by Andy Maslen
“May I help you, madam?” he asked, in a soft burr, the smile on his thin lips widening.
Stella adopted a posh accent she’d recently heard in a cafe in Mayfair. Two women had been discussing their shopping woes. I tell you, one had said between delicate sips of her coffee, Hermès was so stuffed with little Chinese girls spending Poppa Chan's money, one could hardly make oneself seen by the shop girl. At the time, Stella had wanted to slap them silly, but now she was grateful for their unwitting assistance.
“Yes. I’ve been having some trouble with vermin. We’re being simply overrun. I need a rifle. And a shotgun.” She widened her eyes and ran her hands through the wig’s long blonde hair. Making him notice it. Making him remember a posh blonde with dark-brown eyes.
At her words, his eyes popped open and he smiled broadly.
“Well, well, what are the odds?”
“What do you mean?”
“We have nobody but locals in here from one end of the year to the next and then, within the space of an hour, two English ladies come through our door looking to buy rifles.”
Stella’s mind began racing as she tried to assess what this could mean. A rat gnawed at her insides. You’re in trouble, it hissed. He’s sent someone after you. Better be careful.
“Goodness me. Well, I think I heard one of our neighbours talking about a shooting party. I dare say she was here for that.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right, madam.” He was all smiles. “And this lady certainly knew her long guns. Very knowledgeable. Picked out a splendid rifle for herself without any help at all. Now, vermin, you said?”
“That’s right,” Stella said plastering what she hoped was a pleasant smile onto her face. “Deer mostly, eating my fruit trees. But the rabbits are absolutely pestilential too.”
“Well, as you see, madam, we have a wide selection of shotguns. You can purchase them with a standard shotgun certificate. As to the rifle, you’ll need–”
“A coterminous firearms certificate, yes, I know,” Stella interrupted, letting the merest hint of impatience inflect her voice. “Here, you’ll see everything’s in order.”
She flourished the certificate – genuine, not forged – at him. It was the product of fifteen minutes’ work back in the records room at Paddington Green. It permitted Jennifer Amy Stadden to purchase shotguns, including those with high-capacity magazines – over three cartridges – and also one rifle in .308 calibre, one sound moderator, also for a .308, and up to a hundred .308 rounds at any given time.
He frowned, grooving three fine lines into his otherwise smooth forehead.
“Issued in London, not here?”
“Yes. They are nationally applicable, you know.” Her adopted persona was a woman used to getting her own way, but inwardly, Stella was fighting to calm an insistent tremor of anxiety that she feared would betray itself in a bead of sweat on her brow or top lip, or a tremor in her voice.
“Of course, madam. It’s just that most of our customers have Scottish certificates.”
“Well, that’s very interesting, but as you know, you’re still a part of the United Kingdom, for the moment at least, so perhaps we could continue?”
He folded the certificate up and handed in back to Stella.
“Of course, my apologies. And it’s just as simple to write to the Metropolitan Police as our local force.”
“Write?”
“To inform them of your purchases, madam.”
“Surely that’s all computerised nowadays?”
He laughed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you. But I’m afraid it’s all a bit stuck in the pre-digital era. To be honest, you could be anyone, and as long as you have that piece of paper, you can walk out of here with whatever it says you can. All we do is write our letter within seven days of your leaving the shop.”
By which time I’ll be long gone. And after the Met call you to explain I died as a little girl, you’re going to have a couple of detectives crawling all over your shop. They’ll want CCTV, which I see you don’t have, descriptions, the works. Sorry.
“So. Shall we look at some guns?” she said.
“The shotgun first, I think,” he said. “Do you have a preference for style or make? We have the most popular brands out here and several others in our private handling room.”
“Well, as I said, this is strictly a practical gun. My husband and I have our favourites for shoots, of course. He likes his Berettas, while I’m more of a Purdey girl. So, a semi-automatic. I’m not fussed about the maker, as long as the damned thing shoots straight.”
