by Andy Maslen
Footsteps clacked on the flooring beyond the front door. OK, Stel, as soon as he opens it, push him back hard, flat palm to the sternum, step through and heel the door closed. Don’t take your eyes off him. Gripping the butt of the Glock in her right hand, she readied herself. The door swung inwards. Stella tensed. Her breathing was shallow and she forced herself to inhale once, deeply. No point passing out just as we have Ramage in our sights, eh, Stel?
Every muscle felt hard and tight. She was ready to spring at her enemy.
Then she stopped.
The face with raised eyebrows staring at her from the doorway was female. Plump. Soft skin. Lined, but not deeply – just age, not abuse of nicotine. The face spoke.
“Can I help you?”
Staring, Stella tried to recalibrate her behaviour to accommodate the housekeeper, or whatever species of domestic servant this person was.
“I’m looking for Sir Leonard.”
“He’s not here, I’m afraid,” the woman said, crisply. “He’s away at his house in Scotland.”
“Oh. You wouldn’t have the address, would you? I’m in the country briefly and wanted to say hello. I’m an old friend.” The woman looked Stella up and down then, and she, Stella, became acutely aware of the disconnect between her ‘old friends’ story and the disparity in their ages. Ramage must be well into his sixties and she was early-thirties.
“Sir Leonard prefers to keep his address private. Journalists and so on. I’m sure you understand.” The woman sniffed. “Being an old friend of his.”
Stella forced her mouth into a smile that she felt sure the woman would detect as a fake. “Of course. No problem. I’ll just give him a ring.”
On the ride back to the station, Stella had to concentrate on the traffic while a thought ran round in her head like the rotating blue light on a marked car.
If he’s in Scotland, in the middle of nowhere, maybe I need more firepower than a Glock.
As she leaned the bike onto its stand in the car park, other-Stella wandered over from a pool of shadow.
“Long guns are easy. No need for all that fannying around you went through to get that nine. We’ll just buy a couple in bonnie Scotland. Oh, and good call on snagging those Hatton rounds, by the way. I’ve a feeling we’ll need them.”
Back in the exhibits room, Stella had barely stashed her bike gear and backpack under her desk when Frankie appeared at her elbow, leaning down, her white blouse straining across her chest and revealing a glimpse of nude-coloured bra through a gap in the buttons.
“Hi Stel.”
“Hi Frankie.” She found she was genuinely happy to see her former DS. “Nice top.”
Frankie looked down and grimaced. “All my others are in the wash, aren’t they? I shrank this one a bit, but it was this or my Wonder Woman T-shirt, so, you know, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve had to put up with half of CID staring at my tits all morning.”
“Just stare at their cocks. Soon puts them off.”
Frankie laughed. Then, “Everything OK?” she asked, clearly aiming for a casual tone, which her creased brow undercut.
Stella smiled. “Yeah. Tip-top. Listen, I need a favour. Just a little bit of cover for a few days.”
Frankie stood straighter, taking her hands from her jeans pockets and hitching them up. “Anything.” She leaned closer. “Legal,” she continued in a whisper, before winking.
“I need to take a few days off. On a sick-note. I was about to come and find you, but as you’re here, do you want to help me out?”
Frankie nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“Not here. Let’s talk in the ladies. Hold my arm first though, OK?”
Frankie did as she was asked and, once Stella had grabbed her backpack, they made their way along the corridor from the exhibits room to the toilets. Stella leaned on Frankie forcing her to use her other hand to support Stella. They made an odd couple, half-walking-half staggering along, and a passing detective asked if everything was OK.
“We’re fine,” Frankie said, with a tight smile.
Inside the sanctuary of the ladies’ loo, Stella straightened. “Sorry about that.”
“You want me to say I came to see you, you looked iffy, I took you to get some cold water, then you fainted and I drove you home.”
“Smart girl.”
“Where are you going?”
“Best you don’t know. But I’ve found him, Frankie. I’ve found the bastard who killed Lola and Richard.”
“Oh, boss. That’s excellent. But you’re not–?”
The question hung between them in the air. Stella could read the final few words as if they were painted there: –going to kill him, are you? Oh, yes. I am going to kill him. Eventually.
“Going to do anything stupid?” Stella asked. Frankie nodded, biting her lower lip. “No. I’m not going to do anything stupid. Just some intelligence-gathering before I go to The Model about it and get a warrant.”
“Good,” Frankie said. “Because I want to work for you again. When they let you back into CID and forget about this light duties crap.”
“You will, Frankie, that’s a promise. Now,” Stella placed the back of her hand to her forehead and gripped the edge of a sink with the other. “Ooh, Frankie, I feel a bit poorly. I think I might be about to do a lady-faint and bang my head on the floor. I’ll probably get concussion and have to stay off work for a bit.”
“Don’t you worry, boss. I shall take you home in my car and you can lie down. I am also a trained first-aider.”
Frankie’s instruction-video voice was too much, and Stella burst out laughing before suppressing it with a palm clamped over her mouth. She rolled her eyes.
“Come on, then,” she gasped. “Take me home and give me some hot, sweet tea.”
