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Synopsis
Leading crime critic Maxim Jakubowski presents this year's must-have collection of British crime fiction. This latest volume of the acclaimed annual collection presents over 20 short stories of murder mystery, selected from the very cream of new British crime fiction. Contributors include Lee Child, Colin Dexter, Val McDermid, Mark Billingham, Len Deighton, John Harvey, and many more. This is an ideal present for anyone who has ever enjoyed a good murder-mystery. A page-turning compendium of British talent to capture the imagination of readers around the world.
Release date: August 4, 2011
Publisher: C & R Crime
Print pages: 548
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The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries
Maxim Jakubowski
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THE .50 SOLUTION by Lee Child, © 2006 by Lee Child. First published in BLOODLINES, edited by Jason Starr and Maggie Estep. Reprinted by permission of the author and his
agent, Darley Anderson Literary Agency.
THE DEBT by Simon Kernick, © 2005 by Simon Kernick. First published as a promotional BMW audio story. Reprinted by permission of the author and Transworld Publishers.
THE CASE OF THE CURIOUS QUORUM by Colin Dexter, © 2006 by Colin Dexter. First published in THE VERDICT OF US ALL, edited by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
THE BOOKBINDER’S APPRENTICE by Martin Edwards, © 2006 by Martin Edwards. First published in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
TROUBLE IS A LONESOME TOWN by Cathi Unsworth, © 2006 by Cathi Unsworth. First published in LONDON NOIR, edited by Cathi Unsworth. Reprinted by permission of the author.
GREEN TARTS by Deryn Lake, © 2006 by Deryn Lake. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF JACOBEAN WHODUNNITS, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
DAPHNE McANDREWS AND THE SMACK-HEAD JUNKIES by Stuart McBride, © 2006 by Stuart McBride, first published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. reprinted by
permission of the author.
ONCE UPON A TIME by Peter Turnbull, © 2006 by Peter Turnbull, first published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author. THAT’S
THE WAY HE DID IT by Amy Myers, © 2006 by Amy Myers. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and her agent, the Dorian Literary
Agency.
THE LONG BLACK VEIL by Val McDermid, © 2006 by Val McDermid. First published in A MERRY BAND OF MURDERERS, edited by Claudia Bishop and Don Bruns. Reprinted by permission
of the author and her agent, Gregory & Co.
THE CURIOUS CONTENTS OF A COFFIN by Susanna Gregory, © 2006 by Susanna Gregory. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF JACOBEAN WHODUNNITS, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted
by permission of the author.
THE SIXTH MAN by Bill James, © 2006 by Bill James. First published in THE SIXTH MAN AND OTHER STORIES. Reprinted by permission of the author.
PROVENANCE by Robert Barnard, © 2006 by Robert Barnard. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent,
Gregory & Co.
JADE SKIRT by Simon Levack, © 2006 by Simon Levack. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Gregory
& Co.
THE FERRYMAN’S BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER by Peter Robinson, © 2006 by Peter Robinson. First published in A MERRY BAND OF MURDERERS, edited by Claudia Bishop and Don Bruns.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
TELL ME by Zoë Sharp, © 2006 by Zoë Sharp. First published in I.D., edited by Martin Edwards. Reprinted by permission of the author.
COLOUR ME BLOOD by Jerry Sykes, © 2006 by Jerry Sykes. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
PROS AND CONS by Donna Moore, © 2006 by Donna Moore. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE TITANIC SWINDLE by Len Deighton, © 2006 by Len Deighton. First published in THE VERDICT OF US ALL, edited by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted by
permission of the author’s agent, Jonathan Clowes Ltd.
LOVE by Martyn Waites, © 2006 by Martyn Waites. First published in LONDON NOIR, edited by Cathi Unsworth. Reprinted by permission of the author.
JUST FRIENDS by John Harvey, © 2006 by John Harvey. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
SAY THAT AGAIN by Peter Lovesey, © 2006 by Peter Lovesey. First published in THE IDEAS EXPERIMENT, edited by Michael Z. Lewin. Reprinted by permission of the author.
CONTINUITY ERROR by Nicholas Royle, © 2006 by Nicholas Royle. First published in LONDON:CITY OF DISAPPEARANCES, edited by lain Sinclair. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
THE LAST KAYFABE by Ray Banks, © 2006 by Ray Banks. First published in THE MISSISSIPPI REVIEW. Reprinted by permission of the author.
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD by Ken Bruen, © 2006 by Ken Bruen. First published in HARDLUCK STORIES. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE 45 STEPS by Peter Crowther, © 2006 by Peter Crowther. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF PERFECT CRIMES AND IMPOSSIBLE MYSTERIES, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted
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STEPPING UP by Mark Billingham, © 2006 by Mark Billingham. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
TOM OF TEN THOUSAND by Edward Marston, © 2006 by Edward Marston. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF JACOBEAN WHODUNNITS, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted by permission
of the author. A CASE OF ASYLUM by Michael Jecks, © 2006 by Michael Jecks. First published in I.D., edited by Martin Edwards. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE DEATH OF JEFFERS by Kevin Wignall, © 2006 by Kevin Wignall. First published in DUBLIN NOIR, edited by Ken Bruen. Reprinted by permission of the author.
DISTILLING THE TRUTH by Marilyn Todd, © 2006 by Marilyn Todd. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
WISH by John Rickards, © 2006 by John Rickards. First published in DUBLIN NOIR, edited by Ken Bruen. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE BRICK by Natasha Cooper, © 2006 by Natasha Cooper. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and her agent,
Gregory & Co.
THE KILLER BESIDE ME by Allan Guthrie, © 2006 by Allan Guthrie. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
UNCLE HARRY by Reginald Hill, © 2006 by Reginald Hill. First published in THE VERDICT OF US ALL, edited by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted by permission of the author.
IN SOME COUNTRIES by Jerry Raine, © 2006 by Jerry Raine. First published in HARDLUCK STORIES. Reprinted by permission of the author.
