The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 47

"I'm in the most awful fix. I hate to bother you but ... Oh, I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't ask."

After a moment, Sam said, "What fix?"

"It's my lines. Everyone at my house is, like, totally preoccupied with something else. I can't get anyone to test me, and to read opposite me. I know it's the most awful cheek to ask, but are you doing anything now? It's just, what with your living fairly close and all ..."

"You want me ... to come over?"

"Or I could come there. It's just that with your being in the lighting crew you know how awful the whole thing will be if I don't know my lines. And Ms Noodles-For-Brains will go mental if we don't rehea.r.s.e without scripts by next Monday."

Sam chuckled and said, "Ms Noodles-For-Brains. That's good." And Marie knew she had him.

Salvatore's mood was bittersweet as he returned to the family home and headed up the stairs. Polly was in her flat, tucked in bed with a telephone, water and a banana on the bedside table. She was calmer, comforted by his attentions. Or the pa.s.sage of time. Hard to be sure which.

Salvatore entered the kitchen as quietly as he could. His intention was to gather the overnight things he'd brought the day before and then go back to his own flat.

From the living room he heard laughter and speech. He listened, checking the voices. All the grown-ups except Mama. Well, he didn't really feel like going through it all, making what almost felt like a confession.

So he glided silently into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. There wasn't much to pick up. He got his things together and tiptoed back into the hall.

"Uncle Sal?"

It was David. "Nephew Dave."

"What happened with Polly?"

"She's fine."

"They were talking about it at dinner. Is she your girlfriend now?"

"My what?"

"That's what Aunty Rose thought. That you like Polly and now that she's not engaged any more you'd be making your move." David smiled. He even winked.

"Polly isn't my girlfriend and she won't be."

"Don't you want her to be?"

That was a painful question. "I think she'll get back with Jack."

"She will?" Wide eyes.

"It's not like he committed any crime, David." Except a crime against romance. That was not a small thing, but it was something one could be pardoned for.

"But he tried to hide all those dead wives."

"What he did helped him, but he also helped those women by making sure their children would be better off."

"Yeah, but he didn't tell Polly."

"And that was very wrong." Yes, Salvatore thought, a grownup really does need to take responsibility for what he does and what he is. "And it was cowardly. But, as I told Polly, if you care deeply for someone ... If you think that person really gets you, and understands who you are underneath appearances ... That's very very rare, David. It's something your parents have, and it's something we all should aspire to. And it's not something to throw away lightly."

David didn't quite understand.

But Polly had. Salvatore had said, "Did you really feel that you connected with Jack before all of this? That he connected with you?"

Her response was instant. "Yes."

"That is not a trivial thing."

"But he lied to me."

"But he didn't betray you."

"No."

"And as soon as he fell in love with you, he switched wards."

"Yes."

"He stopped looking for another woman to marry because he'd found the woman he wanted for a wife. Someone he wanted to be a real husband to."

"Yes."

"You should at least talk to him, Polly. You should at least try to get past this."

"Yes," she'd said. Faintly. But then, with more resolve, "Yes, I will try. But I will never live on those poor women's money. Their children should have it all."

Polly would get back together with her Jack.

"So," David said, "aren't you going to tell everyone what happened? Because they want to know."

What Salvatore wanted to do was to go to his own place and s.p.a.ce. He wanted to find a way to ignore the fact that Polly and Jack, Gina and Angelo, Mama and the Old Man all had something valuable. Something that he wanted. Something that he didn't have.

But to go home wouldn't be taking grown-up responsibility. "Yes, I'll tell them." Salvatore patted David on the head.

And when he caught a moment with Rosetta maybe he'd suggest they go speed dating together. It wasn't the same as an internet site but it was still a positive action. And at least with speed dating n.o.body could use a faked photograph.

BLOOD ISLAND.

Barry Maitland.

I WAKE WITH a jolt, a roaring in my ears. It takes me a moment to realize that it's the howl of jet engines. Dark cloud is rus.h.i.+ng past the window by my shoulder, and then abruptly clears and I am looking down on a sea dotted with dozens no, hundreds of islands scattered like green confetti across the slate-grey surface. Now a landma.s.s comes rolling into view, fractured and creased by inlets and rivers and more islands. The plane is dropping rapidly, and I can make out the roofs of buildings, farms perhaps or isolated houses, among the trees. But where is this? And then it comes back to me, my brain soggy with fatigue and jetlag. Sweden. Stockholm. And as if in response, the plane banks to reveal the red and brown roofs of a city spread out ahead.

