by Andy Maslen
“Well, sir, for a start, it’s ‘Detective Inspector’. My title, I mean. But pleasantries aside, I believe you spoke to a colleague of mine recently. About some paint?”
“Oh, yes. One of those forensics chaps. Wanted to know about a special colour. It’s called–”
“Viola del diavolo, yes, sir. I need a list of the customers who ordered that particular colour for their Bentleys.”
He’d stonewalled Lucian, but Lucian was a tech. Now he was talking to a DI, would he have the nerve to brazen it out a second time?
“As I explained to your colleague, Detective Inspector, that information is confidential. Enthusiasts of the Bentley marque are private people, and they like us to help them keep it that way. I’m afraid that unless you can produce a warrant, my hands are tied and my lips are sealed.”
Jesus! Was he making fun of her? I’d like to tie your hands, believe me, son, I would. I’d have you screaming for mercy in seconds. Then we’d see how sealed your lips really were. And what was all this shit about warrants? Sometimes it was like every member of the public was an amateur lawyer. That or a forensics specialist, always bleating on about latent prints and DNA. She took a deep breath.
“Which, of course, I am happy to go away and get from a judge. But I’m investigating a double murder, and you may not be aware of this, sir, but a day’s delay, even an hour’s delay, can help a criminal escape justice.” Brooke tried to speak, but Stella cut him off and continued. “So, I’m thinking, I could get a warrant, as I say. And I could call a press conference when we finish our call and tell the media our prime suspect was driving a customised purple Bentley when he killed a man and his baby daughter. Of course, I can’t be sure what that would do for your public image, or that of your privacy-loving customers. But I’m just a simple policewoman, not a public relations expert like you or the fragrant Miranda fforde with two small f’s.”
She waited. One, two, three …
“Fine. I need to go and talk to someone. Can I call you back?”
“Of course, and thank you for being so understanding. I’ll give you five minutes. Then I’ll call my press officer.”
No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll call you in five. Or less.”
“Fewer.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s ‘fewer’. You’ll call me back in five minutes or fewer. Less is for stuff you can’t count, like patience. Fewer is for things you can, like minutes.”
Three minutes later, her phone rang. She watched it and counted. No voicemail on these old things: they rang for ever or until the caller got bored and hung up. An exhibits room assistant passing her desk looked over. Stella smiled at her.
“Making someone sweat,” she said.
The assistant, a plump, pretty girl in her early twenties with heavy-framed glasses, a shiny black nose ring and long blond hair, smiled back and walked away.
Stella let the phone ring eleven times before she lifted the handset from the cradle and placed it against her ear.
“DI Cole?” a man asked. It was Brooke.
“Yes, Robin. What do you have for me?”
“Five names. As requested. And five mobile numbers. I thought you’d want those, too. I can text them to you if you want, or email them?”
“That’s really very thoughtful of you. Saves me a little bit of unnecessary legwork.”
“You said it was a murder. A man and a baby. Well, that isn’t right. I don’t care who did it or what car they were driving. They should be caught. Just–”
“Keep your name out of it? No problem. Just read them out to me. No need for an email trail, is there? We’ll just imagine I found it all out on the Internet.”
The first name on the list made her eyes widen. Stella didn’t follow sport. She’d snuggle next to Richard and watch England football games or the Olympics, the Wimbledon finals maybe, but more to keep him company than anything else. But you’d have to be a hermit or in a coma not to know who Barney Riordan was. Twenty-two, signed the previous year by Fulham for eight million pounds. Though he wasn’t as good-looking as Beckham, he’d clearly snagged himself a capable agent. Londoners couldn’t catch a bus or walk past a poster site without seeing his brooding face staring down at them from above a rack of steely abs and a pair of snowy-white boxers. He endorsed anything that moved, it seemed, and was rumoured to be making triple his salary in fees from brands delighted to have him shilling for their breakfast cereals, aftershaves, cars and, of course, underwear.
