The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (38 page)

Sheehan smiled at the two frail old dears in front of him and thought how easy this was going to be. He considered his smile to be the deal-clincher. He’d practised it in front of the
bathroom mirror, and convinced himself he looked like Cary Grant, when in reality he looked more like a constipated ferret.

“Well, Mr Sheehan,” the Contessa adjusted the diamond necklace with a liver-spotted hand, “I think you will do very well as our chauffeur.” Her Italian accent was light
and soft. It reminded Sheehan of some actress in an old black and white film he’d seen on video when he was last in Mountjoy Prison. “If you would like to come back tomorrow in the
morning, we will have ready a uniform for you and you can drive us out to Fairyhouse Racecourse to meet some of our potential clients.”

Sheehan’s interest was piqued. “You ladies are interested in horseracing?” He patted the crumpled
Racing Post
in his pocket. Things were looking better and better. The
chance to drive a Daimler, a shot at stealing some rather fine diamonds, and a day at the track.

“Gambling? No.” The Contessa made a moue of distaste and her silent sister looked shocked at the thought, raising a jeweled hand to her throat as if to cross herself. “But we
have an interest in fine thoroughbreds, yes. Now, Mr Sheehan. I will see you out. I apologize for the lack of etiquette, but we haven’t yet got around to hiring a butler.” She picked an
almost invisible speck of dust off her suit – Hardy Amies, dress designer to the Queen – and Sheehan stood up. He’d been dismissed. Fighting the dual temptations of bowing to them
and nutting them, he allowed the Contessa to usher him to the door of the Georgian townhouse that she and her sister were currently calling
casa.

Back in the Drawing Room, the Contessa stood at the window and watched Sheehan strolling up Lower Leeson Street towards St Stephens Green. Her sister looked at her curiously.
“Well, Letty, will he do?”

“He’s a dodgy, rat-faced, little wanker who wouldn’t know the word ‘honesty’ if it gave him a lap dance and bit him on the arse. He’s perfect.” Her
accent was now more Isle of Dogs than Island of Venice. “Didn’t he remind you of that punter you had in the 60s, Dora? The politician who liked you to dress up as a milkmaid and squeeze
his udders? Assistant to the Assistant of the Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Foods wasn’t he?”

Dora giggled. “Old Marigold? Yes, but I do hope Mr Sheehan doesn’t want me to slap him on the buttocks and hit him with a fly switch. I’m getting too old for that sort of
thing.”

Letty removed the diamond necklace and threw it down on the table, rubbing her neck. “That cheap tat is giving me a rash. Did you see Sheehan fixing his beadies on it?” She pulled a
packet of Rizlas and a pouch of tobacco out of her fake Chanel handbag and expertly rolled a cigarette one-handed, lighting it with a Zippo displaying a Hell’s Angels emblem and the motto
“Live Fast, Die Young.” She groped under the chintz cushion of the settee for the bottle of tequila she had planked there earlier, and opened the
Racing Post
which, just a couple
of minutes ago, had been in Sheehan’s pocket. She still had all the old skills.

Just plain Lettice and Dora Huggins – ex-high class hookers, ex-brothel madams, ex-pickpockets, – drunk rollers and – petty criminals – had moved up in the world.

Sheehan leaned against the Daimler in the private enclosure at Fairyhouse and watched Ireland’s rich and famous swarm around his new employers like bluebottles around
diamond-encrusted shit. Gobshites. He had to admire the Italian pair though. Their scam was a good one. From what he’d observed today they were selling certificates of part ownership in
thoroughbred horses. 50,000 euros a share. The women had the right patter, references from top names in the horseracing world, the backing of Lord This and Duke That. Most of all they were fluently
talking the language of the greedy bastards drooling all over them. The language of cold, hard cash.

“A 25 percent to 30 percent return in 3 months,” the Countess was saying in her clipped, lightly accented tones, as she tapped out strings of numbers on the slim laptop computer on
the table in front of her. “Guaranteed. The stud fees on their own are worth a fortune in income. Why, the Duke of Chalfont was able to restore the family seat in a year from his returns.
200,000 euros, Mr Kavanagh? Certainly. Just give me your bank account details and we’ll effect the transaction immediately.”

