Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

A shell exploded a dozen yards from them. Both men ducked, crouching automatically.

Silence again.

Slowly Joseph unbent.

Holt lifted his head. “You’re a hard man, Chaplain. I misjudged you.”

“Spiritual care, Captain,” Joseph said quietly. “You wanted the men to think you a hero, to admire you. Now you’re going to justify that and become one.”

Holt stood still, looking toward him in the gloom, then slowly he turned and began to walk away, his feet sliding on the wet duckboards. Then he climbed up the next fire step and up over the parapet.

Joseph stood still and prayed.

Just a glimpse across the graveyard at a hundred yards and he knew that milking her dry would pose no problem at all.

To an ordinary person she was a sad-looking woman in her forties, fat thighs bulging as she bent forward to replace the dying flowers before the gravestone with a fresh bouquet.

But to Daniel Norris she stank of need. The need for company. The need for human warmth. The need for someone to lavish kindness upon. So acute was his ability to sniff out and exploit vulnerability, she may as well have held a loudhailer to her lips and announced to the cemetery, “In sickness and in health, please, God, give me someone to care for.”

He slid into the shadow of a moss-furred crypt and waited for her to pass. As he stood there out of the weak October sun, a breeze whispered between the graves and a shiver ran through him. The ugly clacking of two crows squabbling in a nearby yew tree masked the sound of her approaching steps, but he soon heard the crunch of gravel as her stout legs took her back towards the gates, hair dull and brown, head held up in an attempt to bravely face the grey afternoon.

As soon as she was out of sight he hurried over to the grave she had just left. The headstone was new. He sneered at her tacky taste. Shiny black marble topped by two maudlin cherubs trumpeting a silent lament to an unhearing God. His eyes scanned quickly over the inscription, letters chiselled out then painted with a layer of fake gold. Something about her babies now being with the angels. His eyebrows raised in slight surprise: He had assumed it was a husband and not young ones she’d lost. Not that it mattered to him. He knew she was alone in the world.

He studied the large and expensive bouquet. If this was the weekly ritual he suspected, she had plenty of cash to spare. He rubbed his hands together in the chill autumnal air. Wealthy widows were particularly easy to fleece.

Several days dragged by as he eked out an existence between dimly lit boozers and dingy bookies, their floors littered with torn paper slips. A win on the dogs on Friday provided some much-needed cash for the weekend. He combed his grey-flecked hair and put his blazer on over his only decent shirt. Then he treated himself to twenty Bensons, leaving the dented tin of rolling tobacco in his hostel room before heading to the Tap and Spile.

During a visit earlier in the week he’d read the small sign above the door and noted the licensee was a single woman. Jan Griffiths. He’d watched her from a shadowy corner, noticing the lack of wedding ring as she pulled the pints while keeping up an easy flow of conversation with her regulars. He’d liked her dyed blond hair, throaty laugh, and sparkling blue eyes.

Now he walked into the pub with an easy roll in his step, one hand in his pocket. Confident and at ease with his place in the world. He slid his thin frame onto a barstool, nodded at her with a wolfish half-smile, then watched as she registered the expression. He knew it never failed to pique the interest of her type.

“You look like the cat who’s got the cream,” she stated, a wary curiosity in her voice.

“Do I?” he said, taking the twenties from his pocket. “Just got some good news on a business deal I’m in town for. A bottle of your best champagne, please.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She smiled, pleased to be filling the till so early in the evening. “I’ll need to get it from upstairs. How many glasses would you like?” she replied, eyes moving to the empty seats behind him.

“Well, I’m hoping you won’t make me drink it alone. So, two, please.”

She smiled again, turning on her heel and looking back at him over her shoulder. “Never can say no to a bit of bubbly,” she said archly, hips swinging slightly as she headed for the stairs.

Peeling the cellophane from his cigarettes, he looked around the cosy pub at the scattering of drinkers quietly sipping their pints. A warm glow spread across his chest. “Nice place,” he said to himself, thinking he could get used to it.

She reappeared a minute later, bottle of Moet standing upright in the ice bucket in her hands. “One bottle of bubbly.”

He watched as she took the foil off and then expertly prised the cork loose with a soft pop. A small gush of foam emerged and his eyes wandered to her generous cleavage.

“So what’s the business deal?”

He glanced up, realising she’d seen where his eyes had strayed. She didn’t seem bothered. “Oh, a new retail development in the town centre,” he replied. During his first recce round town he’d spotted a large commercial property for sale. “The one next to that big Barclays.”

“On Prince’s Street?” She sounded impressed. “That’s massive. Have you bought it?”

“I wish,” he said with a smile. “I’m just the middleman between the vendor and the buyers. Venture capitalists from the Middle East. Still, I get my commission as a result.”

She placed two glasses on the bar and he nodded at them. “Will you be mum?”

She poured them both a drink and handed a glass to him. “Well, here’s to your deal.”

“Thanks.”

They clinked glasses and he took a large sip, briefly savouring the sensation of bubbles popping against the roof of his mouth before swallowing it down. “Delicious,” he sighed, offering her a cigarette out of the new pack.

“So where are you from?” she asked, taking one and leaning against the bar.

He reached for the cheap disposable lighter in his pocket, but changed his mind. “Have you any matches?”

She flicked him a book and he lit their cigarettes. “Wherever business takes me,” he replied. “I’ll be in town for a while yet, tying up loose ends of this deal, sorting out planning permission for the shops.”

“It’s going to be a shopping centre, then?”

“That’s the intention. My clients want retail units put in, then they’ll offer out the space to the usual suspects. Boots, Topshop, WH Smith, and the like.”

He took another sip, aware of her eyes assessing him, and he realised she’d have heard countless tales of bullshit across the bar.

“So how long have you been in the pub game?” he asked casually.

“Donkey’s years.” She laughed. “It’s all I know.”

“You run a nice place here,” he said, glancing round.

She gave a small smile. “It’s not bad. Business-wise, I mean. The big pubs they’ve opened in the centre have taken away a few customers, but mainly the younger ones. I prefer a quieter crowd.”

He refilled their glasses. “Absolutely. Not enough places like this left.”

She moved away to serve another customer and he almost drained his glass, wondering how quickly she’d come back to him. To his satisfaction, it was almost straightaway.

The allure of strangers. Deciding not to push things too early, he finished his drink and patted the tops of his thighs. “Well, I’d better be off. My clients are taking me to dinner at seven o’clock.”

Her eyes went to the unfinished bottle. “What about your champagne?”