!
This was a crematorium?
It was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen in her life. Rectangular, Art Deco in style, in stark white, with a portico of square black marble columns, with windows, high up, like portholes on a ship, inset with black rectangles. It was topped by an elegant red-tiled pitched roof.
Wow! Again.
There were steps leading up to the portico, with stone balustrading to the right, giving a view down across terraces of elegant tombstones set in what looked like glades in a forest. When I die, this is where I would like to lie. Please God. Please, Hans.
Please!
She climbed the steps and pushed the door, which was unlocked and opened almost silently. She stepped inside and simply stopped in her tracks. And now she could understand why the crematorium featured so prominently as one of Hagen’s major attractions.
It was like stepping inside a Mondrian painting. Vertical stripes of black and white, with geometrical squares in the centre, varying in depth, width and height, at one end. At the other end was a semi-domed ceiling, with quasi-religious figures painted on a gold backdrop, above more black and white geometrics.
Beneath was a curious-looking altar, a white cross rising above what looked like a white, two-metre-long beer barrel.
As she stared at it, a noise made her jump. A sudden, terrifying sound. A mechanical grinding, roaring, vibrating bellow of heavy machinery. The barrel began to rise, the white cross with it, the floor trembling beneath her. As it rose higher, at the back, a bolt of grey silk slowly unfurled. Then a coffin rose into view. Janet stood, mesmerized. The grinding, roaring sound filled the galleried room.
Then the sound stopped as abruptly as it had started.
There was a moment of total silence.
The coffin lid began to rise.
Janet screamed.
Then she saw Hans’s smiling face.
He pushed the lid aside and it fell to the floor with an echoing bang, and he began to haul himself out, grinning from ear to ear, hot and sweaty, wearing nothing but a boiler suit over his naked skin, and black work boots.
She stood and stared at him for a moment, in total wonder and joy. He looked even more amazing than she remembered. More handsome, more masculine, more raw.
He stood up, and he was taller than she remembered, too.
“My most beautiful angel in all the world!” he said. “You are here! You came! You really came!”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“My brave angel,” he said. “My brave English angel.” Then he scooped her in his strong arms, pulled her tightly to him, so tightly she could feel the contour of his body beneath the thin blue cotton, and kissed her. His breath smelled sweet, and was tinged sweetly with cigarette smoke, garlic and beer, the manly smells and taste she remembered. She kissed him back, wildly, deeply, feeling his tongue, holding it for a second, losing it, then finding it again.
Finally, breathless with excitement, their lips separated. They stood still, staring at
These very shores where Conan Doyle gave birth to Sherlock Holmes, Colin Dexter to Inspector Morse, Raymond Chandler went to school and, less of a prestigious or nationalistic landmark, Jack the Ripper, the first universally feared serial killer, slashed his way into the hall of infamy.
Better critics than me have attempted to define where British crime and thrillers differ from their American or European counterparts. I will not attempt it. After all there are cosy US authors who work in the footsteps of Agatha Christie, as there are homegrown Brits who write as hardboiled blood-and-guts prose as Chandler and Hammett and their contemporary representatives. They have crooked and/or tormented cops; we have them too. They have long highways; we have motorways. But what they all have in common is the fact that on both continents crime and mystery writing thrives and not a year goes by without impressive new talent emerging and the genre we love is seen renewing itself constantly like waves lapping against the shore.
I’ve always tried to present the whole breadth of crime, mystery and thriller writing in these annual anthologies. So you won’t just find gentle stories of detection, puzzling historical labyrinths full of devious characters or sharp social comment about the imperfect society we live in beneath the surface of some savage and, often, scary stories. All life is here, moods, settings, villains and goodies and all characters in between. In a nutshell, all the variety and must-read qualities of crime writers at their best. And there is little doubt in my mind that we have on our British (and Celtic) shores a wonderful assortment of outstanding talents.
We welcome back many old favourites but also big “names” like Reginald Hill, Ann Cleeves, R. J. Ellory, John Lawton and Stuart Neville for the very first time. And, as ever, it’s with great joy that we have newcomers like L. C. Tyler, Chris Ewan, Ian Ayris, Col Bury, Matt Hilton and Christine Poulson on board; some are at an early stage in their careers while others have already made a mark for themselves.