BRYANT AND MAY’S MYSTERY TOUR by Christopher Fowler, © 2006 by Christopher Fowler. First published in THE INDEPENDENT. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Welcome to a new beginning, or should that be a new life of crime?
Six years ago, slightly peeved that various best of the year anthologies published in America deliberately restricted themselves to publishing only stories by US authors, I made a proposal to a
London publishing house for a similar series but this time exclusively devoted to British crime and mystery authors. Not only did I believe there was enough good material out there in magazine,
anthology, radio and Internet territories to fill a respectable annual volume, but was also aware that many of these stories were, for market reasons, only available in the USA and thus unknown to
a specifically British readership. Talk about not being a prophet in your own country!
The initial volume, titled BEST BRITISH MYSTERIES, was a runaway success and was even advertised on TV come that Christmas and earned deserved plaudits for both the book’s concept and many
of its illustrious contributors. The series has gone from strength to strength since then, adding first the number of the year from which the stories came from and, later, just a series number to
distinguish the respective volumes. Rewardingly, many of the stories, albeit by British authors, had only appeared previously in the USA and thus became eligible for the Crime Writers’
Association best short story Dagger award, and have since dominated a large proportion of the annual shortlist.
The principle is the same every year: read virtually all the crime and mystery stories published in a variety of sources, some predictable, others much less so, and I select the best. You will
find, in these gripping pages, hardboiled tales, grisly murders, ingenious puzzles, cosy traditional tales of sleuthing and derring-do, memorable characters, heroes and dastardly villains,
psychological landscapes of evil, thrills and spills and even laughs, etc . . . The idea is to present the whole breadth of what is being written in the mystery field today and a large field it is
indeed, which continues to surprise and delight me on a daily basis.
Some authors are indeed big names and familiar to many readers, while others are talented newcomers I expect you to hear more about as their next books confirm their undoubted talent, but first
and foremost it is the intrinsic quality of their storytelling that caught my attention, and will I hope please you. Shock you maybe, surprise you even, but principally entertain you. The settings
of the stories range far and wide both geographically and historically and demonstrate how far ranging the crime and mystery field can be in the hands of its superior craftsmen and craftswomen.
Colin Dexter returns to the familiar and popular world of Inspectors Morse and Lewis, while Len Deighton – in his first short story in almost 20 years – welcomes back the familiar
figure of Sherlock Holmes. Bill James ventures out again with those devious cops Harpur and lles and many other favourite authors trip the murderous light fantastic with glee and dark resolve.
There is so much talent in British crime writing these days and I would encourage you to pursue some of these authors well beyond this book and explore full-length books by them, should their
respective story catch your eye (or your gut . . .).
Help British writers make crime pay and have a ball in the process. What a noble mission!
Maxim Jakubowski
Lee Child
Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward do I set the price. It’s about common sense and variables. If the client is rich, I ask for more. If
the target is tough, I ask for more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I’m working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote hideout with a
competent protection team on his side, I’m going to ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner.
Variables, and common sense.
But this time the negotiation started differently.
The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was
tall and grey and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took charge.
First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.
He said, “I hear you’ve used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion.”
I said, “You hear right.”
“You like that piece?”
“It’s a fine rifle.”
“So you’ll use it for me.”
“I choose the weapon,” I said.
“Based on what?”
“Need.”
“You’ll need it.”
I asked, “Why? Long range?”
“Maybe two hundred yards.”
“I don’t need a Barrett Ninety for two hundred yards.”
“It’s what I want.”
“Will the target be wearing body armor?”
“No.”
“Inside a vehicle?”
“Open air.”
“Then I’ll use a three-oh-eight. Or something European.”
“I want that fifty-caliber shell.”
“A three-oh-eight or a NATO round will get him just as dead from two hundred yards.”
“Maybe not.”
Looking at him I was pretty sure this was a guy who had never fired a .50 Barrett in his life. Or a .308 Remington. Or an M16, or an FN, or an H&K. Or any kind of a rifle. He had probably
never fired anything at all, except maybe a BB gun as a kid and workers as a adult.
I said, “The Barrett is an awkward weapon. It’s four feet long and it doesn’t break down. It weighs twenty-two pounds. It’s got bipod legs, for Christ’s sake.
It’s like an artillery piece. Hard to conceal. And it’s very loud. Maybe the loudest rifle in the history of the world.”
He said, “I like that fifty-caliber shell.”
“I’ll give you one,” I said. “You can plate it with gold and put it on a chain and wear it around your neck.”
“I want you to use it.”
Then I started thinking maybe this guy was some kind of a sadist. A caliber of .50 is a decimal fraction, just another way of saying half an inch. A lead bullet a half inch across is a big
thing. It weighs about two ounces, and any kind of a decent load fires it close to two thousand miles an hour. It could catch a supersonic jet fighter and bring it down. Against a person two
hundred yards away, it’s going to cut him in two. Like making the guy swallow a bomb, and then setting it off.
I said, “You want a spectacle, I could do it close with a knife. You know, if you want to send a message.”
He said, “That’s not the issue. This is not about a message. This is about the result.”
“Can’t be,” I said. “From two hundred yards I can get a result with anything. Something short with a folding stock, I can walk away afterward with it under my coat. Or I
could throw a rock.”
“I want you to use the Barrett.”
“Expensive,” I said. “I’d have to leave it behind. Which means paying through the nose to make it untraceable. It’ll cost more than a foreign car for the ordnance
alone. Before we even talk about my fee.”
“Okay,” he said, no hesitation.
I said, “It’s ridiculous.”
He said nothing. I thought: Two hundred yards, no body armor, in the open air. Makes no sense. So I asked.
I said, “Who’s the target?”
He said, “A horse.”
I was quiet for a long moment. “What kind of a horse?”
“A thoroughbred racehorse.”
I asked, “You own racehorses?”
He said, “Dozens of them.”
“Good ones?”
“Some of the very best.”
“So the target is what, a rival?”
