by Andy Maslen
“Everything all right?” Jason asked.
“Yeah, fine. Polly was just telling me about how you planted a seed in Elle’s tummy with your willy.”
All three snorted with laughter.
With mugs of tea poured, and a plate of homemade ginger biscuits sitting between them, Elle took Stella’s hand in hers.
“How are you? We haven’t seen you since the funerals.”
“Do you want the PR answer or the real answer?”
“Which do you think?”
“OK, so I’m coping. I think I went mad for a while. Not just the drinking and the pills. I was seeing things that weren’t there. Lola, for a start. I thought I hadn’t lost her.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Elle said, her face creasing with concern. Her other hand went unconsciously to her belly. “What about work?”
“I went back a couple of weeks ago. They put me on what they call light duties, Filing, basically. But I’m thinking of quitting, to be honest. I’ve sort of lost my appetite for police work.”
“What will you do instead? For money, I mean?”
“Well, I have Richard’s life insurance. And, well, I was thinking of moving. Abroad.”
“Abroad? Where?”
Stella shrugged.
“Spain, maybe. Portugal. In fact, I want to ask Jason something.”
Jason put his mug down and swallowed the chunk of biscuit he’d just bitten off.
“What? Anything I can do, you know I will.”
“I want you to sell Ulysses Road for me. I can’t live there anymore, not after I thought Lola was there with me.”
He nodded quickly.
“Of course. No, I completely understand. I’d be happy to. And don’t worry about commission. I’ll do it for nothing. One of the advantages of it being my agency – I can do what I want. Any mortgage on it? You know it’s probably worth close on six hundred thousand?”
“No. When Richard died the mortgage on the Putney house got paid off. I used the cash to buy Ulysses Road.”
“Well, you’re going to be minted now.” Then he palmed his face. “Oh, God, sorry. Probably not the way your mind’s working, is it?”
She smiled back and patted his forearm.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry. I don’t mind having some money behind me. Maybe I’ll start a business down there. Open a B&B or something.”
The conversation turned to the new baby, and Jason excused himself pleading paperwork, leaving the two women to talk.
“You know the money, Elle?”
“What, yours, you mean?”
“Yes. I want to change my will. The old one just left everything to Richard. I’m going to make Polly and the new baby the beneficiaries.”
Elle’s eyes opened wide.
“What? Why? I mean, that’s so generous, but we’re OK, you know that, what with Granny’s money, and the agency’s really doing well these days.”
Stella spread her hands wide.
“I haven’t got anyone else. You guys are my family. It’s either Polly and bump or the Metropolitan Police Benevolent Fund.”
“Oh, Stella. It’s so kind, but what if you find somebody else? I know it’s still raw and I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but you might, mightn’t you?”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But I still want them to have it.” She checked her watch. “I ought to be going.” I have to kill a lawyer. “Where’s Jason?”
Elle took Stella through to their home office and after goodbyes were said, hugs and kisses exchanged and Polly was called down to say her own goodbye, extracting a promise from Stella to come back soon, she was back on her bike and pulling out onto the residential road and leaving the remains of her family behind her.
29
Story of the Century
Vicky leant back against the trunk of an old walnut tree growing halfway along a hedge between two fields. She’d loved the tree as a girl, and had gathered the velvety green fruits in the pocket of her pinafore as soon as they began to drop from its laden branches. She’d never questioned its existence out there in the countryside, but as an adult she wondered how such a tree could have ended up growing amidst hawthorn and brambles. A bird? She snorted with laughter as she tried to imagine what size bird could swallow and shit out a walnut.
“Yeah, right,” she said aloud. “A condor. That’ll be it.”
She looked around. The view from the rise she’d climbed was excellent. Not a living soul in any direction. No dog walkers, joggers or ramblers. Just her and her mobile phone and a few hundred thousand acres of Welsh countryside. The breeze was warm rather than biting. Just above the topmost branches of the walnut tree, a kestrel was fluttering, scanning the ground for lunch.