Well, well, this was going to make stage two a lot more fun. “Hey, Daisy!” she called out to the girl with the glasses, who was tapping away at a computer on a nearby desk. “Guess who yours truly is going to be interviewing next week?”
The girl turned round and frowned, looked upwards with her chin cupped in her right hand. She stayed that way for several seconds.
“The Chief Constable of South Yorkshire Police,” she said finally.
“What? Did you actually think that one out logically or something? No! Barney Riordan.”
Daisy’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“Really? Rear of the Year Riordan?”
“Yes, if that’s what you call him.”
“Have you seen his bum? God, I’d give him one.”
Having scored what she felt was a definite hit with her coup, Stella returned to the list of names and numbers.
The second and third names meant nothing to her. Arthur Godsby and Asha Singh.
The fourth name, again, meant nothing. Mark Easton. As she took in the fifth name her eyes widened.
Sir Leonard Ramage.
The judge in Deacon’s trial. The judge who’d somehow muscled in on it instead of old Frizzell-Gorman.
As Stella rode east to meet Lucian that night, she opted for a more or less straight-line route that took her along the Strand, down Fleet Street, across Ludgate Circus and past St Paul’s Cathedral on her left. The traffic slowed, then stopped altogether as she approached Old Bailey. She looked up to her left as she passed the Old Bailey itself, or the Central Criminal Court, to give it its official name. She’d given evidence there many times. She’d been attacked with brutal sarcasm by defence barristers earning ten times what she did – or more. And she’d waited with crying, shaking victims of crime while the juries deliberated.
Sometimes she’d punched the air when the defendant got sent down, hugged and skipped with jubilant families of murder victims, went out to celebrate with her colleagues later. Other times, she’d sat, stunned, on one of the hard wooden benches in the corridors reeking of fear-sweat, floor polish and wig powder, her hand aching in the clutch of a rape victim, watching her grinning attacker walk past after another collection of twelve bleeding hearts had got it wrong.
On top of the greyish Portland stone tower and lead-covered dome stood the gilded statue of Lady Justice. No blindfold necessary; her “maidenly form” was supposed to guarantee objectivity, according to the brochures Stella had read in the endless hours hanging about waiting to be called to give her evidence. In her left hand, the scales, representing the weighing of evidence. In her right, a sword, held aloft and ready to deliver punishment to the guilty. So why did she fail to do what was right in case after case? Why could organised crime groups buy their way out of prison, or even court itself? Why did perfectly good evidence get thrown out just because some expert witness got nervous and fluffed her lines? And why did the guilty go unpunished? If there were any justice in the world, those murderers, rapists and child molesters would all be sent away for ever, or put down like the animals they were.
A blaring car horn broke Stella’s trance. She refocused on the road ahead. The traffic had eased up, and the van she’d been stuck behind was thirty feet away. But she didn’t pull away after it. Instead she signalled left and pulled over to the kerb, allowing the taxi behind her to overtake with an angry parp from its horn.
She unclipped her helmet and pulled it off, placing it on the tank between her knees. Then she
looked up again. At the statue. Lady Justice. What had she just thought? If there were any justice in the world? She’d heard that phrase recently. More than once. As she stared up into the darkening sky, the last rays of the sun glinting off Justice’s five-pointed coronet, one of the two voices came to her. It was the guy at Urban Oversight. Something about oiling the wheels of justice. But who was the other, earlier voice?
“Come on, Stella, think!” she snapped, causing a passer-by, a young, bearded guy in a dark, tight-fitting suit, to turn round.
It was a female voice. Light, friendly but with an edge to it. The occupational health manager. Linda. She’d used the same phrase. “If there were any justice in this world, evil people like that man would all meet sticky ends.”
But so what? It wasn’t exactly a rarity, was it? People said it all the time. It was a cliché. She closed her eyes and tried to quieten the environmental noise from the cars, vans, buses and taxis, the cycling commuters yelling at the cars, people yammering into their phones, and the relentless, subsonic thrum that was London being London. What had Linda Heath said? Exactly? Be a detective, Stella. Think! Like you were taught.