“A thorn in my side.”
After that, it made a lot more sense. The guy said, “I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought about it very carefully. It’s got to look accidental. We can’t just shoot the
horse in the head. That’s too obvious. It’s got to look like the real target was the owner, but your aim was off and the horse is collateral damage. So the shot can’t look placed.
It’s got to look random. Neck, shoulder, whatever. But I need death or permanent disability.”
I said, “Which explains your preference for the Barrett.”
He nodded. I nodded back. A thoroughbred racehorse weighs about half a ton. A .308 or a NATO round fired randomly into its center mass might not do the job. Not in terms of death or permanent
disability. But a big .50 shell almost certainly would. Even if you weigh half a ton, it’s pretty hard to struggle along with a hole the size of a garbage can blown through any part of
you.
I asked, “Who’s the owner? Is he a plausible target in himself?”
The guy told me who the owner was, and we agreed he was a plausible target. Rumors, shady connections.
Then I said, “What about you? Are you two enemies, personally?”
“You mean, will I be suspected of ordering the hit that misses?”
“Exactly.”
“Not a chance,” my guy said. “We don’t know each other.”
“Except as rival owners.”
“There are hundreds of rival owners.”
“Is a horse of yours going to win if this guy’s doesn’t?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“So they’ll look at you.”
“Not if it looks like the man was the target, instead of the horse.”
I asked, “When?”
He told me anytime within the next four days.
I asked, “Where?”
He told me the horse was in a facility some ways south. Horse country, obviously, grand fields, lush grass, white fences, rolling hills. He told me about long routes through the countryside,
called gallops, where the horses worked out just after dawn. He told me about the silence and the early mists. He told me how in the week before a big race the owner would be there every morning to
assess his horse’s form, to revel in its power and speed and grace and appetite. He told me about the stands of trees that were everywhere and would provide excellent cover.
Then he stopped talking. I felt a little foolish, but I asked him anyway: “Do you have a photograph? Of the target?”
He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. Gave it to me. In it was a glossy color picture of a horse. It looked posed, like a promotional item. Like an actor or an actress has
headshots made, for publicity. This particular horse was a magnificent animal. Tall, shiny, muscular, almost jet-black, with a white blaze on its face. Quite beautiful.
“Okay,” I said.
Then my guy asked me his own question.
He asked me, “How much?”
It was an interesting issue. Technically we were only conspiring to shoot a horse. In most states that’s a property crime. A long way from homicide. And I already had an untraceable
Barrett Ninety. As a matter of fact, I had three. Their serial numbers stopped dead with the Israeli army. One of them was well used. It was about ready for a new barrel anyway. It would make a
fine throw-down gun. Firing cold through a worn barrel wasn’t something I would risk against a human, but against something the size of a horse from two hundred yards it wouldn’t be a
problem. If I aimed at the fattest part of the animal I could afford to miss by up to a foot.
I didn’t tell the guy any of that, of course. Instead I banged on for a while about the price of the rifle and the premium I would have to pay for dead-ended paperwork. Then I talked about
risk, and waited to see if he stopped me. But he didn’t. I could tell he was obsessed. He had a goal. He wanted his own horse to win, and that fact was blinding him to reality just the same
way some people get all wound up about betrayal and adultery and business partnerships.
I looked at the photograph again.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” I said.
He said nothing.
“In cash,” I said.
He said nothing.
“Up front,” I said.
He nodded.
“One condition,” he said. “I want to be there. I want to see it happen.”
I looked at him and I looked at the photograph and I thought about a hundred grand in cash.
“Okay,” I said. “You can be there.”
He opened the briefcase he had down by his leg and took out a brick of money. It looked okay, smelled okay, and felt okay. There was probably more in the case, but I didn’t care. A hundred
grand was enough, in the circumstances.
“Day after tomorrow,” I said.
We agreed on a place to meet, down south, down in horse country, and he left.
I hid the money where I always do, which is in a metal trunk in my storage unit. Inside the trunk the first thing you see is a human skull inside a Hefty One Zip bag. On the
white panel where you’re supposed to write what you’re freezing is lettered: This Man Tried to Rip Me Off. It isn’t true, of course. The skull came from an antique shop.
Probably an old medical school specimen from the Indian subcontinent.
Next to the money trunk was the gun trunk. I took out the worn Barrett and checked it over. Disassembled it, cleaned it, oiled it, wiped it clean, and then put it back together wearing latex
gloves. I loaded a fresh magazine, still with the gloves on. Then I loaded the magazine into the rifle and slid the rifle end-on into an old shoulder-borne golf bag. Then I put the golf bag into
the trunk of my car and left it there.
In my house I propped the racehorse photograph on my mantel. I spent a lot of time staring at it.
I met the guy at the time and place we had agreed. It was a lonely crossroad, close to a cross-country track that led to a distant stand of trees, an hour before dawn. The
weather was cold. My guy had a coat and gloves on, and binoculars around his neck. I had gloves on too. Latex. But no binoculars. I had a Leupold & Stevens scope on the Barrett, in the golf
bag.
I was relaxed, feeling what I always feel when I’m about to kill something, which is to say nothing very much at all. But my client was unrelaxed. He was shivering with an anticipation
that was almost pornographic in its intensity. Like a paedophile on a plane to Thailand. I didn’t like it much.
We walked side by side through the dew. The ground was hard and pocked by footprints. Lots of them, coming and going.
“Who’s been here?” I asked.
“Racetrack touts,” my guy said. “Sports journalists, gamblers looking for inside dope.”
“Looks like Times Square,” I said. “I don’t like it.”
“It’ll be okay today. Nobody scouts here anymore. They all know this horse. They all know it can win in its sleep.”
We walked on in silence. Reached the stand of trees. It was oval-shaped, thin at the northern end. We stepped back and forth until we had a clear line of sight through the trunks. Dawn light was
in the sky. Two hundred yards away and slightly downhill was a broad grass clearing with plenty of tire tracks showing. A thin grey mist hung in the air.
