The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  ‘You’re worrying unnecessarily, Eamonn. Let me reassure you that there’s page after page in the manual concerning compensation for innocent victims. We would naturally feel it our obligation to rebuild your lovely home, brick by brick, recreating a conservatory Maggie would be proud of and a garage large enough to house all your cars. However, if we were to spend that amount of taxpayers’ money, we would have to ensure that the house was built on one side of the border or the other, so that an unhappy incident such as this one could never happen again.’

  ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ said Eamonn, as a heavily-built man appeared by the Chief’s side, carrying a plunger.

  ‘You’ll remember Mr Hogan, of course. I introduced you at my farewell party.’

  ‘You put a finger on that plunger, Hogan, and I’ll have you facing inquiries for the rest of your working life. And you’ll be able to forget any ideas of becoming Chief Constable.’

  ‘Mr O’Flynn makes a fair point, Jim,’ said the Chief, checking his watch, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for harming your career in any way. But I see that you don’t take over command for another seven minutes, so it will be my sad duty to carry out this onerous responsibility.’

  As the Chief bent down to place his hand on the plunger, Eamonn leapt at his throat. It took three officers to restrain him, while he shouted obscenities at the top of his voice.

  The Chief sighed, checked his watch, gripped the handle of the plunger and pressed down slowly.

  The explosion could be heard for miles around as the roof of the garage – or was it the conservatory? – flew high into the air. Within moments the buildings were razed to the ground, leaving nothing in their place but smoke, dust and a pile of rubble.

  When the noise had finally died away, the chimes of St Mary’s could be heard striking twelve in the distance. The former Chief of Police considered it the end of a perfect day.

  ‘You know, Eamonn,’ he said, ‘I do believe that was worth sacrificing my pension for.’

  A WEEKEND TO REMEMBER*

  I FIRST MET Susie six years ago, and when she called to ask if I would like to join her for a drink, she can’t have been surprised that my immediate response was a little frosty. After all, my memory of our last meeting wasn’t altogether a happy one.

  I had been invited to the Keswicks for dinner, and like all good hostesses, Kathy Keswick considered it nothing less than her duty to pair off any surviving bachelor over the age of thirty with one of her more eligible girlfriends.

  With this in mind, I was disappointed to find that she had placed me next to Mrs Ruby Collier, the wife of a Conservative Member of Parliament who was seated on the left of my hostess at the other end of the table. Only moments after I had introduced myself she said, ‘You’ve probably read about my husband in the press.’ She then proceeded to tell me that none of her friends could understand why her husband wasn’t in the Cabinet. I felt unable to offer an opinion on the subject, because until that moment I had never heard of him.

  The name-card on the other side of me read ‘Susie’, and the lady in question had the sort of looks that made you wish you were sitting opposite her at a table set for two. Even after a sideways glance at that long fair hair, blue eyes, captivating smile and slim figure, I would not have been surprised to discover that she was a model. An illusion she was happy to dispel within minutes.

  I introduced myself by explaining that I had been at Cambridge with our host. ‘And how do you know the Keswicks?’ I enquired.

  ‘I was in the same office as Kathy when we both worked for Vogue in New York.’

  I remember feeling disappointed that she lived overseas. For how long, I wondered. ‘Where do you work now?’

  ‘I’m still in New York,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just been made the commissioning editor for Art Quarterly.’

  ‘I renewed my subscription only last week,’ I told her, rather pleased with myself. She smiled, evidently surprised that I’d even heard of the publication.

  ‘How long are you in London for?’ I asked, glancing at her left hand to check that she wore neither an engagement nor a wedding ring.

  ‘Only a few days. I flew over for my parents’ wedding anniversary last week, and I was hoping to catch the Lucian Freud exhibition at the Tate before I go back to New York. And what do you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I own a small hotel in Jermyn Street,’ I told her.

  I would happily have spent the rest of the evening chatting to Susie, and not just because of my passion for art, but my mother had taught me from an early age that however much you like the person on one side of you, you must be equally attentive to the one sitting on the other side.

  I turned back to Mrs Collier, who pounced on me with the words, ‘Have you read the speech my husband made in the Commons yesterday?’

  I confessed that I hadn’t, which turned out to be a mistake, because she then delivered the entire offering verbatim.

  Once she had completed her monologue on the subject of the Draft Civic Amenities (Landfill) Act, I could see why her husband wasn’t in the Cabinet. In fact, I made a mental note to avoid him when we retired to the drawing room for coffee.

  ‘I much look forward to making your husband’s acquaintance after dinner,’ I told her, before turning my attention back to Susie, only to find that she was staring at someone on the other side of the table. I glanced across to see that the man in question was deep in conversation with Mary Ellen Yarc, an American woman who was seated next to him, and seemed unaware of the attention he was receiving.

  I remembered that his name was Richard something, and that he had come with the girl seated at the other end of the table. She too, I noticed, was looking in Richard’s direction. I had to confess that he had the sort of chiselled features and thick wavy hair that make it unnecessary to have a degree in quantum physics.

  ‘So, what’s big in New York at the moment?’ I asked, trying to recapture Susie’s attention.

  She turned back to me and smiled. ‘We’re going to have a new Mayor at any moment now,’ she informed me, ‘and it could even be a Republican for a change. Frankly, I’d vote for anyone who can do something about the crime figures. One of them, I can’t remember his name, keeps talking about zero tolerance. Whoever he is, he’d get my vote.’

  Although Susie’s conversation remained lively and informative, her attention frequently strayed back to the other side of the table. I would have assumed she and Richard were lovers, if he had given her as much as a glance.

  Over pudding, Mrs Collier took a hatchet to the Cabinet, giving reasons why every one of them should be replaced – I didn’t need to ask by whom. By the time she’d reached the Minister of Agriculture, I felt I’d done my duty, and glanced back to find Susie pretending to be preoccupied by her summer pudding, while actually still taking far more interest in Richard.

  Suddenly he looked in her direction. Without warning, Susie grabbed my hand and began talking intently about an Eric Rohmer film she had recently seen in Nice.

  Few men object to a woman grabbing their hand, particularly when that woman is graced with Susie’s looks, but preferably not while she is gazing at another man.

  The moment Richard resumed his conversation with our hostess, Susie immediately released my hand and dug a fork into her summer pudding.

  I was grateful to be spared a third round with Mrs Collier, as Kathy rose from her place and suggested that we all go through to the drawing room. I fear this meant I had to miss out on the details of the Private Member’s Bill Mrs Collier’s husband was preparing to present to the House the following week.

  Over coffee I was introduced to Richard, who turned out to be a banker from New York. He continued to ignore Susie – or perhaps, inexplicably, he simply wasn’t aware of her presence. The girl whose name I didn’t know came across to join us, and murmured in his ear, ‘We shouldn’t leave it too late, darling. Don’t forget we’re booked on the early flight to Paris.’

&nb