The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (3 page)

“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 voice their agreement.

To my left, blocking out much of the room’s ambient light, is one Glenroy Frankham, better known as “Ten Man Gang”, a six feet six, twenty-five stone hulk of a human being,
with a head so small it looks like it’s been professionally shrunk, and hands that can, and probably do, crush babies. Such is his strength, he’s reputed to be the only man in British
penal history to tear his way out of a straitjacket, although I’m surprised they found one that fit him in the first place. His belly looks like a storage room for cannonballs.

To my right stands Johann “Fingers The Knife” Bennett, so-called because of his propensity for slicing off the digits of uncooperative debtors while The Gang holds them in place. The
going rate’s a finger a day until the money’s been paid in full. As you can imagine, The Knife’s somewhat “hands on” approach has an enviable success rate, and only
once has a debt not been cleared within twenty-four hours of him being called in. On that occasion, the debtor was so broke they had to start on his toes before he finally came up with the money.
The guy was a degenerate gambler and I still see him limping around sometimes, although he plays a lot less poker these days.

It’s poker that’s been Kevin’s downfall. That, and the fact that he chose to play his games against Jim the Crim, a man whose standards of fair play leave, it has to be said, a
great deal to be desired. You don’t rise to multi-millionaire status in the arms and loansharking industries by adhering to the rules of the level playing field, or by being
compassionate.

“It ain’t my fault, is it?” continues The Crim now, “that your cousin decides to take off into the wild blue yonder without paying me the thirty-four grand he
owes.”

“You told me it was thirty-three.”

“That was Monday, Billy. Today’s Wednesday. I’ve got the interest to think about. It’s a lot of money we’re looking at here.”

“And I still don’t know why it’s suddenly mine and my family’s responsibility,” I say, thinking it’s time to get assertive.

The Crim bares his teeth in what I think must be a smile, it’s not too easy to tell. “It’s the etiquette of the matter,” he says, clearing his throat, then spitting
something thick and nasty into a plate-sized ashtray balanced on one of the chair’s arms. “I can’t be seen to be letting off a debt this size. It would do my reputation no good at
all. And since there’s about as much chance of your cousin reappearing as The Gang here taking up hang-gliding, someone’s got to pay. And that someone’s his mother.”

And this, my friends, is why I’m here voluntarily. Because it is my aunt Lena – my dead mother’s only sister, and the woman who brought me up from the tender age of thirteen
– who is the person currently being treated as The Crim’s debtor, and this is a situation that, as an honourable man, I can’t allow to continue. She’s prepared to pay up too
by selling her house, in order to protect her only son from the consequences of his rank stupidity, but I’ve told her to leave it and let me see what can be done to alleviate the situation,
although I’m beginning to think that it’s not a lot.

“I understand your position, Jim,” I say, trying to sound reasonable, “but my aunt hasn’t got the money to pay you, it’s as simple as that. However,” I add,
wanting to avoid a confrontation I know I can’t win, “I haven’t come here empty-handed. I’ve got five grand in my pocket. Consider it a deposit on what’s owed. Then,
when I track down Kevin, which I promise I’m going to do, I’ll make sure I get you the other twenty-eight. You’ve got my word on that.”

“Twenty-nine, you mean, and I want the lot now.”

The trick in circumstances like these is always to have some room for manoeuvre. “I can get you ten by the end of tonight,” I tell him, hoping this’ll act as a sweetener.

It doesn’t.

“I don’t think you’re hearing me right, Billy,” he growls. “I told you what I want. Now, if you ain’t got it, we’ll have to see if we have better luck
extracting it from your auntie.”

“He came in a nice car, Mr Sneddon,” says The Knife, his voice a reedy whisper, like wind through a graveyard. “It looks like one of those new BMW 7 Series.”

Uh-oh, I think. Not my pride and joy. But, oh dear, The Crim’s craggy, reddened face is already brightening. It is a most unpleasant sight. “Now that’s what I like to
hear,” he says. “And it’ll cover the cost of your cousin’s misdemeanours, no problem.”

