Ten Year Stretch Read online

  Ten Year Stretch

  Edited by

  Martin Edwards and

  Adrian Muller

  Poisoned Pen Press

  in association with

  No Exit Press

  and

  CrimeFest

  Contributors

  The twenty brand new crime stories in this book have been specially commissioned to celebrate the tenth anniversary of CrimeFest, described by the Guardian as “one of the 50 best festivals in the world.” Contributors come from around the world and include the legendary Maj Sjöwall who, together with partner Per Wahlöö, was the originator of Nordic noir. The editors are Martin Edwards and Adrian Muller. Martin Edwards is responsible for many award-winning anthologies and Adrian Muller is one of the co-founders of CrimeFest.

  Contributors to Ten Year Stretch are:

  Bill Beverly, Simon Brett, Lee Child, Ann Cleeves, Jeffery Deaver, Martin Edwards, Kate Ellis, Peter Guttridge, Sophie Hannah, John Harvey, Mick Herron, Donna Moore, Caro Ramsay, Ian Rankin, James Sallis, Zoë Sharp, Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, Maj Sjöwall, Michael Stanley, and Andrew Taylor.

  Copyright

  First published in association with CrimeFest simultaneously in the UK by No Exit Press, an imprint of Oldcastle Books Ltd, and in the US by Poisoned Pen Press

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017963404

  ISBN: 9781464210549 Trade Paperback

  ISBN: 9781464210556 Ebook

  Editors: Martin Edwards and Adrian Muller

  Collection copyright © CrimeFest 2018

  Foreword copyright © Peter James 2018

  Introduction copyright © Martin Edwards 2018

  ‘The Hired Man’ © Bill Beverly 2018

  ‘The Last Locked Room’ © Simon Brett 2018

  ‘Shorty and the Briefcase’ © Lee Child 2018

  ‘Moses and the Locked Tent Mystery’ © Ann Cleeves 2018

  ‘Blind Date’ © Gunner Publications LLC 2018

  ‘Strangers in a Pub’© Martin Edwards 2018

  ‘Crime Scene’ © Kate Ellis 2018

  ‘Normal Rules Do Not Apply’ © Peter Guttridge 2018

  ‘Ask Tom St Clare’© Sophie Hannah 2018

  ‘Blue and Sentimental’ © John Harvey 2018

  ‘How Many Cats Have You Killed?’ © Mick Herron 2018

  ‘Daylight Robbery’ © Donna Moore 2018

  ‘The Snapperoody’ © Caro Ramsay 2018

  ‘Inside the Box’ © Ian Rankin 2018

  ‘Freezer Burn’ © James Sallis 2018

  ‘Caught on Camera’ © Zoe Sharp 2018

  ‘Road Trip’ © Yrsa Sigurðardóttir 2018

  ‘Long Time No See’© Maj Sjöwall,

  translated by Catherine Edwards 2018

  ‘The Ring’ © Michael Stanley 2018

  ‘The Five-Letter Word’ © Andrew Taylor 2018

  Afterword copyright © Adrian Muller 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  4014 N. Goldwater Blvd., #201

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Jane Burfield,

  without whose generosity

  this project would not have been possible

  Contents

  Foreword—Peter James

  Introduction—Martin Edwards

  Bill Beverly—The Hired Man

  Simon Brett—The Last Locked Room

  Lee Child—Shorty and the Briefcase

  Ann Cleeves—Moses and the Locked Tent Mystery

  Jeffrey Deaver—Blind Date

  Martin Edwards—Strangers in a Pub

  Kate Ellis—Crime Scene

  Peter Guttridge—Normal Rules Do Not Apply

  Sophie Hannah—Ask Tom St Clare

  John Harvey—Blue and Sentimental

  Mick Herron—How Many Cats Have You Killed?

