by Andy Maslen
From the kitchen, she fetched a tea towel and a pair of thin latex gloves she used when she was chopping chillis. Back in her bedroom, she put the gloves on and used the towel to clean the rounds she’d handled.
Using her thumb, she pushed a round home into the magazine against the resistance of the spring. She worked another sixteen rounds into the rectangular plastic box, then slotted it home into the butt and pushed it all the way in until it latched with a double click.
The plastic grip felt cool in her hand as she picked up the pistol.
Curling her right index finger around the outside of the trigger guard, as she’d been taught, she extended her arm and sighted along the barrel, aiming at a print of a tiger, shown in profile, that hung above her bed.
Keeping both eyes open, as she’d been taught, she aligned the front and rear sights on the tiger’s left eye.
Then she uncurled her index finger from the guard, brought it inside, and, not as she’d been taught, rested it on the trigger. The instructor’s words came back to her, synchronised with her breathing. “If you’re touching the trigger, it’s because you’re going to shoot,” he’d said.
No, she wasn’t going to shoot. Not yet, anyway.
She dropped the magazine out again and thumbed every single one of the seventeen rounds back out and onto the duvet. She remembered the end of the argument between Danny and his assistant, about storing magazines. Empty was best long-term, Danny had said, because storing it full meant the spring could settle slightly and fail to push a new round cleanly into the chamber, causing a misfire. Stella wasn’t planning on storing the Glock long-term. She had plans to use it as soon as she was able. But she didn’t want anything to impede her operation, so out they came.
Next, she turned to the white cardboard box of Hatton rounds. It was labelled with several lines of crude black capitals. The only set that interested Stella read:
CLUCAS: HATTON ROUNDS (DOOR BREACHING) FIVE (5)
She opened the flap with her thumbnail and tipped the shells out onto the bed. They were much bigger than the hollow points, but just as unremarkable. Translucent plastic cylinders, flat at the top and set into a brass base. She could see the powder and lead projectile through the translucent plastic casing.
“What are they for, Mummy?”
Stella dropped the shotgun shells and spun round on the bed, heart jumping in her chest.
The little girl sitting upright on the bed behind Stella couldn’t have been more than eighteen months old. Brown hair, the same hue as Stella’s. Brown eyes. But something behind those eyes was older than it ought to have been.
Stella’s breath was coming in shallow gasps.
Stars were flicking and worming around the periphery of her vision.
A memory. But Lola was just a baby.
“Lola, is that you?”
The toddler smiled.
“Of course I’m me, silly! What are the breaching rounds for?”
Stella groaned instead of speaking. Ripping off the gloves, she screwed her eyes tight against the vision. Pounded her forehead with her fists. Then opened her eyes again. The figure of the little girl had gone. Stella scrambled across the bed and ran her flat palm across the duvet. No dent. No warmth. She bent her head to the place where Lola-not-Lola had been sitting. No smell.
Nothing.
Now she wept. Great, wrenching sobs. Curling into a foetal position, she let the grief overwhelm her, once again, until, drained, she slept.
Figuring after his dance of death with the Salmonella virus Reg would be sympathetic to a plea of illness, Stella called him the next morning.
“Reg, it’s Stella. I must have eaten some dodgy curry last night. I’m not coming in. Hope you can manage without me.”
“Sorry to hear that, Stel. The old Montezuma’s Revenge, eh? The old Aztec Two-step. Well, I’ve been there, my love, as you know. Take as much time as you need, and we don’t need to involve those munchkins in occie health or HR either, do we? What happens in the exhibits room stays in the exhibits room, eh?”
“Right. And Reg?”
“What?
“Thanks.”
Stella showered, dressed and ate breakfast of toast and coffee, then made more coffee and took it through to her own, private, incident room. She called up the list of five Bentley owners that Robin Brooke had given her. Barney Riordan’s details were highlighted in yellow. She was due to meet him for lunch today at the Fulham ground. Shit! She’d arranged to leave with Daisy the exhibits room assistant at eleven from Paddington Green.
