by Andy Maslen
The following morning, Ervin made himself some breakfast then walked out into the farmyard. The dog was there again. He tossed it half a packet of bacon and scratched it absentmindedly on the top of its head while it ate. He drove down into the farmyard to turn the Citroën round and four hours later was back in London briefing his boss on the non-appearance of the journalist.
31
Pitching
For her meeting with Damien Fairbrass, Vicky had chosen somewhere a little out of the way for most journalists: The Cut Bar above The Young Vic Theatre. It was south of the river, if only by a stone’s throw, and not the sort of place you’d be overheard by a competitor. She arrived before Fairbrass and took her gin and tonic to a table on the balcony looking down at The Cut below. The street was busy with cyclists and taxis, and the occasional passenger car threading their way east towards the city or west towards Waterloo station. It was a warm evening, and the few scraggly trees planted in squares of soil cut out of the pavement were properly in leaf. A flowering cherry had even dared to burst into bright pink blossom. Vicky hoped that a final frost before spring took hold of London’s climate didn’t kill off the puffy blooms.
She wasn’t normally nervous when pitching stories to editors. She was a good journalist with rock-solid sources in both houses of Parliament, the civil service, the police and the judiciary. Her ideas were bankable and helped sell papers. And advertising, though she preferred to see her work as more in the crusading tradition of the great investigative teams like Woodward and Bernstein, the Watergate exposers. But she was nervous now. She took a gulp of the gin and sighed as the ice-cold spirit entered her stomach. She’d eaten a bag of crisps on the train, but the chops were long since gone from her stomach and the hit of alcohol worked its way into her bloodstream almost straight away.
Halfway through a muttered rehearsal of her pitch, a scrape of a chair made her look up. It was Fairbrass. He was smiling and had his arms wide for a hug. They kissed on both cheeks, then he sat down, placing a pint of bitter in front of him after downing a good third of it.
After the pleasantries were out of the way, he ran his fingers through his luxuriant blond hair and asked the question she’d been expecting ever since they’d ended the call earlier that same day.
“So … death squads. Isn’t this all a bit, well, James Patterson?”
She smiled. Here goes, she thought.
“Yes. And no. There are documented cases of the British Government ordering assassinations. There was Operation Flavius, remember? The SAS killed those three IRA members in Gibraltar. And you know as well as I do that there were executions in Northern Ireland, too—”
“Yes, and as you say, they were government sanctioned.”
“—so there are powerful people who’ve been involved in that sort of activity who just took it one stage further. Cutting out the middleman, you could say.”
Fairbrass took another pull on his beer.
“Walk me through what you’ve got. You know, this is explosive stuff. But it’s unstable. It could blow the lid off the biggest conspiracy this country has seen since Guido Fawkes or it could blow The Guardian into tiny pieces.”
“Well, there’s the letter, for a start. Then there’s Stella. She told me what’s going on.”
“But you said her husband and child were killed in a hit and run. When was that?”
“About a year ago, maybe a bit longer.”
“How did she cope?”
Vicky hesitated. For the first time since meeting Stella Cole, a worm of doubt was wriggling around in her brain.
“She had counselling. She told me.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Come on, Vicky. Don’t play games with me. Cops are known for being hard drinkers. Probably level-pegging with us lot for alcoholics. A detective loses her family like that, she’s bound to have turned to something for solace besides a counsellor telling her about the five stages of grief.”
Vicky took a gulp of gin and tonic.
“OK, OK. She told me she’d hit the bottle pretty hard. And tranquillisers as well, before you ask. But she’s been clean for a while now. Going to AA meetings. And she was signed fit to return to work. That’s how she found out about PPM.”
“Can I just offer you a different scenario for a minute?” Without waiting for an answer, Fairbrass continued. “Ambitious cop loses family. Driven temporarily mad with grief. Hits the booze and the pills. Constructs a conspiracy theory to make sense of the randomness of events. There’s your story.”
“No,” Vicky said, over-loudly, drawing a few stares from nearby drinkers. “No,” she said again, quieter. “And I’ll tell you why. I was already working with Richard, her husband, before it happened. He was assembling a dossier drawn from autopsy reports, prison records, transcripts of debriefs of firearms officers, other stuff.”
“And you’ve got this dossier?”
She sighed.
“No. He didn’t get a chance to give it to me before they killed him.”
“You mean before he was killed by a hit-and-run driver. So where is it?”
“I think it must be at his office. But I can’t very well go in and ask at reception, can I? ‘Oh, hello, I’m here to collect Richard Drinkwater’s dossier on a conspiracy in the British legal system.’”
Fairbrass drained his pint.
“That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Without that, or some other documentary evidence, what have you got, really? It’s hearsay and the – forgive me – grief-induced paranoia of an alcoholic, pill-head cop.”
Vicky could feel all her certainty ebbing away. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about it until now, and under Fairbrass’s relentless dissection of the story, it was starting to sound shaky.
“What about the brick and the letter? They weren’t anyone’s paranoia.”
He nodded.