  Donna Moore—Daylight Robbery

  Caro Ramsay—The Snapperoody

  Ian Rankin—Inside the Box

  James Sallis—Freezer Burn

  Zoë Sharp—Caught on Camera

  Yrsa Sigurðardóttir—Road Trip

  Maj Sjöwall, translated by Catherine Edwards—Long Time No See

  Michael Stanley—The Ring

  Andrew Taylor—The Five-Letter Word

  Afterword—Adrian Muller

  Biographical Notes

  Foreword

  When my first novel, a not-very-good spy thriller titled Dead Letter Drop, was published in 1981, my then publishing contract with WH Allen stipulated the book must be a minimum length of 50,000 words. My finished book was a hair’s whisker just over that minimum, clocking in at a skeletal—by today’s standards—203 pages.

  At the WH Allen Christmas drinks party, the sales director came up to me and asked if I could please write a bigger book next time, as the fatter the book, the better perceived value it was to the consumer—as they were all the same price!

  Twenty-five years later my publishing contracts for my Roy Grace and other novels require a minimum of 80,000 words.

  When Adrian and Miles asked if I would write the foreword to this terrific anthology, with contributions by the A-list of crime writing, it set me thinking about two questions. First, does size matter? And second, how do we define a short story? Indeed, in today’s increasingly short-attention-span world, just how blurred are the boundaries defining fiction?

  How short does a short story need to be before it becomes a novella? And when does a novella become a novel?

  Ernest Hemingway is credited with writing the shortest story in all of fiction with his intensely powerful and moving six words: For sale, baby shoes, never worn. Another I love is the anonymously attributed: The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.

  The origins of the short story are unclear, but what is certain is that they go back to the earliest roots of storytelling. Aesop’s fables, like ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’, written around 620 BC, are among the first examples. My favourite is the one about the wolf and the lamb:

  The wolf, meeting a lamb that had strayed from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the lamb his right to eat him. So he addressed him by saying:

  ‘Lamb, last year you grossly insulted me.’

  ‘Indeed,’ bleated the lamb in mournful tone of voice. ‘I was not then born.’

  ‘Then,’ said the wolf, ‘you fed in my pasture.’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the lamb. ‘I have not yet tasted grass.’

  ‘OK,’ the wolf said. ‘You’ve drunk from my well.’

  ‘No!’ protested the lamb. ‘I’ve never drunk water, because up until now my mother’s milk is both my food and drink.’

  Immediately the wolf seized him and ate him, saying, ‘Well! I won’t remain hungry, even though you refute all my allegations.’
>
  The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

  Aesop’s vast canon of fables were morality tales. Each one leaves us thinking, amused, shocked, pensive. There are few novelists, past or present, who have not written short stories. I love writing them, but I find them incredibly hard. It may sound an odd thing to say, but in many ways I find it easier to write a novel of 120,000 words than a short story of just 2,000. In a full-length novel you have the luxury to explore characters, set up dramatic scenes, and to put in diversion and even red herrings. In the short story you have, constantly, the memory of those six words of Hemingway around your neck, like an albatross.

  Or the elephant in the room, perhaps?

  In 1814 the Russian poet, Ivan Andreevich Krylov, wrote a fable—or short story, depending on your definition—called ‘The Inquisitive Man’. It was about a man who goes to a museum and notices all kinds of tiny things, but fails to notice an elephant.

  The true beauty of short stories is that they enable all of us to explore themes about the human condition in a sharp, succinct way, free of the constraints of the diktats of a novel. Dip into this anthology and pull out the nuggets of characters, situations, life in the raw. You’re going to have a rough ride, your eyes jerked wide open, and a good time, for sure!

  Peter James

  peterjames.com

  Introduction

  Ten Year Stretch is a special book to celebrate a special occasion. This collection of brand-new stories by leading crime writers marks the tenth anniversary of CrimeFest, a convention in Bristol for everyone who loves the crime genre. During the past decade, CrimeFest has grown steadily, and is now a ‘must’ for readers and writers alike. The atmosphere is relaxed and convivial, the panels, interviews, and talks invariably of high quality. No wonder the Guardian described CrimeFest as one of the fifty best festivals in the world.