She picked up her phone.
Five minutes later, she’d agreed to a much better arrangement. Daisy was going to pick her up from Ulysses Road in her own car and drive them both to Craven Cottage on Stevenage Road.
“Now for the rest of you,” she said to the list on her screen.
She dragged Riordan's details to the bottom of the list and then called the name at the top. The phone was answered at once.
“Hello?”
“Mark Easton?” Stella asked.
“Yes, this is he.” The voice was cultured, deep, and bearing not even a hint of suspicion at this unidentified caller’s intrusion into his morning.
“This is Detective Inspector St–” No! Alias. Now. You already gave Riordan your name, which was a mistake. “Stephanie Black, with the Metropolitan Police, Mr Easton. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“I have a meeting in five minutes, Detective Inspector, so it will have to be quick, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. At this stage a couple of questions will do. Can I ask, are you the registered owner of a Bentley painted in a special-order colour called Viola del diavolo?”
“Yes,” a breathy note of suspicion had crept into his voice. “What of it?”
“Can you tell me where you were between the hours of three p.m. and seven p.m. on March sixth, 2009?”
“Not precisely. Not without my diary, which my PA manages for me. But I believe, if memory serves, I was in California for the whole of that month. San Francisco. Meeting investors. I’m a banker. I was working on an IPO for a tech start-up.”
“IPO, sir?”
“Initial public offering. A privately held company sells shares to institutional investors, such as insurance companies, pension funds, banks, hedge funds and so on. Then they, in their turn–”
Stella cut him off.
“Did anyone else have access to the Bentley, sir? While you were in San Francisco?”
“Well, my wife did, technically. I mean, she could have driven it. The keys are at home, and she’s on the insurance. But it’s unlikely.”
“Why is that?”
“Rebecca has her own car. An Alfa Romeo Spider. Little convertible thing. Bright red. She much prefers it to mine. Look, I’d be happy to answer further questions, inspector, but not now. I have to go to my meeting. I’ll text you my PA’s number. Talk to her.”
The numbers for Singh and Godsby went to voicemail.
That left Sir Leonard Ramage.
25
Is it Ever OK to Date a Suspect?
The phone rang seven times before being answered. Stella was out of patience.
“Come on, you fucker, answer your fucking–”
“Ramage.”
Clipped. Brisk. Commanding. Used to being on control. Sixty-plus. Upper class. All this Stella picked up from two syllables delivered in less than a second. It flustered her and she almost gave him her real name as her mind blanked for a second.
“Uh, Mr Ramage, this is Detective Inspector Stephanie Black. I’m with the Metropolitan Police. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, do you, Detective Inspector? Well, for a start, I’m not Mister Ramage.”
“Sorry? I–”
“I said,” he paused, “Ramage. As you would have heard, had you been listening closely. Those who wish to speak to me, or indeed question me, address me either as Judge Ramage, My Lord, or Sir Leonard.”
Stella breathed in and out once, through her nose. Even though she hated herself for it, she couldn’t stop her heart bumping uncomfortably in her chest. Going up against a judge, any judge, was nerve-wracking for a copper. But this one was a High Court judge. Fuck! What if I’m wrong about him?
“My apologies. Sir Leonard. May I ask you two questions?”
“Please do. It is your duty to ask questions, and mine to answer them. If I can.”
“Do you own a Bentley painted in a special-order colour called Viola del diavolo?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just routine, Sir Leonard.”
“Don’t try that with me Detective Inspector,” he snapped. “I’m a High Court judge, not a spotty teenager with a pocketful of pills.”
Stella had a split-second to make a decision. Put a potential suspect on notice she’d reopened the case or forget all about getting any more information out of the judge. She made her decision.
“We are investigating a hit and run incident from a year or so ago. We believe the car involved was painted in this particular shade of purple.”
