by Andy Maslen
“One last question, Dan.”
“Yes?”
“What happened to your leg?”
He looked down and rubbed at the front of his thigh.
“Motorbike accident. I’ve always been a bit of a speed-freak. Fast bikes were my thing. Now it’s fast cars.”
Then he was gone.
Stella looked at the smiling woman who’d just become her jailer.
Just you and me, then, Becky, she thought.
“Why don’t you wait here, Stella? Just while I sort out a little bit of paperwork. Then I’ll come and collect you and we can find you a space in the communal area.”
Then she was gone and Stella was alone.
Almost.
“Well this is fucked up, isn’t it, Stel?” Other Stella said from the chair recently occupied by Dan. “What are you going to tell the gorgeous Dr Dan in the morning? Because quite honestly, I’m not sure that the whole ‘prank’ angle is really going to work. And let’s face it, you are mad. You know,” she held her thumb and index finger a few millimetres apart, “just a teeny-weeny little bit.”
“I don’t know. If I stick to the prank story, I’m screwed. He’ll say I’ve lost touch with reality, or I’m majorly stressed out and a danger to the public. If I tell him about you, then I’m really screwed. Might as well lie back and wait for them to stick the electrodes on.”
“You could tell them about Pro Patria Mori.”
“Oh, right, because that won’t have Dan reaching for his prescription pad.” She adopted a singsong voice. “You see, Dan, there’s a legal conspiracy running murder squads in London. Judges, CPS lawyers, barristers – they’re all in on it. And I’m the woman to take them all on. Yeah, right. Collier already told him about my boasts of murdering them. Even if Dan did believe the conspiracy story, I’d end up out of here and straight on a multiple murder charge.”
Other Stella held her hands up in surrender.
“Only trying to be helpful, sweetie. Only, you’re going to have to do something, aren’t you? I don’t think Dan’s just a pretty face. I saw the way he was looking at you. He knows something’s up. If he finds out about me, you can kiss your dreams of killing Collier goodbye.”
5
Single Room, Double Occupancy
Stella couldn’t remember the last time she’d been locked in a bedroom. Maybe never. She’d gone through a stroppy phase in her teens when her slammed bedroom door was a regular punctuation mark in the shouted conversations with her mother. But even then, there hadn’t been a means of securing it.
It was eight o’clock in the evening. Becky had appeared in the communal room at six with some clothes and toiletries after Stella had given her the keys to her house in West Hampstead. After a ridiculously early, and virtually inedible hospital meal, Stella had been led to a small room containing a single bed, a desk, a wardrobe and a chair.
“This will be your home for the next twenty-eight days,” Becky said. “The bathroom’s down the corridor. You can use it before bedtime and in the morning. If you need the loo in the night, just ring the bell, and whoever’s on duty will come and take you.”
So it was that, after brushing her teeth, Stella had found herself locked in with only a paperback book for company. Someone knocked at the door, then Stella heard a key in the lock. Stella straightened her back and waited. Her heart was bumping uncomfortably in her chest.
Becky entered. She was carrying a small white plastic tray. On it were balanced a clear plastic cup of water and two pills. One white, one pale blue.
“Only me,” she said. “I’ve brought you something to help you sleep. It can be very disorientating, spending your first night here. These will relax you.”
“What are they?”
Becky smiled.
“Like I said, they’ll just relax you and help you sleep.”
Stella hardened her tone.
“Please don’t patronise me. I’m a police officer, in case you’d forgotten. I’ve nicked enough drug dealers to know my way round a pharmacy cabinet. What are they? Diazepam? Temazepam? What?”
“Sorry. OK, since you ask, this one,” she tapped the pale blue pill, “is Diazepam. Five milligrams. This one,” she tapped the white pill, “is Zopiclone. It’s a sleeping tablet. It’s 7.5 milligrams. Very mild.”
“I’m not feeling anxious. I don’t need medication.”
Becky came further into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She leant towards Stella before speaking again. Her voice was low and measured, but there was no mistaking the steel core.
“I’m afraid that, certainly for your first few nights with us, we won’t be taking your feelings into account when deciding on your medication. Being sectioned is unpleasant for you, I know that. But it’s also a very serious step for any doctor to take, and if Dr Akuminde took it then he must have had real concerns about the danger you present to yourself and others. Here,” she pushed the tray towards Stella. “Just take them. You can discuss further treatment with Dan in the morning.”
“And if I refuse?”
“And if you refuse, I will leave and return with another nurse and we will administer the medication via intramuscular injection.” She smiled. But it wasn’t a humorous expression. “Under restraint, if necessary.”
Realising she was beaten, Stella took the two tablets from the tray and washed them down with the water.
“Thanks,” Becky said, getting up to leave. “I’m going off duty now, but there’ll be another nurse here all night. His name is Namesh. Try to get some sleep. The pills will help.”
She closed the door softly behind her.
“You could appeal, you know,” Other Stella said, from the bed.
“Yes, I do know. Or I could ask for a family member to have the section overturned. None of which gets round the two central problems. One, you’re here, so technically I belong in here. Two, I have, in fact, murdered a High Court judge and three lawyers. Not to mention,” she had to count on her fingers, “five, or possibly six, Albanian gangsters. Which means my other option is a smaller and less comfortable room in a custody suite.”