She hit the speed dial number and listened to the phone ringing in London. It belonged to Damien Fairbrass, Chief Political Editor at The Guardian. They’d known each other since their undergraduate days at Exeter University and had maintained the friendship. Having a close friend on the left-leaning paper’s editorial staff had definitely helped Vicky’s freelance career.
“Hi, Vicky, what’s up?” Fairbrass asked.
She took a deep breath, realising as she did so that a swarm of butterflies was flittering around in her abdomen.
“Damien, I’ve got the story of the century for you. And before you say anything, yes, I know that’s a honking great cliché, but it just so happens to be true.”
One thing she liked about Fairbrass was that he’d always give her the time to make her case for a piece. He still had a reporter’s nose for a good story, and something about her tone of voice must have set it twitching.
“Tell me.”
“OK. Thank you. Standfirst? There’s a conspiracy inside the legal system, the British one, I mean, and they’re using death squads to execute people who, as they see it, escape justice.”
She stopped speaking, aware of a torrent of justifications surging out of her mouth. She wanted to hear his reaction.
“One, sources? Two, evidence? Three, have you talked to anyone else?”
She gazed upwards, thanking whichever deity looked after ambitious freelance journalists, before answering.
“Thank you for asking those questions and not suggesting I need to visit the funny farm. My sources, well, one’s now dead. Richard Drinkwater. He was a human-rights lawyer. He was killed in a hit and run about a year ago. His baby daughter was in the car, too. His wife – widow, I mean – is a police officer. A detective. She’s been investigating. She found out that PPM was behind his death. The guy who went to prison was a patsy, he—”
“Whoa, slow down. I remember Drinkwater. We didn’t cover it, but it made the Evening Standard.”
“Exactly. And the guy they arrested for it, Edwin Deacon, was paid or something. He didn’t do it. Stella found out he was a stooge.”
“Back up a minute, you said PPM. What’s that? The conspiracy?”
“Yes. It stands for Pro Patria Mori. You remember, when we studied the First World War poets at Exeter?”
“Wilfred Owen. It’s sweet and right to die for your country.”
“That’s their ethos. If you can glorify death squads with an ethos. Stella thinks they’re trying to clean up after bad legal decisions.”
“Stella. She’s the cop?”
“Yes. I think she’ll go on the record, but I need to check. Also, I’ve got a guy inside Paddington Green Police Station. The armourer. I think he’s the guy who looks after all the firearms.”
“Yes, he’d have all the kit the firearms officers use.”
“So he’s been telling me stuff. Firearms officers letting things slip when they think nobody’s around. About hits on criminals. Well, not criminals because they’ve been acquitted or just not charged in the first place.”
“What about evidence? How do you know they aren’t just setting you up?”
“How about a brick chucked through my window with a message tied round it?”
“Blimey, tha
t’s a bit Hollywood, isn’t it?”
“I know, right? But that’s what they did. I kept the message, but I know it off by heart anyway. It said, ‘Riley. You think you’re doing good. But you’re threatening justice. Beware. Justice may retaliate. Find another story. Before you become the story.’”
Vicky could hear the cogs in Fairbrass’s brain whirring and clicking. She watched as the kestrel swayed in the wind then dropped behind the hedge, presumably onto a rodent that was about to become its next meal.
“And my last question? Have you spoken to anyone else? Websites as well as print media.”
“No. You’ve always been good to me so I came to you first.”
“Thanks. We should meet. Can you get into London? Today?”
They agreed a time and place for an early evening drink. Ending the call, Vicky sighed. An article in The Guardian would be just the start. There’d be TV interviews, radio, and obviously, international interest. Maybe that would be a route to the Pulitzers. She could write a book. And the British Journalism Awards. God, which categories could she enter? Scoop of the Year, obviously. Investigation of the Year? Journalist of the Year?
