Hit Back Harder

by Andy Maslen

  The three conspirators parted company as they reached the boating lake, agreeing on radio silence unless Collier should have something to report. The two lawyers had cases to prepare for and headed back to their respective chambers. Collier walked on, lost in thought, wondering how hot it got in Chicago at this time of year.

  58

  Joining Forces

  SMARTPHONES MADE LIFE so easy, Stella found it hard to imagine how she’d ever managed without hers. And as for her parents, when they’d been alive, even the simplest feature-phones were regarded with something akin to awe. Her mum, bless her, would only switch on the phone if she was expecting a call. Stella had tried on more than one occasion to explain that unless she were psychic, this was never going to work.

  “But, mum,” she’d argued, aware that she’d reverted to the querulous tone of voice she’d last used as a sixteen-year-old, whining about not being allowed to go to a gig. “If you don’t keep it switched on, what if I need to speak to you? Or one of your friends does?”

  Mum had smiled the same indulgent smile she used when dealing with her furious teenaged daughter.

  “Call the home phone, darling. It’s still the same number we’ve always had. That’s what we all do.”

  “We” was her and her coterie of “girlfriends,” well-dressed ladies in their sixties who played bridge together on Mondays, swam in the local pool on Tuesdays, organised charity coffee mornings, read novels together for their monthly book club get-togethers, and generally had a whale of a time.

  She sighed. Poor Mum. And poor Dad. She’d gone first, breast cancer that had reappeared after five years of the all clear and metastasised to her brain. Well, at least it had been quick after that. No long, drawn-out death, just a few weeks to get her affairs in order, swimming through a haze of morphine instead of chlorinated pool water this time, then a final, long, out-hissing breath and she was at peace. Dad had followed a year later, dead of pancreatic cancer, his last days spent in a hospice where Stella could visit whenever she liked, stay as long as her duties permitted and even sleep in the room next to him on a foldaway bed if she wanted. Cancer was listed on the death certificate as cause of death. Broken heart would have been more accurate.

  She shook herself from this reverie. She was sitting in another hotel room, booked online while still travelling back from Spain. Arrival date: 17 June. Departure: 18 June. This one was in central London, in Twyford Place, a quiet street just south of High Holborn. The time now was five o’clock, and she’d just got back from a shopping trip to Regent Street.

  She had a call to make before unwrapping her purchases. She pulled out her phone and tapped Vicky Riley’s contact photo.

  “Vicky, it’s Stella. You OK?”

  “Yes, fine. Gemini’s van isn’t exactly palatial, but we can move whenever we like so I feel pretty safe here.”

  “Whose van did you say?”

  “Gemini. Gemini Moon’s her full name. At uni, she was plain Sarah Heale and a very promising journalism student. Then she just tuned in, turned on and dropped out. Now she’s a holistic healer with a VW camper van. We stayed in touch.”

  “I’m so sorry about your godparents. But we can get them, Vicky. You just have to be patient before going public with the story.”

  Vicky snorted.

  “Story? Oh, God, I’m so over it being about a story. They killed the two people I loved more than anyone in the world apart from my parents. I just want to help you nail the bastards. I’ve got contacts, you know, in some pretty dodgy lines of work. If there’s anything I can do to help you, I want you to ask. OK?”

  “OK. But I’m fine. For now, anyway. You need to stay safe. I’ll let you know when it’s over. Who knows, maybe then you’ll want to write about it. I bet you’d get some fuck-off journalism prize for it.”

  They ended the call agreeing that Vicky would keep a low profile with her friend Gemini, and Stella would call or text the moment PPM were disabled. Fatally.

  59

  Getting Ready to Go Out

  TRAVELLING UP FROM the south coast, Stella had stopped off briefly at Jason and Elle’s house to collect a single item of post. She slit the thick, creamy envelope with a pencil branded with the hotel’s purple-and-black livery and its named gold-blocked onto the side. With newly print-less finger and thumb, she extracted the single piece of stiff card from the envelope and turned it to face her.