She lay back on the bed, forcing Other Stella to slide sideways. She closed her eyes, feeling the Diazepam beginning to blur the edges of her consciousness as her muscles relaxed. She needed a plan. But thinking was becoming difficult. In the end, she gave up and let her thoughts drift where they may. Amid a swirl of images of bloody corpses and mangled motorcycles, she fell asleep.
The noise of the key in the lock woke her. She checked her watch. Eight a.m. She’d slept for eleven hours straight. Readying herself for her first full day incarcerated in a secure psychiatric ward, she climbed out of bed and stretched.
“Bring it on,” she said, as the door opened.
6
A Little Chat
Dan’s office seemed to Stella more like that of a woman than a man. Soft, muted colours, watercolour landscapes on the walls, cushions for the armchairs, well-tended indoor plants on a bookshelf, and framed photographs of children on his desk. Presumably it was carefully designed to keep his patients calm. In her case, it wasn’t working. Her heart was racing. She was trying to figure out how she could persuade him she presented no danger to herself or others. Especially given that it wasn’t true.
They were facing each other across a low table. He’d offered her a coffee then fussed around with a dinky little chrome machine on the windowsill that produced a very acceptable latte for her and a cappuccino for him.
Today he was wearing faded jeans and a soft, white shirt beneath a navy cardigan. He took a sip of his coffee before replacing it on the table.
“So, Stella. How are you feeling this morning?”
“I feel fine, Dan. Given I was sectioned yesterday when there’s absolutely nothing the matter with me.”
“I’m glad you feel fine. It’s very disorientating, I know. One minute you’re on the outside doing your job, living at home, and the next, you’re locked in a room in a psychiatri
c ward. As to whether there’s something the matter, that’s what we’re here to find out.”
“Like I told you and Becky yesterday, it was a joke. Clearly a very poor one, and for whatever reason, Adam,” God how she hated even saying his Christian name, the murdering bastard, “couldn’t see the funny side. But give me any test you like, ink blots, values profile, the Hare Psychopathy Checklist, and I’ll come up as normal as you are.”
She watched him frown as she spoke and felt a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“You seem to know a lot about psychological testing. Is that a hobby of yours?”
She shook her head.
“Studied it at university. I told Becky yesterday. Isn’t it in my notes?”
Dan smiled.
“Forgive me, it was a long day yesterday. Summer brings out the crazies.”
Stella raised her eyebrows.
“Is that a technical term?”
“You’re a cop. I’m a shrink. We can call a spade a spade. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
Stella was beginning to like this relaxed psychiatrist with his lopsided grin and laconic manner. She returned his smile.
“My lips are sealed.”
“Hopefully not, as we do need to have a little chat about a few aspects of your behaviour over the last twenty-four hours.”
“Fine.” She spread her arms wide. “Ask away, doc.”
“I’ve seen your Metropolitan Police personnel file. Your ID photo shows you with long, brown hair. In a ponytail. When did you get the new do? It’s very Annie Lennox.”
Stella reached up and ran her fingertips through her cropped blonde hair. One of the stratagems she’d employed as she hunted down the remaining members of Pro Patria Mori. She realised she’d forgotten she’d done it.
“Couple of weeks ago? Why?”
“It’s quite a change. Women in their thirties tend to find a style that suits them and stick with it.”
“That’s a bit sexist, isn’t it?”
“Just an observation. Of course, there are times when it makes sense.”
“Such as?”
“Traumatic life events. Divorce. Redundancy. Bereavement. Even menopause. Sometimes people like to reinvent themselves. For women, their hair is one of the easiest things to change.”
“You know about my background. You know I lost my husband and baby daughter. So it was a delayed reaction to that.”
“OK. You’re probably right. And believe me, in no way do I want to diminish the effects of your grief. Or its cause. Perhaps we could talk about the gun.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You said it was all a joke?”
“That’s right.”
“Was the safety catch on or off?”
“It’s a Glock. It doesn’t have an external safety. There are three internal mechanisms to prevent accidental discharge.”
Dan smiled.
“I stand corrected. Have you had much firearms training?”
“I did a standard rotation with SCO19 – that’s the firearms division – as part of my fast track. And I keep up my certification with regular reviews. You don’t have to, but I like to keep my options open.” Like shooting the fucker who’s still walking around free as a bird while my family lie beneath the ground.
“Where did it come from?”
“Pardon?”
“The gun.” He consulted his notes. “The Glock. Where did you get it?”
“From the Armoury.” Illegally, and with a considerable amount of effort.
“Are you sure?”
Shit! What does he know?
“Why?”
“Because according to the Armourer at Paddington Green, no Glocks were issued yesterday. ‘All present and correct,’ was what he said.”
Stella could feel pressure building inside her head. It was interrogation 101 – lies are harder to tell than the truth. The higher you build your house of cards, the harder it gets to stop the whole FUCKING thing from collapsing under its own weight. One slip, one breath of wind, and there’re Jacks and Kings and Queens and little baby princesses every-fucking-where.