She headed in for lunch, wolfed down the chops and was at Cardiff Central station in time for the 14:55 to London.
30
A Death in the Family
The young man standing outside Vicky Riley’s Hammersmith house was holding a large basket of flowers, so big it needed both hands. Pink and white dominated the colour scheme. They were showy enough that on the short walk from his car to the front door of the address sent to his phone by his boss, a couple of women had commented on them. The size of the gift was all part of his plan. He’d shaved especially closely for the delivery, removing the heavy stubble that had darkened his cheeks, top lip and chin ever since his midteens. He wore a black polo shirt and black trousers, razor-sharp creases ironed in that morning as he stood in the small kitchen of his flat.
He rang the bell, then listened for the sound of footsteps. He looked down into the centre of the flower arrangement. The black butt of his pistol protruded from the mess of stalks and foliage, facing him and easy to pull from the block of green foam he’d pushed it into. The plan, like all good plans, was simple. She opens the door. Surprise! While she’s trying to figure out who sent the flowers, offer to carry them in for her and put them on a table. Then pistol whip her unconscious, screw on the suppressor, two shots to the back of the head, and leave.
“Shit!” he muttered after two minutes. He rang the bell again and for good measure clacked the brass knocker three times against the stop screwed to the door. Another minute passed. He turned away.
That left the house in Wales. Ervin had never been out of London since coming to the UK in 2005. But he’d checked it out on the internet. The countryside looked good. It reminded him of home. Checking he was unobserved, he retrieved the pistol and stuck it into his waistband under the pulled-out polo shirt, then dumped the basket of flowers in a skip two spaces down from where he’d left the Citroën Tamit had provided.
He headed for the A4, the main artery westwards out of London, aiming to pick up the M4 and drive straight to the farmhouse.
It took him three and a half hours to complete the journey, including a stop at a service station for fuel and to make a purchase in the M&S outlet. The last half a mile took him down a rutted track between fields planted with what looked to him to be wheat. The sun had dried the mud to a hard grid of overlapping zigzags where a tractor had churned through in wetter weather. The Citroën’s suspension was barely able to cope with the juddering, and he kept the little silver hatchback in first gear as he swung the car from side to side down the track, avoiding the larger potholes.
Ahead, he saw the farmhouse. Red bricks and weathered timber beams. A slate roof. Smoke was rising from the tall, brick chimney, and he grinned. Smoke meant people. People meant the journalist. The journalist meant he could get on with his work and be back in London before nightfall. He checked the photo in the file Tamit had given him. Not bad looking. A bit on the skinny side, but her blonde hair was lovely, and she had the long legs he admired in a woman. Maybe there’d be time out here for some fun before he killed her.
He drove to the end of the track, where a galvanised-steel gate barred the way, and killed the engine. He reached over to the back seat and picked up the pistol. It was a Ruger SR45 with a brushed stainless-steel slide. Ervin was superstitious about many aspects of life, and weapons especially. Rituals were important to him. He dropped out the ten-round magazine and glanced at the open end. The tenth round was snug against the spring. He racked the slide to eject the eleventh, chambered, round and picked it up from the footwell.
He replaced the magazine and racked the slide a second time to chamber a fresh round. Then he dropped out the magazine again, took the round he’d extracted from the chamber and thumbed it down onto the other nine. Finally, he pushed the magazine home again with a click. Frowning, he pushed his thumb hard against the bottom of the magazine, before dropping it out and reseating it in the well and repeating the process. Feeling the anxiety building in his stomach, he dropped out the magazine a third time, only to replace it immediately. Agon and Murat took the piss relentlessly when he went through his routines, but they weren’t here now and he could complete his ritual in peace. Plus, he reflected, I’m a better killer than either of them, so fuck them.