Past volumes have enjoyed great critical and commercial success and we’ve gathered a couple of handfuls of nominations for prestigious short story awards. Phil Lovesey’s story in last year’s volume was shortlisted for and subsequently won the CWA Dagger, alongside John Lawton’s delightful spy tale in these pages, and Christine Poulson’s ingenious puzzler, also from this year’s volume, was selected for an American readers’ award, and I am confident more stories from this bumper edition will catch the attention in the best possible way and make crime pay, at any rate from a literary point of view.
So, close the windows tight, check the back door is locked and the front door bolts are safely in place, slip between the bedcovers and dive deep into our wonderful world of crime. When you emerge from the shimmering darkness, it will already be next year and we will have yet another menu of dark and sinister but enjoyable deeds ready for you.
Bon appétit criminel, as they say in France!
Maxim Jakubowski
Peter James
I WANT YOU, he texted.
I want you more! she texted back.
Trevor was fond of saying that the past was another country. Well, at this moment for Janet, it was the future that was another country. The future – and another man.
And tonight she was going to have him. Again.
A sharp erotic sensation coiled in the pit of her stomach at the thought of him. A longing. A craving.
Tonight I am going to have you. Again, and again and again!
Her past receded in the rear-view mirror with every kilometre she covered. The forest of winter-brown pines that lined the autobahn streaked by on both sides, along with road signs, turn-offs and other, slower cars. She was in a hurry to get there. Her heart beat with excitement, with danger. Her pulse revved. She had been running on adrenalin for forty-eight hours, but she wasn’t tired, she was wide, wide awake. Going into the unknown. Going to meet a man who had been a total stranger until just a few weeks ago.
His photograph, which she had printed from the jpeg he had emailed her, lay on the passenger seat of her elderly grey Passat. He was naked. A tall, muscular guy, semi-erect as if teasing her to make him bigger. A tight stomach, nearly a six-pack, and she could already feel it pressing hard against her own. He had brown hairs on his chest and on his legs, thick and downy and she liked that. Trevor was white and bony, and his body was almost hairless. This man was tanned, lean, fit.
Hans.
He looked wild, like a young Jack Nicholson, his hair thinning on the top. He looked just the way he had sounded on the internet chat room when she had first been attracted to him.
Feral.
The background to the photograph was strange. An enclosed, windowless space that might be the engine room of a ship, although she had a pretty good idea what it really was. Like everything about him, it excited her. Shiny floor-to-ceiling metal casings, beige coloured, with dials, gauges, switches, levers, knobs, winking lights. It could be some kind of control room in a nuclear reactor? Or Mission Control?
She felt on a mission very much under control!
Who had taken that photograph, she wondered? A lover? A self-timer? She didn’t care; she wanted him. All of him. Wanted that thing that half-dangled, half-rose, wanted to gather it deep inside her again. Wanted him so badly she was crazed with lust. Mosquitoes got crazed with blood lust. They had to land, take in the blood, even if it killed them. She had to have Hans, take him into her, into her body, into her life, even if that killed her, too.
She didn’t care. For now she was free. She had been free for two whole days and that was longer than she had been free for years.
On the scratchy reception of the car’s radio, struggling through the occasional interference of someone talking in German, Bob Dylan was singing “The Times They Are A-Changin’”.
They were, they really were! Flecks of sleet struck the windscreen, and the wipers cleared them. It was cold outside and that was good. It was good to make love in the warmth when it was cold outside. And, besides, the cold had plenty of other advantages.
I will never let you go, Trevor had said. Never. Ever. He had told her that for years.
Hans explained to her precisely what he was going to do to her. Exactly how he would make love to her the first time. And he had done so just the way he had described. She liked that Germanic precision. The way he had studied every detail of her photograph. The way he already knew her body when they met. The way he told her he loved her hair, and had buried his face into it. Into all of it.
My name is Hans. I am thirty-seven, divorced, looking to start a new life with a lady of similar age. I am liking brunettes. Slim. Excuse my bad English. I like you. I don’t know you, but I like you.
I like you even more!
She would be forty this year. Hans would be her toyboy, she had teased him. He had laughed and she liked that; he had a big sense of humour. A wicked sense of humour.
Everything about him was totally wicked!
She looked OK, she knew. She’d never been a beauty, but she understood how to make herself look attractive, sexy. Dressed to kill, plenty of men would look at her. She used to keep in shape with her twice-weekly aerobics classes, then, when Trevor had gone through one of his particularly nasty phases, she had turned to binge eating – and then binge drinking – for comfort. Then she enrolled in WeightWatchers, and the fat and the flab and the cellulite had come off again. Her figure was good, her stomach firm – not a distended pouch, like those of some of her friends who’d had children. And her boobs were still firm, still defying gravity. She’d like to have been a little taller, always had wished that. But you couldn’t have everything.
