The Detection Collection

Fool of Myself: Reginald Hill (#litres_trial_promo)

The Detection Club – A Brief History: Simon Brett (#litres_trial_promo)

Also in this series (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

INTRODUCTION (#ulink_d59fdc4b-be74-58d1-be29-1cb845bf5778)

Simon Brett

This volume of crime stories was originally published in 2005, arguably to celebrate the seventy-fifth anniversary of the founding of the Detection Club. At that time I used the word ‘arguably’, not because the occasion did not qualify for celebration, but because there is argument about the precise date of the Club’s inauguration. (For further details of this, consult The Detection Club – A Brief History at the back of the book.)

So this new edition could be said arguably to celebrate the Club’s eighty-fifth anniversary. But in all those many years of existence, the primary distinction of the Detection Club has not changed. When founded in 1930 – or 1929 or 1932, according to different authorities – its membership comprised the cream of British crime-writing talent, and that is still the situation today. As a result, The Detection Collection has an extremely distinguished list of contributors.

In my role as editor – and, incidentally, the Club’s president – I had the great pleasure of being the first to read the stories as they were delivered. And I remember being delighted, not just by the quality, but by the variety of the contributions. Each one reflected the unique voice of its author.

There were stories of devilish cunning, as one would expect from the minds of P.D. James and Colin Dexter. There were lighter-hearted contributions from H.R.F. Keating, Lindsey Davis and Robert Goddard. Michael Ridpath presented a story of skulduggery in the corporate world he knew so well. Robert Barnard’s skills as a literary historian were focused on a slightly fictionalised incident in the life of Henrik Ibsen. Clare Francis provided a chilling character study.

And some of the contributing authors wrote new stories about well-loved serial characters. Margaret Yorke went back to the beginning of her distinguished crime-writing life with a story featuring her academic investigator Patrick Grant. John Harvey revived the career of jazz-loving Charlie Resnick, and Reginald Hill provided the delicious rarity of a story featuring Dalziel without Pasco.

Sadly the passage of the years means that some of the contributors are no longer with us. H.R.F. Keating, Margaret Yorke, Reginald Hill and Robert Barnard will not be delighting us with any new investigations, but they do live on through the quality of their work

And they all added to the wonderful mix of The Detection Collection, which still represents the very best in contemporary crime fiction. I am confident that you will get as much pleasure from the stories as I did when I first read them.

THE PART-TIME JOB (#ulink_d80e2bd1-e694-52d9-b91b-731e537d1239)

P.D. James

By the time you read this I shall be dead. Dead for how long, of course, I cannot predict. I shall place this document in the strong room of my bank with instructions that it shall be sent to the daily newspaper with the largest circulation on the first working day after my funeral. My only regret is that I shan’t be alive to savour my retrospective triumph. But that is of small account. I savour it every day of my life. I shall have done the one thing I resolved to do when I was twelve years old – and the world will know it. And the world will be interested, make no mistake about that!

I can tell you the precise date when I made up my mind that I would kill Keith Manston-Green. We were both pupils at St Chad’s School on the Surrey borders, he the only child of a wealthy businessman with a chain of garages, I from a more humble background, who would never have arrived at St Chad’s except for the help of a scholarship endowed by a former pupil and named after him. My six years from eleven to seventeen were years of hell. Keith Manston-Green was the school bully and I was his natural, almost inevitable victim: a scholarship boy, timid, undersized, bespectacled, who never spoke of his parents, was never visited at half-term, wore a uniform that was obviously second hand and was, like the runt of the litter, destined to be trampled on. For six years during term-time I woke every morning in fear. The masters – some of them at least – must have known what was happening, but it seemed to me they were part of the conspiracy. And Manston-Green was clever. There were never any obvious bruises, the torment was subtler than that.

He was clever in other ways too. Sometimes he would admit me temporarily into his circle of sycophants, give me sweets, share his tuck, stick up for me against the other boys, giving hope to me that all this signalled a change. But there never was a change. There’s no point in my reciting the details of his ingenuities. It is enough to say that at six o’clock in the evening on the fifteenth of February 1932, when I was twelve years old, I made a solemn vow: one day I would kill Keith Manston-Green. That vow kept me going for the next five years of torment and remained with me, as strong as when it was first made, through all the years that followed. It may seem odd to you, reading this after my death, that killing Manston-Green should be a lifelong obsession. Surely even childhood cruelty is forgotten at last, or at least put out of mind. But not that cruelty; not my mind. In destroying my childhood, Manston-Green had made me what I am. I knew, too, that if I forgot that childish oath I would die bitter with regret and self-humiliation. I was in no hurry, but it was something I had to do.

