by Andy Maslen
With the sandwich despatched, she turned halfway round to face Rafael.
“Do you have to be anywhere for the next hour or so?”
That shrug again. And that smile.
“Pepi has the helm.”
“Good. Please take your clothes off.”
The first time was urgent. Stella straddled him and rocked herself to an angry orgasm that left her shaking and sweaty. If he came, she neither knew nor cared. She dug her fingers into the strong muscles of his chest and used him. Regaining her breath, she spoke in a whisper.
“Now it’s your turn.”
She moved to climb off him, believing he’d want to be on top, or behind her. Then he surprised her.
“No. Stay there, duendecilla.”
She could feel him, still hard, inside her, and as he took hold of her hips and began rocking her to his own rhythm, she relaxed and let herself be carried with him. He was surprisingly gentle as a lover. She knew he did odd jobs for Ronnie Wilks and presumably others of his acquaintance, and she’d wondered before whether those odd jobs extended to anything more physical. But if he was used to dishing out beatings, he hid it well. Then all thoughts passed from her head as he bucked beneath her, pulling her down onto him. She felt him come and watched as his face tightened then relaxed, and in that moment felt her own climax arriving.
Afterwards, they lay together, squashed into the single bed, her head on his chest, his fingers twirling little points into her hair.
“Was that, OK?” he asked.
“Yes. That was OK. Was it OK for you?”
“For me? Yes. I was expecting only a ‘thank you’ for the sandwich.”
She smiled and turned her face to his.
“That was a one-off. Sólo una vez. Sí?”
“Sí, duendecilla. I will remember you even when you are gone. Now I must be gone, as well. It is my watch.”
He clambered out from under her, dressed and left.
Stella remained in her bed, hands folded behind her head, enjoying the lingering warmth she felt in the pit of her belly.
“I enjoyed that,” said a familiar voice. Hers, but with a mocking tone she’d grown to accept.
“Yeah, well, he is very cute.”
“And he did make you a lovely cup of tea. And a sandwich. It was the least we could do.”
“It wasn’t like that. I just fancied him. No harm in it, was there?”
“None at all, Stel. In fact I think it’s a sign you’re healing.”
“Maybe I am. You’re still here, though.”
“Want to get rid of me, do you?”
“What, the voice in my head that sometimes sits next to me in the car or watches while I kill people? Yes, I would like to see the back of you.”
“Play your cards right and maybe you will. I have a feeling once you’ve finished with Pro Patria Mori, you won’t need me anymore.”
43
Ferenczy Calls Collier
Collier’s morning had not started well. His post had been delivered during his absence from his desk at one of the interminable budget meetings his exalted position forced him to attend. Among the interagency memos and mailings from the Police Federation was a small, pale-blue envelope bearing a first-class stamp and his name and address at Paddington Green, written by hand in dark-red ink. The letters were scratchy, and blotted here and there, as if the writer had employed an old-fashioned dip-and-scrawl pen.
He reached for a paper knife and slit the envelope. Squashing the sides together slightly he tipped it up to empty the contents into his palm. All it contained was a credit-card-sized piece of white plastic. He turned it over, and gasped. It was a Crown Prosecution Service ID card. And it bore the name Debra Fieldsend. The photo of the attractive blonde lawyer was obscured by a smear of the same dark-red liquid the sender had used to address the outside of the envelope.
The meaning was as clear as if she’d sent him a covering letter …
Dear Adam,
I hope you are well. I am not well at all. I am crazy. I just murdered Debra Fieldsend. Here is something of hers to give you nightmares like I have.
Best wishes,
Your former DI,
Stella Cole
He picked up the spray bottle he used to keep the leaves of his potted plant clean and squirted a little water onto the ID card. Then he used a tissue to clean it. He pocketed the card and walked out of the CID office, along the corridor, down several flights of stairs and out into the street, without acknowledging anyone. Two hundred yards away, down a side street he bent as if to tie his shoelace and dropped the card and the stained tissue down a drain before straightening and retracing his steps.