These rich tossers might not be able to recognize a hoor with the clap when they saw one, but Sheehan certainly did. He’d made a fair packet from this sort of scam himself until he’d
gone to jail for it. His was on a smaller scale of course, but Sheehan recognized the signs. He’d sold dodgy TV advertising (he’d even got a film student friend to film a couple of fake
adverts – and they’d made a porno while they were at it; Sheehan was rather proud of his starring role – OK, it was a short fuckin’ fillum and it was all wobbly cameras and
badly dubbed sound, but they’d got the money shot and that was the main thing). He’d guaranteed his investors a 30 percent return every 60 days. And, of course, he’d made sure to
deliver to the first few investors. They spread the word and all the other suckers signed up. Needless to say, the other suckers never got their promised returns. Or their capital back as it
happened. It was risky, and you had to have balls to pull it off. For a while Sheehan had managed to juggle those balls in the air as he robbed Peter to pay Paul, but eventually the whole thing had
collapsed like a drunken sailor, and Sheehan hadn’t managed to disappear before the Gardai came a-calling.

Sheehan narrowed his eyes and ground out his cigarette under the heel of his boot. He was decked out in his new green and gold uniform – knife-edge creases in the trousers, gold buttons
shining, black boots polished to within an inch of their life. He was hot, uncomfortable and he’d nearly lamped the auld bitch one when she gave him the uniform. Green and gold? He was a
Unionist all the way. Green and feckin’ gold? If it hadn’t been for that insult he might have stuck with his original plan of heisting the diamonds. Now he was going to make this job
really worth his while. Sheehan had a grudging admiration for the auld wans. But it wasn’t going to stop him relieving them of some of the cash. It would be like taking candy from a baby.

“Well, Dora, how much have we made?” Letty put her feet up on the rented Georgian table in the drawing room, popped the cork of a magnum of Dom Perignon and opened
a packet of pork scratchings.

Dora entered the final few numbers into the laptop. “Just short of 4 million euros. Not too shabby.” She opened one of the miniature bottles of Tia Maria that she’d stolen off
the trolley on the EasyJet flight over from Luton the week before, clinked it against the bottle of champagne in Letty’s hand and knocked it back.

“Piece of piss, Dora. Piece of piss.” Two enormous trunks were open at Letty’s feet, each of them half full of clothes. “I checked the flight to Rio. We need to be at the
airport in an hour or so. Sheehan should be back in a few minutes to drive us.”

“And here I am,
ladies.
” Sheehan lounged in the doorway, a smile on his thin lips.

Letty dragged herself back into Countess mode, removed her feet from the table and gently placed the half empty champagne bottle down, burping in a ladylike manner as she did so. “Ah,
Sheehan, please could you take these trunks to the car.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think you and I and Dora here need to have a nice wee chat, about an equitable sharing of the proceeds of your day at the races. It’s only fair after
all.”

He moved to where Dora had been sitting and turned the laptop round to face him. “4 million euros, eh? And what are two auld bitches like yerselves going to do with 4 million euros? A nice
old peoples’ home should set you back a couple of thousand at the most. I might let you have 10,000 or so, just so you can keep yourselves in Rich Tea Biscuits.”

Letty jumped up from the sofa and took a couple of tottering steps towards him. Sheehan picked up the plane tickets lying next to the laptop and laughed, as Letty and Dora stared at him
wide-eyed and open-mouthed, dewlaps quivering in unison.

“And yez think yez are heading off to Argentina with your ill-gotten gains?”

“Brazil,” muttered Letty, as she regained her composure, hefted the half empty magnum of champagne, and swung it at the back of his head with as much vigour as she’d once used
to whip politicians and High Court judges into submission in her previous career. “Rio de Janeiro is in Brazil, you stupid fucking little twat.” She dropped the champagne bottle onto
Sheehan’s rat-like face as he lay on the floor staring blankly upwards. As the bottle smashed his nose Letty said “That’ll teach you, you little wanker,” and wiped her hands
on her skirt.

Colm O’Neil knocked on the door of the Georgian Townhouse, his home-made collecting tin in hand. If he’d chosen to use his IT degree wisely he could have had a
future. But he didn’t like to get up in the morning so, instead, he’d printed out some imposing looking business cards and brochures for a charity proclaiming itself “The Holy
Sisters of Perpetual Misery” and spent his afternoons fleecing Dublin’s tourists and residents alike of the odd 20 euros. Just enough to get himself a wee carry-out from the offy and a
couple of ounces of the finest cannabis from his dealer in Gardiner Street.

