by Andy Maslen
What if I can’t stop? What if it gets in the way? she thought, remembering the days, weeks and months when she’d drowned her grief so successfully in white wine that she’d managed to blot out the fact of her own daughter’s death.
The woman strolling beside her, dressed identically, but with a knowing smile on her freshly made-up face, leaned closer.
“What if you can stop? What if it’s different now? You were never an alcoholic. Not a proper one. Not like those sad old fuckers in those meetings. You went through hell and guess what? You came out the other side. Different. Stronger. You want a drink? There’s a bar. Let’s go. I’m gagging for one.”
The bar’s name was Amazonia. The centrepiece of its Latin American-themed decor was a stuffed crocodile encased in a translucent green Plexiglas block, dividing a small dance floor from the bar area. One wall featured a mural of the river itself, over which a flock of flamingos flew. Stella had no idea if the birds were native to the Amazon; she’d always thought they were African. But the painting was competently executed and the effect, pretty. It was half-full, plenty of seats at the bar and a few empty tables, and Stella wove through the drinkers and on towards the bar. The clientele were yet more representatives of the moneyed elite thronging the streets and the marina outside – glowing with good health, self-satisfaction and, judging by their exuberant and loud conversations, a punchy mix of alcohol and recreational drugs.
Reaching the relative peace of the bar, constructed from more of the green Plexiglas, she waited to catch the eye of one of the bar staff. Three in total, two boys and a girl, none more than twenty-three or four. They were all good looking, in a careless way, tousled hair for the girl, designer stubble for the boys, and swerving expertly round each other with glasses of jewel-coloured cocktails, bottles of beer and dew-sided glasses of champagne.
One boy stopped in front of her, having delivered a pink-tinged Martini to a young guy to Stella’s left who was shouting over the hubbub to his friends about some fifty-five million euro deal he’d just done.
“Yes, madam, what can I get you?”
Stella paused, taking in his dark eyes fringed with long, deep-brown lashes, brilliant white teeth and glossy curly hair. Yes, what can you get me?
“Uh, what’s that you just made for him?” she asked, nodding her head sideways at the young deal-maker to her left.
“Amazonia. Like a Cosmopolitan but with pomegranate juice instead of cranberry. Very nice. Very smooth.”
His smile was dazzling and for the first time in over a year, Stella felt a prickle of desire. She squashed it down.
“Fine. Give me one of those, please.”
The man with the deal in his back pocket nudged her left elbow. She turned to find him looking down at her, his eyes not precisely coordinated.
“Good choice. You’ll love it. It’s the house special. Just don’t have more than two.” Then he held out his right hand. “Peter Sherman.”
She shook the offered hand. It was warm, dry and with just the right amount of pressure to the grip. Not limp, like a dead fish, but not a bone-crusher, either. He reeked of alcohol. Clearly not following his own advice.
“Jen. Stadden.”
He turned completely away from his friends to face her.
“Work or pleasure, Jen?”
“Work,” she answered, hoping the barman would return with her drink so she could take her leave of this uber-confident young man.
“Yeah, me too. I’m a banker. How about you?”
Yes, how about me? I could spin him any old story I liked. Or tell the truth. Law enforcement. And is that the truth? OK, then, I’m in the vengeance business. How does that sound, do you think?
She looked around, then leaned towards him, so that he mirrored her head-down pose.
“I’m a forensic psychologist. I help the police identify crazy people.”
“Fuck me, that sounds dangerous. Ever meet any serial killers?”
As she was about to answer, her drink arrived. She paid, paused, then took a cautious sip, as if the pale-pink liquid might catch fire in her mouth or send her screaming into the street, tearing her clothes and pulling handfuls of hair out. Nothing happened. Nothing scary, anyway. The freezing alcohol tasted wonderful: light and fruity with a dry edge and a hint of lime. And then that charge of heat as it hit her empty stomach and a silky rush as the ethyl alcohol molecules sped through her bloodstream and hit her brain a few moments later.