Later that same morning, Collier had just returned to his office after a trip to the canteen when his mobile phone rang. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. The contact displayed said “Football.”
“Yes.”
“We need to talk.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“Your girl just killed Ervin.”
A hundred questions chased themselves through Collier’s head, accompanying the thought, Yes, and a Crown Prosecution Service lawyer, too, but years of training kicked in and he asked the single, important one.
“Where shall we meet?”
That evening, Collier strode into a pub several miles to the south of his station, far from the prying eyes of off-duty coppers wondering who their boss was talking to. Whatever trends in the licensed trade were transforming honest pubs into gastro-this or tapas-that, they had yet to reach the Cock and Bottle. The place was a boozer, pure and simple. Sticky, red carpet, tobacco-stained ceiling, bleary-eyed, early evening drinkers nursing pints and no doubt wishing they could still light up inside instead of having to lever their scrawny frames out of the hard chairs and congregate outside.
Ferenczy was already there, sitting at a corner table, a glass of red wine sitting in front of him. Collier ordered a gin and slimline tonic and went to join the gangster.
The tables surrounding theirs were empty, and Collier wondered at the Albanian’s good fortune. Then he noticed a handful of grim-faced individuals dotted around the pub at regular intervals and casting furtive glances in his direction. Muscle. That explained it.
“What happened?” he asked Ferenczy.
The man’s eyes blazed.
“My brother, Ervin. You met him, yes?” Collier nodded. “She killed him. We can’t even find his body. We tracked his phone, but she’d taped it to the roof of a transit van. We caught up with it in Leeds. She even threatened me. Me! On Ervin’s phone!”
Collier sipped his drink, considering his options. On the one hand, Ferenczy was still a useful asset. On the other, he’d failed. Twice. The journalist and his former detective were still on the loose. He chose a response.
“If you expect me to help you move in on Freddie McTiernan’s turf, you need to raise your game, Tamit,” he said, finally. “Ervin clearly wasn’t up to it.”
It was a poor choice.
Ferenczy didn’t shout. Didn’t slam his fist down on the table. Didn’t pull a knife, or a cosh or a gun. He simply leaned towards Collier and spoke in a low voice that made the groomed police officer’s hackles erect.
“In my culture, money is like pfft,” he spat a mouthful of air from between compressed lips. “There is always more money. But killing a family member? This is unforgivable. You have people here who bear a grudge for years, yes?”
“Yes.”
“We bear grudges for generations! Now this is between me and that bitch. It is personal. It is vendetta. I don’t give a fuck about money. I don’t give a fuck about Freddie McTiernan. I don’t give a fuck about you!”
Now he did raise his voice, jabbing a finger into Collier’s shirtfront and making the older man wince.
“Tamit, please, forgive me. I was wrong to disrespect your brother’s memory. But listen. Personal or not, you kill Cole and I will help you. If the McTiernans’ drug business is not of int
erest, then something else. I owe you. I’m powerful and I have powerful friends. Very powerful friends.”
He waited. Watching the Albanian closely, alert to a softening of the facial muscles that might indicate a willingness to stay on the team. There! The pulsing vein in his left temple had subsided from its manic beat.
“I will deal with this mad woman. Then we will talk about the McTiernans again.”
He reached for his glass, drained it and placed it dead centre on the table. Then he stood, issued a command in his mother tongue, and left, sandwiched by his burly minders.
Collier remained at the table. Something in Ferenczy’s parting words had sparked an association in his brain. He was now deep in thought, wondering about another way to free himself from the increasingly dangerous attentions of DI Cole.
44
Your Money, Mr Wilks
After checking in at the same hotel she’d stayed in on her first trip to Marbella, Stella called Ronnie Wilks.
“Yeah?” Suspicious. Minimalist.
“Ronnie, it’s Stella. I’ve got your—I’ve got that shopping you wanted.”