“This is it?” I said.
My guy nodded. “The horses come in from the south. The cars come in from the west. They meet right there.”
“Why?”
“No real reason. Ritual, mostly. Backslapping and bullshitting. The pride of ownership.”
I took the Barrett out of the golf bag. I had already decided how I was going to set up the shot. No bipod. I wanted the gun low and free. I knelt on one knee and rested the muzzle in the crook
of a branch. Sighted through the scope. Racked the bolt and felt the first mighty .50 shell smack home into the chamber.
“Now we wait,” my guy said. He stood at my shoulder, maybe a yard to my right and a yard behind me.
The cars arrived first. They were SUVs, really. Working machines, old and muddy and dented. A Jeep, and two Land Rovers. Five guys climbed out. Four looked poor and one looked
rich.
“Trainer and stable lads and the owner,” my guy said. “The owner is the one in the long coat.”
The five of them stamped and shuffled and their breath pooled around their heads.
“Listen,” my guy said.
I heard something way off to my left. To the south. A low drumming, and a sound like giant bellows coughing and pumping. Hooves, and huge equine lungs cycling gallons of sweet fresh morning
air.
I rocked backward until I was sitting right down on the ground.
“Get ready,” my guy said, from above and behind me.
There were altogether ten horses. They came up in a ragged arrowhead formation, slowing, drifting off-line, tossing their heads, their hard breathing blowing violent yard-long trumpet-shaped
plumes of steam ahead of them.
“What is this?” I asked. “The whole roster?”
“String,” my guy said. “That’s what we call it. This is his whole first string.”
In the grey dawn light and under the steam all the horses looked exactly the same to me.
But that didn’t matter.
“Ready?” my guy said. “They won’t be here long.”
“Open your mouth,” I said.
“What?”
“Open your mouth, real wide. Like you’re yawning.”
“Why?”
“To equalize the pressure. Like on a plane. I told you, this is a loud gun. It’s going to blow your eardrums otherwise. You’ll be deaf for a month.”
I glanced around and checked. He had opened his mouth, but halfheartedly, like a guy waiting for the dentist to get back from looking at a chart.
“No, like this,” I said. I showed him. I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and pulled my chin back into my neck until the tendons hurt in the hinge of my jaw.
He did the same thing.
I whipped the Barrett’s barrel way up and around, fast and smooth, like a duck hunter tracking a flushed bird. Then I pulled the trigger. Shot my guy through the roof of his mouth. The
giant rifle boomed and kicked and the top of my guy’s head came off like a hard-boiled egg. His body came down in a heap and sprawled. I dropped the rifle on top of him and pulled his right
shoe off. Tossed it on the ground. Then I ran. Two minutes later I was back in my car. Four minutes later I was a mile away.
I was up an easy hundred grand, but the world was down an industrialist, a philanthropist, and a racehorse owner. That’s what the Sunday papers said. He had committed
suicide. The way the cops had pieced it together, he had tormented himself over the fact that his best horse always came in second. He had spied on his rival’s workout, maybe hoping for some
sign of fallibility. None had been forthcoming. So he had somehow obtained a sniper rifle, last legally owned by the Israel Defense Force. Maybe he had planned to shoot the rival horse, but at the
last minute he hadn’t been able to go through with it. So, depressed and tormented, he had reversed the rifle, put the muzzle in his mouth, kicked off his shoe, and used his toe on the
trigger. A police officer of roughly the same height had taken part in a simulation to prove that such a thing was physically possible, even with a gun as long as the Barrett.
Near the back of the paper were the racing results. The big black horse had won by seven lengths. My guy’s runner had been scratched.
I kept the photograph on my mantel for a long time afterward. A girl I met much later noticed that it was the only picture I had in the house. She asked me if I liked animals better than people.
I told her that I did, mostly. She liked me for it. But not enough to stick around.
Simon Kernick
Now I’ve got a cousin called Kevin. Just like in that song by the Undertones. Unlike in the song, though, the Kevin I know isn’t going anywhere near heaven. In
fact, the no-good cheating dog’s far more likely to be disappearing through a trapdoor into the fiery underworld, and deservedly so too. In fact, if I could get hold of him now, I’d
gladly give a helping hand sending him there. Only problem is, there’s a queue of people wanting to do just that, and I’m sitting opposite one of them now. None other than Jim
“The Crim” Sneddon: gangland legend and all-round wicked hombre, renowned for his extreme cruelty to his fellow human beings, although they do say he loves animals.
The Crim leans forward in his immense leather armchair and points a stubby, sausage-like finger in my direction. I’m sitting on his “guest” sofa, a flashy leather number
that’s currently covered in tarpaulin, presumably in case things turn nasty, and as you can imagine, not being either cute or furry, I’m feeling less than comfortable. The Crim’s
thin, hooded eyes are a cold onyx, and when he speaks, the words come out in a low nicotine growl that sound like a cheap, badly damaged car turning over.
“A debt is a debt is a debt,” he rumbles, speaking in the manner of a Buddhist monk imparting some great metaphysical wisdom.
“I’m aware of that,” I say, holding his gaze, not showing any fear, because if you let them see your weaknesses, then you may as well throw in the towel, “but the debt in
question is between you and Kevin.”
“No no no no,” chuckles The Crim, shaking his huge leonine head. “It don’t work like that. Do it, boys?”