“Agreed. The trouble is it could have come from all kinds of people. I mean, an investigative journalist getting a threatening note, well, that’s almost mandatory. Look, I’m sorry, Vicky. I’d love to run this, believe me, and if you can come up with something concrete I’ll put it to the editor in person. But based on what you’ve told me,” he shook his head, “it’s not going to fly.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to harangue him into running the story. The trouble was, she couldn’t. He’d nailed her on the details. Where was the evidence? Where were the documents, digital or otherwise, that the paper’s readers – or at least its editors – could look at and see the truth?
“I’ll try, OK? I’ll try to make contact with Stella again. Now, how about another drink? I know I could use one.”
The drinks turned into dinner. Dinner turned into after-dinner drinks. After-dinner drinks turned into going to bed together in Fairbrass’s flat in King’s Cross. The following morning, Vicky woke at nine, groaning and circling her fingertips over her temples.
“Jesus, how much did we have to drink last night?”
She turned to the other side of the bed, but it was empty. There was a full mug of tea on the bedside table with a handwritten note beneath it.
Sorry to leave before you’re awake. Last night was fun. I meant it about the story. Bring me the evidence.
D x
The tea was still passably hot, and she slurped it gratefully. Fairbrass had left her two pink ibuprofen tablets beside the mug, and she swallowed them down with another gulp of tea. After showering and dressing, she left the flat and headed out to find a taxi to take her to Paddington and a train back to Cardiff.
As the minicab crested the hill, Vicky craned her neck to see the farmhouse. Then she felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. There were two police cars and an unmarked saloon parked in the farmyard. She could see a white tent on the field to her left with white-garbed figures moving slowly inside it.
“That doesn’t look good, you know,” the driver said, in a low voice. “Friends of yours, are they?”
“They’re my godp
arents. Quick. Hurry, please. I need to get down there.”
Then she noticed a uniformed police officer standing at the gate barring the way down the final stretch of the track and into the farmyard. He was watching them approach and walked over as the cab driver slowed to a crawl and then stopped the car, pulling the handbrake on with a squawk.
She thrust a ten pound note into the driver’s hand, forgetting her instinct to ask for a receipt, and scrabbled at the lever to open the door. Finally, she managed it and walked to meet the police officer halfway between the cab and the gate.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, “there’s been, well, there’s been an incident. You can’t go any further, I’m afraid.”
“I have to. Look, Bea and Ralph, they were my godparents. I’m staying with them. I think whoever killed them came for me.”
“Nobody said anything about anyone being killed.”
She could feel panic mounting and threatening to spill over.
“Oh, for God’s sake. We’ve all watched too many cop shows on TV. The tent? The CSIs? Please, you have to let me through.”
“Look, wait a second. Let me radio down. The SIO’ll probably want to talk to you.”
He inclined his Airwave personal radio from his shoulder and held it to his mouth.
Vicky moved. She simply ran round him and vaulted the gate while he was trying to raise somebody at the other end.
“Hey!” he shouted after her, but he was too late. She sprinted down the hill and reached the farmyard thirty seconds later. She could hear his boots clumping after her and onto the concrete but by then she was shouting for attention and a plainclothes officer emerged from the kitchen door, a deep frown creasing his features. Monty the border collie came racing out behind the detective, barking and then whining when he recognised a friendly face.
“Who are you and what are you doing here? This is a crime scene. Didn’t the uniformed officer tell you?” the detective said. His accent wasn’t local. A transfer from Yorkshire, she deduced from his flat vowels.
Vicky was crying now. She swiped her hand across her eyes before speaking.
“My name is Vicky Riley. They were my godparents. I’m staying with them. Was, I mean. Oh, God, they’re dead, aren’t they?”
The detective, who formally introduced himself as Detective Inspector Barry Glover, had her escorted to the sitting room and brought a cup of tea by a uniformed female constable. Then he sat opposite her, notebook open, ballpoint pen clicked and ready in his left hand.
“First of all, Ms Riley, I have to formally tell you that Bea and Ralph Edmondson are both dead. I am very sorry for your loss. I know this is a terrible shock to you, but we have to move as fast as we can. Every second that passes now is critical if we’re to find their killer.”
“How were they killed?” she asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s—”
“They were shot, weren’t they? Executed.”
He frowned and made a note.
“That’s a very particular word to use. Executed. Why do you say that?”
“They were, though, weren’t they? I bet nothing was taken.”
Edmondson cleared his throat.
“There are certain signs that the murders were the work of a professional. I’d rather not go into the details.”
“Can I see them?”
“Oh, well, the bod—, they’ve been taken to the morgue. The pathologist is examining them right now. But, yes, we will want you to come down to the station to make a formal statement and possibly make an identification. Did they have any living relatives, do you know?”
“There’s a son, Davy, but he lives in Australia. He farms sheep out there. I know Bea has a sister and a brother, but Ralph was an only child.”
“Well, we’ll find all their contact details one way or another, I’m sure. Why did you ask if they’d been executed?”
