The First Stella Cole Boxset

by Andy Maslen

  She returned to the CCTV footage. But she knew she wouldn’t find anything. He wouldn’t have returned to Putney High Street. He’d have taken a circuitous route back to whichever rock he’d scuttled out from under, one with few or no cameras. Back streets and rat runs. That’s what she would do.

  After three hours working her way up the hill out of Putney and to the semi-rural landscape at the top, she groaned, arched her back and dug her fingers into the knotted muscles at the base of her neck. The intern she’d frightened had returned now and then with unasked for cups of tea and coffee, but now she was hungry and wanted, more than anything else, a proper drink.

  “No!” she growled at the silent screen in front of her, which had begun to hum. “Not letting you off this easily.”

  She went back to the second camera’s feed, cued it up from the beginning and watched. Her eyes were smarting in the dry air but every blink felt like a betrayal and she tried to ignore the pain.

  The time stamp in the corner of the screen flickered as she wound laboriously through the feed.

  17.55.

  Nothing.

  18.00.

  Nothing

  18.05.

  Wait!

  There it was. The fat-bodied purple Bentley cruising up Putney High Street. She must have blinked or yawned or just dropped into a microsleep the first time.

  Heart racing, palms sweating, finger trembling on the mouse, Stella slowed the playback to half-speed. As the car approached the camera, she hit Pause.

  Stella looked down at the screen.

  The image was blurred, though not badly. The driver was clearly male, but something was casting a deep black shadow over the car’s interior, and she couldn’t make out his features. The car was a saloon, like Riordan’s. The screen didn’t pixellate like the previous time, but she could still only get a glimpse of the registration plate. It began with an R. She rubbed her eyes, which were smarting from staring so hard at the screen.

  Opening them again, she ran through the rest of the footage, but the car made no further appearances.

  While she waited for Danny to arrive, Stella sat motionless at her kitchen table. Her eyes were focused on a point roughly a million miles beyond the Welsh dresser with its display of plates, glasses and old champagne bottles. She was thinking. Reviewing what she’d discovered. Testing the evidence.

  Five men own cars painted the same shade as the one that killed Richard and Lola.

  The plate starts with an R. So it could be Ramage or Riordan

  OK, that could be interesting. Rich blokes often go for personalised plates. But it could be a regular number issued by the DVLA. Or it could be a first name. Ralph, or Robert or Ramjesh.

  Ramage was the trial judge who sent Deacon away for three years.

  So?

  So he’s connected to the case.

  But you couldn’t see if it was him driving, could you? Could have been anyone behind the wheel. Godsby, Easton, Singh or Riordan. You’re jumping to conclusions.

  Yes, but…

  The doorbell rang, twice, and the jaunty little jingle made her jump and dispelled her fantasy. For the moment.

  Danny looked good in a scuffed, brown leather jacket, denim shirt, and indigo jeans, washed just enough to bring out paler patterns where his house or car keys sat in his front pocket, and over his knees. He’d obviously washed his hair; it was standing up in spikes here and there as if he’d run his fingers through it instead of using a comb. He held one hand behind his back. The other held a supermarket carrier bag that clinked as it knocked against his thigh.

  He stepped through the door, leaned towards her, fast, and pecked her on the cheek. He smelled good. Some woody, spicy aftershave. And clean skin.

  “Hi,” he said. Then he stepped back as she turned and led him, wordlessly, to the kitchen. “That was, all right, wasn’t it? I was just being friendly. After last time, I mean. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me but I don’t really do one-night stands.”

  “No. Yes. It’s fine. You just took me by surprise, that’s all.” Her pulse was racing. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  “I hope these don’t tip you over the edge, then,” he said with a smile, producing a bunch of yellow roses from behind his back like a stage magician.

  She smiled. “I think I’ll cope. They’re lovely, Danny. I’ll be honest, it’s been a long time since a man bought me flowers. I’ll get a vase.”

  While Stella busied herself snipping the ends of the stems and arranging the roses in a tall, heavy-bottomed glass vase, Danny pulled a bottle from the carrier bag.

  “I got you this. Sicilian lemonade. It’s supposed to be artisanal,” he paused, “whatever the fuck that means.”

  Stella laughed. It was almost genuine. The ghost had nearly merged with the machine, and she felt barely conscious of looking out through her own eyes.

  “What do you fancy, then? To eat, before you say anything smart.”

  “Thai would be good. Anywhere round here do delivery?”

  Forty-five minutes later, they were sitting at Stella’s kitchen table eating green chicken curry, sea bass in a garlicky sauce, and steamed coconut rice. Stella was drinking the lemonade, which tasted like regular lemonade only with a fiery extra kick of ginger. Danny had put four bottles of Czech lager in her fridge and was currently on his second.

  “How’s it going with Tasha?” Stella asked between mouthfuls of the curry.

  He pulled a face, twisting his mouth sideways as if he’d bitten on something hard and hit a filling.

  “Honestly? Not good. She’s got our bedroom, and I’m sleeping downstairs.”

  “You think you’ll patch it up?”

