Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology] Read online

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  Guilty Consciences

  A CWA Anthology

  Ed by Martin Edwards

  No copyright 2012 by MadMaxAU eBooks

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  CONTENTS

  Foreword Peter James

  Introduction Martin Edwards

  Just Popped In Robert Barnard

  Hector’s Other Woman Ann Cleeves

  The Golden Hour Bernie Crosthwaite

  Expulsion from Eden Judith Cutler

  Together in Electric Dreams Carol Anne Davis

  Squeaky Martin Edwards

  All That Glisters Jane Finnis

  Just Two Clicks Peter James

  The Visitor H.R.F. Keating

  The Case of the Vanishing Vagrant:

  An Inspector Faro Mystery Alanna Knight

  Deck the Halls with Poison, Ivy Susan Moody

  From Minor to Major:

  A Case for Jack Colby Amy Myers

  The Unknown Crime Sarah Rayne

  He Did Not Always See Her Claire Seeber

  Conned L.C. Tyler

  The Train Dan Waddell

  Masks for Every Occasion Yvonne Walus

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  FOREWORD

  Various people, including Abraham Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin and Blaise Pascal are credited with the immortal words: ‘I am sorry I wrote you such a long letter; if I’d had more time, I would have written a much shorter one. ‘

  This is the mantra that every writer should have repeating over and over inside their head, along with that invaluable truism, Less is more.

  Good writing is about firing the reader’s imagination with as few words as possible, not describing something in such elaborate detail that the reader feels exhausted and swamped, as if buried beneath a collapsed pallet of remaindered thesauruses. That is something I love about the short story genre: there is little room for elaborate description, as you will see in some of the brilliant works in this gem of a collection.

  Guilty consciences? The contributing authors here? Moi included? Guilty about writing such long stories when they could have been so much shorter? I don’t think so. Each of these is a tight, sharp, delight.

  I believe the short story is long overdue for a renaissance, and the ideal literary form for our increasingly busy, time-poor modern lives. What better for a quick read between tube station stops, or using your e-reader to turn a tedious airport security queue into fifteen minutes of surprises and delight?

  Enough said! I would hate to be accused of rambling. Or to have to explain to you that if I’d had more time . . .

  Copyright Peter James, 2011

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  INTRODUCTION

  Following the successful publication of Original Sins last year, it gives me great pleasure to welcome readers to Guilty Consciences, the latest anthology of fiction by members of the Crime Writers’ Association. And I am delighted that the book is again published by Severn House, whose list now includes many distinguished crime writers, including a number of the contributors whose work features in this collection.

  The stories offer many different takes on the theme of guilty consciences, and the contributors are a varied, as well as highly talented, bunch. Two of them - Bob Barnard and the late Harry Keating - earned the genre’s highest accolade, the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger, Ann Cleeves currently has a very successful TV series, Vera, based on her novels, and Peter James is pretty much a fixture in the bestselling lists. But apart from these stellar names, I have been keen to include stories written by several of the most gifted members of the new generation of crime writers, such as Dan Waddell, Len Tyler, Bernie Crosthwaite and Claire Seeber. All the contributions have been written specially for this volume, with one particular exception.

  Harry Keating, amongst many other achievements during a long and illustrious career as a crime writer and critic, chaired the CWA and edited two of its anthologies; following his death earlier this year, I thought it would be fitting to include a story by him. His widow, Sheila Mitchell, responded very positively, and identified ‘The Visitor’ as highly suitable for inclusion in this particular book, and was even kind enough to retype the manuscript. This story, which features Harry’s most famous character, Inspector Ghote, has only previously appeared in a Penguin India collection, thirteen years ago. It is a characteristically original tale, and readers should bear in mind that Harry’s first two names were Henry Reymond. I hope that the appearance of ‘The Visitor’ is a suitable tribute to a writer of great distinction who showed many personal kindnesses to a host of colleagues in the literary world over the years.

  Peter James is Harry’s latest successor as chair of the CWA and I am grateful that he has found time in his busy schedule not only to write a foreword to this book but also to contribute a story. My thanks also go to Sheila and all the contributors for their cooperation and patience whilst the book was put together, as well as to the team at Severn House for all their hard work on production and marketing.

  Martin Edwards

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  JUST POPPED IN

  Robert Barnard

  Robert Barnard received the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger in recognition of his sustained and outstanding contribution to crime writing over many years. In addition to his many novels and short stories, his publications include an acclaimed study of the work of Agatha Christie.