The young man turned to survey the rack of guns behind him. To an inexperienced eye, which included Stella’s, they looked virtually identical. Wooden stocks, blued or black steel barrels. Some with engraving on the breech, some with fine chequering on the cheek piece of the stock. He turned back.
“I think given your intended usage, there are two guns in particular that you might like. They’re in our store room. Would you mind waiting for a few moments?”
Stella shook her head and made a show of pulling out her phone as he disappeared through the door leading away from the shop. He returned carrying in his left hand a long, flat, rectangular, cardboard carton, held closed by a thin, white plastic strap. This he leant against the rear wall. In his right, he held a shotgun, which he placed on the counter in front of Stella.
“Winchester SX3,” he said. “Three-cartridge magazine and a nice compact gun suitable for a lady.”
Stella let the opportunity for a put-down go by. Instead, she placed the gun’s wooden stock against her shoulder and sighted along the black barrel.
“Easy to shorten it, Stel,” other-Stella said from the far side of the counter. Take a hacksaw to the barrel and the stock, you could cut the best part of two feet off it.”
“Only three shots,” Stella said.
“True, madam, but reloading is a quick and simple affair,” the young man said.
“Ask him about the other one.”
“What’s in the carton?” Stella asked, placing the SX3 on the counter.
“Let me show you.”
Using scissors, he cut the strap and slid out from the carton a black plastic case. He flipped off the catches and opened it.
The weapon within was clearly a sister to the SX3, and from the same family as the smart, huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ weapons nestled together behind the counter. Equally clearly, it belonged to a different branch. Perhaps the one that drove too fast, drank too much and got into fights on Saturday nights. Its action was finished in a bright, metallic red and shouted where the other guns whispered. The stock was a plain satin black, some sort of plastic Stella supposed.
The shop assistant offered the gun to Stella. She took it and brought it up to her shoulder in a smooth movement, sighting along the long, black barrel at a light fixture on the far wall. She lowered it and turned it over in her hands. Pulled the cocking lever back and let it go with a loud clack.
“Nice gun,” she said.
“Indeed, madam. This is the Winchester SX3 Raniero Testa. Twelve gauge, semi-automatic and with a twelve-round capacity magazine. It’s that tube under the barrel.”
“Reliable?” she said, musing that this young man seemed as obsessive about guns as Danny was.
“Oh, absolutely,” he enthused, warming to his theme. “Obviously, with the Winchester name you can be sure it’s developed to the very highest standards and tolerances, as is the SX3. It also holds the world record for rate of fire. I believe it stands at twelve rounds in under a second and a half. You’d be able to wipe out plenty of bunnies without reloading.”
“Wouldn’t work as a sawn-off,” other-Stella said, pointing at the magazine tube.
“But twelve shots without reloading means I could do at least two doors,” Stella murmured.
“I’m sorry?” the young man asked, frowning.
Without missing a beat, Stella lowered the gun and placed it on the counter.
“How muc
h?”
“This particular gun is part of our pre-owned selection, madam. It’s been thoroughly checked and we have our own seventeen-point verification checklist–”
“How much?”
“Nine hundred and ninety-five.”
“I’ll take it. Now, a rifle. What do you suggest?”
“For deer? Shooters will be debating the best calibre for deer hunting until we’re all long in our graves, madam. Down south,” – a momentary pause as if to hint that “south” was a synonym for “soft” – “for roe, a .247 might be enough. But for the full range of British species, especially the reds we have up here, I would recommend something in .308 calibre. We have a very nice Blaser R93 Luxus in stock. It comes as part of our Swarovski package.”
“Very bling,” Stella drawled.
“Oh, indeed,” he said, allowing an indulgent smile to creep across his face. “No gemstones, I’m afraid, madam, but we supply it fitted with a Swarovski Z6i 2.5-15x56 telescopic sight and an A-TEC sound moderator.”