  “Probably not. We were only nineteen when we got married. Used to go out with each other at school. She stuck with me through the army, moving around, living on base, but I think whatever we had, we haven’t got any more.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not exactly a choirboy, am I?” He grinned at her then, that boyish expression that had probably got him out of all kinds of scrapes in his life, from footballs kicked through neighbours’ windows to improperly polished boots.

  “What about work?”

  “Same old, same old. Keeping the Cowboys and Indians happy with their toys, you know how it is.”

  “You ever hear any of them talking about what they do with all those toys?”

  He shrugged.

  “A little. Not much. They’re all grim and grit on the way out and sort of high on adrenaline when they come back. If someone’s discharged their weapon, it’s like, ‘Yeah! Saw action today!’ and then, ‘Shit! Now the paperwork begins.’ So, they’re mostly just in and out.” He took a mouthful of the fish. “Why do you ask”?

  “Nothing. Just always wondered whether I should have gone down that route.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not as glamorous as they like to make out. Mostly it’s sitting around waiting for shit to go down. In the army, we used to call it ‘standing by to stand by’. You know, like we say, ‘hurry up and wait’. That and a lot of practice on the range and safety briefings.”

  “So, just for the sake of argument, supposing you wanted to make a movie.”

  “OK.”

  “A movie where there was like a rogue set of firearms officers who set up a death squad.”

  His eyes narrowed. “In London, do you mean, or in America?”

  She looked up at the ceiling and made a show of deciding. “Let’s say London. Why should the Yanks get all the fun? Could they use the weapons from the armoury, or would they need to get, I don’t know, untraceable ones?”

  24

  Ammunition. Lots

  Danny put his fork down. Stared at her long and hard. “No armourer worth his badge would let weapons get signed out for anything like that. Never.”

  “But how would you know? If they came with the right paperwork, signed by a commander, you’d issue the weapons on the requisition form, wouldn’t yo
u?”

  “I suppose so. But all our weapons are logged, and we photograph the striations. You remember, you helped. So, it wouldn’t exactly be hard to find the weapon and trace it back to the police. Not very smart.”

  She pursed her lips. “I guess not. Although if the commander was running the death squad, they could just steer the investigation in the wrong direction, couldn’t they? Lose the ballistics report or corrupt it somehow?”

  He finished his food and placed his knife and fork together, dead centre, running north-south across the smeared plate.

  “What’s going on, Stel? Why are you asking about death squads?”

  “Just making conversation,” she said, brightly. “Another beer?”

  “Sure. Let me help you clear up.”

  As they cleared the table, Stella kept probing.

  “You have to admit, though, there are times when putting some of those fuckers we’re hunting under the ground would be satisfying. A lot cheaper than dragging them through the courts only to see them let off by a bunch of idiots in the jury box.”

  “You really think that?” Danny was frowning now. He’d stopped helping and was standing with his hands on the table, leaning towards her.

  “No, of course not! But I mean, you never took people to court in the army, did you? Not the enemy. Kill or be killed, wasn’t it?”

  “Listen. I served my country, OK? I did what had to be done. Yes, it was us or them. But there are still rules. It’s called the Law of War. Like, you can’t deliberately kill civilians. Or prisoners. Or use torture, despite what sometimes happens. And anyway, this isn’t war. It’s policing. You swear to uphold the law, not take it into your own hands.”

  Stella held her hands up in mock-surrender.

  “No, you’re right. Sorry. I’ve just been going mad down in the basement and started fantasising about shooting Reg the Veg and it sort of spiralled from there.”

  “Well, now you mention it, if we’re talking about offing people at Paddington Green, I’ve got my own list. Maybe you and me should start our own private death squad.”

  He laughed.

  Stella laughed too.

  Later, after the sex, Stella lay awake, listening to Danny’s breathing. Long, steady inhalations and exhalations. No snoring. No snuffling. No talking in his sleep. Not even a twitch. She prodded him on the shoulder, just above a tattoo of a bulldog standing on its hind legs and holding a flag of St George, the red cross on the white ground fluttering realistically. He didn’t move. She whispered his name close to his exposed left ear. Nothing. But then, after four lagers and a couple of large whiskies, one of which had a crumbled sleeping pill in it, that was only to be expected.

  She checked the clock radio on her side of the bed. One thirty a.m.

  She lay on her belly and slid her legs out wide to the right, letting their weight pull her torso out from under the duvet until she was kneeling at the side of the bed. She dressed, making no noise, and twirled an elastic band around her hair to fasten it into her usual ponytail. Danny’s leather jacket hung on the back of a simple wooden chair next to her vintage, white-painted dressing table. She’d noticed the way the right-hand pocket bulged and decided that was where he’d have his work keys. Two long, silent strides took her to the chair. Keeping her gaze fixed on his sleeping form, she reached down sideways and poked the fingers of her left hand into the pocket. They closed around cold, metal keys. Right first time! Have a gold detective’s sticker.

  Danny’s ID card was next. She found his wallet in an inside pocket and slid out the scuffed rectangle of white plastic. Should have been a dip, Stel!

