by Andy Maslen
“I’m trying to find out what’s really going on. I need to do some digging on my own time. But if I need some help—”
“Just ask. It’s what I told Stella as well. I won’t break the law, but if you need any help with forensics or computing, I’m in. Here, let me give you my number.”
Frankie stayed late that evening. When the last of her colleagues had left for home, or the pub, Frankie logged into HOLMES - the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Staring at the top-level search screen, she spoke aloud.
“Now. Just supposing there were a top-level legal conspiracy, who are we talking about? Chief constables? Judges? CPS lawyers? Barristers? Lucian said Deacon had been ghosted, so let’s add prison governors into the equation.”
Working through the list, she keyed in a series of searches linking various keywords. If Stella had discovered the real murderer, it stood to reason he or she would be a conspiracy member. And after seeing Stella’s performance with the Glock, Frankie was convinced whoever they were, they weren’t breathing God’s good air anymore.
She typed in CHIEF CONSTABLE + MURDERED. No hits. She wasn’t really surprised. She felt sure the office would have been awash with chatter if someone had gunned down a CC.
She tried again. JUDGE + MURDERED. Again, nothing.
And again. LAWYER + MURDERED. Zero.
“Shit!” she murmured, scratching at the back of her scalp.
Then she slapped her forehead.
“Frances Nicola O’Meara! God, you’re a stupid girl sometimes. They’d have covered it up.”
In which case, she reasoned, HOLMES was as much use as a condom machine in a convent. She launched a web browser and entered a short phrase.
Top judge dead
“Oh, my fucking God!” she said, as the screen refreshed.
The search results all referred one way or another to the death of a High Court judge, Leonard Ramage, in a house fire at his home in Scotland. Of course, houses caught fire all the time, and regrettably their inhabitants perished. Frankie had seen more than enough crispy critters to last her the rest of her career. But the date brought her up short. It was three days after her last meeting with Stella. She searched for the judge by name and nodded with satisfaction as the search engine returned hundreds of hits.
“Popular fellow,” she muttered, clicking on a couple of news stories.
Idly, she clicked the IMAGES link at the top of the page. The face looking back at her was of a type that had always raised her hackles. Lustrous silver hair swept back from a high forehead. Healthy tan. Confident gaze. It was a face that spoke of privilege. Establishment privilege. Here was the judge outside the Old Bailey. Here, at a legal reception. Here, at a high society garden party. Posing languidly beside a shiny purple Bentley outside the car company’s hospitality tent at Royal Ascot. Receiving his knighthood at Buckingham Palace.
She called Lucian.
“Hi Frankie, what’s up?”
“When Stella talked to you about the conspiracy, was it just to use you as a sounding board or did she have some kind of evidence? You said she found a paint chip?”
“That’s right. I analysed it for her.”
Frankie was staring at the picture of Ramage by the Bentley. Her heart was suddenly beating very fast.
“Was it purple?”
“Yes. A special colour called Viola Del Diavolo. It’s only used on high-end stuff. Ferraris, Aston Martins—”
“Bentleys?”
“Yes. Was that a guess?”
“No. I think I’ve found the owner of the car the paint chip came from.”
“That’s great! You can pull them in for questioning. Maybe finish what Stella started.”
“It’s too late for that. I think she finished it herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was a High Court judge. Past tense.”
“You think she killed him, is that what you’re saying?”
“It says he died in a house fire.”
“Well then?”
“I don’t know, Lucian. Maybe I’m getting jumpy with all the talk of conspiracies. Listen, don’t worry about it, OK? I’m going home now. I’ll see you soon.”
But Frankie didn’t go home. Instead, she repeated the search process on a dozen or so different legal job titles. An hour later, she was sweating, and chewing her bottom lip until it bled and she could taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth. She’d made notes as she’d searched and consulted the sheet of scrap paper now.
Leonard Ramage. High Court Judge. Died. House fire.
Charlie Howarth. Barrister. Died. Fall at chambers party. Suspected accident caused by excessive alcohol consumption.
Debra Fieldsend. Crown Prosecution Service lawyer. Missing. Dead?
Hester Ragib. Barrister. Died. Electrocuted in hotel bathroom. Suspected accident.
Sir Christopher De Bree. Barrister. Died. Heart attack at home.
Frankie closed her eyes and pinched the skin at the bridge of her nose. She re-ran the film of the confrontation with Stella in Collier’s office. Everything that had happened was a blur, but she tried breathing slowly and using a relaxation technique she’d seen on YouTube. Although her own anxiety as she crouched out of sight holding a Taser had obliterated most of the details, one line of Stella’s came back in crystal clear audio now:
“You’re forgetting your friends in Pro Patria Mori. Ramage, Fieldsend, Ragib, Howarth.”
“Fucking hell, boss,” she breathed. “What have you been up to?”
She folded the sheet of paper into four and tucked it into her purse. Thinking about home and a nice big glass of wine, she moved the cursor over to close the browser. Then she stopped the movement and rolled her eyes.
“You’re not going to leave your search history there are you, you muppet?” she said to herself. “Some undercover copper you’d make.”