Anyhow, Trevor, who was much taller than her, told her, the very first time they had made love, that people were all the same size in bed. That had made her smile.
Trevor used to tell her that nothing you do in life is ever wasted. He was always coming up with sayings, and there was a time when Janet had listened to them intently, adored hearing them, filed them away in her memory and loved repeating them back to him.
Loved him so damned much it hurt.
And she hadn’t even minded the pain. Which was a good thing because pain was something Trevor did really, really well. The knots, the handcuffs, the nipple clamps, the leather straps, the spiked dog collar, the whips, the stinging bamboo canes. He liked to hurt her, knew how and where to inflict it, but that had been OK because she loved him. She would have done anything for him.
But that was then.
And sometime between then and now he had changed. They had both changed. His horizons had narrowed, hers had widened.
Every system can be beaten. That was one of his sayings.
He was right.
Now she was a lifetime away. So it seemed. And 1,212 kilometres away, driving through spartan December pine forest. Klick: 1,213. And in a few moments, travelling at 130 klicks an hour, with her life in the two large suitcases jammed on the rear seats, 1,214.
Hagen 3.
The turn-off was coming up. She felt a tightening of her throat, and a prick of excitement deep inside her. How many villages, small towns, big cities had she driven through or passed by in her travels, during her life, and wondered, each time, What would it be like to stop here? What would it be like to drive into this place as a total stranger, knowing no one, then check into a hotel, or rent a small flat, and start a totally new life?
She was about to realize her dream. Hagen. So far it was just images she had googled on websites. Hagen. The thirty-seventh largest town in Germany. She liked that. A population of two hundred thousand. On the edge of the Ruhr. A town few knew about outside of its inhabitants. A once important industrial conurbation that was now reinventing itself as a centre of the arts, the websites proclaimed. She liked that. She could see herself in a place that was the centre of the arts.
Up until now, she had not had much contact with the arts. Well, there had never been time, really. During the weekdays she was always on the road, driving from place to place, as an area sales representative for a company that made industrial brushes. Finishing brushes for the printing trade. Brushes for vacuum cleaners. Brushes for the bottom of elevator doors. For electrical contacts. She would miss her flirting and banter with her clients, the almost exclusively male buyers at the factories, the components wholesalers, the plant hire stores and the hardware stores. She was missing her comfortable new company Ford Mondeo, too, but the Passat was OK, it was fine, it was a small price to pay. Tiny.
Then at the weekends, Trevor wasn’t interested in any area of the arts. He didn’t want to know about theatre, or art galleries or concerts – except for Def Leppard, great music if you like that kind of thing, which she didn’t – but they were not art, at least, not in her view. He just wanted to watch football, then either go to the pub or, more preferably, up to a particular S&M club he had discovered in London, where they had become regulars. He liked, most of all, to hurt and humiliate her in front of other people.
Ahead of her and to her left, across the railings on the elevated road, she could see the start of a town. It lay in a valley, surrounded by low, rounded, wintry hills. Everything she could see was mostly grey or brown, the colours bleached out by the gloomy, overcast sky. But to her, it was all intensely beautiful.
Hagen. A place where no one knew her, and she knew no one. Except just one man. And she barely knew him. A place where a stranger she was going to have sex with tonight, for just the second time, lived and worked. She tried to remember what his voice sounded like. What he smelled like. A man so crude he could send her a photo of himself naked and semi-erect, but a man so tender he could send her poetry by Aparna Chatterjee.
Lust is what I speak tonight,
Lust is what I see tonight,
Lust is what I feel tonight,
And I Lust You.
Show me your Body
Inside out …
No clothes on,
No holds barred …
Bit by bit,
Part by part,
Give me your smells.
And your sweat …
Trevor had never read a poem in his life.
The road dipped down suddenly beneath a flyover that seemed, from this angle, as if it went straight through the middle of a row of grimy, pastel-blue townhouses. She halted at a traffic light in the dark shadow beneath the flyover, checked in her mirror, for an instant – just checking – then saw a yellow road sign. There was an arrow pointing straight ahead, with the word Zentrum. Another arrow pointed left, and bore the word Theater.
She liked that. Liked the fact that the second word she saw on arriving in the town was Theater. This was going to be a good place; she felt it in her bones, in her heart, in her soul.
