Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

She pulled the phone from her ear and threw it against a partly-built wall. It smashed. She let out a noise like she’d been punched, started with: “Ahhhh, nooooo.”

I passed her and she spun my way.

Her: “How, yeh gorra tab, mate?”

I shook my head.

Her: “Howeh, yeh got any spare change, like?”

She got in my way.

I smiled at her, showed her all my teeth. Nodded like I was going to give her something, like I was reaching for my wallet. Should’ve seen her eyes light up at that. Like, fuckin’ hell, he’s gonna givvus fuckin’ NOTES.

I showed her the gun.

Took her a moment to realize what it was, still matching my smile.

When I clicked the barrel against her rotting teeth, her eyes took on the sheen of the newly-weeping. And I opened my mouth wide in a silent scream, felt my jaw click with the effort.

Hers wasn’t silent.

But I let her run. It was funny. A heel snapped off and she almost went pocked arse over sagging tit. I laughed.

Just another cracked skeleton in this fucked up town, disappearing into the night.

And then I walked some more, made sure to replace the gun under my armpit. I knew I could draw easily now. Something that’d bugged me up till now. Because I needed to be swift when the time came.

God, my wife. Why was she my wife?

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Same as an angel. Same as an angel was supposed to look.

Stood about five foot eight in heels. Had a walk to her that made the trousers tight.

She was my wife. I was bound to think that. But everyone thought that. Could turn a bender straight, make a dyke out of a cocklover. But she was an angel, too. You couldn’t look at her and not see that. She wasn’t about the fucking sex. That wasn’t her. She was about love. Beauty.

And look what he did to her. Look what he made her into.

I found the place easily enough. Been by here enough times to know this was his office. I’d phoned ahead to make sure he was in, too. When I pressed the buzzer on the intercom, a gruff voice answered:

“What?”

“Here to see Harry Grace.”

“He expecting you?”

“I phoned.”

“Right.”

The buzzer sounded again. I went in. Couldn’t see much in the corridor. Might’ve been the giant with the square head blocking out the strip light. Looked like a huge clone of Tor Johnson.

Big Tor: “Go upstairs.”

Me: “Right.”

I went upstairs. Knocked on the door to his office. It smelled bad in here, like aftershave from the seventies.

A voice from inside: “Come in.”

I did.

Set the scene, make it plausible. A huge office, like the entire top floor of the building. Like someone took an entire safari park and buckshot the fucking lot across the walls. Leopard print, tiger stripes, that dull yellow fur of the lion, the black and white zebra. The lot. Scatter cushions and a fucking glitter ball hanging from the ceiling. Along the walls posters of straight-to-video releases: Airtight Bitch; Hot Fudge Sunday; Lesbos Lactation. Bean bags. Somewhere a stereo plays classical music, throwing my synapses out of whack.

Silvia Saint sitting on a bean bag in a yellow bikini. Except it wasn’t Silvia Saint. It was an older version of Silvia Saint. Covered in downy blonde fluff. Looked closer and her fingernails were filed to points. Something wrong with her eyes, and they were cat contact lenses. Blonde hair scooped back to reveal two pointed ears and when she opened her kewpie mouth to hiss at me, she had fangs.

“Easy, Kitty.”

Coming from the end of the office, waaay down there. A massive desk, shining. Covered in leather. The man liked his animals. Loved skinning them, making them into decorations. Flash on Ed Gein and understand the whole fucking room.

“You come to audition?”

Every inch the erotic entrepreneur. Cypriot, I thought. Something not English, anyway, but he had a plummy accent that sounded like he’d learned the language from Charles Hawtrey. Had a belly on him, straining at his dress shirt. A Nehru jacket hanging on a stand behind him. Big cuffs, bigger cuff links catching the light and throwing it in my face.

Me: “No, I’ve not come to audition.”

Him: “You sure? You look like the type.”

“What’s the type?”

“You.”

Kitty hissed some more. Heard the rustle of the bean bag. Wanted to put that gun in her fucking face and pull the trigger. Wound up? Aye. Wound up like a fucking spring.

Me, squinting, my best Clint: “I’ve come about Liz Fairbride.”

Him: “Who the fuck’s Liz Fairbride? And what you packing there, son?”

“You what?”

“What you got? You able to rise on cue?”

“I’m not auditioning. Liz Fairbride.”

“I don’t know her.”

“You know her.”

“I don’t.”

Kitty growled.

Me: “Put a leash on your pussy.”

Him: “Kitty. Stay put, love.”

Harold Grace, all fifty-seven years of him, pulled himself around his desk and knocked on a cabinet. As he opened the top, music played and his face illuminated. He pulled out a crystal decanter filled with something yellow. “You want a drink?”

I shook my head.

“Amber Raines.”

He poured himself a drink and turned. Said: “What?”

“Amber Raines. You made her change her name.”

“Amber Raines.” He sipped his drink. His lip retreated up his gums as he swallowed. “I know Amber Raines. She’s the pisser.”

I started unzipping my jacket.

“She was a good little actress. You sure you don’t want to audition?”

“Getting comfortable. Go on.”

“She was a good actress. Wasn’t pretty enough to be a star, but she had talent in the watersports. Give as well as receive. She got off on it.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Nice tits. Nipples like tent pegs.”

Kitty growled some more, ended it with a loud hiss.

Grace: “You like Kitty?”

Me: “No.”

Another drink, another show of teeth. “Kitty’s a star. Feral Pink. Big market for it. Kinkier the better. Some men… Some men like their women hirsute. That’s all real, all that hair on her. She grows it herself. I don’t go for the fake stuff. Like my movies, they’re all real tits. None of the silicone shite. Can’t stand it. So you’re a fan of Amber Raines?”

I shook my head.

“I didn’t know her real name was Liz, like.”

Keep talking.

He kept talking.

“Blast from the past, Amber Raines. Christ, what is she now? Like forty or something? But she was fucking good and a good fuck, know what I mean? What, you like the vintage shite? I got plenty of classic stuff for you. Thinking about-”

– thinking about pulling the gun now-

“- a line of retro-movies. You got all this coverage of Deep Throat and Debbie Does Dallas , people get these movies thinking they’re gonna be real-”

– DEAD real DEAD-

“- hardcore stuff and it’s all tits and arse, know what I mean?”

YOU KILLED HER

Me, softly: “You killed her.”

Harold Grace stood there with his glass halfway up to his lips. A pause, then he drank. More teeth, this time bared like a wild animal.

Him: “Who are you?”

Wanting him to know.

Telling him now.

Me: “I’m her husband.”

He spluttered. Laughed. HA HA HA. You’re joking, mate. You’re out of your mind. I didn’t know Amber had a fucking HUSBAND. She got a husband, Kitty? You hear that? And Kitty made a noise like a cat laughing, a weird choo-choo-huff sound. And you’re her husband. What are you, fucking twenty or something? And you’re her hus-

First shot cracked like a bullwhip, like Indy Jones’ whip, WAP.