There are two men in charcoal black suits flanking the sofa on either side, and they both voi
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The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends
The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots
The Mammoth Book of Future Cops
The Mammoth Book of Great Detective Stories
The Mammoth Book of Great Inventions
The Mammoth Book of Hearts of Oak
The Mammoth Book of Heroes
The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: America
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: Ancient Egypt
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: Ancient Rome
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: Battles
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: In Britain
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: Everest
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: Naval Battles
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: WWI
The Mammoth Book of How It Happened: World War II
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper
The Mammoth Book of Maneaters
The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters
The Mammoth Book of Native Americans
The Mammoth Book of New Terror
The Mammoth Book of Private Eye Stories
The Mammoth Book of Prophecies
The Mammoth Book of Pulp Action
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of SAS & Elite Forces
The Mammoth Book of Science Fiction Century Volume I
The Mammoth Book of Seriously Comic Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs & Rock ‘n’ Roll
The Mammoth Book of Sorcerers’ Tales
The Mammoth Book of Space Exploration and Disasters
The Mammoth Book of Special Forces
The Mammoth Book of Storms & Sea Disasters
The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels
The Mammoth Book of Sword and Honour
The Mammoth Book of The Edge
The Mammoth Book of Travel in Dangerous Places
The Mammoth Book of True War Stories
The Mammoth Book of UFOs
The Mammoth Book of Vampires
The Mammoth Book of War Correspondents
The Mammoth Book of Women Who Kill
The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Extraterrestrial Encounters
The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Modern Crime Fiction
The Mammoth Encyclopedia of Unsolved Mysteries
THE .50 SOLUTION by Lee Child, © 2006 by Lee Child. First published in BLOODLINES, edited by Jason Starr and Maggie Estep. Reprinted by permission of the author and his
agent, Darley Anderson Literary Agency.
THE DEBT by Simon Kernick, © 2005 by Simon Kernick. First published as a promotional BMW audio story. Reprinted by permission of the author and Transworld Publishers.
THE CASE OF THE CURIOUS QUORUM by Colin Dexter, © 2006 by Colin Dexter. First published in THE VERDICT OF US ALL, edited by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
THE BOOKBINDER’S APPRENTICE by Martin Edwards, © 2006 by Martin Edwards. First published in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
TROUBLE IS A LONESOME TOWN by Cathi Unsworth, © 2006 by Cathi Unsworth. First published in LONDON NOIR, edited by Cathi Unsworth. Reprinted by permission of the author.
GREEN TARTS by Deryn Lake, © 2006 by Deryn Lake. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF JACOBEAN WHODUNNITS, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
DAPHNE McANDREWS AND THE SMACK-HEAD JUNKIES by Stuart McBride, © 2006 by Stuart McBride, first published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. reprinted by
permission of the author.
ONCE UPON A TIME by Peter Turnbull, © 2006 by Peter Turnbull, first published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author. THAT’S
THE WAY HE DID IT by Amy Myers, © 2006 by Amy Myers. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and her agent, the Dorian Literary
Agency.
THE LONG BLACK VEIL by Val McDermid, © 2006 by Val McDermid. First published in A MERRY BAND OF MURDERERS, edited by Claudia Bishop and Don Bruns. Reprinted by permission
of the author and her agent, Gregory & Co.
THE CURIOUS CONTENTS OF A COFFIN by Susanna Gregory, © 2006 by Susanna Gregory. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF JACOBEAN WHODUNNITS, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted
by permission of the author.
THE SIXTH MAN by Bill James, © 2006 by Bill James. First published in THE SIXTH MAN AND OTHER STORIES. Reprinted by permission of the author.
PROVENANCE by Robert Barnard, © 2006 by Robert Barnard. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent,
Gregory & Co.
JADE SKIRT by Simon Levack, © 2006 by Simon Levack. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Gregory
& Co.
THE FERRYMAN’S BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER by Peter Robinson, © 2006 by Peter Robinson. First published in A MERRY BAND OF MURDERERS, edited by Claudia Bishop and Don Bruns.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
TELL ME by Zoë Sharp, © 2006 by Zoë Sharp. First published in I.D., edited by Martin Edwards. Reprinted by permission of the author.
COLOUR ME BLOOD by Jerry Sykes, © 2006 by Jerry Sykes. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
PROS AND CONS by Donna Moore, © 2006 by Donna Moore. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE TITANIC SWINDLE by Len Deighton, © 2006 by Len Deighton. First published in THE VERDICT OF US ALL, edited by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted by
permission of the author’s agent, Jonathan Clowes Ltd.
LOVE by Martyn Waites, © 2006 by Martyn Waites. First published in LONDON NOIR, edited by Cathi Unsworth. Reprinted by permission of the author.
JUST FRIENDS by John Harvey, © 2006 by John Harvey. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
SAY THAT AGAIN by Peter Lovesey, © 2006 by Peter Lovesey. First published in THE IDEAS EXPERIMENT, edited by Michael Z. Lewin. Reprinted by permission of the author.
CONTINUITY ERROR by Nicholas Royle, © 2006 by Nicholas Royle. First published in LONDON:CITY OF DISAPPEARANCES, edited by lain Sinclair. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
THE LAST KAYFABE by Ray Banks, © 2006 by Ray Banks. First published in THE MISSISSIPPI REVIEW. Reprinted by permission of the author.
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD by Ken Bruen, © 2006 by Ken Bruen. First published in HARDLUCK STORIES. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE 45 STEPS by Peter Crowther, © 2006 by Peter Crowther. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF PERFECT CRIMES AND IMPOSSIBLE MYSTERIES, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted
by permission of the author.
STEPPING UP by Mark Billingham, © 2006 by Mark Billingham. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
TOM OF TEN THOUSAND by Edward Marston, © 2006 by Edward Marston. First published in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF JACOBEAN WHODUNNITS, edited by Mike Ashley. Reprinted by permission
of the author. A CASE OF ASYLUM by Michael Jecks, © 2006 by Michael Jecks. First published in I.D., edited by Martin Edwards. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE DEATH OF JEFFERS by Kevin Wignall, © 2006 by Kevin Wignall. First published in DUBLIN NOIR, edited by Ken Bruen. Reprinted by permission of the author.
DISTILLING THE TRUTH by Marilyn Todd, © 2006 by Marilyn Todd. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author.
WISH by John Rickards, © 2006 by John Rickards. First published in DUBLIN NOIR, edited by Ken Bruen. Reprinted by permission of the author.
THE BRICK by Natasha Cooper, © 2006 by Natasha Cooper. First published in ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE. Reprinted by permission of the author and her agent,
Gregory & Co.