My father had inherited the family business on the fringes of London’s East End. He was a locksmith and taught me the trade. The shop was bombed in the war killing both my parents, but government money compensated for the loss. The house and the shop were rebuilt and I started again. The shop wasn’t the only thing I inherited from that secretive, obsessive and unhappy man. Like my father, I too had a part-time job.

Through all the years I kept track of Keith Manston-Green. I could, of course, have received regular news of him by placing my name on the distribution list for the annual magazine of St Chad’s Old Boys Society, but that seemed to me unwise. I wanted St Chad’s to forget I had ever existed. I would rely on my own researches. It wasn’t difficult. Manston-Green, like me, had inherited the family business and, motoring through Surrey, I would note every garage I passed which bore his name. I had no difficulty, either, in finding out where he lived. Waiting for my Morris Minor to be filled, I would occasionally say, ‘There seems to be quite a number of Manston-Green garages in this part of the world. Is it a private company or something?’

Sometimes the answer would be ‘Search me, Guv, haven’t a clue.’ But other times I got a nugget of information to add to my store.

‘Yeah, it’s still owned by the family. Keith Manston-Green. Lives outside Stonebridge.’ After that it was only a question of consulting the local telephone directory and finding the house.

It was the kind of house I would have expected. A new red-brick monstrosity with gables and mock Tudor beams, a large garage attached which could take up to four cars, a wide drive and a high privet hedge for privacy, all enclosed in a red-brick wall. A board on the wall said in mock antique script, Manston Lodge.

I wasn’t in any particular hurry to kill him. What was important was to make sure that the deed was done without suspicion settling on me and, if possible, that the first attempt was successful. It was one of my constant pleasures, scheming over possible methods. But I knew that this mental anticipation could be dangerously self-indulgent. There would come a moment when planning, however satisfying, must give way to action.

When the war broke out in 1939 my fear, greater than that of the bombing, was that Manston-Green would be killed. The thought that he would die in action and be remembered as a hero was intolerable, but I need not have worried. He joined the RAF, but not as a flier. Those coveted wings were never stitched above the breast pocket of his uniform. He was a Wingless Wonder, as I believed the RAF called them. I think he had something to do with equipment or maintenance and he must have been effective. He ended as a wing commander, and naturally he kept the rank in civilian life. His sycophants called him the Wingco – and how he revelled in it.

It was in 1953 that I decided to begin taking active steps towards his elimination. The shop was modestly successful and I had a manager and an assistant, both reliable. My part-time job was an excuse for short absences and I could confidently leave them in charge. I began making short visits to Stonebridge, a prosperous town on the fringes of the commuter belt where my enemy lived. Perhaps the words ‘held court’ would be more appropriate. He was a member of the local council and of one or two charitable trusts, the kind that confer prestige rather than making unwelcome financial demands, and he was captain of the golf club. Oh yes indeed, he was the ‘Wingco’, strutting about the clubhouse as he must once have strutted in the Mess.

By then I had discovered quite a lot about Keith Manston-Green. He had divorced his wife, who had left him taking their two children, and was now married to Shirley May, twelve years his junior. But it was his captaincy of the Stonebridge Golf Club that gave me an idea how I could get close to him.

I could tell within five minutes of entering the clubhouse that the place reeked of petty suburban snobbery. They didn’t actually say that no Jews or blacks were permitted but I could tell that there was a set of clearly understood conventions designed to enable the members to feel superior to all but the chosen few, most of them successful local businessmen. However, they were as keen on increasing their income as were less snobbish enterprises and it was possible to pay green fees and enjoy a round, either alone or with a partner if one could find one, and to take lessons from the pro. I gave a false name, of course, and paid always in cash. I was exactly the kind of interloper that no one took much notice of. Certainly no one evinced any desire to partner me. I would have my lesson, drink a solitary beer and quietly depart. The undersized, ordinary-looking, bespectacled boy had grown into an undersized, ordinary-looking, bespectacled man. I had grown a moustache but there was otherwise little change. I had no fear that Manston-Green would recognise me but, taking no risks, I kept well out of his way.