I'm filled with a sense of unreality. Just how long ago? I check my watch, still on Australian time. Just four hours ago I flew into Heathrow, expecting my older sister Abbie to meet me at the airport. The plan was that I would stay with her for a few weeks while I looked for a job and got myself organized for a year in London now that I'd finished uni. She has been living there for five years already, doing well working for an art dealer with a posh Bond Street address. Only she wasn't at the airport. Instead there was a bloke holding a plastic carrier bag in one hand and a piece of cardboard with my name written on it in the other.

"Matt!" the stranger said, "Good to meet you. How was the flight? I'm Rich. Close friend of Abbie's. She sent me to meet you. Let's get a cup of coffee."

He led me to a cafe table and ordered two coffees. He was a Londoner by his accent, around thirty, but I couldn't remember Abbie mentioning a close friend called Rich.

"There's been a change of plan, mate," Rich said, stretching out his long legs. He had a smooth, confident air about him as if nothing would ruffle him. "Abbie had to go over to Stockholm on business, and thought it would be great for you to go and spend the weekend with her. You ever been there?"

I shook my head, feeling dazed after the long flight, trying to grapple with this new development. "No. First time out of Australia," I mumbled.

"Really? Oh, you'll love it, beautiful city, Stockholm."

"This weekend?" I tried to remember what day it was.

"Yeah. Your flight leaves in two hours. Not from this terminal though. Drink up and I'll take you over there."

"But ..." I rubbed my face in confusion. What I really wanted was a long hot shower and a change of clothes. "Right now? Another flight?"

"Just a short hop."

"Blimey." I looked at my suitcases, all the stuff Mum had insisted on me bringing, summer clothes, winter clothes, presents for Abbie.

"You can leave most of that with me if you like," Rich said, as if reading my mind. "Just put enough for a couple of days in your backpack. I'll take the rest back to Abbie's."

So he had a key to her flat. "Yes ... s'pose so."

I set about repacking my bags.

"Got a thick jacket?" Matt said. "Bit cooler up there."

It was the start of October, a warm spring back home, but autumn here.

When I was finished, Rich lifted up the plastic bag he'd been carrying. "And Abbie asked if you could take this to her." He handed it over carefully. It was surprisingly heavy, a solid slab of something, wrapped in brown paper.

"What is it, a bomb? Drugs?"

Rich gave a laugh, as if I'd just said something highly amusing. "No, no, just a book. An art book. Abbie needs it for reference. Expensive, though, so whatever you do, don't leave it behind in the overhead locker, eh?"

For a brief moment I saw an anxious intensity in the other man's eyes, then he relaxed and grinned.

"No worries."

Later, going through the security checkpoint, an official asked me if I'd wrapped the sealed package myself, and I lied, just to keep things simple, and said that I had. It didn't seem to set off any alarms on the scanner.

And so here I am, looking down on a city spread out across a landscape of rivers and wooded islands, dropping towards Arlanda airport. I try to think what I know about Sweden: Abba, Volvo, IKEA, but mainly Stieg Larsson. The funny thing is that I've brought the third of his books, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, with me, and one of the movies they were showing on the plane from Australia was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It almost seems as if this visit to Stockholm was pre-ordained. Kind of eerie really. I open my wallet and count the Swedish krona banknotes that Rich gave me in London, and read again the typed instructions for me to get to the hotel where Abbie will meet me. There is something definitely odd about all this, but perhaps it's just the jet lag that's making me feel disoriented.

When the plane lands I get my backpack and the package for Abbie from the overhead locker, remembering Rich's insistent instructions not to forget it, and make my way to the station for the high-speed train connection into Stockholm. While I'm waiting I ask at a kiosk for a map of the city, and of course they have a Millennium Map, showing all the locations that are featured in Larsson's three thrillers. Excellent. The train glides in and twenty minutes later I'm emerging from the vault of Central Station and walking out on to a broad avenue, giving a s.h.i.+ver as a gust of cold wind catches me. I open the map and try to work out the direction I should take when an elderly man stops and asks if he can be of a.s.sistance. He examines the note and says, "Ah yes. You want Gamla Stan, down there, across the bridge."

"Thanks a million!" I say.

He looks at me oddly. "Emilion? No, my name is Stieg."