THE KILLER BESIDE ME by Allan Guthrie, © 2006 by Allan Guthrie. First published in DAMN NEAR DEAD, edited by Duane Swierczynski. Reprinted by permission of the author.
UNCLE HARRY by Reginald Hill, © 2006 by Reginald Hill. First published in THE VERDICT OF US ALL, edited by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted by permission of the author.
IN SOME COUNTRIES by Jerry Raine, © 2006 by Jerry Raine. First published in HARDLUCK STORIES. Reprinted by permission of the author.
BRYANT AND MAY’S MYSTERY TOUR by Christopher Fowler, © 2006 by Christopher Fowler. First published in THE INDEPENDENT. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Welcome to a new beginning, or should that be a new life of crime?
Six years ago, slightly peeved that various best of the year anthologies published in America deliberately restricted themselves to publishing only stories by US authors, I made a proposal to a
London publishing house for a similar series but this time exclusively devoted to British crime and mystery authors. Not only did I believe there was enough good material out there in magazine,
anthology, radio and Internet territories to fill a respectable annual volume, but was also aware that many of these stories were, for market reasons, only available in the USA and thus unknown to
a specifically British readership. Talk about not being a prophet in your own country!
The initial volume, titled BEST BRITISH MYSTERIES, was a runaway success and was even advertised on TV come that Christmas and earned deserved plaudits for both the book’s concept and many
of its illustrious contributors. The series has gone from strength to strength since then, adding first the number of the year from which the stories came from and, later, just a series number to
distinguish the respective volumes. Rewardingly, many of the stories, albeit by British authors, had only appeared previously in the USA and thus became eligible for the Crime Writers’
Association best short story Dagger award, and have since dominated a large proportion of the annual shortlist.
The principle is the same every year: read virtually all the crime and mystery stories published in a variety of sources, some predictable, others much less so, and I select the best. You will
find, in these gripping pages, hardboiled tales, grisly murders, ingenious puzzles, cosy traditional tales of sleuthing and derring-do, memorable characters, heroes and dastardly villains,
psychological landscapes of evil, thrills and spills and even laughs, etc . . . The idea is to present the whole breadth of what is being written in the mystery field today and a large field it is
indeed, which continues to surprise and delight me on a daily basis.
Some authors are indeed big names and familiar to many readers, while others are talented newcomers I expect you to hear more about as their next books confirm their undoubted talent, but first
and foremost it is the intrinsic quality of their storytelling that caught my attention, and will I hope please you. Shock you maybe, surprise you even, but principally entertain you. The settings
of the stories range far and wide both geographically and historically and demonstrate how far ranging the crime and mystery field can be in the hands of its superior craftsmen and craftswomen.
Colin Dexter returns to the familiar and popular world of Inspectors Morse and Lewis, while Len Deighton – in his first short story in almost 20 years – welcomes back the familiar
figure of Sherlock Holmes. Bill James ventures out again with those devious cops Harpur and lles and many other favourite authors trip the murderous light fantastic with glee and dark resolve.
There is so much talent in British crime writing these days and I would encourage you to pursue some of these authors well beyond this book and explore full-length books by them, should their
respective story catch your eye (or your gut . . .).
Help British writers make crime pay and have a ball in the process. What a noble mission!
Maxim Jakubowski
Lee Child
Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward do I set the price. It’s about common sense and variables. If the client is rich, I ask for more. If
the target is tough, I ask for more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I’m working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote hideout with a
competent protection team on his side, I’m going to ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner.
Variables, and common sense.
But this time the negotiation started differently.
The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was
tall and grey and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took charge.
First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.
He said, “I hear you’ve used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion.”
I said, “You hear right.”
“You like that piece?”
“It’s a fine rifle.”
“So you’ll use it for me.”
“I choose the weapon,” I said.
“Based on what?”
“Need.”
“You’ll need it.”
I asked, “Why? Long range?”
“Maybe two hundred yards.”
“I don’t need a Barrett Ninety for two hundred yards.”
“It’s what I want.”
“Will the target be wearing body armor?”
“No.”
“Inside a vehicle?”
“Open air.”
“Then I’ll use a three-oh-eight. Or something European.”
“I want that fifty-caliber shell.”
“A three-oh-eight or a NATO round will get him just as dead from two hundred yards.”
“Maybe not.”
Looking at him I was pretty sure this was a guy who had never fired a .50 Barrett in his life. Or a .308 Remington. Or an M16, or an FN, or an H&K. Or any kind of a rifle. He had probably
never fired anything at all, except maybe a BB gun as a kid and workers as a adult.
I said, “The Barrett is an awkward weapon. It’s four feet long and it doesn’t break down. It weighs twenty-two pounds. It’s got bipod legs, for Christ’s sake.
It’s like an artillery piece. Hard to conceal. And it’s very loud. Maybe the loudest rifle in the history of the world.”
He said, “I like that fifty-caliber shell.”
“I’ll give you one,” I said. “You can plate it with gold and put it on a chain and wear it around your neck.”
“I want you to use it.”
Then I started thinking maybe this guy was some kind of a sadist. A caliber of .50 is a decimal fraction, just another way of saying half an inch. A lead bullet a half inch across is a big
thing. It weighs about two ounces, and any kind of a decent load fires it close to two thousand miles an hour. It could catch a supersonic jet fighter and bring it down. Against a person two
hundred yards away, it’s going to cut him in two. Like making the guy swallow a bomb, and then setting it off.
I said, “You want a spectacle, I could do it close with a knife. You know, if you want to send a message.”
He said, “That’s not the issue. This is not about a message. This is about the result.”
“Can’t be,” I said. “From two hundred yards I can get a result with anything. Something short with a folding stock, I can walk away afterward with it under my coat. Or I
could throw a rock.”
“I want you to use the Barrett.”
“Expensive,” I said. “I’d have to leave it behind. Which means paying through the nose to make it untraceable. It’ll cost more than a foreign car for the ordnance
alone. Before we even talk about my fee.”