  The partners and staff of

  Woodward Chambers

  have great pleasure in inviting:

  Jessica Schubert

  to a reception to mark the retirement of our

  Head of Chambers, Crispin Montfort QC.

  Dress code: black tie.

  8.00 p.m., 17 June 2011

  Carriages at midnight

  7 New Square, London WC2A 9BB

  R.S.V.P.

  Christabel Smith-Montoya

  07700 900675

  csm@woodwardchambers.co.uk

  She called the mobile number.

  “Hello, this is Christabel.”

  Stella let her accent ascend a few rungs on the social scale.

  “Oh, hello, Christabel. It’s Jessica Schubert here, British Law Review. I have your invitation here and I’ve just realised I failed entirely to respond. I do hope I’m not too late to accept?”

  The woman laughed, a pleasant, light sound suggesting that this sort of thing happened all the time.

  “Not at all, Jessica. I’m sure you had a million deadlines to meet. Please, don’t worry. We have more than enough champagne and smoked salmon to go round.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll see you at eight.”

  “Yes, at eight.”

  Stella ended the call then turned to her purchases. From a shiny lemon-yellow bag that crackled loudly as she pulled it across the bed towards her, she extracted a black tissue-paper package, bound with a black ribbon. She tugged the free ends of the ribbon and unwound it from the package, dropping it to the floor. Then she spread the rustling leaves of paper to reveal a folded black silk cocktail dress. The dress was simple: tight-fitting bodice with a deep V-neck, flared skirt with a hemline just above the knee.

  From a second bag, deep chocolate brown with an electric-blue script logo, she withdrew two items: a pair of sheer black tights and a black Wonderbra. From a third, a pair of high-heeled patent-leather stilettos, also in black.

  She looked down at her purchases and smiled.

  “Should do the trick, don’t you think?” she asked Other Stella, who had taken up residence in a buttoned purple velvet armchair in the corner of the room and was flicking through a glossy magazine, cigarette in hand.

  “Killer,” Other Stella said, blowing a stream of smoke upwards, aiming directly at the smoke detector, which stayed resolutely silent as the smoke disappeared.

  Stella ran a bath, poured herself a large vodka and tonic from the minibar, added ice then took it through to the bathroom with a book she’d bought.

  The warmth of the water on her skin, and the vodka in her stomach, relaxed her, and she was …

  … Other Stella, dressed to kill in her new outfit. The party wasn’t a legal reception at all. It was a Pro Patria Mori dinner, at Leonard Ramage’s London residence, the palatial townhouse on Egerton Crescent where Stella had first attempted to corner him, before his housekeeper had told her Ramage had lit out for Scotland.

  She wandered around the long rectangular table, looking down at the guests, who glanced in her direction then looked away, continuing their conversation about justice and showing their sharp white teeth each time they laughed. Here were the people she’d killed, or planned to kill. Except these weren’t the originals. These were their Others.

  Other Collier, Other Ramage, Other Howarth, Other Fieldsend, Other Ragib, Other De Bree.

  Other Fieldsend didn’t look in great condition. Each time she turned to listen to her neighbour, parts of her body seemed to slide over each other, like badly stacked parcels. Blood was leaking from between the
m, and she paused in her conversation from time to time to push this shoulder or that section of abdomen back into place with a loud squelch.

  Other Ramage was an even bigger mess. Though he swilled his red wine lustily, his blackened face was weeping from numerous splits and the hand holding the wineglass was missing its index finger. He had a third eye in the centre of his forehead, too: a perfectly circular black hole, nine millimetres in diameter.

  She came to the head of the table and found that the seat was empty. Other Collier broke off from a story about torturing a paedophile to death and spoke to her.

  “So glad you could join us. Please, sit down.”