I shake my head, knowing I’m going to have to nip this one in the bud pretty sharpish. “That car belongs to me, Jim, and it’s not for sale. I bought it with the proceeds of my
last fight.”

“I remember that last fight. Against Trevor ‘The Gibbon’ Hutton. I had a bet on it. Cost me five grand when you knocked him down in the eighth.” His expression suddenly
darkens at the memory, as if this is somehow my fault.

“Well, you know how hard I had to work for it then, don’t you?” I tell him, making a final stand. “I’m not giving it up, no way.”

The Crim nods once to The Knife and I feel the touch of cold metal in the curve of skin behind my ear.

My heart sinks, especially as I still owe fifteen grand to the finance company. I love that car.

Although I feel like bursting into tears, I keep my cool. “You’ve changed your weapon, Johann,” I say calmly, inclining my head a little in his direction.

“A gun’s less messy,” The Crim replies, answering for him. He puts out a hand. “Now, unless you want The Knife here to be clearing the contents of your head off the
tarpaulin, you’d better give me the keys.”

So, pride and joy or not, I have no choice but to hand them over.

The Crim thinks he’s doing me a favour by driving me home. Instead, it is akin to twisting the knife in a dying man.

“This really is a sweet piece of machinery,” he tells me as we sail smoothly through the wet night streets of the city, the tyres easily holding the slick surface of the tarmac. As
if I don’t already know this. “Ah, this is what it’s all about,” he adds, sliding his filthy paws all over the steering wheel, and reclining in the Nasca leather seat. And
he’s right, too. There’s nothing like the freedom of the open road, coupled with all the comforts the 21st Century has to offer; it’s like driving in your own front room. The
problem is it’s now The Crim’s front room. And it’s his music too: a Back to the Seventies CD he picked up from his office, which is blaring out track after track of retro
rubbish.

As we drive, a Range Rover containing The Knife and The Gang inside brings up the rear. The Crim tells me he never likes travelling in the same car as his two bodyguards. He strokes the
car’s panel and tells me that they’re Neanderthals who don’t appreciate the finer things in life, although quite how
Tiger Feet
by Mud fits into this category is beyond me.
He tells me all this, even though I am hugely uninterested, and when he drops me off, he even gives me a pat on the shoulder and requests that I punch Kevin for him, next time I see the treacherous
bastard.

I tell him that I will, meaning it, and clamber lonely and humiliated from the car as the Range Rover pulls up behind us. The Knife is driving and he gives me a triumphant little smirk.
The Gang just stares with bored contempt, like he’s viewing a side order of green vegetables. Then both cars pull away, and I’m left alone.

I used to be a handy middleweight boxer. I never troubled the top division but in a career spanning nine years and twenty-seven professional fights (seventeen wins, two draws
and eight losses, before you ask), I managed to save up enough money to invest in property. I own a flat in Hackney outright, and I put down fifty percent on a house in Putney last year, which
I’ve been doing up ever since.

But my main job these days is as a doorman. I don’t need the cash particularly, but it’s easy work. The place is called Stallions, not that there’s much of the stallion about
any of the clientèle. They’re mainly middle-aged men with plenty of money. It’s billed as a gentleman’s establishment but, to be honest, it’s more of a high-class brothel
with a bit of card-playing and drinking thrown in.

Two hours after being dropped off by Jim The Crim, I arrive at the door of the club in Piccadilly, freshly showered and dressed in a dickie bow and suit, having had to get a taxi all the way
down here. Needless to say, I’m not in a good mood, but I’m on floor-duty tonight, which is some compensation.

The club itself is a lavish split-level room with cavernous ceilings, and was obviously kitted out by someone who liked the colour burgundy. It’s busy tonight, with all the tables taken,
and the girls outnumbering the clients by less than two to one, which is rare. How it works is this: you pay an annual fee of several grand to be a member, but you don’t have to sleep with
any of the women. You can just come and drink and play cards if you want to, but most people indulge in the more carnal pursuits. There are private rooms upstairs to which you take your chosen
girl. You pay her cash, usually along the lines of
£
200 an hour, and then pay a separate room fee to the management which equates to the same amount. It’s pricey, but these are
men without money worries and ladies with very generous looks.