“Okay,” he said, no hesitation.
I said, “It’s ridiculous.”
He said nothing. I thought: Two hundred yards, no body armor, in the open air. Makes no sense. So I asked.
I said, “Who’s the target?”
He said, “A horse.”
I was quiet for a long moment. “What kind of a horse?”
“A thoroughbred racehorse.”
I asked, “You own racehorses?”
He said, “Dozens of them.”
“Good ones?”
“Some of the very best.”
“So the target is what, a rival?”
“A thorn in my side.”
After that, it made a lot more sense. The guy said, “I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought about it very carefully. It’s got to look accidental. We can’t just shoot the
horse in the head. That’s too obvious. It’s got to look like the real target was the owner, but your aim was off and the horse is collateral damage. So the shot can’t look placed.
It’s got to look random. Neck, shoulder, whatever. But I need death or permanent disability.”
I said, “Which explains your preference for the Barrett.”
He nodded. I nodded back. A thoroughbred racehorse weighs about half a ton. A .308 or a NATO round fired randomly into its center mass might not do the job. Not in terms of death or permanent
disability. But a big .50 shell almost certainly would. Even if you weigh half a ton, it’s pretty hard to struggle along with a hole the size of a garbage can blown through any part of
you.
I asked, “Who’s the owner? Is he a plausible target in himself?”
The guy told me who the owner was, and we agreed he was a plausible target. Rumors, shady connections.
Then I said, “What about you? Are you two enemies, personally?”
“You mean, will I be suspected of ordering the hit that misses?”
“Exactly.”
“Not a chance,” my guy said. “We don’t know each other.”
“Except as rival owners.”
“There are hundreds of rival owners.”
“Is a horse of yours going to win if this guy’s doesn’t?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“So they’ll look at you.”
“Not if it looks like the man was the target, instead of the horse.”
I asked, “When?”
He told me anytime within the next four days.
I asked, “Where?”
He told me the horse was in a facility some ways south. Horse country, obviously, grand fields, lush grass, white fences, rolling hills. He told me about long routes through the countryside,
called gallops, where the horses worked out just after dawn. He told me about the silence and the early mists. He told me how in the week before a big race the owner would be there every morning to
assess his horse’s form, to revel in its power and speed and grace and appetite. He told me about the stands of trees that were everywhere and would provide excellent cover.
Then he stopped talking. I felt a little foolish, but I asked him anyway: “Do you have a photograph? Of the target?”
He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. Gave it to me. In it was a glossy color picture of a horse. It looked posed, like a promotional item. Like an actor or an actress has
headshots made, for publicity. This particular horse was a magnificent animal. Tall, shiny, muscular, almost jet-black, with a white blaze on its face. Quite beautiful.
“Okay,” I said.
Then my guy asked me his own question.
He asked me, “How much?”
It was an interesting issue. Technically we were only conspiring to shoot a horse. In most states that’s a property crime. A long way from homicide. And I already had an untraceable
Barrett Ninety. As a matter of fact, I had three. Their serial numbers stopped dead with the Israeli army. One of them was well used. It was about ready for a new barrel anyway. It would make a
fine throw-down gun. Firing cold through a worn barrel wasn’t something I would risk against a human, but against something the size of a horse from two hundred yards it wouldn’t be a
problem. If I aimed at the fattest part of the animal I could afford to miss by up to a foot.
I didn’t tell the guy any of that, of course. Instead I banged on for a while about the price of the rifle and the premium I would have to pay for dead-ended paperwork. Then I talked about
risk, and waited to see if he stopped me. But he didn’t. I could tell he was obsessed. He had a goal. He wanted his own horse to win, and that fact was blinding him to reality just the same
way some people get all wound up about betrayal and adultery and business partnerships.
I looked at the photograph again.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” I said.
He said nothing.
“In cash,” I said.
He said nothing.
“Up front,” I said.
He nodded.
“One condition,” he said. “I want to be there. I want to see it happen.”
I looked at him and I looked at the photograph and I thought about a hundred grand in cash.
“Okay,” I said. “You can be there.”
He opened the briefcase he had down by his leg and took out a brick of money. It looked okay, smelled okay, and felt okay. There was probably more in the case, but I didn’t care. A hundred
grand was enough, in the circumstances.
“Day after tomorrow,” I said.
We agreed on a place to meet, down south, down in horse country, and he left.
I hid the money where I always do, which is in a metal trunk in my storage unit. Inside the trunk the first thing you see is a human skull inside a Hefty One Zip bag. On the
white panel where you’re supposed to write what you’re freezing is lettered: This Man Tried to Rip Me Off. It isn’t true, of course. The skull came from an antique shop.
Probably an old medical school specimen from the Indian subcontinent.
Next to the money trunk was the gun trunk. I took out the worn Barrett and checked it over. Disassembled it, cleaned it, oiled it, wiped it clean, and then put it back together wearing latex
gloves. I loaded a fresh magazine, still with the gloves on. Then I loaded the magazine into the rifle and slid the rifle end-on into an old shoulder-borne golf bag. Then I put the golf bag into
the trunk of my car and left it there.
In my house I propped the racehorse photograph on my mantel. I spent a lot of time staring at it.
I met the guy at the time and place we had agreed. It was a lonely crossroad, close to a cross-country track that led to a distant stand of trees, an hour before dawn. The
weather was cold. My guy had a coat and gloves on, and binoculars around his neck. I had gloves on too. Latex. But no binoculars. I had a Leupold & Stevens scope on the Barrett, in the golf
bag.
I was relaxed, feeling what I always feel when I’m about to kill something, which is to say nothing very much at all. But my client was unrelaxed. He was shivering with an anticipation
that was almost pornographic in its intensity. Like a paedophile on a plane to Thailand. I didn’t like it much.
We walked side by side through the dew. The ground was hard and pocked by footprints. Lots of them, coming and going.
“Who’s been here?” I asked.