  Stella found herself already sitting. The soup plate in front of her brimmed with a deep-red liquid. She picked up her spoon. The liquid was overflowing now, cresting the rim of the plate and soaking into the white lace tablecloth before running over the edge of the table and flowing unchecked into her lap. Her dress was white, not black. A full skirt and a white lace bodice threaded with hundreds of seed pearls and silvery bugle beads. Her wedding dress. Well, her grandmother’s. A beautiful vintage Edwardian gown in soft, watered silk. The red stuff, spotted here and there with black clots, was soaking through the silk; it felt warm on her thighs. She wanted to rise from her chair, but her legs were stuck to the leather seat with the liquid. The blood. Stuck with the blood.

  She looked up. The diners had all stopped talking and were looking at her. Other Fieldsend spoke.

  “Who now? Hester? Charlie? Adam? The rest of us are dead. Christopher from a heart attack, unfortunately.” She glanced down the table at De Bree, who nodded modestly, causing a gout of blood to flow from his mouth and splash onto the front of his shirt.

  “Him first,” Stella answered, pointing at Other Howarth. “Then her,” another jabbing finger in Other Ragib’s direction. Finally, she turned her gaze on Other Collier. “And then you, once you’re all alone.”

  Other Collier had his hands up in mock surrender and smiled unpleasantly, his dark eyebrows curving upwards.

  “Not if I get you first,” he said.

  “And then what?” Other Fieldsend asked. “You’re done? You go back to your life from before? How’s that going to work?”

  Stella shook her head, feeling the anger simmering in her chest start to boil.

  “No!” she shouted. “You lot first. Then we’ll have to see. Wives, husbands, boyfriends, children, parents, friends. I’m going to wipe you from the face of the earth and everyone connected to you.”

  “I wonder what your sainted husband would make of your vendetta. He was quite keen on human rights, as I recall.”

  “Until you murdered him, you mean?” Other Stella said.

  “We had to. He was spoiling our party.”

  “And my daughter? Lola? She was a baby. She wasn’t spoiling anything.”

  Other Fieldsend looked down for a second, then back up. Her face was a mask. No emotions marred its flawless surface.

  “That was,” a beat, “unfortunate. But we—”

  “You killed her!” Stella screamed. She found she was free of the sticky embrace of the chair and got to her feet. “Now you have to die!”

  She pushed back, knocking the chair over. In her hand was a long, narrow blade. Some sort of cooking knife with a black handle riveted with brass. Two feet long from hilt to tip, it glinted in the light from the candles burning in the centre of the table.

  Stella stalked down the room, pausing behind each diner to draw the blade across their throats. As each expired, wheezing and gurgling through a stream of bright arterial blood, the roaring in Stella’s ears grew louder and louder, her feet sloshing through the blood that was rising from the floor, over her ankles, her knees and up to her groin …

  … and she jerked upwards in the lukewarm bathwater, gasping for air and knocking the empty tumbler off the edge of the bath and onto the floor, which was merely tiled with cork and not inches deep in the blood she’d been wading through seconds earlier.

  She stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting her boobs and wincing in the iron grip of the Wonderbra. It did all its manufacturer promised, but was as comfortable as a Kevlar anti-stab vest. Like being grabbed at a sixth-form disco, she thought, as she turned this way and that, admiring her new cleavage. She slipped the new dress over her head, then wriggled and shimmied until it was sitting nicely on her hips and the bodice was snug around her chest. The V-neck emphasised what the Wonderbra had created, and she felt sure Howarth and any other man she needed to charm wouldn’t be paying her face very much attention.

  A quick spray of perfume added the finishing touch to the honey trap, then she began applying her makeup. Unlike her previous foray into London, when the port-wine stain had acted as a gaze-repellent, this time she was going in a completely different direction. One in which glamour would bedazzle anyone who caught her eye. All they’d be able to remember was eyes, lips and hair.