What should she say? Telling a detective inspector she suspected a police conspiracy would hardly endear her to him. Then an even more chilling thought plinked into life like a neon sign. What if he’s part of it? She swallowed and fished a tissue from her pocket, to dab at her eyes while she tried desperately to find a plausible answer. Come on, Riley. You’re a journalist. Words are your thing. Say something. Anything!
“I’m sorry. Must have been the white tent on the hill. I thought I’d entered an episode of CSI. It’s just so shocking.” The sob that broke free of her lips was genuine. It seemed to work on Glover.
“It is shocking. For all of us. This is a quiet farming community. I can’t be sure of the last murder we had up here, but it was before my time at any rate. Look, can you go down to the station with one of my officers right now? We can take your statement and then find you somewhere to stay. I’m afraid the whole farm is being treated as a crime scene.”
“It’s fine,” she said, sniffing. “I don’t think I could ever come back here. But I’ve got some stuff upstairs, in the bedroom. I need to pack.”
“All right. The first floor was undisturbed. I’ll fetch someone to escort you if you don’t mind, but then let’s have you on down to the station, yes?”
Vicky nodded. The truth was just starting to sink in. She’d been thinking of journalism prizes while someone was murdering her godparents. Someone who’d been looking for her. The brick with the note wrapped round it seemed like a play fight compared to what had just happened.
32
Stalker
Stella called the Crown Prosecution Service’s switchboard number. Once the receptionist had recited her standardised greeting, Stella asked a simple question.
“Hi, could you put me through to Debra Fieldsend, please?”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“This is Judge Petersham’s secretary from Norwich Crown Court.”
“Hold on, please.”
Stella waited, listening to a better-than-averagely reproduced piece of classical music.
The receptionist came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, Debra’s in a meeting. Was she expecting your call?”
Stella hung up.
She was waiting for Fieldsend later that afternoon, sitting on a hard plastic seat inside a bus shelter, just south of Southwark Bridge. Across the road were the headquarters of the Crown Prosecution Service. The building reminded her of an old TV show from her childhood, its arched, round and square windows seemingly designed to appeal to Lego fans. While she waited Stella discovered something interesting about the general public. Something she’d not known until that point, though she had known much. They might talk a good game on social media about supporting diversity, but they certainly didn’t like coming face to face with someone who looked as strange as she now did.
Earlier that day, she’d spent half an hour in front of the mirror in her room at The Queen’s Head applying some dark purple lipstick and eye shadow. She’d not used the cosmetics on her mouth and eyes, or not in the way the manufacturers had intended their products to be applied at any rate. Instead she’d created a livid port-wine stain that spread, like claret on a tablecloth, from the centre of her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose, curling around her top lip before jagging sideways to bisect her lower lip. Everybody, from the girl who’d served her the takeaway latte she was now sipping to the passersby on the street, avoided looking at her. It was the perfect disguise. All people would ever be able to remember, if anything, was the birthmark. She could be wearing a sign reading “My name is Stella Cole and I kill bad people,” and nobody would be able to recall a single word. Perfect.
It was five forty-five. She had a clear view of the doors opening out onto Southwark Bridge Road. The staff were emerging in singles, pairs and small groups, but so far, Fieldsend hadn’t appeared. But Stella had sat through enough surveillance posts not to get twitchy. She remembered one particular autumn evening, early on in her career in CID, that had stretched on into the night. Her partner had be
en a rough-edged detective sergeant from Glasgow called Conor MacDuff. His first words to her on being introduced were, “Welcome, DS Cole. Say ‘Lead on, MacDuff,’ and I’ll thump you, OK?” It was before the days when officers were required to attend gender equality training. “Fine,” she’d replied. A beat. “Lead on, MacD.” The granite jawed Scotsman had glowered at her for a second, then his face broke into a smile as wide as Loch Ness, his home and the source of his nickname, ‘Monster.’
“Aye, well, ten out of ten for brass neck, eh?” he’d said shaking his head.
They’d sat side by side in a dirty grey Ford Mondeo for eight hours straight, taking turns to slip out to a pub a few hundred yards up the road to use the toilets. She’d learned a lot from Monster that night. About policing. About life. About the toll the job took on you. But mostly about defeating boredom and staying alert in a cramped space smelling of BO, cheese and onion sandwiches bought from the garage, and farts. For Monster, the key was to “keep your motor running,” as he put it, meaning finding something, anything, to prevent your brain slipping into the twilight zone between waking and sleeping when you might think you were awake, but the suspect could emerge from his gaff dressed in a gorilla suit and prance about in front of the car, and you’d swear on your child’s life you’d seen nothing. Monster liked to recite poetry. Robert Burns was his favourite. By the end of the evening, Stella’d felt that if a wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie had dared show its face, she would have cheerfully beaten it to death with a tyre iron.
So now she sat, sipping her now stone-cold coffee, waiting, and reciting one of Lola’s favourite bedtime stories under her breath. The mumbling, combined with the birthmark, ensured none of the other people waiting for a bus home sat near her or stood in front of her, giving her a superb view across the road.