  With keys and card clamped in her hand, she stole to the door, took one quick final look at Danny and then stepped through. She made her way downstairs, where she pulled on her bike boots and grabbed her helmet, and was out through the door moments later.

  With the keys and ID card zipped into the inside pocket of her jacket, she rode fast through the night-time streets. London is never quiet, but the traffic was mostly taxis and commercial stuff. Easy enough to wind through and around, filtering down the outside of the queues at traffic lights. She reached Paddington Green just before two.

  Keeping to the shadows to avoid the station’s CCTV cameras, she swiped Danny’s ID at the staff entrance – so any Professional Standards snoops would only see his details on the access records – and was inside. She headed towards the armoury, running on her toes and looking left and right at every turn in the corridor. Nobody was about. Anyone on duty would either be out on patrol or in the CID Office. Budget cuts meant civilian police staff were kept to an absolute minimum overnight, and she reached the reinforced door to the armoury without seeing another soul.

  Now for the only tricky bit of the whole operation.

  Rules and regulations stipulated that the armoury, as a ‘mission-critical’ function of the station, was to be permanently staffed, 24/7, three hundred sixty-five days of the year. After all, it wasn’t as if armed robbers said, “We can’t do the job on Monday – it’s a bank holiday.”

  She paused at a turn in the corridor just before it opened out into a small rectangle of space that accommodated the lifts from the other floors, and the door to the armoury itself. Peering round the corner, she could see the two assistant armourers wandering back and forth beyond the barred window.

  She withdrew her head, backed up a few feet and then slammed her elbow into a fire alarm’s glass window.

  The effect was textbook. As the electronic klaxons hooted, the door to the armoury opened, and the two men came out. The second one through turned and locked it before they walked at a smart clip, past the lift doors to the stairwell at the far end of the corridor. Stella ran to the door, checked the make of the lock, and selected the only key that matched it.

  She knew she had to be fast. Emergency services would probably have a link to the armoury’s fire alarm. There could even be a lockdown.

  Inside, she jogged past the racks of long and short weapons, the pistols, rifles, shotguns, submachine guns and all the rest, and headed straight for the shelves of ammunition. With the klaxon blaring and her heart racing, she stood in front of the shelf she’d earmarked on her previous visit. She was staring at hundreds of boxes of 9mm ammunition. Shelf-edge labels divided the ammunition into ‘FMJ’ and ‘HP’. Full metal jacket and hollow point. She lifted down two boxes marked HP, rearranged the remaining boxes so that the gap moved to the very back of the shelf, stuffed them into her rucksack and moved away. She’d heard Danny talking about six-weekly audits. “Like a stocktake,” he’d said. The audit was supposed to ensure that the equipment listed on the computer matched what was actually present on the shelves. But that was somebody else’s problem. As she was leaving, a second shelf-edge label caught her eye.

  HATTON ROUNDS

  Danny had said they were what the tactical entry teams used to blow the hinges and locks off doors they wanted to get through. Stella reckoned she could bluff or charm her way into Ramage’s house, but what if he had a panic room? Or just barricaded himself in somewhere before she could deal with him properly? She grabbed a box, did another camouflage job, and was on her way.

  The following morning, she made Danny breakfast: bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, and more or less shoved him out the door at seven fifteen.

  Back inside, she climbed the stairs, went into her bedroom and closed the curtains. She fished her rucksack out from under the chair where Danny’s jacket had so recently hung and dumped its contents onto the bed. The three boxes of ammunition were heavy enough to make the mattress bounce a little before they settled into the soft embrace of the duvet.

  Next came the Glock, which she’d placed in a shoe box at the bottom of her wardrobe. It smelled of gun oil and the metallic, industrial stink of the armoury: burnt propellant, steel, brass and sweat. She dropped the magazine from the butt into her left palm and placed it, and the pistol, side by side on the bed.

  She slit the tape securing the lid on
one of the boxes of 9mm ammunition. The hollow point rounds inside were almost comical in their physical insignificance. She’d taken multivitamins that were almost as large. She rolled it on her palm: a slim brass cylinder no longer than the top joint of her little finger, tipped with a snub-nosed cone of copper-covered lead. Except that the bullet wasn’t completely covered, was it?

  The copper sheath ended in a sunken pit of pale, silvery-grey lead, like the pupil of an eye. Danny, and firearms instructors before him, had explained all about that innocent-looking lead eye. How, on impact, the copper sheath would split along four precisely cut grooves and splay outwards like the petals of a flower. And how the lead, freed from its jacket, would flatten and deform as its kinetic energy searched for a way out. Hollow points were supposed to be beneficial because they didn’t pass through the target’s body, so they couldn’t injure a member of the public. And to that extent, they worked. They weren’t so beneficial to the target, however, bouncing around and travelling a random path through muscle, bone, blood vessels and organ tissue, creating a monstrous wound cavity as they slewed to a stop. Shouldn’t carry a shooter, then, should you? Stella thought.

  She picked up the round and pointed it at her own eye, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. She let her mouth fall open a little and stroked the bullet along her lower lip. Then across her top lip. She pressed them together then. “You’ll do,” she whispered.