“Oh, Jesus, that tastes good,” she said with a soft moan.
Sherman grinned at her and saluted her with his own half-drunk cocktail before emptying it down his throat in a single gulp.
“Told you, didn’t I? So did you?”
“Did I what?” Stella was inclined to move away now she had her drink but the feeling of well-being it gave her, coupled with the insistent beat of a samba that had just started playing through the bar’s sound system, stuck her to her spot at the bar. And if she was honest, it was nice to have a man paying her attention without its being the prelude to his trying to gut her with a knife, mow her down with a car or otherwise terminate her.
Sherman signalled the female bartender for another drink, circling his index finger over the rim of his empty glass, then turned back to Stella.
“Did you meet any serial killers? You know, weirdos who, I don’t know, raped and killed ten women and ate their ears, or whatever.”
There was something about the way he said raped that Stella didn’t like. As if it were titillating. Time to go.
She picked up her glass. Took another sip. Then she shook her head.
“No, sorry. No rapists. Look, it’s been nice talking, Peter, but I’m not really in the mood for company. Excuse me.”
She went to move past him towards a gap in the growing crowd at the bar, but he grabbed her left arm just above the elbow.
“Don’t be like that, Jen. I was just starting to like you.”
His eyes had darkened and the playful tone had disappeared like a drink spilled on warm sand.
She stared back. Knocked back her drink and put the glass on the bar.
“Let go of my arm.”
“What if I don’t?”
Things moved fast.
Stella darted her right hand across her body and grabbed his index finger. She bent it back hard extracting a yelp of pain from the banker. Carried on bending so that his arm rotated unnaturally out to the side, forcing him to lean over until his shoulder hit the edge of the bar.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the group of men he’d been drinking with stop their conversation and turn to watch. The barman was rattling a silver cocktail shaker one-handed, while his other hovered near a mobile phone.
She leaned over the contorted banker who was panting with the pain as she maintained the pressure.
“When a lady says, ‘let go,’ she means let go. Understand?”
“Yes, fine, whatever. Let me go, you bitch, you’re breaking my fucking finger.”
One of his friends took a step towards Stella.
“Let him go, darling. Pete was just having fun.”
“Back away!” she barked, twisting harder on the imprisoned finger.
Then, pushing Sherman hard with her free hand, she released him. He stood, nursing the damaged hand. He glared at her.
“Fucking lesbian! Fuck off. You sound too common to be in a place like this anyway.”
Pride soothed, he turned away and within seconds was laughing loudly and swigging his cocktail.
Stella briefly considered dropping him with a punch to the back of the neck, but let it go. She didn’t want to be late for her meeting.
The route from the bar to the Wilkses’ place took her away from the marina and through a winding, narrow street. The alcohol was really working now, and she felt lightheaded. That’s what you get for riding the wagon for six months, Stel.
She took a left into a narrow alley made even narrower by dozens of dusty scooters and bicycles with wicker ba
skets strapped in front of the handlebars. Above her, wrought iron balconies groaned under the weight of window boxes stuffed with scarlet geraniums that tumbled over the sides. The early evening sunlight turned everything a pale shade of gold. A tabby cat emerged from a half-open front door a few feet in front of her and stopped as it saw her coming.
“Hey, puss,” she said, stooping as she approached it to stroke its silky-looking head. The cat backed up, mouth wide, showing needle-sharp fangs. It emitted a rasping hiss. “Hey,” she said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you. Come on.” The cat hissed again. Louder this time.
15
Alley Cat
The punch was poorly delivered. She felt a fist skid across the back of her head. But it still had enough power to send her sprawling to the ground, banging her knees painfully on the uneven cobbles. As she went down she saw the cat dart back into the house it had emerged from just a few seconds earlier. She tucked into a roll, which did nothing to stop her jarring her right elbow, but managed to put a few more feet between herself and her attacker. Her head was throbbing, but it was just surface pain. Her senses were heightened, and she felt the adrenaline kicking in and neutralising the brief, fuzzy hit of the cocktail.
