The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (61 page)

Sat there and stared out across the shitty black river until it started to get light.

Craig looked confused as much as anything when I walked round the corner. Grinned at him. It was half way through the morning, and him and a couple of older women in blouses
and grey skirts had come out the back entrance of the bank for a crafty smoke.

“All right, mate?”

“Ticking along,” I said. “You?”

It must have been there in my face or the way I spoke, because I saw the women stubbing out pretty long fag-ends, making themselves scarce. Neither of them so much as looked at him before they
buggered off.

Craig watched his colleagues go, seemed to find something about it quite funny. He turned back to me, taking a drag. Shook his head.

“Sorry, mate. It’s just a bit strange you turning up here, that’s all. How d’you know where I worked?”

“Zoe must have said, last time she came to the class, you know?”

Something in his face that I couldn’t read, but I didn’t much care.

“How’s she doing, anyway?” I said.

“Er, she’s good, yeah.”

“It was a shame she stopped coming, really. We were all saying how she made the rest of us work a bit harder, trying to keep up.”

“She just lost interest I think. Me an’ all, to be honest.” Then a look that seemed to say they were getting their exercise in other ways, and one back from me that tried and
failed to wipe it off his face.

It was warm and he was in shirt-sleeves. I was sweating underneath my jacket so I slipped it off, threw it across my arm.

“Are you feeling OK?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You’ve gone a bit red.”

I nodded, looked at the sweat patches under his arm and the pattern on his poxy tie.

He flicked his fag-end away. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work . . .”

“Right.”

“I’ll say hello to Zoe, shall I?”

“How’s her face?”

That took the smile off the fucker quick enough. Put that confused look back again, like he didn’t know his arse from his elbow.

“It’s fine now,” he said. “She’s all gorgeous again.”

“Nasty, that was. Not seen many shiners worse than that one. Door wasn’t it?”

“Cupboard door.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s she said.”

“She forgot it was open and turned round fast, you know? Listen—”

I was just looking at him by now.

“What?”

I knew I still had
that.
You never lose the look.

“What’s your problem?”

Breathing heavily, a wheeze in it. For real some of it, like the red face, but I’d bunged a bit extra on top, you know. Laid it on thick just to get his guard down.

“I think maybe you ought to piss off now,” he said.

I bent over, suddenly; dropped the jacket like I might be in some trouble. He stepped across to pick it up, like I wanted him to, which was when I swung a good hard right at his fat, flappy
mouth.

I never had her in the car again after that night. Only saw her a couple of times as it goes, and even then, when she looked over, I always found something fascinating in
the pattern on the carpet or counted the bits of chewing gum squashed onto the pavement.

Spineless cunt.

She went away some time after. I suppose I should say I was told she went away. It’s an important distinction, right? Told like there was actually nothing to tell, but also like there
wasn’t much point me asking about it again or wasting any money on postcards.

A few years ago we were having a meal, me and one of the lads I used to knock about with back then. You have a curry and a few pints and you talk about the old days, don’t you? You have
a laugh.

Until her name came up.

He was talking about what he thought had happened and why. Wanted to know what I thought had gone on; fancied getting my take on it. You used to know her pretty well, didn’t you, he
said. That’s what I heard, anyway. You used to be quite close to her is what somebody told me.

I had a mouthful of ulcers at that time. It was when my old girl was suffering, you know, and the doctor reckoned it was the stress of her illness that was causing it. Ulcers and boils, I
had.

When he mentioned her name the first time, I started to chew on a couple of those ulcers. Gnawing into those bastards so hard it was making my eyes water, though my mate probably thought it
was the vindaloo.

You used to be quite close to her, he said.

I bit the fuckers clean out then, two or three of them. I remember the noise I made, people in the restaurant turning round. I bent down over the table, coughing, and I spat them out into a
serviette.

That more or less put the tin lid on our conversation, which was all right by me. My mate didn’t say too much of anything after that. Well, we’d been talking about what was
happening with me and my old lady before, and when he saw the blood in the napkin, maybe he was confused, you know, thought I was the one with the lung cancer.

It wasn’t the best punch I ever threw, but it made contact and I concentrated on the blood that was running down his shirt-front as he swung me round and pushed me
against the wall.

“What the fuck’s your game, you silly old bastard?”

I tried to nut him and he leaned back, his arms out straight, holding me hard against the bricks.

“Take it easy.”

I thought I felt something crack in his shin when I kicked out at him. I tried to bring my leg up fast towards his bollocks, but the pain in his leg must have fired him right up and his fists
were flying at me.

It was no more than a few seconds. Just flailing really like kids, but Christ, I’d forgotten how much it hurts.

Every blow rang and tore and made the sick rise up. I felt something catch me and rip behind the ear; a ring maybe. Stung like fuck.

I swore, and kept kicking. I shut my eyes.

My fists were up, but it was all I could do to protect my face, so I can’t have been doing him a lot of damage.

But I was trying.

When the gaps between the punches got a bit longer, I tried to get a dig or two in, just to keep my fucking end up, you know? That was when the background went blurry, and his face started to
swim in front of me, but as far as I’m concerned that was down to the pain in my arm. It had bugger all to do with any punishment I might have taken.

The fucker hit me one more time, when I dropped my fists to clutch at my arm. It was all over then, more or less. But it was the pain in my chest that put me down, and not that punch.

Not the punch.

There’s always a
something
that gets you from one place to the next, right? That you’re chasing after in some way, shape or form. Granted, some people are
happy enough to let themselves get pissed along like a fag-end in a urinal, and yes, I know that some poor bastards are plain unlucky, but still . . .

OK, then, to be fair there’s
usually
a something. For me, anyway, is all I’m saying. If I’m centre of attention right now, for all the wrong reasons, it isn’t
really down to anyone else, and I’m not going to feel sorry for myself.