  The genesis of this book can be traced to the generosity of one woman, an enthusiastic delegate right from CrimeFest’s early days. Jane Burfield, a benefactor of the arts in her home country of Canada, approached CrimeFest organisers Myles Allfrey, Donna Moore, and Adrian Muller with the idea of offering sponsorship to mark the convention’s ten-year milestone. Ten Year Stretch is the result. What better way to promote crime fiction than a collection of fresh works by some of the world’s leading practitioners, all of whom have previously attended and who enjoy an especially warm relationship with CrimeFest?

  The concept of a celebratory anthology reflecting CrimeFest’s international flavour was immediately attractive, and so was the suggestion that profits should go to the Royal National Institute of Blind People, for which CrimeFest has raised substantial funds over the years. The support of two very good publishers, No Exit Press in the UK, and Poisoned Pen Press in the US, was enlisted. I was delighted to be asked to become editor—who wouldn’t seize the chance to become the first to read a brand-new story by Lee Child, Jeffery Deaver, Ian Rankin, or...?

  The list of illustrious names goes on, as a glance at the contents page reveals. Of course, globally, best-selling authors are much in demand, and have countless calls on their time. But the support that the distinguished contributors have so readily and generously given to this project has been striking. There could be no clearer illustration of the regard in which members of the crime-writing world hold CrimeFest.

  Scandinavian crime fiction has enjoyed enormous popularity in recent years, and CrimeFest has welcomed leading exponents of Scandi noir, along with talented authors from right across the globe. Three years ago, Maj Sjöwall, half of the legendary team of Sjöwall and Wahlöö, who were responsible for ten superb and ground-breaking books featuring Martin Beck, was a guest of honour. Maj has—to universal regret—not published a crime novel for more than forty years, but to our delight she agreed to allow publication of one of her short stories, which has been freshly translated into English for the first time.

  Plenty of other unpredictable treats are to be found within these pages, as you might imagine with contributors as varied as James Sallis, Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, Michael Stanley, Sophie Hannah, and Simon Brett. There are nods to the traditions of the genre in general, and to the ‘locked room mystery’ in particular, as well as a glance into the future. Two stories introduce new detective characters who may just return again to solve further cases one day. My belief is that a good crime anthology offers an eclectic mix of stories, something (I hope) for everyone who loves the genre. The contributors have certainly delivered.

  I’ve been lucky enough to take part in CrimeFest conventions right from the outset, and I’ve never missed one. Like many other people, I have lots of happy memories of time spent at the Marriott Hotel in the second half of May. Not just the programmed events, either. Conversations at the bar, Crime Writers’ Association get-togethers, drinks, and meals with a host of delightful authors (yes, and publishers and agents, too!), awards ceremonies, even the occasional award—you name it. The convention has become a hugely popular gathering-place where writers mingle with fans from Thursday afternoon until lunchtime on Sunday. In 2017, it was even the unlikely setting for an impromptu meeting of the Icelandic chapter of the CWA. With CrimeFest, as with a good crime story, you should always expect the unexpected. And you can certainly expect to have fun.

  The crime-writing community is a warm and generous one, and Jane’s support of Ten Year Stretch, which enables the organisers to present a complimentary copy to every delegate at CrimeFest 2018, is a very good illustration of that enduring truth. I’d like to thank all the contributors (and Maj’s translator!), as well as the publishers. Most of all I’d like to thank Adrian, Donna, Myles, and other team members—such as Liz Hatherell—whose hard work makes CrimeFest such a wonderfully friendly convention. Here’s to the next ten years...