She jumped to her feet, spinning round to confront her attacker, figuring it for an opportunistic mugger after her handbag, which was still strung diagonally across her chest by its chain.
But this was no scrawny junkie looking for something he could sell to buy a bag of heroin. It was the banker from the bar. He was standing, facing her, panting openmouthed as he moved towards her.
“You fucking bitch,” he hissed, spraying saliva in her direction. “What gives you the right to—”
His enquiry into Stella’s opinion of her rights was cut short as she moved inside his reach and stabbed her right hand, straight-fingered, into the soft part of his throat just below his Adam’s apple.
His eyes bulged and he scrabbled at his neck as he struggled to breathe, tongue protruding obscenely from his gaping mouth. He clearly still fancied his chances, though, because he lunged at Stella and swung another roundhouse punch.
Now she’d regained her balance and sized up her drunken attacker, she entered that calm place she’d found when she was dealing with Ramage. She ducked under Sherman’s punch and launched herself upwards, clattering his teeth together with the top of her head. His head snapped back and he tripped over a bicycle leant against the wall behind him.
Stumbling, he tried to break his fall with his hands. The move failed, and as his bent-back palms met the ground, both wrists broke – crack-crack. He shrieked with pain before Stella cut off the sound, dumping her full weight into his solar plexus through the point of her right knee.
Now he was choking, cheeks flushing dark red through his tan. His eyes were wide with panic as he struggled to get his diaphragm to fire and draw air into his emptied lungs.
Stella glanced up and down the alley. Empty. Not even a nosy householder peering over a balcony.
Good.
She leaned over the fallen banker and growled at him.
“If I see you again, I’ll cut your balls off and drop them down a drain.”
She punched him, hard, on the tip of his nose. Then she stood up and brushed down her elbow and the knees of her trousers, which had picked up grey dust from the cobbles.
Ronnie and Marilyn Wilks had done well out of the armed robbery game. Their house – La Buena Vida, according to the mosaic of white seashells set into a slab of rock on the immaculate front lawn – was a wide-fronted, single-storey structure, gleaming white and set behind a fence of black, spike-topped railings with gold tips. Stella checked her watch – 8.05 p.m. – and pressed the button on the brushed-steel intercom box set into a post on the left of the double gates.
“That you, Stella?” It was Ronnie’s voice, distorted by the squawk box.
She spoke into the grille.
“Yep.”
“Come in, then.”
The lock mechanism emitted a clack, and then the two gates began their slow journey inwards. Stella strode through the gap as soon as it was wide enough. She didn’t know how Ronnie and Marilyn Wilks felt about entertaining a DI from the Met. She herself had a strong desire not to hang around outside the home of an armed robber any longer than she needed to.
Gravel crunching under her feet, she walked up the drive towards the polished wood front door. To her right, a long, low Mercedes Benz appeared to scowl at her, its deep-blue paintwork sparkling like the ocean a mile or so to the south.
At the front door, she looked around for a doorbell. Not seeing one, she raised her hand to knock but stopped the movement in midair as the door swung inwards. Ronnie Wilks stood there, resplendent in a beige velour leisure suit and immaculate white Nike flip-flops on his feet, a tall glass of something clear and fizzing in his muscular right hand.
“Stella! Welcome to our home. Come in, come in.”
He gestured with his left hand for her to go in before him, then closed the front door behind her and followed her down the wide hallway.
Stella took in the interior as, on Ronnie’s instruction, she walked towards the rear of the house. The house was floored with polished, octagonal terracotta tiles, tessellated with glazed white squares. The walls were painted a paler shade of the same brick red. The air was cool, though she didn’t detect the hum or rattle of an air-conditioning unit. So either a high-end system or the traditional materials were keeping the place cool on their own. A large kitchen-cum-dining area and a lounge occupied the rear of the house. She assumed the bedrooms were located off to one side. The Wilkses favoured glass, white leather and chrome for their furnishings. The overall effect was sophisticated, she supposed, though it was all a bit Miami Vice for her taste.