That’s more or less what I tried to say to Maggie and Phil when they came in, but they were in no fit state to listen, and I don’t think I made myself very clear.

Fuck, they’re
at
me again . . .

Loads of them, and I thought there was supposed to be a shortage. Poking and prodding. Talking over me like I’m deaf as well as everything else.

It’s not pain exactly.

It’s warm and wet and spreading through my arms and legs like I’m sinking into a bath or something. They’ve got those things you see on the TV out again, like a pair of irons
on my chest. Like they’re going to iron out my wrinkles.

Now they’re going blurry either side of me, same as that fucker did when I was punching him. The sound’s gone funny too.

And clear as you like, I can see her face. The stain around her eye and the purple bruise. The hair lying dead against her cheek in the rain.

Music as I step up and step up. Some tuneless disco rubbish while I’m sneaking looks at her in that tight leotard thing and Ruth bawls at me through her stupid microphone.

As I step up off the beach. With the sea coming up on to the sand behind me. Noisy, like the sigh of someone who’s sick of waiting for something.

Stepping up on to the hot pavement, where she’s stood waiting with a drink. That mouth, and her hair darker now and she looks magnificent. And we lean against each other and drink sangria
at one of them places where you can sit outside.

The music’s still getting louder, so I ask them to turn it up.

That song she likes on the radio.

The bird with the bare feet.

“I wonder if one day that, you’ll say that you care.

If you say you love me madly, I’ll gladly be there . . .”

Edward Marston

12 February 1682

The crime occurred in broad daylight. When the coach reached the main street, it slowed down and rumbled around the corner, its iron-rimmed wheels slipping on the frosted cobbles. Before it
could pick up speed again, it was ambushed. Coming out of nowhere, three men rode alongside the coach so that they could discharge their weapons at its occupant. Two of the attackers had pistols
but it was the blunderbuss held by the third that proved fatal. It went off with a deafening bang and split the victim’s stomach wide open. Blood gushed out over his velvet breeches and
dripped on to the floor. Confident that the man had been killed, the villains kicked their horses into a gallop and disappeared at once from the scene.

Christopher Redmayne saw it all from a distance. He had just entered the other end of the street when the murder took place. He heard the sounds of shooting clearly and the horrified screams
from passers-by. He watched the coachman pull the horses to a sudden halt and caught a glimpse of the attackers, escaping in the confusion. Christopher did not hesitate. Riding at a canter, he made
straight for the coach around which a small crowd was now gathering. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. An aspiring young architect, he was on his way to meet a wealthy
potential client at a tavern in that street. The closer he got to the coach, the more convinced he became that it belonged to the very man with whom he had arranged to dine that day.

Having leapt down from his seat, the coachman opened the door to find his employer doubled up on the floor. He was still alive but he was fading with each second. Christopher’s horse
skidded to a halt and the architect dismounted at speed. He looked over the coachman’s shoulder.

“Is that Mr Thynne?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied the other.

“Is he injured?”

Without waiting for an answer, Christopher eased the man aside so that he could see for himself. Thomas Thynne was beyond help. Face contorted in agony, he made a futile attempt to speak then
his eyes rolled and he collapsed in a heap. The coachman gasped. Christopher leaned in close to examine the body. When he was certain that Thynne was dead, he offered up a silent prayer before
taking control of the situation. Having sent a bystander to fetch an officer, he turned to the coachman, a stout man of middle years, deeply shocked at the murder of his employer.

“Do you know who those men were?” asked Christopher.

“No, sir.”

“Have you seen any of them before?”

“Never.”

“Were they lying in wait for you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the coachman, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. “As soon as we turned the corner, they were there.”

“Can you think of any reason why they should do this?”

“None, sir.”

“Did Mr Thynne have any enemies?”

“No, sir. He was the kindest man in the world.”

Prompted by loyalty, and annoyed by people staring at the corpse with ghoulish interest, the coachman took off his coat and used to it to cover Thomas Thynne’s face. Then he waved his arms
to force the onlookers back.

Christopher asked for any witnesses and half-a-dozen came forward to tell the same gabbled tale. None of them, however, had been able to identify the men. It was only when a constable came
running to take charge of the incident that Christopher spotted a short, thin, ragged individual, lurking in a doorway on the other side of the street. He beckoned the architect across to him.

“I might know who one of them is, sir,” said the man, slyly.

“You
might
know?”

“If my memory was jogged, sir.”

Christopher understood. “Who was the fellow?” he said, reaching into his purse for a coin. “Give me his name.”

“I could give you his address as well,” promised the other, eyeing the purse meaningfully. Christopher took out a second coin and pressed both into the man’s grubby palm.
“Thank you, sir.” He snapped his hand shut. “The person you want is Ned Bagwell. He stays at the Feathers, not two hundred yards from here.”

Christopher knew the inn by reputation. After thanking the man, he mounted his horse and urged it forward. He was soon trotting briskly in the direction of the Feathers, situated in one of the
less salubrious areas of Westminster. London was a dangerous city and Christopher was always armed when he went abroad. In addition to his sword, he wore a dagger and was adept with both. He was
not deterred by the fact that there had been three men in the ambush. They had not only robbed a respectable gentleman of his life. They had deprived the architect of a handsome commission to build
a house for Thomas Thynne. It served to harden Christopher’s resolve to find the killers.

When he got to the Feathers, he tethered his horse and went into the taproom. Filled with smoke from the fire in the grate, it was a dark, dingy, unappealing place. Customers looked up in
surprise. The inn was not used to welcoming someone as wholesome and well-dressed as the young architect. Christopher went across to the man behind the counter.

“Does one Ned Bagwell lodge here?” he asked.

“Aye,” came the surly reply. “What do you want with Ned?”