An elderly lady opened the door and looked at him calmly, a smaller woman fluttering behind her like a stressed-out moth. Quickly sizing them up – the well-cut suits, the jewels adorning
their necks and fingers, the general aura of wealth, Colm decided to go for broke. “Howya ladies. I’m collecting for The Holy Sisters, and wondered if you’d be after sparing 50
euros for a good cause?” He rattled his tin to tempt them.

“Certainly young man, do come in.” The non-fluttering woman opened the door wider and he stepped into the hall. Two huge old-fashioned trunks and several smaller bags were in the
hallway, coats draped over them. “You’ve just caught us on our way out. We’re waiting for a taxi to take us to the airport.” The woman looked at him appraisingly for a long
moment and then rummaged in her handbag. Pulling out a large wallet she gave him a hundred euros. “A fine strapping young chap like you – I wonder if you’d do us a small favor.
Would you take these two trunks here to the dump? We just . . . don’t have the time. And although they’re on wheels they’re terribly heavy and my sister and I are not as young as
we used to be. It’s just some old papers and old clothes that we don’t want.”

Colm practically snatched off her hand to get to the 100 euro note. “Sure, and whyever not.”

“I just need to put a couple more things in.” The woman disappeared into a room to the left, came out a couple of minutes later and slid a fat envelope into a compartment at the side
of one of the trunks.

Colm lifted the handle of the brown trunk. She was right. It was heavy. Maybe he should ask for 200 euros. Still, there might be something inside worth having – he didn’t want to
appear too greedy. “Have a lovely trip ladies. And thank you. The Sisters of Perpetual Misery will bless you.”

Letty and Dora sat in Business Class with their feet up, watching
Ocean’s Eleven
on the screen in front of them as they sipped their champagne on the flight to
Rio.

Dora smiled happily. “Letty, that nice young man is going to open the trunks, isn’t he, dear?”

“Of course he is Dora. He won’t be able to resist.”

“What do you think he’ll do when he finds those nicely packaged portions of Mr Sheehan?”

“I have absolutely no idea. But hopefully the 10,000 euros I also put in the trunk will offset the horrible shock.” Letty studied George Clooney on the screen as he scammed the Las
Vegas casino out of a fortune. “Dora, do you know if they have casinos in Rio?”

Len Deighton

It was handwritten in a bold, attractive and well-formed writing style, on a cream-coloured heavy paper. There was a small crease on the corner but there was no sign of fading
and the colour was the same on both front and back. Held to the light, this single sheet revealed a watermark of a floral design that I did not recognize. The upper edge of the sheet was slightly
rough as if it might have been torn from a writing pad, but it may have been because the paper was handmade. Most significantly, the writing varied in ink density. The sentences started in a strong
dark greyish-blue and then faded slightly as happens when writing with an old-fashioned pen frequently dipped into a bottle of ink.

Sherlock Holmes and the
Titanic
Swindle

It was a raw and foggy night in early December when Holmes and I sat either side of a blazing fire in our sitting room in Baker Street. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland
Yard was there. He was likely to call in on us of an evening, and Sherlock Holmes always welcomed him, as he liked to hear the latest news from police headquarters. On this particular evening
Lestrade puffed at his cigar and was uncustomarily quiet. “It’s this terrible disaster,” said Lestrade, shaking his head sadly.

“ Some fine old families will be mourning still,” I said.

“There are fears abroad that this failure of an unsinkable vessel could deliver a crippling blow to our whole shipbuilding industry,” said Holmes. “I can reveal that I have
already been in contact with the captain, the helmsman and several others who were on watch at the time. I am presenting my spiritual research to the directors of the White Star Line. There remain
many unanswered questions.”

“Surely not?” said Lestrade. “ The
Titanic
struck an iceberg, was ripped open and sank. How can there be a mystery concerning it?”

“The
Titanic,
was it?” said Holmes. He waited a long time before continuing. “There is not one article; not one piece of flotsam or jetsam bearing the name
Titanic.”
He watched our faces and then answered the tacit question. “ ‘White Star Line’ yes, but not one item with the word
Titanic.”