Stella recalled her own frazzled state, felt her pulse kicking up and the knot of nervous tension tighten in her stomach. Good. Let it come. Remember how it felt, as well as what you heard. Which was …
“If there’s to be any justice in our world, evil people like that man will all meet sticky ends.”
Her eyes snapped wide open. Three differences. The tense at the beginning first. Not, “If there were”, which would render the sentiment just one of wishful thinking, but “If there’s to be”, as if something real were coming. Then the word before “world”. Not “the” but “our”. And last, a second tense change from her initial recollection. “Not “would all”, again, more wishful thinking, but “will all” – as if justice was going to be served.
Half an hour later, Stella bumped the Triumph over the kerb outside Lucian’s apartment block, parked in the lee of the building and killed the engine. She looked up and down the long street. Nobody about, just like last time. No through traffic, since it ran parallel to a fast-moving dual carriageway. She leant the bike onto its kickstand and fitted the lock to the brake disc. The centre-stand was more secure, but she loved the look of the big black bike as it leaned over. Cooler by miles. Like something that film star with the shock of dark hair and sky-high cheekbones would ride. Anton Brinks, that was his name. Richard used to tease her about him. “Ste-lla and An-ton, sit-ting in a tree. Kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-en-gee.” She’d punch him and he’d laugh. Lola would look up at her parents from the baby bouncer and gurgle contentedly.
She shook her head to dispel the image and pressed the buzzer on the brushed steel intercom. Lucian’s voice came through, with less of the distorted squawking these things normally offered. More up-market apartments, better audio, it stood to reason.
“Hello? Stella?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“OK, come up.”
The latch rattled loudly, and she pushed her way in.
Outside Lucian’s door, her finger poised over the stainless-steel button to ring the bell, she felt her stomach fluttering. Which was odd. She frowned, hesitating. He’s gay, Stella. So, it can’t be sex. Well what, then? I don’t know, do I? I’m as much in the dark as you are. Press the bloody doorbell.
She stabbed at the button, and a few moments later Lucian opened the door. She looked him up and down. Another beautiful, casual outfit: navy-blue chinos, a soft, white, cotton shirt with mother of pearl press studs and yellow suede loafers on bare feet. God, this boy could dress.
Lucian grinned, revealing even, white teeth. “Are you checking me out, DI Cole?”
“A cat can look at a king, can’t she?”
He looked over his shoulder as he hung her jacket up. “I’m a king now, am I? Not a queen?”
She smiled. “King of forensics. In my book, anyway. I brought steaks, rocket, parmesan and a nice bottle of red.”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t. It’s for you. Though I might have a little sniff.”
They moved through to the kitchen, and as Stella prepared the food, Lucian poured some elderflower fizz for Stella.
“You remembered,” she said.
He opened the wine and poured himself a glass, offering it to Stella. She bent her nose to the rim of the thin-stemmed glass and inhaled.
“Oh, God, that smells good,” she breathed, as the deep aroma of blackcurrant and the volatile top note of alcohol swirled into her brain. “Here, take it back.”
She arranged two piles of rocket leaves on plates, dressed them with extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar plus sea salt and cracked black pepper. Then, while she waited for the griddle pan to heat up, she spoke.
“Lucian, I’m getting into something that’s so heavy I don’t really know how to deal with it.”
“What is it? You’ve gone all serious on me.”
She frowned and pulled on her ponytail. “I want to tell you. I need to tell someone. But I need to know I can trust you.”
He smiled, then took a sip of his wine. “Mmm. That really is an excellent Côtes du Rhône. And of course, you can trust me. Why, do you want to test me? Is that it?”
“Yes. Only, I don’t quite know what to ask you.”
“Ask me anything. You know I’ll be frank with you. I told you I was gay, didn’t I?”
