The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime, Volume 8

1

“White and red, Richard!” said Caroline Sanderson as she lay on her massive four-poster bed massaging her temples. She did this at the start of each day, saying that it helped her focus, as if White House level decisions awaited her. She propped herself up on her elbows and exhaled deeply.

“But, whatever you do, don’t buy bloody Chardonnay. Everybody hates Chardonnay now, you know? It’s so unfashionable,” she continued. “Remember, okay?”

Richard resisted the temptation to ask her how, pray tell, a human’s taste buds could be affected by the fickle whims of what was considered fashionable but he knew from experience that he’d be pissing in the wind.

Caroline was in a planet far, far away from him these days. And all the better for it. Her voice was starting to sound like a squeaking gate or a leaky tap dripping throughout a sleepless night.

Richard was bursting to get out of the house. His hangover was surprisingly mild; fighting the tedium of the night before’s New Year’s Eve party at the Oxo Tower, he’d got sloshed and satisfied himself with a few sneaky tokes of wacky backy in the toilets with one of the glamorous Eastern European waitresses. Anyway, it wasn’t the drink that gave him headaches these days.

Richard walked into the migraine-bright bathroom. The face in the bathroom mirror wasn’t exactly what you’d call handsome but neither was it particularly ugly. A lived-in face, perhaps. With more lines than the London Underground, though.

Well, he was a kick in the arse off fifty and teetering on the precipice of a mid life crisis. What did he expect?

He was lucky, though, in that, unlike most of his mates, he hadn’t developed a beer belly. The fake, black Hugo Boss suit fit him as well as it had fifteen years ago when he’d bought it in Bangkok, in fact. The fact that he still wore it pissed Caroline off no end, which was an added bonus, of course.

Richard straightened his tie in the bedroom mirror, picked up his stainless-steel briefcase and headed downstairs, barely noticing his long-neglected guitar that was propped up in the corner.

“Oh, and Richard. Could you pop into Muji and get some of that string stuff?” shouted Caroline as he reached the bottom stair.

“Eh?” said Richard.

“You know, it was in Australian Elle? To make the plant pots look more rustic.”

Richard grunted an affirmative but he was already on his way out of the door; the more he listened to Caroline, the more he felt as if he was drowning in a well of disappointment. He supposed he should have asked her a little more about who was going to be at the dinner party but the weight of numb indifference overwhelmed him. Probably the usual hodgepodge of fourth-tier media tossers and middle-management wankers, he guessed.

Richard got into his Mercedes, threw his briefcase on to the back seat and opened up the glove compartment. He took out a fist-sized hip flask. Drinking in the morning — especially when he had a drive south of the river to Vinopolis — probably wasn’t the best idea in the world but it would help him keep his life at arm’s length. He thought of the W.C. Fields line: “She drove me to drink, it’s the one thing I’m indebted to her for.”

Richard pushed the hip flask into his jacket pocket and opened a packet of L&M cigarettes. He took a big hit and gazed up at his six-bedroom West London home. There was only him and Caroline living there but it still felt claustrophobic, suffocating.

One of his old mates had referred to it as Xanadu — like the cavernous house in Citizen Kane; stuffed with “the loot of all the world” but containing nothing Kane’s wife “really cared about”.

Roxy Music’s “In Every Dream Home a Heartache” corkscrewed through Richard’s mind every night as he walked up the garden path after another uneventful day at work.

Richard buckled up and started the engine. He switched on the radio and Dexy’s Midnight Runners were singing “Burn It Down” as he pulled out of the driveway into Sycamore Road. Not a bad idea, he thought. Not bad at all.

He turned into Bath Road and headed south. It was a cold, granite-coloured morning. He stared out of the car window, barely focusing on the rows of detached houses being smudged by the January rain. For a while he drove aimlessly, listening to the music.

Ten years of this he thought. You’d get less for murder.

2

“Learned it from Andy McNab books, didn’t I, Ken?” said Big Jim, cleaning the blood from the dagger. He threw the stainless-steel briefcase on to the back seat of his red Jag.

“You stab ’em under the ribcage, see? So the blade isn’t deflected by bone and then you puncture the heart and twist,” he continued.

Kenny Rogan wheezed as he lifted Half-Pint Harry’s body from the ground. Shit, I’m out of condition, he thought. Once a semi-professional footballer now a full-time barfly. He’d even given up the Blue Anchor’s Sunday league and he got a hot flush when he bent down to fasten his shoe laces.

Big Jim nodded as he took the legs. Jim was as much use as a condom in a convent most of the time, thought Kenny, but when it came to the heavy lifting he was the man for the job; built like a brick shithouse and bearing more than a passing resemblance to one too. His face was so lived-in, even squatters wouldn’t stay there.