“Good girl. Any problem at the till?” Amused. Clearly enjoying the subterfuge.
“One of the shop assistants got a bit lippy but I exercised my rights.”
“I hope you kept the receipt.”
“I don’t believe you’ll need it. It’s just your size.”
“Where are you?”
“The Mar de Sueños.”
Wilks paused.
“OK. Can you bring my shopping to the house? I’ll be here all afternoon.”
Stella consulted her watch. It was two fifteen. She realised she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Her stomach growled at her.
“You know how to cook, Ronnie? Or does Marilyn look after you?”
“I can cook. I do a nice little paella. Why?”
“Make us a bacon sandwich, would you? I’m starving.”
“Cheeky bitch,” he said. But it was said in the same amused tone of his earlier responses.
“Thanks. Give me fifteen minutes.”
Stella checked her appearance in the bathroom mirror. Her cropped hair was so much easier to look after than her old style. She wetted her fingers under the cold tap and scruffled them through it until it stood up in even little spikes. She bent her head and slurped some of the water into her mouth, rinsed and spat. Ready.
Hefting the holdall onto her shoulder and keeping its bulk across the front of her body, she left the hotel and headed for the Wilkses’ place. As she strolled down the cobbled street, a suited man emerged from a shop doorway and for a second, her heart hammered in her chest as she remembered the banker she’d beaten up. But this wasn’t him. Her pulse returned to normal and she carried on.
The weather was warmer than before and even in her lightweight clothes – navy cotton chinos, white blouse – she could feel the sweat gathering under her arms. On she strode, right arm curled protectively around the bulky black nylon holdall, left nestled inside through an opening in the zip, curled round the Glock’s grip. She didn’t think any of Marbella’s chancers would be out and about at this time of day, but anyone looking to roll this slightly built woman for the price of a heroin fix would find himself in bigger trouble than the worst cold turkey could deliver.
Reaching the double gates of La Buena Vida, Stella dropped the holdall to the ground and rolled her shoulder, wincing. Who knew money was so heavy? The most cash she’d ever carried was a couple of hundred in twenties when she and Richard had gone to the races with his firm. Newmarket. Stella had won sixty quid on the first race, betting on a horse called Coca Lola. She’d looked up at Richard and said, “If it’s a girl, let’s call her Lola.” He’d looked back at her, then down, placing a warm palm against her swollen belly. “OK,” he’d said, smiling. “Lola Drinkwater, I can live with that. And if it’s a boy? Coca?”
She’d stretched up to kiss her husband.
“Don’t be daft! We’ll call him after the bookie.”
Richard laughed. “Oh, great! Honest Alf Drinkwater.”
She’d joined in, laughing until she cried.
She shook herself. She was crying now. A swipe of her hand took care of the tears wetting her cheeks.
“Come on, Stel. We don’t want to turn up all blotchy, do we?” Other Stella was back. She’d been silent for a while. “Deep breath, smile and press the buzzer.”
She did as she was told and planted the tip of her left index finger on the small, circular steel button on the front of the intercom.
Ronnie answered, his voice crackling.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. With your shopping.”
The latch clacked and the gates swung apart. Taking a precautionary look around and behind her, Stella walked through the gap and waited for the gates to close after her, ready to drop anyone who might make a last-second dash for the opening. Only when they settled together with a reassuring clonk did she start to relax. A young man, little more than a kid really, eighteen or nineteen, was mowing the thick, crunchy, blue-green grass on the front lawn, ambling behind an electric mower with its orange flex looped over his muscular shoulders. He wore black shorts and a white-and-green T-shirt, both emblazoned with the Nike swoosh. Flip-flops. A faded red baseball cap. He turned as she walked up to the front door.
“Buenas tardes, señora,” he said, smiling, and revealing white teeth.
“Buenas tardes.” She smiled back, but he’d already returned to his work, and she noticed a thin white cable snaking away from his ears, which were just visible under a curtain of long, shiny, deep-brown hair.