She’d just brought up the menu for clearing her search history when a noise behind her made her swing round in her chair. The door to the CID office had just banged shut, and walking towards her was Adam Collier. She stood, hurriedly, catching her hip on the corner of the desk.
“Burning the midnight oil, Frankie?” he said, a smile on his face. But was that a wary look behind the eyes as well?
“Oh, you know how it is, sir. Just a case I can’t let go of.”
He was standing right in front of her now. She could smell him. No aftershave for once. Instead a faint but unmistakable odour of perspiration. Odd.
“The case will still be there in the morning. And hundreds more like it, sadly. Go on, go home.” He smiled again. “That’s an order.”
23
Following in Stella’s Footsteps
After ushering Frankie out of the CID office the previous night, Collier had wasted no time checking the computer she’d been using. As had become his routine, he’d waited until he thought every one of his team had left before checking their computers, both for official logins and any unusual browsing activity. Somehow, he’d missed the fact that Frankie was still in the building. It was lucky he’d forgotten his car keys. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to review her search history. Five minutes checking on what she’d been researching, and he knew he was in trouble. Correction. More trouble.
So he’d come in early and prepared a new case file. Then left a Post-it on Frankie’s desk asking her to come and see him the moment she arrived at her desk.
Standing outside Adam Collier’s office, Frankie could feel a cold worm of anxiety wriggling around in her stomach. She’d got home at after one in the morning following her research and had managed no more than three hours’ sleep. The two cups of strong black coffee she’d drunk at breakfast to wake herself up had done their job. But they’d also given her a bad case of the jitters. Being summoned by Collier the moment she arrived at work hadn’t helped matters. She hitched up her trousers, straightened her blouse and knocked smartly, three times.
“Come!”
She o
pened the door and walked in. Tried to avoid glancing at the screen of potted ferns and palms she’d hidden behind before Tasering Stella.
“Ah, Frankie. Take a seat.”
She sat in the chair facing Collier across his desk, which was covered in paperwork. He looked stressed, she thought. Eyes tight, tie crooked, and a couple of spots of dried blood on his neck where he’d nicked himself shaving. For someone nicknamed The Model, he was looking decidedly off his game.
“Everything all right, sir?”
Collier grimaced. Frankie watched as he tried to chase the sour expression off his face with a smile, but the effect was forced. It looked as if he were about to vomit.
“Fine, Frankie. Yes, thank you. I have a case for you. Something that’s come over from our colleagues in East London. Bow, to be exact. You heard about the shootout at that club in Shoreditch ten days ago?”
“Yes, sir. Three down, all Albanians, including one Tamit Ferenczy. Pretty major league drug dealer. Ran his business from the club.”
“Very good. Glad to see you don’t just focus on our patch. The initial assumption was a deal gone bad but there’s new intelligence pointing to a gang war with the McTiernans.”
“I thought Freddie had retired.”
“Maybe he has. Some old folk like to get part-time jobs to while away the hours. Old Man McTiernan seems to have gone for something a bit more, shall we say, proactive. Anyway, I want you to take it on. As a priority. I’ll get your other cases reassigned. First stop, go down to that neo-Tudor pile of Freddie’s in Essex and have a chat. Test the waters. Nothing serious, just putting out a few feelers. You know the drill.”
He pushed the manila folder across the desk. Frankie took it, spun it round and opened it. The top sheet was Freddie McTiernan’s criminal record. Not a huge document but with enough serious offences to keep anyone with less expensive lawyers than Freddie’s in prison for a long time.
“Thank you, sir.”
She stood and left. Collier had already returned to his papers and merely grunted as she left. Back at her desk, she spent the next hour reading the file on Freddie McTiernan. Then she picked up her desk phone and called the landline number listed under “PERSONAL INFO.”
“Hello?”
“Mr McTiernan?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Frances O’Meara. Metropolitan Police. We’re looking at the shooting of three Albanian men in Shoreditch ten days ago. Could I come and see you for a chat?”
“I’m retired. Doesn’t it say that in your file on me?”
Keep it light, Frankie.
“It does. I’m just collecting background. You’re not under suspicion.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck whether I’m under suspicion or not. You lot fitted up my son-in-law without a shred of evidence, did you know that? Is that in your file as well?”
Frankie paused before answering. Breathed out. Don’t answer questions, ask them.
“When would it be convenient for me to come and speak with you, Mr McTiernan?”
“It won’t ever be convenient. But if you want to waste a couple of hours, be my guest. Tomorrow afternoon, say one o’clock. I’m playing golf at two so you’ve got an hour.”
He hung up as Frankie framed the words, “Thank you.”
“Fine,” she said. “One o’clock tomorrow it is, then, Freddie. And then we’ll see who’s retired and who’s wasting whose time.”
Frankie was on her way to the canteen when out of the corner of her eye she saw Collier’s office door opening. She threaded her way through the desks in the CID office to catch up with him before he left.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Frankie, what is it? I’m on my way out.”