She nodded, and sipped her own drink, though she barely noticed its off-sweet, flowery taste. Would Pro Patria Mori accept gay people into its world of vigilante justice? It seemed unlikely. But maybe that was it. Maybe there was the killer question. She inhaled, catching the floral scent of the elderflowers this time.
“I belong to a secret legal organisation called Pro Patria Mori. We are dedicated to exacting justice when the police and the courts fail. We are absolutely blind to race, religion and sexuality. All we care about is justice. I’ve been tasked with offering you trial membership.”
She closed her mouth and pressed her lips together as tight as she could. Her heart was thumping and the whisper of anxiety in her stomach had turned into a hurricane. She felt sick, and the smell of hot steel from the griddle on the gas hob wasn’t helping.
Lucian’s face was a mask of horror. His eyebrows had shot up towards his hairline, furrowing his high forehead with five or six parallel ridges of skin. His mouth had dropped open and his eyes were wide.
He put the wine glass down on the counter.
Then he came towards her until he was less than a foot away.
“Stella Cole. Are you insane? I mean, have you lost your fucking mind? You joined some kind of professional lynch mob, some vigilante outfit, and you’re seriously asking me to join it? Hello? Do the words Ku Klux Klan mean anything to you? Did you miss the part where I was black?”
Stella surprised him by stepping forward and hugging him, trapping his arms inside her embrace.
“Oh, Jesus, Lucian. Thank God. I love you. I’m so sorry.”
She released him then, and stepped back, swiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Lucian’s expression had changed. The forehead was smooth, but now the brows were creased and drawn together. His lips were pursed.
“What the fuck just happened?” he asked, finally.
“There is a secret vigilante gang. I’m sure of it. But I’m not a member. I think they might have been involved in Richard and Lola’s murder. I need friends, Lucian, I really do, but I had to be sure you weren’t one of them.”
“Look, let’s get those steaks cooked and sit down. Then you’d better tell me what’s going on. Because either you’ve lost it big time, or there is something rotten in the state of Denmark.”
She nodded, blew her nose on a piece of kitchen paper, rewashed her hands and turned to the food.
Five minutes later, they were sitting at the table, facing each other, drinks refilled. She’d sliced the st
eaks into diagonal strips, charred on the outside, deep rose-pink within, and laid them on the rocket leaves, then scattered translucent shavings of Parmesan over the top.
Through a mouthful of steak, Lucian mumbled a question.
“Pro Patria Mori, is that what you called them?”
“That’s right. It means–”
“To die for one’s country,” they said together.
Stella laughed. This was going to be all right. She spoke next.
“Here’s what I know. When Richard and Lola were killed – murdered, actually – someone tampered with the evidence, well, they tinkered with the computer records. Some third-rate toerag took the fall for it, and he wound up dead at Long Lartin a few days ago. Someone recategorised him from Cat C to Cat A, and he was beaten to death in a cell with the Rule 45ers.”
Lucian frowned. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with that one. Prison lingo’s not really my department.”
“Paedophiles, sex offenders. The nonces, yes?”
“Okay, yes. What else?”
“This one’s a bit vague, but there’s a woman in occie health, Linda Heath. Do you know her?”
Lucian nodded. “Blonde crop, pouty lips, bustles around giving out forms and acting like she’s head girl or something.”
“That’s her. She said something about justice. The syntax was off. Really weird, like she was sending me a message or something.”
“Off, how? Oh, and this steak is fantastic, by the way.”
“Thanks. It’s one of the few things I can make. So, on my first day back at work, I’m having my interview with her and at one point, she’s commiserating with me about Richard and Lola. She says, or she should say, ‘If there were any justice in the world’. But what she actually says is, ‘If there’s to be any justice in our world’. You hear the difference, don’t you?”
“Not difficult, even without your helpful emphasis. One’s just a thing people say, the other sounds like, I don’t know, a mission statement or something. Like more of a slogan.”
Stella smiled, and jabbed her fork towards him, making the morsel of beef and its frill of rocket leaves flick fragrant drips of oil and the dark balsamic vinegar onto the white tablecloth.