“He must have made a mistake.”
“Maybe. So you collected,” unmistakable emphasis, “a Glock from the Armoury and took it to Adam’s office to play your prank.”
“Yes. As I think I told you before.”
“And you’re perfectly sane. Nothing the matter. Just a joke that got out of hand. Adam and Dr Akuminde overreacted and here we all are. All I need to do is reverse your section and you walk out here to resume the fight against crime, yes?”
What was wrong with Dan? The smile looked lopsided. Quizzical, as if waiting for her to make a mistake.
“Is that so hard to see?”
“Tell me something, Stella?”
“Anything.”
“Who were you talking to in your room last night?”
7
The Heavy Squad
A week after he’d had Stella sectioned, Collier stood outside the door of the fifth-floor flat in Achilles House, his finger jammed on the brass-effect doorbell. The block of flats had been built in the sixties. It was located in a rundown part of East London now populated almost exclusively by migrants, refugees, asylum-seekers and the remains of the poor white underclass without the wit, contacts or sheer bloody-mindedness to get out. Below the walkway, a posse of youths in hoodies and low-slung, baggy jeans sat astride BMX bikes looking up at him and then exchanging glances. He half wished they’d come and confront him. Having abandoned any shred of professional respect for the law, he was carrying a Glock 17 pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his immaculately tailored suit jacket. But brandishing the gun, while satisfying, would draw attention he would prefer to avoid.
“Come on, Monica,” he muttered. “Open the door, for Christ’s sake.”
He raised his fist, intending to add knocking to the incessant ringing of the bell. Then the door opened a couple of inches before the security chain chinked taut against the stop.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The speaker’s face, glimpsed through the narrow gap between door and frame, was tanned, lined from smoking and thin-lipped with hostility.
“Don’t be like that, Monica,” Collier said.
“Oh, it’s you.”
The door closed. Collier waited while the chain scraped. Then the door was opened just enough to admit his wide-shouldered frame. He slipped inside.
Monica Zerafa was Maltese by birth. She had come to England in the nineties. Since then, she’d earned her living as a drug dealer. But that wasn’t why Collier had come to see her. In her business dealings, and many arrests, she had responded with violence whenever she felt she had been badly treated, which was essentially all the time. More than a handful of small-time dealers and at least three police officers bore scars she’d given them. With her fingernails. With improvised weapons. And with knives, of which she always carried at least two about her person. Collier himself had arrested her on one occasion, stepping back from an incoming carving knife that ended up embedded in his sergeant’s left bicep. There had been rumours she’d put at least one business rival permanently out of competition, but there hadn’t been enough evidence to take to the Crown Prosecution Service.
She led him into an over-furnished sitting room. Leather armchairs in varying shades of turquoise and orange vied for space with nested coffee tables and pot plants on ornate carved wooden stands. Dominating an entire corner, a vast, flat-screen TV surmounted a black-and-chrome shelving unit containing DVD recorder, VCR, Sky box, PlayStation, sub-woofer and sound bar.
She was solidly built. Not fat. Muscular, with large breasts and a barrel-shaped body. She crammed herself into one of the armchairs and motioned for Collier to sit.
“What the fuck do you want now?” was her opening sally.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Monica.”
“Ha. Funny man. How are you Mr Collier? Keeping well? Mrs Collier doi
ng all right, is she? That better for you?”
He nodded.
“Much. And how are you? Keeping out of trouble?”
She winked.
“I’m just a housewife now. Looking after my son, Nathan. Since his dad buggered off with that Scotch tart, it’s just the two of us.”
“And Nathan. He’s a good boy? Got himself a nice steady job, has he?”
She shrugged.
“Austerity, Mr Collier. No jobs for boys like Nathan.”
“Not even in your old line of work?”
He suspected that her old line of work was her current line, too, but he didn’t need to share that feeling. Not yet.
Her gaze flicked to a cupboard in a corner then back to him.
“He does a bit of courier work. You know, parcels and that. Zero-hours. What is this country of ours coming to, Mr Collier, eh? No work for honest folk like Nathan and me.”
He spread his hands wide as if to say, What’s to be done? Thinking what it was coming to was him having to treat with monsters like the woman opposite him instead of ordering their execution.
“Funnily enough, that’s why I’m here. I have some work for you.”
“What kind of work?”
“I need you to kill somebody for me.”
8
Naming Names
The pressure inside Stella’s head threatened to burst its banks. A flush of terror coursed through her bloodstream. She could feel her breath coming in short, quick gasps. Slow down, Stel. Hold it together.
“Nobody.”
“Really?”
Dan stood up, slowly, she noticed – no sudden movements around the crazies – and went over to his desk, where he picked up a slim, black laptop with a blue-and-white NHS sticker on the lid. He brought it back and set it on the coffee table. He opened the lid and pressed a few keys before swivelling the machine round to face her. The screen showed, in full colour, a woman sitting on a single bed in a small bedroom furnished, apart from the bed, with a desk, a wardrobe and a hard chair. The woman, whose hair was blonde, and cropped short, was facing the chair, which was empty. At the foot of the screen was a set of video playback controls.