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  W

  hat do you think you’re doing?’ said Claudia. The voice was standard middle class with no genteel aggression to it. On the sofa the black youth looked up from the TV zapper and then back again to it. Not even a smile at Claudia.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he said finally.

  ‘I probably will be when I’ve absorbed the shock. You shouldn’t go around taking over other people’s houses. Breaking in, I call it.’

  ‘Do you? Well you shouldn’t. I just popped in. I let myself in with a key.’

  ‘Your old key. I forgot all about that. You didn’t have the courtesy to leave it behind when you left.’

  ‘There were lots of kids around with keys. I forget who you were fostering then. Kylie, Ben “call me Benjamin” and - who else? - Alfons. Did you ever find out whether that really was his name?’

  ‘Alfonso. It sounds perfectly normal in Spanish. Can’t you stop fiddling with that thing?’

  ‘With wh—? Oh, the zapper. Sure.’

  He put it on the coffee table in front of him, but he occasionally cast longing glances at it, as if he yearned for normality to be resumed. Claudia’s gaze at him was cooler. Nice build, her eyes said: workouts at gyms, but only occasional, not long daily schedules or anything like that. No absurd biceps, but she approved of his sturdy legs under the worn denim of his trousers. His face - generally amiable and almost inviting, as Claudia vividly remembered. Less genial now, though.

  ‘Do you have a room or a flatlet - somewhere to live?’ asked Claudia.

  ‘I moved back with my mother,’ said the black boy.

  ‘Good God, Graham,’ said Claudia, genuinely concerned. ‘Is that wise? Your mother was the reason you were here.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. You never knew the half of it. My mother’s got breast cancer. She hasn’t got the upper hand any longer. I do what I think is right, and she has to conform. The balance of power has shifted completely. I’m boss. I’ve got the upper hand.’

  Claudia’s voice took on a schoolmistressy tinge. ‘I wasn’t thinking of who’s physically the more powerful. Your mum had the upper hand because she was mentally stronger, more ruthless, more able to hurt you. That was her strength.’

&n
bsp; ‘Was,’ said Graham.

  ‘I’ve known lots of people who suddenly took over - or thought they would - when the partner became ill. It never worked out as they wanted it to. They just became slaves to the incurable one, and for the rest of their lives as often as not. You’re either the dominant partner or you’re not.’

  ‘And you think I’m not?’ said Graham, with a bleak smile.

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘You know so little. You don’t know what lay behind what happened in this house.’

  Claudia left a few moments’ silence. ‘Could you do with a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yeah . . . Got any of those cookies you used to bake?’

  ‘I’ve always got some . . . When did you learn to say “cookies”?’

  ‘The US of A - where else?’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘With a band. They thought it a real sensation having a black English band.’

  ‘Are you still playing?’

  ‘No. We went the way of all bands. But it was nice while it lasted.’

  She came through from the kitchen with a plateful of pallid biscuits. ‘Harry liked my oatmeal cakes as well.’

  Graham kept silent, but his mouth twisted into a derisory smile.

  ‘You can sneer, but it was Harry’s salary that made this place possible. That and his organizational abilities. You’d have had a far inferior foster home without Harry.’

  ‘You think so? Didn’t strike me like that. He never was quite sure of anyone’s name.’

  ‘Well there was a lot of coming and going - that’s in the nature of fostering.’

  ‘I know it was. But how do you think it went down with kids from normal backgrounds? “His Dad doesn’t even know his name”.’

  ‘You could have done worse. Far worse,’ said Claudia obstinately. ‘And you managed to take advantage of Harry’s absence.’

  ‘Oh, I did . . . Still as good as they always were, these oatcakes. Harry was right.’

  ‘He usually was ... I miss him dreadfully.’

  Graham began a sardonic smile at this false feeling, but changed it hurriedly to a gaze of sympathy.

  ‘Long marriages always leave one at the end to loneliness, I suppose. And you had the children as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Claudia, schoolmistressy again.

  ‘Did the authorities put a stop to that when Harry died?’

  ‘Not exactly. I expect it would have dwindled and stopped when they faced up to the fact that there was no father figure in the household. The ones left began to get a bit unruly. I could have faced it, developed a long-term strategy, but I suddenly decided I didn’t want it any more. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Oh, I can . . .’ He waved an arm at her. ‘I used to love those cups and saucers. And the contents - the typically English tea. I decided to have nothing but Wedgwood when I was grown up, and rich and famous.’

  ‘And have you done just that?’

  ‘No. I forgot about it.’ They laughed. ‘Children’s dreams sound silly when they come from adults.’

  ‘Yes. They reject their early decisions, and that’s perfectly natural.’