Hagen. She said the word to herself and smiled.
Behind her a car hooted. The lights were green.
She drove on past a road sign that read Bergischer Ring, and realized from the directions she had memorized that she was close to her hotel. But anxious as she was to see Hans, she wanted to get her bearings. She wanted to arrive slowly, absorbing it all, understanding the geography. She had all the time in the world, and she wanted to get it right, from the very beginning. It seemed too sudden that one moment she was on the autobahn, the next she was slap in the centre of the town. She wanted to feel it, explore it slowly, breathe it in, absorb it.
She turned right at the next road she came to, and drove up a steep, curving hill, lined with tall, terraced townhouses on both sides, then past a grimy church. She made a left turn at random, up an even steeper road, and then suddenly she was in scrubby, tree-lined countryside, winding up a hill, with the town below her.
She pulled over into the kerb, parked in front of a butane gas cylinder that was partially concealed by a threadbare hedge, stopped and climbed out. The central locking had packed up a long time ago, so she went around the car, making sure the doors and the boot were locked. Then she walked over to the hedge and looked down, across the valley, at her new home.
Hagen. A place that boasted, among its tourist attractions, Germany’s first crematorium. Which had a certain convenient ring to it.
The town lay spread out and sprawling in the bowl beneath her. Her eyes swept the grey, grimy urban landscape beyond the gas cylinder, below the grey, sleeting skies. She saw a cluster of industrial buildings, with a white chimney stack rising higher than the distant hills. A small nucleus of utilitarian apartment buildings. A church spire. A Ferris wheel brightly lit, although it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, reminding her that darkness would start to fall, soon. She saw a narrow river bordered by grimy, industrial buildings. Church spires. Houses, some with red roofs, some grey. She wondered who lived in them all, how many of their inhabitants she would get to meet.
It is neither fish nor meat, Hans said, telling her about Hagen. But she didn’t mind what it was, or was not. It looked huge, vast, far bigger than a town of two hundred thousand. It looked like a vast city. A place where she could get lost, and hide, for ever.
She loved it more every second.
She noticed a strange, cylindrical building, all glass, lit in blue, above what looked like an old water tower, and she wondered what that was. Hans would tell her. She would explore every inch of this place with him, in between the times they lay in bed, naked, together. If they could spare any time to explore anything other than each other’s bodies, that was!
She turned away from the view and walked on up the hill, hands dug into the pockets of her black suede jacket, the sleet tickling her face, her scarf tickling her neck, breathing in the scents of the trees and the grass. She followed the road up into a wooded glade, until it became a track, which after a few minutes came out into a knoll of unkempt grass, with a row of trees on the far side, and a rectangular stone monument at the highest point.
She climbed up to it, and stopped at a partially collapsed metal fence was that screening it off, for some kind of repair work. She knew it was the Bismarck monument, because she recognized it from every website – one of Hagen’s landmarks. She stared at it silently, then took her little digital camera from her bag and photographed it. Her first photograph of Hagen! Then she stood still, licking the sleet off the air, feeling a moment of intense happiness, and freedom.
I’m here. I made it! I did it!!!!!
Her heart was burning for Hans, and yet strangely, she still felt in no hurry. She wanted to savour these moments of anticipation. To savour her freedom. To relish not having to hurry home to make Trevor his evening meal (always a variation on meat and potatoes, he would eat nothing else). To be able to stand for as long as she wanted beneath the statue of Otto Eduard Leopold von Bismarck, a man partly responsible for shaping the country that was about to become her adopted home, for however many days of freedom she had remaining. And she did not know how many those might be.
Better to live one day as a lion, than one thousand years as a lamb, Trevor was fond of saying, strutting around in his studded leathers and peaked cap.
Of course, he would not have approved of her being here. And particularly not of her standing like an acolyte worshipping at the statue of Bismarck. Trevor had a thing about Germany. It wasn’t the War, or anything like that. He said the Germans had no humour – well, Hans had proved him wrong!
He also said the Germans were efficient, as if that was a fault!
Trevor had a thing about all kinds of stuff. He had a particularly big thing about crematoriums. They gave him the creeps, he said.
Whereas she found them fascinating.
Yet another thing on which they disagreed. And she always found his dislike of crematoriums particularly strange, since he worked in the funeral business.