The rifle, when it appeared, was fitted with a black webbing sling and a telescopic sight. It looked more conventional than the shotgun, with a polished stock made from a richly grained wood and a dull black, steel barrel tipped with the fat, black tube of the sound modifier. Stella raised it to her shoulder and looked through the scope. Imagined Ramage’s head in the crosshairs. Breathed in, then out, waited, finger resting oh-so-gently on the trigger. No, Judge Ramage. Nothing so clean for you, my boy. We’re going to have plenty of time to discuss what’s happening. Oh, yes. But this might come in handy if you’ve got protection with you. The sounds of the shop faded, to be replaced by birdsong and the shushing of wind through trees. Stella was lying in a sniper’s nest of soft bracken, knives in a backpack, Glock in the waistband of her jeans, shotgun lying next to her, loaded with the Hatton rounds.
“Madam?” It was the attentive young man, waiting for her verdict on the Blaser. “What do you think?”
Stella lowered the rifle and placed it parallel to the Winchester on the glass counter. Her head was hot under the wig. “How much?”
“The Blaser is five thousand, five hundred, madam.” He paused. “Although I’m sure, as you’re buying two guns, we could offer you a better price.”
“I’ll take them both. And some ammunition.” Not that I need it for the shotgun. That is strictly for tactical entry and I brought my own for that. But let’s not draw attention to ourselves.
“May I suggest Lyalvale Express Pigeon Specials loaded with number six lead shot for the Winchester. It gives a good, humane kill without smashing the carcass.” Stella nodded, smiling. She was thinking of smashed carcasses. “And for the Blaser? Let me see. If you were after foxes, I’d suggest Winchester ballistic tipped rounds, but soft points would be more appropriate for deer. Unless you like your venison minced.” He coughed out a small laugh. Clearly, he’d made the same joke before. “We stock Federal Power-Shok in .308. One-fifty or one-eighty grain loads. They come in boxes of twenty.”
“I think a hundred will be plenty for now. The one-eighties, please.”
The young man smiled his pleasant smile again. “Will there be anything else, madam?”
Stella scratched absent-mindedly at the wig and shook her head.
“I think that’s everything,” she said.
Stella left the shop burdened by the two long guns in their cases: hard-shell, black ABS plastic for the Winchester; a soft green nylon for the Blaser. She also carried a plastic carrier bag bulging with ammunition and a second, even larger bag filled with camouflaged shooting jacket, trousers and cap. She’d paid cash for her purchases, which raised the young man’s dark brown eyebrows a millimetre or two, and had refused his offer of membership of their loyalty scheme. No sense leaving any more of a trail than we have to, eh, Stel? At an army surplus shop on a side street, she paid more cash for a faded olive-green canvas kitbag capacious enough to hold her materiel.
Back at Braemar, she spread her purchases out on the pink Candlewick bedspread, stroking her fingertips along the polished wooden stock of the Blaser. She flicked the switch on the base of the tiny, white, plastic kettle – “tea making facilities in all rooms”. While it chuntered and rumbled to the boil, she took out a few other items she’d bought in the town: a slim, aluminium vacuum flask, a dark-green backpack and some energy bars.
She loaded the long guns, wearing another pair of the nitrile gloves. Twelve Hatton rounds slid up into the magazine tube of the Winchester, each requiring slightly more effort as the long spring’s increasing compression pushed back against her thumb. Four Federal soft-points clicked home into the Blaser’s magazine insert.
While Stella made herself a mug of tea, other-Stella wandered over from the mirror to inspect the weapons.
“Overkill. I like it. You’re going to take your time with him, though, aren’t you?”
Stella looked over her shoulder. “What do you think?” she said, picking up the Maoui Deba and turning it this way and that, so its razor-sharp edge caught the light from the fringed lampshade overhead.
“How are you going to get to the judge’s place from here?”
“Hire car.”
“I thought you didn’t like driving?”
“Needs must. Besides, I can always let you drive, can’t I?”
