by Andy Maslen
“What?”
Do I say something or not?
“I’m worried she’s just going to give in and leave the job.”
Not, apparently. That’s interesting.
“I think we need to take things one step at a time. She may decide she’s had enough. I wouldn’t blame her. Or she may manage to find her way back from all this. The trouble is, there’s something of a legal conundrum, isn’t there?”
“What’s that, sir? Adam, I mean.”
“Think about it. She threatened to kill me. You were a witness. Now, at the moment, under a section, she’s deemed not responsible for her actions. She doesn’t have capacity, in the jargon. If the doctors at St Mary’s decide she’s well, then we have to return to her original actions. At best, she could face a firearms charge, at worst, attempted murder. Either way, I find it hard to see how a continuing career in the Met would be a realistic option. Anyway, this is all hypothetical. At the moment, she’s in a secure psychiatric unit and we’re on our way to interview one of London’s most powerful gangland figures, whether or not he’s retired. Let’s focus on that for now, OK?”
“Yes, sir. Adam.”
Thirty minutes later, at 12.55 p.m., Frankie pulled up at the kerb on a small side road leading off Mill Green Lane in Ingatestone.
“Just in case he’s got a security camera,” Collier said. “Let’s keep him off guard if we can.”
With the engine and exhaust ticking behind them, and bright and dark bands of sunlight filtering through the trees lining the pavement, Frankie and Collier walked round the corner to Five Beeches. Collier stood by the gatepost, while Frankie spoke into the intercom.
The latch clacked and the wooden gate swung open.
“How the other half lives, eh?” Frankie said, as they marched side by side along the gravel drive to the front door.
“There’s more blood than cement in the foundations of this place, Frankie, don’t forget that.”
As they reached the front door, Frankie checked the lapels on her suit jacket, making sure they were lying flat. She looked down and plucked at the front of her blouse, straightening it out and wishing, not for the first time, that she’d bought the next size up.
Collier pushed the doorbell. Somewhere inside, the chimes of Big Ben rang out. He turned to her.
“Best foot forward, Frankie.” And he gave her an encouraging smile.
The door opened. Freddie McTiernan stood before them. Clearly he had already dressed for his game of golf. His outfit was a tribute to casual men’s tailoring: a subtle blend of pale pink, fawn and lemon-yellow, with Argyll checks much in evidence.
He smiled. The expression didn’t reach his eyes. Frankie noticed the way his jaw muscles worked as he turned from her to Collier.
“Well, well,” he said to her. “Not just the monkey but the organ-grinder, too. You’d better come in.”
They followed his broad, cashmere-clad back down a wide hallway and into a formal sitting room, furnished with bottle-green, buttoned-leather sofas. Freddie took an entire sofa to himself, sitting dead-centre and spreading his arms along the curved back. The body language wasn’t hard to read. Frankie sat at one end of the facing sofa. Collier remained standing and took up a position behind her. Classic, she thought. We’re presenting an even bigger physical threat than the suspect.
“First of all, thank you for seeing us, Mr McTiernan,” she began. No harm in starting off with a bit of politeness.
“Always happy to help London’s finest. And if they’re not available, the Paddington Green fit-up mob.” That wolfish smile again. Yellow canines and a look in the eyes that spoke clearly to Frankie: I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll kneecap you and put you through a wood chipper.
“No need for that, Freddie,” Collier said from his position out of Frankie’s field of vision. “Ronnie was as guilty as sin, and you know it.”
“Really?” Freddie leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees. “Because the way I heard it, in this country, a man’s innocent until proven guilty. The judge declared a mistrial.”
“Yes, and as I’m sure you remember, the retrial jury found him guilty.”
Freddie barked out a cynical laugh, loud enough to make Frankie flinch.
“Yes. After you planted evidence at his and Marilyn’s place.”
“Ancient history, Freddie. Ronnie’s living high on the hog in Marbella now. Costa royalty. Just like you in your mock-Tudor hideaway down here in Crooksville, Essex.”