“Racetrack touts,” my guy said. “Sports journalists, gamblers looking for inside dope.”
“Looks like Times Square,” I said. “I don’t like it.”
“It’ll be okay today. Nobody scouts here anymore. They all know this horse. They all know it can win in its sleep.”
We walked on in silence. Reached the stand of trees. It was oval-shaped, thin at the northern end. We stepped back and forth until we had a clear line of sight through the trunks. Dawn light was
in the sky. Two hundred yards away and slightly downhill was a broad grass clearing with plenty of tire tracks showing. A thin grey mist hung in the air.
“This is it?” I said.
My guy nodded. “The horses come in from the south. The cars come in from the west. They meet right there.”
“Why?”
“No real reason. Ritual, mostly. Backslapping and bullshitting. The pride of ownership.”
I took the Barrett out of the golf bag. I had already decided how I was going to set up the shot. No bipod. I wanted the gun low and free. I knelt on one knee and rested the muzzle in the crook
of a branch. Sighted through the scope. Racked the bolt and felt the first mighty .50 shell smack home into the chamber.
“Now we wait,” my guy said. He stood at my shoulder, maybe a yard to my right and a yard behind me.
The cars arrived first. They were SUVs, really. Working machines, old and muddy and dented. A Jeep, and two Land Rovers. Five guys climbed out. Four looked poor and one looked
rich.
“Trainer and stable lads and the owner,” my guy said. “The owner is the one in the long coat.”
The five of them stamped and shuffled and their breath pooled around their heads.
“Listen,” my guy said.
I heard something way off to my left. To the south. A low drumming, and a sound like giant bellows coughing and pumping. Hooves, and huge equine lungs cycling gallons of sweet fresh morning
air.
I rocked backward until I was sitting right down on the ground.
“Get ready,” my guy said, from above and behind me.
There were altogether ten horses. They came up in a ragged arrowhead formation, slowing, drifting off-line, tossing their heads, their hard breathing blowing violent yard-long trumpet-shaped
plumes of steam ahead of them.
“What is this?” I asked. “The whole roster?”
“String,” my guy said. “That’s what we call it. This is his whole first string.”
In the grey dawn light and under the steam all the horses looked exactly the same to me.
But that didn’t matter.
“Ready?” my guy said. “They won’t be here long.”
“Open your mouth,” I said.
“What?”
“Open your mouth, real wide. Like you’re yawning.”
“Why?”
“To equalize the pressure. Like on a plane. I told you, this is a loud gun. It’s going to blow your eardrums otherwise. You’ll be deaf for a month.”
I glanced around and checked. He had opened his mouth, but halfheartedly, like a guy waiting for the dentist to get back from looking at a chart.
“No, like this,” I said. I showed him. I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and pulled my chin back into my neck until the tendons hurt in the hinge of my jaw.
He did the same thing.
I whipped the Barrett’s barrel way up and around, fast and smooth, like a duck hunter tracking a flushed bird. Then I pulled the trigger. Shot my guy through the roof of his mouth. The
giant rifle boomed and kicked and the top of my guy’s head came off like a hard-boiled egg. His body came down in a heap and sprawled. I dropped the rifle on top of him and pulled his right
shoe off. Tossed it on the ground. Then I ran. Two minutes later I was back in my car. Four minutes later I was a mile away.
I was up an easy hundred grand, but the world was down an industrialist, a philanthropist, and a racehorse owner. That’s what the Sunday papers said. He had committed
suicide. The way the cops had pieced it together, he had tormented himself over the fact that his best horse always came in second. He had spied on his rival’s workout, maybe hoping for some
sign of fallibility. None had been forthcoming. So he had somehow obtained a sniper rifle, last legally owned by the Israel Defense Force. Maybe he had planned to shoot the rival horse, but at the
last minute he hadn’t been able to go through with it. So, depressed and tormented, he had reversed the rifle, put the muzzle in his mouth, kicked off his shoe, and used his toe on the
trigger. A police officer of roughly the same height had taken part in a simulation to prove that such a thing was physically possible, even with a gun as long as the Barrett.
Near the back of the paper were the racing results. The big black horse had won by seven lengths. My guy’s runner had been scratched.
I kept the photograph on my mantel for a long time afterward. A girl I met much later noticed that it was the only picture I had in the house. She asked me if I liked animals better than people.
I told her that I did, mostly. She liked me for it. But not enough to stick around.
Simon Kernick
Now I’ve got a cousin called Kevin. Just like in that song by the Undertones. Unlike in the song, though, the Kevin I know isn’t going anywhere near heaven. In
fact, the no-good cheating dog’s far more likely to be disappearing through a trapdoor into the fiery underworld, and deservedly so too. In fact, if I could get hold of him now, I’d
gladly give a helping hand sending him there. Only problem is, there’s a queue of people wanting to do just that, and I’m sitting opposite one of them now. None other than Jim
“The Crim” Sneddon: gangland legend and all-round wicked hombre, renowned for his extreme cruelty to his fellow human beings, although they do say he loves animals.
The Crim leans forward in his immense leather armchair and points a stubby, sausage-like finger in my direction. I’m sitting on his “guest” sofa, a flashy leather number
that’s currently covered in tarpaulin, presumably in case things turn nasty, and as you can imagine, not being either cute or furry, I’m feeling less than comfortable. The Crim’s
thin, hooded eyes are a cold onyx, and when he speaks, the words come out in a low nicotine growl that sound like a cheap, badly damaged car turning over.
“A debt is a debt is a debt,” he rumbles, speaking in the manner of a Buddhist monk imparting some great metaphysical wisdom.
“I’m aware of that,” I say, holding his gaze, not showing any fear, because if you let them see your weaknesses, then you may as well throw in the towel, “but the debt in
question is between you and Kevin.”
“No no no no,” chuckles The Crim, shaking his huge leonine head. “It don’t work like that. Do it, boys?”
There are two men in charcoal black suits flanking the sofa on either side, and they both voi
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