  Martin Edwards

  martinedwardsbooks.com

  The Hired Man

  Bill Beverly

  Rent was due in four days. My first check would come in five. Neither date was flexible, I’d been assured. My roommates... let’s just say the vacancy was because they’d burned the last roommate’s shit and beaten him up when he complained. The house was a short walk from the bus lines on Lake and Hennepin, nice old rooms, an attic that smelled of good wood. And four guys to say hi to every day: Bjorn, Rik, Erik, and Henry.

  But they were jackals. Four chairs around the table. A calendar in the kitchen with one day circled: rent due.

  I’d spent my first three weeks and all my money in Minneapolis trying to find work. The fourth week I’d labored at the Northern, scratching up my next month’s rent. As for my employer: well, Cook told me not even to ask Manager, Curtisall, for an advance on pay. I’d gone straight to Curtisall anyway. He shook his head. ‘That’s something you’d have to ask Johnny Bronco.’

  ‘Who is Johnny Bronco?’

  ‘Mr Bronco,’ said Curtisall, ‘is the friend of the man who owns the Northern.’

  ‘Pardon me, but what the fuck do I care about this friend?’

  I’d shown up on time for work every day so far, and I had already been promoted. So I was feeling my oats. But Curtisall shushed me and flashed two L shapes with his thumbs and first fingers.

  I said, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Guns,’ said Curtisall, ‘these hands are guns, Ice Cream. They have guns where you come from?’

  I guess I was stupid, because Curtisall added, ‘You don’t ask the Twin Cities mob if you can get your check early. Even one day.’ And then he said not to curse in the restaurant. For Minneapolis runs on its manners, Curtisall reminded me.

  I was moved up from Bus to Ice Cream my second day—it just wasn’t that good a restaurant anymore. On the third day, just before closing, the man in the blue suit came through the dingy white chute of a kitchen to the ice cream counter. I was still learning everything. I read the notes off the wall, recipes and instructions, for every dish, even the things I’d made fift
y times already, like banana splits. At the Northern, scoops had to be round and tight. One scoop went in the round dishes, two in the wide, and for two, the instructions said something like, The scoops should match each other like buttocks, same size, same roundness. The notes said how much whipped cream went on the sundaes and where the nuts on a banana split went and how much chocolate you put in a chocolate malt. I would have thought it was all chocolate.

  Suddenly the old man stood beside me. He said, ‘You the new Ice Cream?’

  ‘That’s me,’ I said. Cook. Dishes. Waitress. The bartender was Keep. I’d been Bus and today they had a new Bus, but he was a black kid about seventy-nine pounds, who could barely heft a tub, might have been eleven or twelve. He wasn’t gonna make it.

  ‘Ice Cream, you are doing a damn good job,’ the old man said, and slapped me on the chest. When I looked down, there was the top inch of a fifty poking out of my shirt pocket.

  The only fifty I had.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Good to hear.’

  ‘I might look old,’ he said, ‘but I know how to swim with the current. You make them just right. That vanilla malted’—I dully recalled making it, twenty minutes ago—‘most of these bastards, not enough soda water, they make it too sweet.’

  Catching the spirit of the moment now, I said, ‘I’ll be sure of it.’

  ‘Most of them,’ he said, ‘they never should have become Ice Cream in the first place. You aren’t like them.’

  Not like them. Where had I heard that? The week before, when I’d finally got my courage up to go visit Ingrid Ericsson, my college classmate, the day before I dragged myself into the Northern (where the help wanted sign had been so long in the window that its red had faded to yellow). I had caught the Lake Street bus over to St Paul, hoping to find Ingrid home—I had left two phone messages and talked to her once, for a feverish half-minute, until she had to break off to go sit down to dinner—and come to find out that the buses weren’t cooled, or this one wasn’t. By the time I disembarked, I was just a sweaty kid aswim in my blazer and blue tie, and now I was introducing myself to Ingrid’s mother, on the front step of the Ericsson house, where Ingrid, unfortunately, was not in. Mrs Ericsson asked me was I Swedish or Norwegian or Danish. None of them, I said, my parents met in Valdosta. She smiled tightly. It was not going well.