I laugh. "Yes! Of course it is!"

He looks very puzzled as he walks away.

Gamla Stan is the oldest part of Stockholm, where the city began, on an island that looks on the map like a plug in the waterway that runs through the centre of Stockholm, connecting the Baltic Sea on one side to the freshwater Lake Malaren on the other. As I walk across the bridge towards it my spirits lift. From all those Scandinavian crime series I'd watched on TV I expected the whole country to be shrouded in a gloomy twilight, but instead I see white s.h.i.+ps bobbing on sparkling water, and golden-hued old buildings glowing in the sun beneath spires reaching into an azure sky, and I think how elegant and clean and beautiful it all is. My hotel is just beyond the Royal Palace, right on the cobbled stone quay. I run up the front steps expecting to see my big sister waiting in the lobby, but it's empty except for a blond hairy Viking sitting behind the reception desk.

"Good afternoon," I say. "Do you speak English, please?"

"Of course," he says, as if the question is insulting. "My name is Mikael."

Mikael Blomkvist? I almost ask, but stop myself in time. Perhaps he's not a Larsson fan. I tell him who I am and he nods as if he knows already. As I fill in a registration form I tell him that I'm expecting to meet my sister, but he knows nothing about that. Instead he pokes about behind his counter and comes up with a padded envelope with my name on it. He doesn't know how it got there. He hands me the keys and I take the lift up two floors to my room. As I'd hoped it faces out on to the quay, and I throw open the window and look out across the water to an impressive three-masted schooner tied up on the far side in front of an elegant white eighteenth-century mansion in a lush green park. I sit down on the bed and rip open the envelope and a mobile phone with recharging cable drops out. I switch it on and a text message appears on the screen: dearest matt so sorry not here to greet u tied up on business 24 hours see u 2morrow noon in outer courtyard royal palace luv sis.

I try to phone the sender number, but it appears to be switched off. Instead I text: ok sis no worries luv matt. The truth is that I am disconcerted, but there's nothing I can do. I decide to go for a walk up through the narrow winding streets of Gamla Stan, taking in the ancient buildings, the intriguing little shops colourful children's clothes and Viking toys, antiquarian books, tourist souvenirs. I stop at a cafe for a burger and a beer and then wander back to the hotel, where I have a hot shower and collapse into a deep sleep.

I wake late the next morning and go downstairs for a smorgasbord breakfast in the hotel restaurant. When I return to my room I try to contact my sister again, but still her phone is turned off and there are no messages. Finally I decide to take a look at the mystery package I've brought over for her. I carefully undo the wrapping and find that, just as her friend Rich told me, it is a thick art book, of the drawings of Leonardo da Vinci. It looks expensive, with bright red leather covers and gold lettering. I rewrap it, put it into my backpack and set off to meet Abbie.

According to Mikael at the front desk, the "Inner Courtyard" is the parade ground behind the Royal Palace, where there is a changing of the guard every day at noon. He gives me directions, and I set off up the now familiar narrow streets of Gamla Stan. After a while I notice a girl riding towards me on a bicycle and as she gets closer I'm struck by her fierce expression and jet-black hair. To my startled eyes she looks exactly like Lisbeth Salander, the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo or rather, like Noomi Rapace, the Swedish actress who plays her part in the movie. Struck by the resemblance I stand motionless for a moment, before being suddenly grabbed from behind and flung hard against the brick wall at my shoulder. I feel hands wrenching at my backpack, but the straps are tight and they are having difficulty. My arm feels as if it's being torn out of its socket and I give a yell. There are two men, shaved heads, black leather jackets, one pus.h.i.+ng me to the ground, the other pulling at the backpack. I look up and see the girl on the bike swerving towards us and then cras.h.i.+ng into us. One of the men screams, the other curses and the hands release me. Instinctively I scramble to my feet and take off, pelting up the street, around a corner, down a narrow laneway, and find myself suddenly in a crowd of tourists. I'm gasping for breath, hurting all over, limping in one leg, but I still have the backpack. The crowd surges towards an opening and we find ourselves in a large semi-circular courtyard, surrounded by cla.s.sical buildings. Ranks of soldiers occupy the centre of the s.p.a.ce, the crowd packed around the edge, watching them, taking pictures. The soldiers are both men and women, in dark uniforms with white belts, gloves and spats, blue berets and long rifles. Orders are being shouted, and they march and do arms drill and exchange flags. They come to a halt and there is silence, and all the while I am frantically scanning the crowd, looking for Abbie. Where is she?