Freddie leaned back. Smiled. Replaced his arms along the back of the sofa.
“You ever study Buddhism, Detective Chief Superintendent Collier?”
“What do you think?”
“You should. Very interesting religion. Especially the concept of karma. Fate, you might call it. I met this lady at a party last Christmas. Lovely woman. Retired magistrate. She was telling me all about it. You know what she said to me? ‘Karma keeps the receipt.’ I asked her what it meant. She said, not in these exact words mind, very cultured, she was. Anyway, she said you can shit on people all you want and in the short-term you might get away with it. But in the end your bad deeds catch up with you. Karma keeps the receipt, see?” He leaned forward again, hands on knees. “Fuck up other people and eventually karma fucks you up right back.”
Collier’s voice hardened.
“Which is all very fascinating, Freddie. But sadly for you, we didn’t come all this way for a religious studies lesson. Detective Sergeant O’Meara. You have some questions for Mister,” heavy sarcasm, “McTiernan.”
Frankie cleared her throat. She realised she’d become so engrossed in the aggro flying between the two men that she’d forgotten the original purpose of the visit.
“Yes. What do you know about Albanian drug gang activity in east London?”
“Me? Nothing. Like I said on the phone, I’m retired.”
“But your former associates aren’t, are they? This morning, I asked a couple of people I know about the McTiernan operation. They seemed to think you’re very much still a player.”
Freddie shrugged.
“What people?”
Frankie smiled. Counted a three-second pause in her head.
“Tamit Ferenczy. Name mean anything to you?”
She watched his face closely as she pronounced the dead Albanian’s name. Not much, but enough. A twitch of the lower lip. Slight dilation of the pupils. Deeper breath before speaking. Yes, you know him, all right.
“Never heard of the bloke. Is he one of the people you spoke to this morning?”
She shook her head.
“He’s having trouble speaking at the moment on account of having his head splattered all over the roof of his club.”
“Yeah, that would make conversation difficult. Like I said, it’s not a name I’m familiar with.”
She was framing another question when Collier cut in from behind her.
“Stop lying to us, McTiernan. You had Ferenczy and two of his minders killed. They were muscling in on your territory and you didn’t like it. Couple of the clubbers reported a young lady leading a gang of female supporters waving a sawn-off around. One of them called her Orla, apparently. You’ve got a granddaughter with that name, haven’t you?”
Freddie was on his feet in a single move. Face flushed, finger jabbing at Collier over Frankie’s head.
“Don’t you fucking dare come after my family, you cunt! I warned you last time. If you—”
Frankie tried to manoeuvre away from Freddie so she could stand to face him. She slid sideways along the shiny leather upholstery. The metallic double-snap from behind her didn’t make sense.
The bang was huge in the confined space. Freddie jumped back. His eyes were wide with shock. Then he looked down at his stomach.
Frankie followed his gaze.
Something had happened to the pink and yellow jumper. The central portion had exploded outwards in a red rose as vivid and bright as the blooms climbing over the front porch.
The rose spread, wet and glistening. Then a flood of red soaked through into the fine woollen weave all the way down Freddie’s ruined stomach and onto the front of his fawn golfing trousers. His eyes locked onto Frankie’s again. The look was pleading. His mouth, lips bloodless, was working, but no sounds emerged. Clutching the massive wound in his midriff he stumbled backwards.
A second bang.
The sweater over Freddie’s heart exploded outward in a mess of red.
She felt red-hot sparks on her cheeks and the backs of her hands. And the air smelled burnt somehow. She screamed as Freddie’s lifeless body fell back against the sofa, releasing a fresh gout of blood that pooled on the leather seat. Grabbing the armrest, she wrenched herself round.
She looked up at Collier. He stood, arm out, Glock gripped in his right hand. A wisp of blue smoke curled up from the barrel. She clambered to her feet, using the arm of the sofa for support.