  ‘Though some of my dreams are still the same as when I was young . . . really young. You know, I think I was unfair to Harry just now.’

  ‘You were. Totally. He kept the place going.’

  ‘Maybe. I was just thinking about our names. That he didn’t know their names. It was just that he never used them. And he brushed them aside if anyone insisted on telling him their name. He had pet names for everyone, and that was what he used. Some of them have just come back to me. Kylie. That was “Shyly”. Harry didn’t really go for shyness, did he? It didn’t attract him, not one bit.’

  ‘He had his preferences just as all the foster parents did. It was natural.’

  ‘Maybe . . . yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘But he rejected nobody. All sorts of behaviour and preferences he could turn ... he could understand and accept.’

  ‘Good old Harry. That was very useful to you.’

  ‘To us. Don’t put blame all on one side.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t. That would have put the credit all on one side as well, and I wouldn’t want that . . . you didn’t keep the authorities happy, did you?’

  Claudia shrugged. ‘We - you and I - were normal people, an unusual couple. Relations like that are more common in central Europe than in dear old England. Or were at that time. The mature woman and the young chap exploring possibilities.’

  ‘Der Rosenkavalier,’ said Graham.

  ‘Is that that opera?’ asked Claudia.

  ‘I went to see it once in Chicago - enormous orchestra, three big soprano voices. It was like living off Black Forest gateau. I came away after two acts. You’re bound to get sick if you like a diet of chocolate and cream and super-sweet fruit.’

  ‘I’m sure. But it was never like that, was it? You weren’t like that, and neither was I. Always a dash of lemon juice or Fino sherry.’

  ‘If you say so. It all seemed pretty sweet and sickly to a sixteen-year-old released from the control of school or college. Though of course there was more than a touch of the school-marm in you.’

  ‘Maybe. Not a bad thing either . . . want some more tea?’

  Claudia made noises in the kitchen and came back with a fresh pot.

  She opened her mouth but Graham got in first.

  ‘We didn’t mention Corny.’

  Claudia put down the tray carefully. ‘Should we have?’

  ‘I think so. Today is the anniversary of her death.’

  ‘Oh, is it? She did all right in her way. Corny Turner, and the all-girl band. They never recovered from her suicide. She was the one who had talent. I think she’d say she had a pretty good life.’

  ‘Oh, you would, would you? I can’t say I would. I’d say she was one of those the world does nothing for.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ said Claudia briskly. ‘She was here for eighteen months. You’d know that. When her band - whatever you call that odd mixture of instruments - started getting engagements we suggested she go - too disturbing to a houseful of difficult children. She represented something they could aspire to but never attain. She was OK about it. Said she’d been wondering whether the time had come to leave.’

  ‘So she went out into the big wide world and made a life with her fellow “musicians” and their pretty-boy hangers-on.’

  ‘Was it so bad? You could have been one, but you never cared for the life there.’

  ‘I was one of the hangers-on; but no - I didn’t care for the life. That’s been my drawback. I never found a way of life I cared for.’

  ‘You were never one of the hangers-on. You had . . . other interests.’

  ‘So the other interest thought.’

  ‘She didn’t think - she knew. And Corny barely looked at you.’

  ‘I never suggested she was smitten. I was sixteen, she eighteen. She liked the experienced sort.’

  ‘Drink up your tea. It’ll be cold.’

  ‘Experienced, like Harry.’

  ‘Now you are being silly . . . One thing I always tried to do was take on only girls who would look ridiculous walking down a street with a respectable middle-aged man. Cornelia was the archetypal rock teenager.’

  ‘Oh, hark at her. Archetypal! So what about you then? How come you could walk down a street with a handsome black boy?’

  ‘You were presentable. A pleasure to look at. You could easily have been my son - I’m presentable, like you. To the average passer-by you would look like my son.’

  ‘By a good-looking black chap. Oh, I’m sure we had people wondering and guessing. You liked being seen with me. For a while that was all I saw in our relationship. Then I realized.’

  ‘Realized what?’

  ‘That I was your revenge. You’d caught up with what was going on between Harry and Cornelia.’

  ‘Nothing was going on.’ Claudia’s face had become a brilliant red.
<
br />   ‘There certainly was. And it continued going on even when she had left this house. She was trapped. She was in a sexual dungeon - trapped into giving Harry what he wanted just so long as he continued to want it.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense. I gave Harry his marching orders a few weeks after she’d gone independent.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You thought giving him the push would end the whole business, but he hung around the band and was introduced to people as its business manager. I used to talk to him now and then, but we never talked about anything of importance. Not him and Corny, nor me and you.’