At Stella’s front door, Frankie held her by both arms and looked straight at her.
“Promise me you’re just going to arrest him. Bring him in. Please, boss.” Frankie’s voice had a pleading note to it. As if she knew her request was futile. “I’ll back you up. Help you gather evidence. Do interviews. Whatever it takes.”
Stella smiled.
“I promise. Now, off you go and catch some bad guys. I’m going for a lie-down.”
Inside, she made a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. She pulled Gordon Wade’s business card from her purse.
The secretary’s voice was businesslike, but softened by her Scottish accent.
“Assistant Chief Constable Wade’s office.”
“Hello. This is DI Stella Cole, from the Met. Is Gordon available, please?”
“Assistant Chief Constable Wade is in a meeting.”
“I’m sure he is. Tell him I’m breaking the glass.”
“I beg your pardon?”
You heard, you snotty-nosed bitch. “Please would you be so kind as to interrupt his meeting and inform Assistant Chief Constable Wade that DI Stella Cole from the Metropolitan Police is breaking the glass.”
“Really! This is very irregular. What is this all about?”
Stella inhaled, then exhaled, letting the other woman wait, and listen to her breathing. When she was calm again, she spoke.
“This is all about your telling Gordon that Stella needs to speak to him. ‘Call me any time of the day or night.’ That’s what Gordon told me when we met at his charity ball.”
One … two … three … Stella could almost hear the cogs engaging and clicking in the secretary’s brain: protect her master as she’d been trained, and risk angering him that she’d kept a friend in need away from him, or let a stranger past her guard and possibly have her master subjected to all manner of improprieties.
“Hold the line, please.”
Stella waited, worrying at a hangnail on her left index finger.
Gordon Wade’s voice was warm.
“DI Cole! Thank the Lord you called. Another minute of budget projections and I swear I’d have started shooting. Moira said you were breaking the glass, eh? What’s the emer
gency?”
“I need to track someone down. He’s in Scotland. If I gave you a name, would you be able to help me out? Maybe have someone do a little digging to find an address or something? Property records and so on?”
“Och, for a minute there I thought you were going to ask for something difficult. Yes, yes, of course. Fire away.”
Stella drew in a sharp little breath and spoke before she could change her mind. Wade couldn’t be part of PPM. The group had to be a London thing.
“Leonard Ramage.”
“What? Wait a moment. D’ye mean Sir Leonard Ramage?”
“The High Court judge? Yes, sir. I do.”
Wade dropped his voice. “Man’s a fucking prick! Buys a big old place up near the Cairngorms and starts treating the locals like he’s the Laird. Upset half the ghillies with his manners and pissed off the other half by diddling them out of their proper fees.”
“You know where he lives, then?”
“Aye, I do. No need for any DS to be stuck in front of a computer screen. We might fight for independence from time to time, but Scotland’s a small wee place. Some Englishman with a title comes sniffing around looking to play lords and ladies, pretty soon we all get to hear about it. Got a pen there?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Craigmackhan. That’s the name of the house. Big old Victorian stone thing with turrets. Looks like Dracula’s castle. It’s outside Blairgowrie, about half an hour north of Perth. Middle of bloody nowhere. Listen, DI Cole, or maybe I’d be better calling you Stella for now, as this is unofficial. You’re not getting yourself involved in something you’ll regret later, are you?”
“Absolutely not, sir. Just following up on something on my own time.”
“Well keep your nose clean, that’s all I’m saying. You’re a big girl, and you know your law.”
The next morning, Stella woke at 5.20.
After a cigarette on the deck and then a shower to clear the fog in her head, she packed for her trip to Scotland. Into a deep tan leather holdall on her bed went jeans, grey T-shirts, charcoal-grey hoodie, bra and knickers, socks, washbag, makeup, black ski mask, running shoes, a pair of rubber gloves, little helper, claw hammer, pliers, bolt cutters, three metres of blue polypropylene rope, needle-pointed awl, blowtorch, duct tape, cable ties, I.O. Shen cleaver and Maoui Deba cook’s knife, 9mm hollow point ammunition, 12-gauge Hatton Rounds, Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol, and a piece of paper she’d spent part of the previous day filling in and stamping.
Her new birth certificate, passport and driving licence in the name of Jennifer Amy Stadden had all arrived the previous day and were bundled together with a thick, red rubber band and secure in a zipped compartment inside the holdall.
Finally, in went a padded envelope containing ten thousand pounds in cash that she’d withdrawn from her bank the previous day. The skinny woman behind the counter, looking undernourished inside her official uniform blouse and suit, had asked her what the money was for. None of your fucking business, was what Stella didn’t say, knowing the law on money laundering and the banks’ nervousness about aiding and abetting criminals, or worse, terrorists.
“New car,” she’d said with a confiding smile. “Well, new to me. I’m going to try and get a deal by flashing cash in his face.”
She’d been rewarded by a smile in return.