Ramage paused for two, maybe three seconds. A pause people take when they’re deciding what to say. Stella had heard pauses like it before. Seen eyes rolling up as their owners sought inspiration in the painted ceilings of interview rooms or their own sitting rooms. Waited as they got their lies straight, or straight enough to say them out loud without blinking.
“Yes. I do own such a car. A rather fine Bentley Mulsanne, as it happens.”
“And, if I may also ask you, Sir Leonard, where were you between the hours of three p.m. and seven p.m. on the sixth of March, 2009?”
Ramage laughed. A short, mirthless sound. Two percussive exclamations.
“Ha! Ha! Detective Inspector Black, was that your name? Are you asking me to provide an alibi?”
“Not at all. I am simply asking you if you can confirm your whereabouts between those times on that date.”
“Of course I can’t. It was over a year ago.”
“Of course,” Stella softened her own voice as the Judge hardened his. “It’s quite understandable. And it was a long time ago. Look, I’m sure you must be very busy, cases and so on. I’ll come to see you in your chambers.”
“No,” he said, silkily. “Don’t come to my chambers. Come to my house. Do you have a pen?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s 61, Egerton Crescent. Chelsea.”
“Thank you, Sir Leonard. Shall we say nine o’clock this evening?”
“Bit late, isn’t it?”
“The Met never sleeps. You should know that, Sir Leonard.” The line went dead. Ramage had hung up. “Pompous old fart,” she said.
She made a couple of notes on the document and was thinking about more coffee when her phone rang.
“DI Cole? It’s Barney Riordan. The footballer?”
As opposed to Barney Riordan the bricklayer? Mind you, that’s very becoming modesty for someone earning a few million quid a year for kicking a football about.
“Hello Mr Riordan. All set for our meeting?”
“That’s what I’m phoning about. And please call me Barney. Mr Riordan’s what they call my dad. Anyway, I can’t make it. The manager is having us all on an extended medical right through lunch. Some new psycho-something or other he’s bringing in. Supposed to make us more focused. So, like I said, I can’t make lunch. Not today, anyway. Do you want to make it tomorrow?”
“I really would prefer to keep things moving as quickly as I can, Barney. Tomorrow isn’t really an option, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. OK.” His voice suddenly lightened. He sounded excited, like a small boy. “I’ve got an idea! Oh, they’re going to love this. Look, you know I said I had a charity dinner to go to tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me. You can be my ‘plus one’.”
“That wouldn’t really be appropriate.” But it would be a massive coup. “And you must have somebody who you’d rather take than a police officer. We’ve never even met.”
“It’s not like what they write in Hello and all them celebrity mags. I’m single. Those girls are basically groupies. I’m not seeing anyone. Plus, you’re a detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am.”
“That was my second choice at school. If I couldn’t have been a footballer I wanted to be a copper, uh, a police officer, I mean. When I wasn’t training, I used to love all them shows. The Bill, Hill Street Blues, Murder One. Hey, you could be like that female one off Prime Suspect. Helen Mirren, yeah?”
Stella smiled despite herself. He sounded so innocent.
“Fine. And thank you. I’d love to come.” Unless it turns out you killed my family, in which case I will gut you like a fish. “Dress code?”
“Pardon?” He sounded worried all of a sudden.
“What’s the dress code?”
“Oh, sorry. Thought you said arrest code. Had me worried there for a minute. Black tie. I guess that means a dress for you. Cocktail dress, probably.”
“Thank you. Where and when?”
“It’s the Café Royal. On Regent Street. Starts at seven.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“No need. Much better if we arrive together. I’ve got to keep up my image, haven’t I? I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.”
Stella gave him her address then ended the call. She pursed her lips and frowned. Didn’t see that coming. Then she slapped her forehead.
“Fuck! Daisy’ll kill me.”
Biting her lower lip, she twisted her wedding ring – a plain gold band – round and round. She called Daisy.