Next, the suppressor. He screwed it onto the end of the barrel, twisting the stubby black cylinder until it met the stop, and his hand slid around the steel surface. Immediately, he unscrewed it and pulled it clear of the muzzle. He placed it back on the threaded end of the barrel and tightened it a second time. Once more he went through the process. Finally, he was satisfied. The fluttering in his gut had stopped and he was calm. He pulled the gold crucifix on its fine chain out from the neck of his shirt, kissed it and crossed himself before tucking it back out of sight. Most of his countrymen were Muslims, but Ervin had made Jesus Christ his personal saviour. He grabbed the M&S carrier bag from the passenger seat and left the car. He swung the gate wide and hooked it back against a post, then began the short descent along the remainder of the track towards the farmyard, pistol gripped loosely in his right hand, bag in his left.
A shout made him turn.
“Hey! You there! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
The shouter was a ruddy-faced man, several stone overweight and dressed for work in a pair of jeans, tall green rubber boots and a padded waistcoat over a denim shirt. He carried a shotgun diagonally across his body and as he saw Ervin’s pistol, he raised it to his shoulder.
“Drop that or I shoot,” the farmer said.
Ervin smiled and raised his hands in an “I surrender” pose. Then he brought the Ruger down fast in a single-handed grip and fired three times.
The farmer’s chest blossomed red as Ervin’s shots found their mark. The distance between the two men was only fifteen feet, and his grouping was tight over the man’s heart. He collapsed without firing his own weapon, dead before he hit the ground. Ervin collected the three bullet casings from the grass before walking over to the body. He pushed two fingers under the right side of the jawbone, feeling for the soft space where the artery ran. No pulse. He checked again on the other side. Then once more on the right. He picked up the shotgun, broke it, extracted the shells and pocketed them.
He looked down towards the farmhouse. The suppressor had done a good job of quietening the sound of the Ruger firing, but like all suppressors, it wasn’t perfect, nowhere near those silly pfft sounds they made in the movies he enjoyed watching on his laptop. Nobody had emerged, screaming or brandishing another long gun. He loped down and into the farmyard. Brought up on his grandparents’ farm, he paused, waiting for something. The dog arrived as if on cue, barking frantically, tail waving in anxiety rather than friendship. He upended the M&S carrier bag and dropped the bloody steak onto the ground. The dog skidded to a stop, clearly torn between
doing its duty and devouring a half-kilo of rump steak. Hunger won.
As he reached the door to the kitchen, it opened inwards. A plump woman about his mother’s age was standing there, forehead creased.
“Monty? What’s all the fuss—”
She fell back into the kitchen with a red-rimmed hole in her forehead.
Ervin stepped around the mess of blood and brain tissue on the slate floor.
It took him thirty minutes to search the house, methodically opening every single cupboard door and wardrobe. The loft was warm and dusty, and he was sneezing repeatedly as he descended from the opening. That left the outbuildings.
The dog had taken its booty somewhere, and it didn’t reappear when Ervin stepped out into the sunlit yard. He didn’t like killing animals. But he would if a job demanded it. The barns were full of machinery and farm supplies, but of the journalist there was no sign. He even had a poke around in a ten-foot-tall pile of swedes piled like skulls against a brick wall. But no joy.
She could be out walking on the land, he supposed. He’d have to wait. Maybe he wouldn’t be driving back to London this evening after all. The bodies were a problem. Leaving them behind was acceptable. No way he’d be traced. But hanging around while a postman or a vet discovered the carnage, that was most certainly not acceptable. There was a battered Toyota pickup truck parked outside a barn. It had the keys in. He drove it up to the gate, collected the farmer, turned round and added the wife to the truck bed, then drove the truck away from the farmhouse, looking for somewhere secluded to leave the bodies. The noise of pigs grunting made him smile. He drove towards the sound.
Back in the house, he called Tamit.
“Tamit, she’s not here. I did the parents … what? OK, the godparents. Should I wait?” He listened for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ending the call, he wandered into the sitting room and turned on the TV, a big flat-screen number. He found an old movie, something with James Cagney, and settled down to wait.