Outside, slumped behind the wheel of a beaten-up, twelve-year-old, silver Honda Accord parked twenty metres down the street, was Peter Moxey. He’d been staking out her house for the past thirty-six hours, watching her movements, planning his attack. He knew she went running in the evening, and the towpath looked like a good spot. The trouble was, it was far too popular with other runners, plus dog walkers, strolling couples on their way to the pub and lairy little shits trying to sell each other drugs.
He’d decided that if she didn’t appear in her running gear by 7.00 a.m., he’d knock on the door and do her inside. Higher risk of contaminating the crime scene, but then the people he was working for would just make all that go away. In any case, he’d be out of the country and living high on the hog by the time the local plod started oinking around with their shiny, wet snouts. Stretching, and easing the cricks out of his cramped neck muscles, he peered along the street, using the rear-view mirror. Nobody about.
Maybe this would be his lucky day.
It was.
The front door opened, and out came the woman detective, like the little old lady in his Nan’s Swiss weather clock. He’d loved that old thing. Used to spend hours watching it when he was staying with her, keeping out of the way of his father's hard hands and his mother's pawing ones. Loved how the two carved figures took turns to come out and say hello to skinny little Peter, depending on what was happening in the sky outside. Then Nan would make him his breakfast – eggs, usually, maybe a bit of bacon and fried bread – and send him off to school with a hug, careful to avoid squeezing his bruises.
He watched the detective scan the road, just like he had just done. Then she checked her watch and jogged off along the pavement, heading for the canal.
Moxey pulled the door-release catch towards him, adding a kick from his new leather boot to the Honda’s stubborn driver’s door. It gave with a creak and he straightened up. Not bothering to lock it, he strode off after the detective, his hands loose at his sides, arms swinging with simian ease. He was smiling.
Stella focused on her breathing, ignoring the rasp as the chill spring air seared her throat, patiently waiting for her heart and lungs to catch up with the new demands she’d placed on them. With each metre, as her cushioned Nikes rebounded from the pavement, she felt herself getting closer to that blissful state where the outside world faded, to be replaced by a contented sense of spaciousness, through which she could run for ever.
On some days, she would turn at random, letting her feet decide on the route, or perhaps being guided by the tiny shifts in weight and balance as she negotiated an obstacle in the road. Today, she wanted the familiarity and safety of ritual. There would be enough spontaneity later on. Her train was due to leave King’s Cross at 10.43 a.m. She had time for her favourite forty-five-minute run: down to the towpath, along the canal for a couple of miles, then back through a park and a narrow strip of urban woodland that had somehow escaped the notice of the developers who’d largely concreted this part of northwest London.
She pounded along, through the early morning streets, heading for the river.
Down by the canal was her favourite place to run. The greenish water smelled of silt and the diesel leaking from the old wooden barges. With her feet landing lightly on the compacted earth where the tarmac had worn away near a tunnel under the railway, she let her mind drift to the work ahead, because…
… he’ll whine at first.
Please, he’ll beg. Please don’t hurt me.
She’ll remove the first finger with the bolt cutters.
No! This will be a scream, unnervingly high-pitched, although in her time as a cop she’s learned that the noises men emit in extremis can be every bit as unsettling as those of women.
The blowtorch has a yellow flame. But when she twists the collar around the nozzle it colour-shifts to a vibrant turquoise with an invisible central cone fringed with violet. It roars quietly, though this harsh sound is drowned out by his wail of terror as the tip of the blue spear traces a boiling route across the skin of his chest. The flesh reddens, the skin blackens and bubbles, before cracking open. And the screams go on and on.
Stella works methodically. She has nowhere else to be, nothing else scheduled. She talks from time to time, reminding the man just why he is here, trussed and tied.
Because you killed them. Because you killed Richard. Because you killed Lola. Especially because you killed Lola.
His eyes are wide, popping, the whites visible all the way round his deep-brown irises.
The mouth works, but no sound comes out from between those cracked lips. She offers him the plastic bottle and he drink
s, greedily, sucking at the threaded neck. Then he gags, and retches before vomiting the petrol back up and into his lap.
Stella moves the nozzle of the blowtorch down towards the mixture of saliva and petrol pooling around his exposed genitals. She…
… hears footsteps behind her.
30
One Down
He was smiling. That was the first thing Stella noticed about the man following her. It was a very unpleasant expression. It was the smile of a predator. It was a smile that said, “I’m higher up the food chain than you are.” A smile that said its wearer took pleasure in inflicting great pain.
He looked fit and strong. He wasn’t that much taller than her, but he had that look. The look hardened men of violence acquire or generate. Appraising eyes. Relaxed facial muscles. Lips uncompressed.
The next thing she noticed was the long knife he carried in his right hand.
By rights, she should have screamed and run. Briefly, she considered it. But Stella’s screaming-and-running days were behind her. A long way behind her. As the man came closer – no more than ten metres now – she darted into the tunnel mouth she’d just passed. It stank of piss, the harshly alcoholic smell of high-octane blended British “wine” and the sweet lingering aroma of marijuana smoke.
His footsteps echoed from her position inside the brick-lined arch of the tunnel. They weren’t picking up speed, though. He was confident. Stella looked around on the glass-strewn floor. Saw what she wanted and picked it up.