  Half an hour later, having plundered the pages of that month’s Vogue for inspiration, she was finished. Her eyes, outlined in kohl, shimmered with green and gold, long, mascara-enhanced lashes fluttering above like exotic moths. Bright-green, coloured contact lenses added an intensity her own irises lacked. Her lips were blood-red and as glossy as wet paint. To complete her transformation into an Olympic-class vamp, she’d donned one of the wigs she’d bought from Roxana, a long, straight blonde number, and pinned it up into a French pleat from which a few tendrils escaped to twirl against her neck. She’d bought a set of costume jewellery from a vintage shop on the way back to her hotel. Earrings, a necklace and a matching bracelet in a glossy, black material that glinted in the light. “They’re only glass,” the pierced-and-tattooed young girl behind the counter had explained, “but they look just like jet.” She clipped, clasped and slid them on to ears, neck and wrist before slipping her feet into the stilettos.

  “Very nice,” Other Stella drawled from her arm chair. “If you don’t get propositioned by at least one member of both sexes, I’ll be extremely disappointed.”

  “As long as Howarth takes the bait, I won’t be.”

  “Oh, he will, I’m sure of it. Have you got everything you need?”

  Stella looked down. A black, sequinned clutch bag lay on the bed. She sat and twisted the chromed clasp to open it. Nestling amongst the credit-card holder, cigarettes, lighter, tissues, little helper, lipstick and a few folded twenties was a small bottle of clear liquid. She’d paid Terzi in cash for it, after explaining that she wanted a strong, fast-acting sedative.

  “Then you should try this,” he’d said, reaching into his medicine cabinet and producing the six-centimetre-tall bottle she now held in her hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Flunitrazepam. It’s a benzodiazepine, like the midazolam I gave you, yes? But very much stronger. Here in Spain, they use it as a sleeping pill. But not, I believe, in the UK. I use it to induce anaesthesia before switching to other drugs.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It is far too strong and can cause as many problems as it solves. But if you wanted, oh, I don’t know, to render someone immobile and unable to speak but still conscious, it would serve your purposes admirably.”

  Stella held it up to the light then replaced it in her bag.

  “I wonder whether Howarth’s ever had a roofie before,” she said.

  “He’s a high-flying lawyer. He’s probably had everything going. But what are you going to do if you can’t spike his drink?”

  Stella pulled the little helper out and wrapped her fist around it, squeezing the leather roll of pound coins until her knuckles turned white.

  “Then I’ll spike him with this instead.”

  Then she drove her bunched fist down into the pillow beside her, imagining the crack of bone beneath her knuckles.

  “Good. Now you’ve got that out of your system, how about we do your nails?”

  As she applied the scarlet nail polish, Other Stella spoke again.

 
“What happens if he recognises you? Collier’s bound to have shared your photo.”

  “It’ll be too late. In fact, I almost hope he does.”

  60

  Party Girl

  LEGAL BUSINESS BEING concluded for the day, New Square was quiet. No, not precisely quiet. As Stella stalked along the uneven pavement, someone leaning in close might have heard her swearing under her breath as she tried to avoid trapping one of her dagger-like heels in the cracks between the slabs of York stone. The heels themselves were clicking in a more-or-less even rhythm as she approached the front door of Woodward Chambers. And floating on the air was a buzz of conversation, occasional laughter and the pop of champagne corks. The evening was fine, and she assumed the party was taking place in a garden on the other side of the Georgian building.

  She stretched out a carmine fingernail and pressed the bell push to the right of the glistening, black front door. A few seconds elapsed during which she glanced down to check her appearance. The door swung open to reveal a young, dark-haired man of twenty-five or so, resplendent in a sharp, pale-grey three-piece suit, accessorised by a tie in a shocking shade of pink.

  “Yes, miss?” he said in a cockney accent, as if he’d only just escaped the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.

  Stella proffered her invitation, gratified to see him struggling to maintain eye contact.

  “Jessica Schubert,” she said as he took it from her, glanced at the name and handed it back.

  “Thank you, miss. Come in, please. They’re all through there, in the garden.” He pointed down a wide, carpeted hallway to an open door, through which she could see a knot of well-dressed people holding champagne glasses.