And did I recognise Manston-Green when I first saw him after so many years? How could I fail to do so? He too was a grown-up version of the tormentor of my childhood. He was still tall but stout, carrying his stomach high, red-faced, loud-voiced, the black hair sleeked back. I could see that he was deferred to. He was the Wingco, Keith Manston-Green, prosperous businessman, provider of jobs and silver cups, slapper of backs, dispenser of free drinks.

And then I saw Shirley May, his second wife, drinking with her cronies at the bar. Shirley May. She was always called by that double first name, and behind her husband’s back I occasionally caught their salacious whispers, ‘Shirley May, but on the other hand, she may not!’ He had got his trophy wife, blonde, though obviously not naturally so, voluptuous, long-legged, a second-hand film-star vision of feminine desirability. Even to look at her, standing at the club bar flirting with a group of bemused fools, made me sick. It was then that I first began to see how I might kill her husband. And not only kill him, but make him suffer over months of protracted agony, just as he had made me suffer for years. The revenge wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be as close as I could get.

The months I spent leading up to action had to be carefully planned. Firstly, it was important that Manston-Green did not see me, or at least not close enough to recognise me, and that he never heard even my false name. That wasn’t difficult. He played only at weekends and in the evenings; I chose Wednesday mornings. Even when our visits had coincided, the Wingco was far too important to cast his eyes on undistinguished temporary players only permitted on the greens because their fees were needed. It was important, too, that I didn’t become even remotely interesting to other members. It was necessary to play badly, and on the few occasions that someone condescended to partner me, I played badly. That took some skill: I naturally have a very good eye. I had my story ready. I had an elderly and ailing mother living in the neighbourhood and was paying occasional dutiful visits. I embarked on boring descriptions of her symptoms and prognosis and would watch their eyes glazing over as they edged away. I kept my appearances infrequent; I did not want to become an object of gossip and curiosity even if both were dismissive. I needed to be too anonymous even to be regarded as the club bore.

Firstly, I needed a key to the clubhouse. For a locksmith that wasn’t difficult. By careful watching I discovered that three people had keys, Manston-Green, the club secretary Bill Caraway, and the pro, Alistair McFee. McFee’s was the easiest to get my hands on. He kept it in the pocket of his jacket which he invariably hung on the door of his office. I bided my time until, one Wednesday morning when he was occupied on the first green with a particularly demanding pupil, with gloved hands I took the key from his pocket and, locking myself in the lavatory, took an impression. On my next visit, surreptitiously, I tested the key. It worked.

I then began the second part of my campaign. Late at night, alone in my London office and wearing gloves, I cut out words from the national newspapers and pasted them on to a sheet of writing paper, the kind sold in every stationer’s shop. The message, which I sent twice weekly, had small variations of wording but always the same insinuating poison. Why did you marry that bitch? Don’t you know she’s having it off with someone else? Are you blind or something? Don’t you know what Shirley May’s up to? I don’t like to see a decent man cheated. You should keep an eye on your wife.

Oh, they had their effect. On subsequent visits to the golf club when, carefully distanced, I watched them together, I knew that my carefully calculated strategy was working. There were public quarrels. Members of the club began to edge away when they were together. The Wingco was rattled – and so, of course, was she. I gave that marriage no more than two months. Which meant that I couldn’t delay.

I fixed the actual date two weeks ahead. Only one other thing was necessary. I made sure that the new clubs I purchased were the same make as his, a necessary extravagance. I substituted my driver for his driver, handling it always with gloves. It was his prints I wanted, not mine. I made sure my final messages were received on the morning of the crucial day, his by post, hers pushed under the door when, watching, I saw him drive away for work. Hers said, If you want to know who’s sending these notes, meet me in the clubhouse at nine tonight. Burn this note. A friend. His said the same, but gave a time ten minutes later.

I realised, of course, that neither might come. That was a risk I took. But if they didn’t, I would be in no danger. It would simply mean that I needed to find another way of killing Manston-Green. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. My plan was so perfect, the horror I had planned for him so wonderfully satisfying.