In fact, thinking back on fifteen years of marriage, what exactly had they agreed on? Rubber underwear? Handcuffs? Masks? Inflicting modest pain on each other? Bringing each other to brutal climaxes that were snatched moments of release, escape from their mutual loathing? Escapes from the realities they did not want to face? Such as the one – fortunately, thank God now (!) – that they could not have children?
Time was, when she really had been in love with him. Deeply, truly, crazily do-anything-for-him, unconditional love. She had always been attracted by death. By people who worked close to death. Trevor was an embalmer with a firm of funeral directors. He had a framed certificate, which was hung in pride of place in the sitting room, declaring him to be “A Member Of The Independent Association of Embalmers”.
She used to like his hands to touch her. Hands that had been inserting tubes into a cadaver, to pump out the blood and replace it with pink embalming fluid. Hands that had been applying make-up on a cadaver’s face. Brushing a cadaver’s hair.
The closer she was to death, the more alive she felt.
She liked to lie completely naked, and still, and tell Trevor to treat her as if she was a cadaver. She loved to feel his hands on her. Probing her. Slowly bringing her alive.
The best climax – absolutely the best ever, in her entire life – was one night when they had made love in the embalming room at the funeral director’s. With two naked corpses lying, laid out on trolleys, beside her.
Then she had truly felt alive! The way she felt now!
And those same feelings would happen again with Hans, she knew it, she absolutely knew it! She was going to be so happy with Hans.
Love doesn’t last, Trevor responded one night, when she had told him she was not happy. Happiness is an illusion, he had said. Only an idiot can be happy twenty-four-seven. The wise man seeks to be content not happy. Carpe diem.
You have to face reality, he had carped on, after she had told him she was leaving him. You can run but you can’t hide.
She was running now.
Hit someone over the head with a big stick hard enough and for long enough and one day they will hit you back. Even harder.
She could not put a time or a date on when it had all started to go south. Not the exact moment. Could not get a fix on it the way you can pinpoint your position with a set of navigation co-ordinates. It was more of a gradual erosion.
But once you had made your decisions, there was no going back. You just had to keep running. As Trevor used to say, It’s not the fall that gets you, it’s the sudden stop.
And now of course, Hagen was that sudden stop. It scared her almost as much as it thrilled her. In truth, she had learned a lot from him.
I will never let you go, ever, he said, when she had once suggested that they might be happier apart.
Then he had punched her in the face so hard for suggesting it, she had not been able to go to work for several days, until the bruises had subsided, and the stitches had been removed. As usual she covered up for him, with a lame excuse about being knocked off her bicycle.
It was his diabetes that caused his mood swings, she had come to learn over many years. Too little sugar and he became edgy and aggressive. Too much and he became sleepy and docile as a lamb.
She retraced her steps from the Bismarck monument to her car, then threaded her way back down the network of roads, noting the pleasant houses, wondering what kind of house Hans had lived in until his marriage break-up. After a few minutes she found herself back on the Bergischer Ring, where she turned right. She drove along, past a market square where the Ferris wheel had been erected on the edge of a small fairground. She saw a row of kerbside Christmassy tableaux, one after the other, with puppets acting out fairytale scenes. One was full of busy bearded goblins with hammers. Two small girls, clutching their mother’s hands, stared at them in wonder.
Janet stared at the girls as she waited at a traffic light, and then, wistfully, at the mother. Forty was not too old. Maybe she and Hans could have children. Two little girls? And one day, she would stand here, holding their hands, a contented hausfrau of Hagen, while they looked at the hammering goblins.
Just three weeks to Christmas! She would wake up on Christmas morning, in her new country, in the arms of her new man.
As she drove on she saw, on her left, a brightly lit shop, the windows full of sausages hanging in clumps, like fruit, the name Wursthaus Konig above the door. She stopped for a moment, and checked her map. Then after a short distance she turned left into a side street, past a restaurant, then pulled over outside the front entrance of the hotel she had found on the internet.
Hans had invited her to stay with him. But after only one date – even if it had finished – or rather climaxed – with the bonk at the end of the universe!!!! – she wanted to keep her options open. And her independence. Just in case.
She tugged one bag off the rear seat of the car, and wheeled it in through the front door of the hotel. Inside was dark and gloomy, with a small reception desk to her right and a staircase in front of her. A living cadaver of a man stood behind the desk and she gave him her name. The place smelled old and worn. The kind of place travelling salespeople would stay in. The kind of dump she occasionally had found herself in during her early years on the road.