“Looks a mess, eh, Kenny?” said Big Jim.

“Was no oil painting when he were alive, mind you. Would make a good Jackson Pollock, though, eh?” said Kenny. “Picasso, even...”

“Jackson Bollocks, more like it.” said Jim, with a 5,000-watt grin.

“Very droll, James. Very sharp. You’ll be cutting yourself if you’re not too careful,” said Kenny.

They stuffed the body in the boot of the Jaguar and slammed it shut. The car was Jim’s pride and joy. He’d had it since it was new and he considered it a classic car from back in the good old days.

Jim was a man who didn’t like change. An ageing Teddy boy, his car even had an old eight-track cartridge that exclusively played the two Eddies — Eddie Cochran and Duane Eddy.

“Right annoying fucker, though, eh? Non stop motormouth. Geordie twat,” said Jim.

Jim took the hosepipe and sprayed it around the lock up.

“Wasn’t a Geordie,” said Kenny.

“Eh?” said Jim.

Kenny grinned.

“Half-Pint Harry. He wasn’t from Newcastle. He was from Sunderland, James. Was a mackam,” he said.

“What’s a fackin’ mackam when it’s at home?” said Jim.

“A mackam’s... like a decaffeinated Geordie,” said Kenny, chuckling to himself.

“The north’s all the same to me,” said Big Jim.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Kenny. “Mushy peas, black pudding, pease pudding, fishy-wishy-fuckin’-dishy. I usually start to hear the duelling banjos from Deliverance as soon as I get north of Finchley.”

Jim wasn’t listening, though. He was rubbing a pair of black tights between the fingers of one hand and scrutinizing a pair of black patent leather high heels like they were a magic-eye painting.

“Not too keen on Plan B, then?” said Kenny with a grin as he dropped his trousers.

“Do we have to?” said Jim.

“Not much choice now that Half-Pint Harry’s worm meat. This clobber is our best front door key,” said Kenny.

He clumsily stripped to his snowman boxer shorts and struggled to pull a gold sequined dress over his shaven head.

3

“You go the Lord Albert last night?” said Lynne, before using the Clarkeson’s Jewellers complimentary pen to snort a hill of cocaine. Eight o’clock on New Year’s Day wasn’t the best time for her to start work and she knew she’d need a little lift.

She passed the pen to George. It was mass-produced shit and the Brixton address had been misspelled but then Clarkeson’s were cheap bastards. They’d made money hand over fist over the last few years but still cut costs wherever they could.

Lynne had been manager there for four years now and had only had one pay rise. It was a trap but there she was in her mid forties, single and under-qualified. She didn’t exactly have a bucket-load of choices.

“Oh, I did,” said George, “but it was completely dead. As much fun as Morrissey’s stag night.” He took a big snort.

Lynne checked her make-up in the mirror and pushed up her breasts, her best asset, she thought.

“Somewhere to park your bike,” said George looking at her cleavage.

Lynne tossed her dyed red hair back dramatically.

“Sure you don’t want me to turn you straight, Georgy Porgy?” she said, almost rubbing her breasts in George’s face.

She was only half joking. George was a good-looking lad. Tall, blond and half her age. And he was always immaculately dressed. He was a cut above the rough and tumble types she met in the Brixton Hill Arms. However, he was as camp as Christmas, unfortunately.

“Mmmm,” said George. “Well, maybe if I can flip you over and play your B-side!” he guffawed, loud and vulgar, as Lynne battered him with a feather duster.

4

Kenny and Big Jim sang “Summertime Blues” at the top of their voices.

Kenny held the steering wheel in his left hand and checked his make-up in the mirror. It was a good job he’d shaved that morning, he thought. The stubble still showed, though. He adjusted his curly blond wig as he pulled up at a pelican crossing and waited for a staggering smackhead to wobble across the road.

Kenny usually loved driving in London on a Bank Holiday; there was almost no traffic, leaving the city to the real Londoners. But today was New Year’s Day and it was like a zombie scene from Dawn of the Dead with the overspill from the night before’s parties wandering the streets.

As he raced down Walworth Road he swerved around the Elephant and Castle roundabout, narrowly missing a group of rat-boys being chased by a red-faced Santa Claus; he started to feel nostalgic.

“Remember the sixties, Jim?”

“Just about,” said Jim, opening up a can of Stella and handing one to Kenny who held the steering wheel with one hand as he opened it.

“August Bank Holiday Monday. Brighton Beach. Mods versus Rockers. Kicking ten bags of shit out of those little twats on hairdryers.”

“Happy days,” said Jim.