I won’t distress you with details; they are not necessary. I had my keys to the clubhouse and I was waiting for her, her husband’s driver in hand. As I said, I have a good eye. It took only two swings to kill her, three more to batter her face into a pulp. I dropped the driver, let myself out and locked the door. There was a public phone box at the end of the lane. When I asked for the police I was put through promptly and without trouble. I disguised my voice although it wasn’t strictly necessary. It became the confused, high-pitched, terrified voice of an older man.

‘I’ve just passed the golf club. There’s screaming in the clubhouse. A woman. I think someone’s killing her.’

‘And your name and address, sir?’

‘No, no. I’m not getting mixed up in this. It’s nothing to do with me. I just thought I ought to let you know.’ And with gloved hands I rang off.

They came, of course. They came just in time to see Manston-Green bending over his wife’s body. I couldn’t have planned that. I imagined they might have been late but would still have had the club with her blood and matted hair, the fingerprints, the evidence of quarrels. But they weren’t late; they were just in time.

I resisted the temptation to go to the trial. It was irritating to have to forego that pleasure, but I thought it prudent. Press photographs were being taken of the crowd, and although the chance of being recognised was infinitesimally small, why risk it? And I thought it sensible to continue going occasionally to the golf club, but less frequently. The talk was all of the murder, but no one bothered to include me. I took my solitary lessons and departed. He appealed, of course, and that was an anxious day for me. But the appeal failed and I knew that the end was now certain.

There were only three weeks between sentence and execution and they were probably the happiest of my life, not in the sense of an exultant joy, but of knowing myself at peace for the first time since I’d started at St Chad’s. The week before the execution I was with him in spirit through every minute of every hour in that condemned cell. I knew what would happen on the morning when he would be launched out of this world and out of my mind. I pictured the arrival of the executioner the day before to fulfil Home Office requirements: the dropping of a sandbag in the presence of the governor to make sure that there would be no mishap and that the length of the drop was correct. I was with him as he peered through the spy-hole in the door of the condemned cell, a cell only feet away from the execution chamber. It’s a merciful death if not mishandled and I knew Manston-Green would die with less pain than probably would I. The suffering was in the preceding weeks and no one could truly experience that horror but he. In imagination I lived his last night, the restless turning and twisting, the strengthening light of the dreaded day, the breakfast he wouldn’t be able to eat, the clumsy kindness of the constantly watching guards. I was with the hangman in imagination when he pinned Manston-Green’s arms. I was part of that little procession which passed through the dreaded door, the white-faced governor of the prison present, the chaplain keeping his eyes on his prayer book held in shaking hands.

It’s a quick death, only some twenty seconds from the moment the arms are pinioned to the drop itself. But there would be one moment when he would be able to see the scaffold, the noose hanging precisely at the level of his chest before the white hood was pulled into place. I exulted at the thought of those few seconds.

As usual I went to the prison the day before the execution. There were things to be done, instructions to be followed. I was greeted politely but I wasn’t welcome. I knew they felt contaminated when they shook my hand. And every prisoner in every cell knew that I was there. Already there was the expected din, shouting voices, utensils banged against the cell doors. A little crowd of protesters or morbid voyeurs was already collecting outside the prison gate. I am a meticulous craftsman, as was my father before me. I am highly experienced in my part-time job. And I think he knew me. Oh yes, he knew me. I saw the recognition in his eyes that second before I slipped the white hood over his head and pulled the lever. He dropped like a stone and the rope tautened and quivered. My life’s task was at last accomplished and from now on I would be at peace. I had killed Keith Manston-Green.

PARTNERSHIP TRACK (#ulink_32b7b585-a43f-539c-ae4e-a5b77eb0b379)

Michael Ridpath

‘I’ve had a dozen interviews here and in New York, I’ve met the head honcho twice and he loves me, everyone else thinks I’m perfect for the job, so tell me why I shouldn’t take it.’

We were sitting in ‘The Bunker’, the wine bar beneath the twenty-six-storey office block in Bishopsgate that Peter Brearton and I had occupied along with a few hundred other bankers several years before. Between us were two glasses, empty, and two bottles of Sancerre, one empty and one half-full. I refilled Peter’s glass. Peter was ambitious, energetic, highly intelligent, unfailingly successful in everything he did. He was thirty-one, a year older than me, although he looked younger, with his square face, short blond hair and round glasses. He was mellowing as he often did after a bottle of wine. I would get to the truth.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ he said.