The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

“You didn’t do it at all,” she said curtly. Rapidly, she told him what had happened. The awestruck silence at the other end was eloquent. “Are you still there?” she demanded.

“I don’t get it. There must be some mistake.”

“Yes, and it looks like you made it.”

“But it all went according to plan.”

“Something went wrong with the plan, then.”

“No, no, you don’t understand.”

“That’s true, Zack. I don’t bloody understand a thing. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you can cast any light on this whole God-awful mess?”

“No, I…”

He was stammering, sounding like an overgrown schoolkid. He was so much less mature than the sergeant, she thought. Now there was a young man who was going places. Quiet, assured, effective. Everything that Zack was not.

“So tell me what really happened. Did you by any chance run over a bit of sacking that you mistook for my husband? An easy mistake to make in the dark, I suppose. A shop window dummy that seemed to have a bit of life? Or at least more of a brain than you?”

“No, honest. I did the business. He came out of the house, just like you said he would. I mean, I didn’t see his face under the streetlight, so it wasn’t easy to compare him to that photo you gave me. But he was a big bloke, muscular, walked with a bit of a swagger. It had to be your old man.”

Claire groaned. Zack coughed and kept on talking. She thought he was trying to convince himself, rather than her, that he hadn’t made the ultimate in fatal errors. “He’d been in there since before I turned up. I couldn’t see where he’d parked. I thought it was probably out of sight so the people next door wouldn’t twig that something was going on. I was following him down the road and then the pavement came to an end. I’d staked the spot out in the afternoon. Double-checked the address you gave me, the photograph of your old feller. Everything was planned down to the last detail.”

“Go on,” she said bleakly.

“He was forced to cross over. No choice. And that’s when I did it. Put my foot down and went for him. Tossed him up in the air like a pancake and then, when he hit the deck, reversed back over him just to make sure. I’m telling you, no-one could have survived that. I even saw the blood making a pool on the roadside before I drove away. Believe me, he was dead all right. The car was in a right state when I dumped it.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I swear to you. On my mother’s life.”

“There’s only one more question, then.”

“What’s that?” He sounded bewildered. He’d been expecting her undying gratitude and now it had all gone wrong. “Hurry up, there’s someone at the door. They’re leaning on the buzzer. What’s your question?”

“Who exactly was it that you did kill?”

That was it, Claire said to herself as she pulled down the ladder that led up to the loft. Zack was finished, as far as she was concerned. She should have remembered her late father’s favourite saying. If you want a job done properly, do it yourself. How could she ever have believed that he would do what she wanted without a slip-up? She blamed herself, even though it wasn’t her habit. All her life, it seemed, she’d been seduced by men talking big. They always acted small. That nice sergeant would be different, she thought. He hadn’t worn a wedding ring: she noticed these things. If only…

She reached up to switch on the loft light. It was a large loft, running the length of the house, but so dusty that it made her want to sneeze. Telling the sergeant that Karl had been up here tidying the previous night was probably the biggest lie of all. Her husband thought that life was too short for tidying and he never bothered with their attic. Taking a job with Slickloft had not made the slightest difference. His argument was that if he’d wanted a fourth bedroom he’d have bought a bigger house on day one. Besides, he said that nine out of ten loft conversions were only any use for midgets who liked walking down the middle of a room, and he was six feet three. The loft was, therefore, an admirable hiding place so far as Claire was concerned and she often made good use of it. Amongst the bits and pieces she kept here was the note she had made of Jennifer Bailey’s name, address and telephone number: information she had needed for Zack’s briefing and which she’d managed to copy surreptitiously from Karl’s personal organizer.

In fact, there were two numbers. Home and work, presumably? The codes were different. She recognized one immediately; it was the code for Bradford, she had a cousin who lived there. Next to the other were the initials “AA” and a couple of exclamation marks. Karl had a tedious sense of humour and she could not imagine what had been in his mind. Alcoholics Anonymous? Automobile Association? Agony Aunt? Nothing seemed to make sense at the moment. However, she had more important things to worry about.

She hurried downstairs and dialled the Bradford number, having taken care to withhold her own. “Yes?” The woman sounded subdued, very different from the night before.

“Mrs Bailey? You may not remember, but you rang me last…”

“This isn’t Mrs Bailey,” the woman interrupted. Of course not: she was elderly by the sound of her, probably a pensioner. “My name’s Dora Prince, I’m her next door neighbour. I’m sorry, but she’s not able to come to the phone right now. I’m afraid she’s still in shock. You know what’s happened, do you?”

Iwish, Claire thought. “No…”

“It’s a terrible tragedy,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “Her husband went out last night to pick up some fish and chips and he was run over as he was crossing the road. The driver didn’t stop. The policewoman’s here now. She hasn’t even got round to asking me anything. She’s too busy comforting Jennifer, of course. You can imagine.”

Yes, Claire could imagine. “Oh dear,” she said.

“Awful, isn’t it? Such a lovely chap. And a dab hand at do-it-yourself, too. He’ll never finish that pergola now, poor fellow. Shall I tell Jennifer you rang?”

“Oh, it’s all right. Don’t bother. We – we hardly know each other. I don’t want to intrude.”

As she put the phone down, Claire’s heart was pounding. She had solved one mystery, only to be confronted with others. What on earth had possessed Jennifer Bailey to telephone her the previous night? Come to think of it, why had she lied about having seen Karl? And why had Karl said she was a one-legger when her husband – her late husband, thanks to bloody Zack, a real case of collateral damage, poor sod – had apparently been at home with her throughout the evening?

She sighed and looked for Jennifer Bailey’s second number, the one which Karl had marked with the initials “AA”. The code seemed familiar. Wasn’t it Crewe? Curiouser and curiouser. Why would a woman who lived in Bradford have a work number in south Cheshire? Well, it was possible, but it seemed strange. She was seized by the urge to find out what “AA” stood for. She rang the number.

“Hello?” The woman who answered sounded familiar.

“Who is that?”

“Who’s calling?” Definitely evasive.

The penny dropped. This was the woman who had rung the previous evening. Jennifer Bailey. Or rather, someone purporting to be Jennifer Bailey.

“Is that AA?” Claire asked in a hopeful tone.

“Yes.” The woman sounded less guarded. “How may I help you?”

“Well, I just wondered…”

“You’re interested in our services?” The woman seemed to recognize Claire’s hesitancy, and to regard it as natural enough.

Claire pondered. Was she calling some kind of brothel? She wouldn’t put much past Karl. “Could you give me some details?”

“Of course.” The woman became business-like. “It’s very simple. The Alibi Agency’s name speaks for itself. We provide excuses for people who need them. Most of our business comes by