Kenny sipped his can of Stella, gazed at the fading bat-wing tattoos on his hands and remembered a drunken night at a Brighton tattoo parlour that then segued into the time he first met his wife, Deborah. Ex-wife now, of course.

Twenty-five years ago now. There’d been a lot of booze under the bridge since then, he thought.

“Grab a bunch of them,” said Kenny. He threw a well-stuffed wallet to Big Jim. Jim opened it up and pulled out a wad of cash. “More leaves than you’d see in a cabbage patch, eh?” said Kenny. “Help yourself. Half-Pint Harry doesn’t need them.”

“Won’t Uncle Frank want this?” said Jim, an edge in his voice.

“It’s a little bonus from Frank, James. He don’t give a toss as long as he gets that back,” said Kenny. He gestured over his shoulder towards the shining metallic briefcase.

“After we get rid of Half-Pint Harry and do this next little job we can head off down the Blue for a gargle, eh?”

Jim fiddled with his bra strap and adjusted his long blond wig.

“Great minds drink alike, Kenny,” he said.

5

Lynne wiped her nose and looked up as a black Jaguar pulled up outside the shop.

“No way! Customers at this time of the morning?” said Lynne, putting on an extra layer of make-up. “It’s New Year’s Day. We’re supposed to be shut.”

“Now, you know that Mrs Clarkeson says that we have a no closing policy. Tight twat, that she is,” said George.

“They’ll have to wait until we’ve finished the stock-taking,” said Lynne, indignantly.

The car door slammed and two tall, glittery blondes got out, wearing more gold than you’d find in Fort Knox or on Jimmy Savile.

“No! Russian Princess alert,” said George, perking up.

Russians usually spent a fortune and he worked on commission. The men — bullet heads with no necks — terrified him but the women usually seemed to take a shine to him.

“We’ve got to let them in, I’m off to Barcelona next weekend.”

Lynne just shrugged and finished off the cocaine.

“Time for some serious rimming,” said George.

Lynne grimaced.

“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” said George. He wiped the white powder from his nose, pressed the button to open the security door and painted on a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.

“Morning, ladies,” he beamed. Then he saw the Glock and his jaw dropped so much you could have scraped carpet fluff from his bottom lip.

Lynne screamed as glass from the shattered cabinet showered her and pebble-dashed her face.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Kenny, pressing the gun against George’s left eye as Jim stuffed a big black bag with jewels.

6

“I’m as happy as a pig in shit,” said Kenny, swigging on his can of Stella and swerving the car around the corner into Druid Lane. He pulled off the wig and threw it on to the back seat.

“Let’s have a butcher’s at this,” said Jim, wiping the make-up from his face. He leaned into the back of the car and pulled the bag of jewels towards him. He opened the bag and took a swig of Stella.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Jim. The beer he’d spilt over his crotch was cold. He started rubbing at the wet patch.

“Looks like you’re enjoying that,” said Kenny.

“Sure you’re not shaking hands with the one-eyed milkman?” They both howled with laughter and then Kenny froze.

“Bollocks!” said Kenny, as a white Mercedes hurtled towards them.

Richard was feeling pretty smug. It had been an effort but he’d managed to find as many bottles of Chardonnay as his credit card would allow. He deliberated over stopping off for a swifty in one of the striptease pubs that were bound to be open, even on New Year’s Day. He felt bloody good.

He felt the urge for another nip from the hip flask. Resisting the temptation, he fumbled in the back of the Mercedes’ glove compartment for a CD.

“Shit,” said Richard. As he looked up, The Best of The Undertones in his hand, he saw a black Jaguar career toward him.

“It’s a one way...” Richard floored the pedal and swerved the car away. He bounced the Mercedes on to the pavement.

Kenny swerved and slammed into a wall between a kebab shop and a pound shop. The airbag deployed, punching him in the stomach.

Fuck, he was trapped. Taking a deep breath, he struggled in his trouser pocket for his Swiss army knife and punctured the airbag which deflated with a wheeze.

He struggled out of his seat, the radiator hissing like a snake as the steam escaped. The car alarm was wailing and Big Jim didn’t look too good at all.

Richard staggered out of his car and saw the Jag: a face was sliding down the passenger-door window like a snail leaving a trail of blood.

“Christ...” he said.

“Hey, you.”

He looked up and saw a bald transvestite stumble out of the mashed Jag carrying a big black bag, spilling necklaces and jewels, in one hand and a silver briefcase in the other.

Richard fumbled in his pocket for his phone and felt cold steel against his forehead.

“I’m taking your car,” said Kenny, who looked as dazed and confused as Robert Plant. “And you’re driving.”

Shit, Richard thought, as he heard the approaching sirens in the distance. Why not? Can’t be any worse than Caroline’s dinner party.