“We’re by the pool, Stella,” Ronnie said, coming up beside her. “Drink?”
“I just had a cocktail called an Amazonia. Same name as the bar. Can you do one of those? I think it was vodka and pomegranate juice.”
He laughed. “Blimey! They must be paying DIs more than they used to if you were drinking in there. I don’t think we’ve got any pomegranate juice. Fancy a glass of bubbly instead? Marilyn and me are on Louis Roederer.”
In for a penny, Stel.
“Yes, why not? That would be lovely. Through there, is it?”
He nodded, pulling open the door of a large, brushed-steel fridge with an ice-maker let into the front of the left-hand door.
Leaving Ronnie to pour her drink, Stella wandered out into the garden through a wide gap in a concertina of glass doors. She resisted the temptation to let out a whistle of appreciation.
She had no real interest in gardening. Richard had tended their small back garden, just a matter of pruning a couple of straggly rose bushes and dead-heading flowers in a handful of planters. But somebody here had a real flair for horticulture. The lawn was as clipped and even as its counterpart at the front of the house. The grass was a blue-green and appeared to be tougher than the spindly green strands Stella remembered from her parents’ garden. It was bouncy underfoot, crunchy, somehow.
In the far-left corner, she saw a pair of chrome rails that clearly led down into a pool. She made her way along a set of white stepping stones, pausing to admire a clump of cobalt-blue agapanthus, swaying back and forth on their long stems.
The pool was about thirty feet by fifty, surrounded by a five-foot-wide paved path of more white stones. Not huge, but probably bigger than the floor area of Stella’s Victorian terrace house. Reclining on a white plastic lounger, her long tanned limbs set off by a white one-piece swimsuit, was Marilyn Wilks.
Stella approached the lounger. Marilyn unfolded herself and stood to greet her house guest. She held out her hand, so that the chunky gold identity bracelet clinked against a set of multicoloured stones behind it. Feeling uncomfortably as if she was being greeted by her social better, Stella shook hands.
“Hello, Marilyn.”
“Hello, DI Cole.”
“Please call me Stella. Otherwise I’ll have to call you Mrs Wilks, and that makes you sound like you’re just a member of the public I’m dealing with.”
Marilyn smiled. Maybe Stella’s nod to her status as Marbella royalty had struck the right note.
“Ronnie getting you a drink, is he, Stella?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Well, pull up a lounger then, or we’ll both have to stand here like lemons.”
Stella laughed, an almost unforced social gesture.
With the two loungers arranged at right angles to each other, the two women waited for Ronnie in an uneasy silence. It was Stella who broke it.
16
Trading Favours
“You weren’t surprised that I wanted your help killing Adam Collier,” Stella said.
Marilyn rolled her eyes.
“Listen, babe, when you’ve lived in the world me and Ronnie’ve lived in – lived the life we’ve lived – very little surprises you anymore. London’s full of bent coppers. I mean, half the vice squad are taking freebies from the girls. So your boss crossed a line and started in on his own people? Why should I be surprised? I’d want to top him, if I was in your shoes.” She looked down. “Which have got blood on them, by the way.”
Stella looked down at her newly purchased espadrilles. Marilyn was right. The toe of the right shoe had a few spots of the banker’s blood in it. They had soaked into the white cotton and bloomed outwards like tiny flowers. She looked back at Marilyn and said, evenly, “I ran into someone I met in a bar. He got a nose bleed.”
Marilyn smiled, a knowing expression that seemed to Stella to communicate some level of understanding that crossed the party lines of us versus them, cops versus villains, into a world where tough women like them didn’t take shit from anyone.