A bell chimes midday, and from the streets outside the square comes the sound of a military band approaching. Soon it turns into the parade ground, bandsmen in blue uniforms and silver helmets as brightly polished as their instruments, and as they stride across the granite sets I catch sight of a black leather jacket and a red-faced shaven head approaching through the crowd to my left. I turn to the right, and see the other one. They've followed me here! Surely they won't attack me in the middle of all these people? But then the crowd cranes forward and I get a clearer glimpse of the man on my right. He looks angry and there is the glitter of a blade in his right hand.

I stare at the knife in the man's hand as he closes in on me, imagining it rammed into my back, me falling and them running off with my bag before anyone realizes that something is wrong. There is a solid wall behind us and the parade ground in front. I really have no alternative. I take a deep breath and push my way through the crowd, jump over the perimeter rope and begin running across the open square. In front of me the band wheels around and heads straight for me. There are shouts, a roar of surprise and some laughter from the crowd as I find myself dodging through the instruments, knocking the big ba.s.s drum, and the bandsmen struggle to maintain their tune. Now I'm on the other side. There is a gap in the buildings ahead and I make for it as several soldiers run forward to cut me off. Looking back over my shoulder I see no sign of the two men trying to follow me. I charge on and just make the opening ahead of the soldiers and find myself in a narrow lane heading away from the palace and into the maze of streets beyond.

When I finally slow down I realize that this is not a random mugging and that I have probably only delayed the men who will still be after me. Where can I hide? Then it occurs to me that it isn't me they want, it's my backpack, and Abbie's book inside it, though why they should I can't imagine. Where can I hide it? Somewhere behind me I hear a shout and panic grips me. And then I see the antiquarian bookshop ahead of me. What better place to hide a book than in a bookshop? I rush in, the doorbell tinkling. There appears to be no one around, although it's hard to tell among all the bookshelves. Opening my bag I rip the paper off the book and shove it on to a high shelf in a dark corner. I grab another heavy book and ram it into my bag and run out into the street again, just as the two men appear at a corner, not fifty metres away. They give chase as I dash off, heading downhill. My leg is in agony now and they're gaining on me. Ahead I see the quay; I must turn left or right. I choose left, towards the city centre across the bridge. They are gaining on me. I dodge across the street, behind a car a Volvo, naturally with a ski rack on its roof, and as it pa.s.ses I lob my bag onto the rack.

We come to a gasping stop, the three of us, them on that side of the road and me on this. Then they shout to each other and turn and chase after the Volvo. I watch it disappearing over the bridge, the two of them in hot pursuit.

I jog painfully back to my hotel and Mikael at the desk tells me that I've had two visitors, men in black leather jackets. My heart gives a jolt they've been here, they knew where I was staying! I ask Mikael not to tell them I am here if they come back, and I limp up to my room and collapse on the bed. I try Abbie's number again without success and text her: where the h.e.l.l r u ive been attacked. After several minutes a reply comes back: where r u.

I hesitate. Why doesn't she speak to me? How do I know this is Abbie? It could be anybody texting. I send another message: prove u r abbie. The answer comes back: dodger 4 ur 10 bday.

For my tenth birthday our parents bought me a Labrador puppy called Dodger. I breathe a sigh of relief and text back: hotel, and get the reply, rich will come. Rich, I think, why Rich? Why not you, Abbie? I'm almost tempted to go to the police, but I don't know if that would make things difficult for her. And anyway, they'd probably arrest me for disrupting the changing of the royal guard.

It's evening when Mikael rings up from reception. Someone called Rich wants to see me. I tell him to send him up. Rich is all concern for my troubles and makes soothing noises, but I'm not in a mood to be mollified. However, he's brought a bottle of Swedish akvavit, which is pretty powerful stuff, and after a couple of gla.s.ses I'm feeling a bit more relaxed and my leg hardly hurts at all. While we sip the firewater I tell him some of what's been happening to me. He shakes his head, looking worried.

"This is bad, Matt," he says, but seems hesitant to explain it to me.

"It's about that book you gave me, isn't it?" I prompt.

He nods reluctantly. "Yes." He looks around the room. "Is it safe?"

I haven't explained about the bookshop and the Volvo. "It is, but it isn't here."