“Yes, boss? Everything OK? I’ve got my interview suit on and taken out my nose ring like you said.”
Stella looked down at her wedding ring and the eternity ring on the next finger over: bands of rose and white gold with a single diamond set into the rose gold. For Lola. She straightened her back.
“I’m afraid we’re not going. He’s got a medical.”
There was a second’s pause and Stella could hear the young woman take a breath before answering. Could picture her, brow wrinkling in dismay. Then shaking her head.
“Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to ask him out then.”
It was a pretty good attempt at masking her disappointment and Stella wanted to let her keep her dignity, even if keeping her lunch date with Barney Riordan had just been taken away from her. She decided on what to say before wondering if it were possible.
“Listen, don’t be cross, but he’s taking me to a ball tonight. Said it was the only time he could speak to me today. It starts at seven. Be outside the Café Royal, and I’ll introduce you.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Given you’ll agree to be my tea and coffee slave for the rest of your career, it seems like a fair exchange.”
That afternoon, Stella was waiting outside a stout wooden door at the Old Bailey. The door had four rectangular panels and a brass knob. Below the knob was an old-fashioned keyhole, surrounded by a battered brass escutcheon in the shape of a shield. It was dented and scratched but polished to a satiny sheen. In the centre of the upper portion of the door was a brass frame about ten centimetres by four, composed of two thin rails and a back-plate. Into it, someone, a clerk perhaps, had inserted a piece of beige card with the words ‘Mr Justice Ramage’ in elegant calligraphy.
Earlier, she’d rung round a few contacts in the barristers’ chambers clustered around the law courts and discovered that The Honourable Mister Justice Sir Leonard Ramage – See? she’d thought. You are a Mister! – was hearing a case at the Old Bailey that day.
Heart thumping, feeling like a schoolgirl summoned to see the headmaster, she knocked twice, fast and loud, then twisted the doorknob and walked in. A middle-aged woman standing with a sheaf of papers in the centre of the room whirled around to face her. She was birdlike, thin, with stone-grey, collar-length hair held back by a black velvet Alice band. Her eyes we
re magnified by thick-lensed, gold-framed glasses. Her mouth dropped open, revealing small, off-white teeth.
“Excuse me! These are Sir Leonard’s private chambers,” she said, almost breathless at the sheer audacity of Stella’s arriving unannounced.
“That’s why I’m here. Is he in?”
The woman was gaping now, her mouth working like a landed fish, her eyes widened so that the grey irises appeared to float in the white.
“Is he in? Of course he’s in! But you can’t come in here. You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid. Now.”
The woman bustled towards Stella, who stopped her with an outstretched hand that held up her warrant card. The worn, black leather folder held the silver-and-blue force badge of the Met on the right, and Stella’s official police ID on the left. She made sure her fingertips covered her name. She flipped it closed and pocketed it before the woman could get a closer look.
“Detective Inspector Stephanie Black. Is he through there?” She jerked her chin in the direction of a second door that led, presumably, to the judge’s private office, or robing room.
Flustered, the woman was more compliant. “Well, yes. He is. But you really ought to have rung to make an appointment. You can’t just go–”
But Stella did just go.
She pushed through the door.
Ramage sat behind a huge mahogany desk, inlaid with a sheet of dark red leather with a gold-tooled edge. He looked up at Stella. His eyes were so dark brown as to be almost black. He frowned, and the frown deepened as she flashed her ID again. Behind her, the PA hovered, trying to get round this intruder so she could protect her employer.
“I’m sorry, Judge,” she said, her voice pleading. “She said she was a police officer, and, well, she was very persistent.”
He smiled, though not at Stella.
“No matter, Shirley. I can deal with our guest. That will be all. He focused on Stella. “Detective Inspector Black, I presume.”
“In one, Sir Leonard. I apologise for barging into your chambers, but I’m afraid matters have taken a turn that makes my coming to your house this evening impossible.”