The dark-blue Mercedes was parked as before, glowering at her as she approached the front door, the three-pointed star comically oversized in its wide mouth. Like people wouldn’t notice you’re a Merc, she thought.
The front door opened before she had a chance to stretch out a hand and knock on its polished wooden surface. Ronnie stood there, sporting another hideous velour leisure suit, this one in an unlikely baby blue. His smile was wide and, as far as she could tell, genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners, deepening the sun-etched grooves still further. He spread his beefy arms wide.
“Stella! You made it back from the shops. Come in.”
She stepped into the cool interior of the house.
“Maybe we could drop the secret agent stuff now, Ronnie, what do you say?”
He pooched his lips out.
“Spoilsport. I was enjoying meself.”
He led her through to the kitchen. She sniffed. The air was filled with the aroma of frying bacon. A black skillet on the gas hob was emitting cracks and sizzles and when she’d dropped the holdall to the tiled floor she went over to take a look. Six fat rashers of bacon were laid side by side in the pan, crisp on their fatty rinds and browned where their pink meat had stuck slightly to the cast iron. She inhaled deeply. The smell was almost too much, and she let out a little moan of anticipatory pleasure.
Ronnie’s voice came from close behind her.
“Told you I could cook, didn’t I?”
She turned and found herself face to face with Ronnie, the tips of their noses just eight inches apart. She could smell his aftershave over the frying bacon, and the unmistakable tang of male sweat after exercise.
“Where’s Marilyn, Ronnie? I thought she’d be here for the handover.”
“Min’s in town. Drinks with her girlfriends. It’s just you and me.” He made no move to widen the gap between them. “Maybe we could seal the deal with a kiss. What d’you say?”
He smiled, wolfishly, flashing his eyes at her.
Stella smiled, too. Then she reached left and closed her hand around the brass-riveted handle of a Sabatier cook’s knife she’d noticed lying on the counter top. She drew even closer and spoke in a quiet voice.
“You’ll have some explaining to do to Marilyn if she wants a quick fuck and finds your cock’s gone AWOL.”
Ronnie stepped away hands held
out in front of him, eyes widened. Though he still smiled.
“Whoa, Stella! Just calm down. Can’t you take a little joke?”
Stella pointed the knife at Ronnie’s face.
“Brown sauce, please. And white bread.”
While Ronnie busied himself fixing the sandwiches – “Decided to join you, didn’t I?” – Stella took a seat at the glass-topped dining table and watched him. Watched him carefully. She bent to the holdall and unzipped it, removing the Glock and placing it by her right arm with a clank. He turned at the hard-edged sound, clocked the pistol, tutted and returned to the sandwiches, slicing them in half with the Sabatier.
His back to her, he spoke.
“No need for that, Stella. Let’s keep it friendly. You held up your end of the bargain and I’ll hold up mine, OK?”
He brought the sandwiches to the table and Stella took a bite. It was perfect. Probably not too surprising that an old-school, East End gangster like Ronnie Wilks could rustle up a decent bacon sarnie.
“Here,” she said, when the first half of her sandwich was gone and her stomach had stopped its squawking. “You’ve been very patient.”
She swivelled in her chair and grasped the handles of the holdall with both hands and lifted it onto the table with a grunt.
Ronnie wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and pulled open the sides of the bag. Stella enjoyed categorising the emotions that chased each other across Ronnie’s tanned and lined face as he rummaged among the bricks of notes.
Eyes narrowed, brows pulled together. Suspicion. Is it all there?
Face muscles relaxed, eyes wide for a moment. Relief. Yes, it is.
Slow-spreading smile. Satisfaction. I’m in funds.
And then, what? What was this final expression on his face? A second frown and a hardening of the mouth. She watched a muscle bunching in the angle of his jaw.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
He looked at her. Eyes unreadable. Sapphire chips glittering in the harsh light of the halogens overhead.