“I spoke to Freddie McTiernan. I’m going down to see him tomorrow. One o’clock.”
Collier stopped walking.
“I’ll come with you. I could do with a break from this interminable paperwork. I tell you, Frankie, being the Chief Super is far less glamorous than it sounds.”
Then he was gone.
Glamorous? Boring, more like, she mused as she waited for the kettle to boil. She took her cup of instant coffee back to her desk and sent a text to Stella. She assumed patients, or inmates, or whatever they called them, had their phones confiscated, but surely she’d get her messages at some point?
24
A Day Off
Freddie put the phone down. Slowly. Carefully. Puffed out his cheeks then hissed the air out through his teeth. He could feel his old anger banking up. The doctor had warned him about his high blood pressure.
“I don’t want to alarm you, Mr McTiernan,” she’d said. “But at your age there is a very real risk of a stroke unless you adopt the changes to your lifestyle we talked about.”
Hence golf. Hence half a bottle of wine with dinner and only one cognac before bed instead of two or three. Hence visiting the local dog charity to talk about adopting a rescue. Hence resisting the urge to pick up the fake antique handset and hurl the whole fucking thing through the window. Breathe, Freddie. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
He turned at a sound behind him. Stella was standing there, towelling her spiky blonde hair dry. Wrapped in one of his fluffy white bathrobes, she looked like a little girl wearing her dad’s dressing gown.
“You all right?” she asked. “You’ve gone red.”
“Just had a call from one of your lot. Coming down to see me tomorrow afternoon. Something to do with that Albanian fuckwit Ferenczy and his goons. You should probably make yourself scarce.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Detective Sergeant Frances O’Meara, she called herself.” He observed the way Stella’s eyes widened. “Know her, do you?”
“She’s my sergeant. Was, I suppose, since I’m not exactly on duty at the moment. What with technically being under a section.”
Freddie grunted. He was beginning to like this whack job copper, and that was dangerous in his line of work.
“Even more reason for you to disappear for the afternoon. Don’t want any awkward conversations, do you?”
She smiled at him. Something about her reminded him of Marilyn when she’d been younger. He smiled. Marilyn had called from Heathrow earlier. She and Ronnie had got in on time and would be coming to Five Beeches at seven the following evening. Now they had the money Stella had liberated from the lockup, they planned to finish the business with Collier.
“Thanks, Freddie,” Stella said. “You know, for everything.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Gets lonely here sometimes. Rattling about in this place. I don’t mind a bit of female company. ’Specially attractive female company.” He held up a hand as her mouth dropped open in mock outrage. “You know, attractive for a cop.”
“Ooh, you cheeky sod.”
Then she must have caught something in his expression, and her face fell. He knew what she’d seen. He could feel it. The tug. The pain in his chest that never really went away. Only faded from time to time. She spoke again, face serious now, eyes looking right into his.
“What happened to your wife, Freddie?”
“Oh, bloody hell. You want me to go back over ancient history?”
“Why not? I’m not exactly over-employed at the moment. Why don’t you pour us both a drink? I’m a good listener.”
With a generous tumbler-full of cognac for himself and a vodka on the rocks for Stella, Freddie sat back in the buttoned-leather sofa and took a pull on the warming spirit. Stella sat opposite him, legs tucked up beneath her, like women seemed to do by instinct.
“You know that old saying, ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword’?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Came true for me, big time. You know my wife’s name?”
“Yes. Mary, wasn’t it?”
“Mary Catherine Walsh. Till we got married, I mean. She kept her maiden name in the middle after that. Irish Catholic family out of Wexford. Third of eleven kids
. Her old man was a big name in horse dealing over there. We met at a horse fair outside Colchester in the seventies. Seventy-five, it was. I tell you, Stella, she was beautiful. Raven-black hair, bright-green eyes, real emerald green, you know? All the blokes had their eye on her. Everywhere she went, three of her brothers used to tag along after her like fucking bodyguards. Not that she needed them, mind. Mary Walsh could take care of herself. There was this one lad, fancied his chances. Big strapping cunt from Dublin, come over for the fair.
“Anyway, he blocked her way between two of the marquees and put his arms round her waist. ‘Give us a kiss, you beauty,’ he said. ‘And tell those three corn-fed fuckers to get lost.’ Next thing he knows, he’s on the ground with his balls halfway up his throat.”
“You saw it, did you?”
“Saw it? I was laughing so hard I nearly pissed myself. I’d been thinking of trying to talk to her, but after what she did to the lad from Dublin, I kind of lost me bottle for a while. But it was a three-day fair, so you know, I thought, bide your time Freddie-Boy. Pick your moment.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, well, the last day, I found out where the Walshes’ caravan was, and I hung around till I saw her dad and brothers go off to the beer tent. I think they’d won some money on the trotting races, or sold a couple of horses. I just marched up to the front door and knocked. I’d bought a massive bunch of flowers off a stall, so when she opened the door I kind of stuck them right in her face and introduced myself. It worked. She stepped out and asked me who the feck I was and what the feck did I think I was doing giving a girl feckin’ hayfever?”