He passed her a form to fill in, and asked if she would like help with her luggage. No, she told him, emphatically. She filled in the form and handed him her passport.
And he handed her an envelope. “A message for you,” he said.
Using the one word of German that she knew, she said, “Danke.”
Then as she went back outside to get her second suitcase, she tore it open, with eager fingers, and nails she had varnished to perfection for him. For Hans.
The note read: Meet me at the crematorium. xx
She smiled. You wicked, wicked, man!
The cadaver helped her up two flights of stairs to a room that was as tired and drab as the rest of the place. But at least she could see down into the street, and keep an eye on her car, and she was pleased about that. She popped open the lid of one case, changed her clothes, and freshened herself up, spraying perfume in all the places – except the one that she remembered Hans had liked to press his face into most of all, last time.
Twenty minutes later, in the falling dark, after getting lost twice, she finally pulled into the almost deserted crematorium car park. There was just one other car there, an elderly brown Mercedes that tilted to one side, as if it had a broken suspension.
As she climbed out, carefully locking the car, she looked around. It was one of the most beautiful car parks she had seen in her life, surrounded by all kinds of carefully tended trees, shrubs, flowers, as if she were in botanical gardens. It barely felt like December here, it felt more like spring. No doubt the intention – a perpetual spring, for mourners.
She walked up a tarmac footpath that was wide enough for a vehicle, and lined with manicured trees and tall black streetlamps. Anticipation drove her forwards, her pace quickening with every step, breathing deeper and faster. God, her nerves were jangling now! A million butterflies were going berserk in her stomach! Her boots crunched on grit; her teeth crunched, grinding from the cold, but more from nerves.
She walked through open wrought-iron gates, and continued along, passing a cloistered single-storey building, clad in ivy, its walls covered in memorial plaques.
And then, ahead of her, she saw the building.
And she stopped in her tracks.
And her heart skipped a beat.
Oh, fuck! Oh wow!
This was a crematorium?
It was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen in her life. Rectangular, Art Deco in style, in stark white, with a portico of square black marble columns, with windows, high up, like portholes on a ship, inset with black rectangles. It was topped by an elegant red-tiled pitched roof.
Wow! Again.
There were steps leading up to the portico, with stone balustrading to the right, giving a view down across terraces of elegant tombstones set in what looked like glades in a forest. When I die, this is where I would like to lie. Please God. Please, Hans.
Please!
She climbed the steps and pushed the door, which was unlocked and opened almost silently. She stepped inside and simply stopped in her tracks. And now she could understand why the crematorium featured so prominently as one of Hagen’s major attractions.
It was like stepping inside a Mondrian painting. Vertical stripes of black and white, with geometrical squares in the centre, varying in depth, width and height, at one end. At the other end was a semi-domed ceiling, with quasi-religious figures painted on a gold backdrop, above more black and white geometrics.
Beneath was a curious-looking altar, a white cross rising above what looked like a white, two-metre-long beer barrel.
As she stared at it, a noise made her jump. A sudden, terrifying sound. A mechanical grinding, roaring, vibrating bellow of heavy machinery. The barrel began to rise, the white cross with it, the floor trembling beneath her. As it rose higher, at the back, a bolt of grey silk slowly unfurled. Then a coffin rose into view. Janet stood, mesmerized. The grinding, roaring sound filled the galleried room.
Then the sound stopped as abruptly as it had started.
There was a moment of total silence.
The coffin lid began to rise.
Janet screamed.
Then she saw Hans’s smiling face.
He pushed the lid aside and it fell to the floor with an echoing bang, and he began to haul himself out, grinning from ear to ear, hot and sweaty, wearing nothing but a boiler suit over his naked skin, and black work boots.
She stood and stared at him for a moment, in total wonder and joy. He looked even more amazing than she remembered. More handsome, more masculine, more raw.
He stood up, and he was taller than she remembered, too.
“My most beautiful angel in all the world!” he said. “You are here! You came! You really came!”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“My brave angel,” he said. “My brave English angel.” Then he scooped her in his strong arms, pulled her tightly to him, so tightly she could feel the contour of his body beneath the thin blue cotton, and kissed her. His breath smelled sweet, and was tinged sweetly with cigarette smoke, garlic and beer, the manly smells and taste she remembered. She kissed him back, wildly, deeply, feeling his tongue, holding it for a second, losing it, then finding it again.
Finally, breathless with excitement, their lips separated. They stood still, staring at
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The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9
Maxim Jakubowski
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