“Fair enough. And we just won’t mention to the nice lady at Avis that you died on April twentieth 1980, will we?” other-Stella said, running a red-varnished fingernail along the zip protecting the new identity documents. “Just one more thing.”
“What?”
“The other woman. He said she was English. Knows her way around weapons. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Stella shrugged. “I’ll just have to be careful, won’t I?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ready, Aim …
THAT NIGHT, IN Craigmackhan’s richly furnished master bedroom, Ramage was mired in the dream again.
He rolls up to the sliding steel doors of the body shop and kills the engine of his Bentley. A regular door has been cut into the massive shutters, and he pushes through, taking care to step high over the sill that tripped him the first time he brought the Bentley in for a service. A sharp edge rips the fabric of his scarlet legal robe and blood drips onto the floor.
Inside, the proprietor, a man he only knows as ‘Big Sam’, is working on the front axle of a 1951 Bentley Continental when Ramage steps through the door. His son, ‘Little Sam’, is hand polishing a brand-new model bearing the same name. A radio is playing in the background: Elvis Presley’s “Burning Love.”
Seeing his customer, the elder Blackbourn lays his wrench carefully on the floor beside the driver’s side wheel of the big, gleaming limousine and straightens, easing his back with a few rolling stretches from side to side.
“Good morning, Judge Ramage, sir. Wasn’t expecting to see you for a few months. Everything all right with the car?”
“Not as such, Sam. Had a bit of a prang yesterday. Sorted out the other driver, but now I’m left with a nasty scuff on my front offside wing.”
“Well then, let’s take a look. See what’s what, eh?”
The two men step out, single-file, through the narrow door to the outside world. Ramage’s robe continues to bleed, though Big Sam is diplomatic enough not to mention the smears and drips spoiling the immaculate floor of his garage.
Big Sam squats in front of the Bentley’s front offside wing. He extends his right hand and then, as if inviting an animal to take his scent before advancing further, trails the backs of his fingers up and across the ruined metalwork.
The damage extends back from the headlight for forty centimetres or so. The dark purple paint has been cracked and scraped away, revealing weeping red flesh and shards of bone beneath. Scuffs of silver paint decorate the edges of the wound.
“Nasty,” Big Sam says. He strokes the stubble on his chin and turns his gaze on the judge. “Hell of a prang to do that to a Bentley. Other chap al
l right, was he?”
“Parked car. I left my card. I came off worse, if you can believe it.”
Big Sam stares at the dented wing for a few seconds. Pauses. Runs his blackened fingers through his thinning hair. “Job like that? Done properly. Going to have to take it back to the flesh and blend it in.”
Ramage purses his lips and folds his arms, trying to avoid looking down where the blood is pooling around his feet. “Which I understand, Big Sam, believe me. But the timescale. Please.”
“Setting the bone, sutures, debriding the dead flesh, prepping, base coat, two, maybe three top coats, clear coat … hand-polish. I’m thinking a week Friday. Priority job, obviously. Seeing as how it’s you, Judge.”
Ramage smiles. It is better than he’d been expecting. “A week Friday is fine, Big Sam. And your fee?”
Big Sam looks Ramage in the eye.
“Two million. Please.”
Ramage smiles.
“Our usual arrangement will suffice, I hope,” he says, opening his wallet and pulling out a sheaf of black-and-red banknotes with charred edges. “Ten thousand now and the balance on collection?”
Big Sam palms the notes and they disappear into the front pocket of his brown bib overalls.
“Always a pleasure, Judge. Oh,” he says, eyes widening, as he looks into the rear of the car. “What do you want me to do about that?”
Ramage gazes past Big Sam’s outstretched arm and pointing finger.
A baby sits in a child’s car seat, strapped in and looking at him with slitted eyes of fearful intensity. It’s a little girl to judge from the pale-pink ribbon tied in a bow on the top of her head.
“You killed my Daddy,” she says in a dry, whispery croak that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “You killed my Daddy. Then you burned me. I’m too hot. I can’t sleep. I want a cuddle.”