“Wh— what the fuck did you do?” she shouted. Her voice sounded distorted and muffled beneath the ringing in her ears.
28
Family Scrapbook
“Dear? Are you all right.”
Stella opened her eyes, dashed away the tears that were running freely over her cheeks. She looked up, blinking, into a pair of watery blue eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Beyond the elderly woman crouching over her, she could see a man she assumed was her husband. His face was creased with concern. A young couple hovered a little further back, their hands gripping a young child between them.
“I’m fine, thank you. Just a touch of the sun. I get migraines,” she improvised, getting to her feet. She stumbled and the woman took her firmly by the elbow and turned to her husband.
“Bill. Give us a hand, would you? Don’t stand there like a lemon.”
He hurried over and took Stella’s other arm.
“Let’s get you a nice cup of tea. Marge and me have a flask. Look, it’s just over there.”
He pointed to a stripy rug spread out on the sand about thirty yards away. Two folding chairs stood guard over a small picnic. Mugs and a silver vacuum flask nestled against an array of Tupperware boxes.
“My shoes,” Stella said.
“I’ve got them,” he said. “Come on.”
Stella allowed herself to be led by the couple to their spot on the beach. She accepted the offer of one of the chairs and sank, gratefully, into its springy embrace.
“Migraines, eh?” the woman said, unscrewing the top of the flask and pouring Stella a mug of tea. “They can be bastards, can’t they?”
“Marge!” her husband exclaimed from his kneeling position on the rug. “Language!”
“Oh, please. I’m sure she’s heard worse, haven’t you, love? Young people today, they don’t mind a bit of bad language. Anyway, that’s what they are.” She patted Stella’s free hand. “My sister, Ange, was a martyr to them. Three days, some of them would last. She told me they got so bad she wanted to die.”
“I’m feeling much better, thanks,” Stella said. “It must have passed. They do sometimes. I’m Stella, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you, Stella. You already know our names. Marge and Bill. Watson. We’ve been coming here since the sixties. Haven’t we, Bill?”
Bill nodded in agreement. Stella deduced he was the type of man – the type of husband – content to let his wife make the running in social interactions, supplying agreement when called on but otherwise happy to sip his tea, or pint, and watch the world go by.
“Here on business, are you, love?” Marge asked.
“Business?” Stella repeated, still half-stunned by the vision she’d just escaped from. “No. Not really. I’m on sick leave. Thought the sea air would do me good. Shows what a fat lot I know, doesn’t it?”
Marge leaned across the short distance between the two chairs and patted Stella’s knee.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, lovey. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
Stella stopped moving, her hand holding the mug halfway to her lips.
“What did you say?”
“You couldn’t have stopped it. The migraine. They just come on out of nowhere, don’t they?”
“Oh. Yes. They do. Just when you’re least expecting them.”
“‘I wish I could put a stop to the bastards.’ That’s what Ange used to say.”
Stella felt a firm pressure on her shoulders. Didn’t look up. Just waited for the voice in her ear.
“You should tell her we’re going to,” Other Stella said. Then the pressure vanished.
Stella finished her tea and stood up, carefully.
“Thanks for the tea. I have to go. Enjoy the rest of your holiday,” she said.
Keeping her eyes down, she walked across the sand to the road. In front of her, an ugly, rectangular building announced itself as Genting Casino. Stella wrinkled her nose at the thought of overpriced drinks and the sour smell of last night’s beer and roulette losses. She turned to the right. A few hundred yards to the east, she could see what appeared to be a beachfront cafe and set off towards it.
Oliver’s On The Beach turned out to be a tiny cuboid block with a few aluminium tables and chairs on the concrete apron at the front. Stella ordered a cappuccino and a cheese and ham toastie and sat at the table furthest from the serving hatch. She was thinking about the hit and run. How it had started her descent into grief, then madness, then the murderous quest for revenge. She still wanted Collier to pay, but Other Stella’s insistence on wiping out whole families frightened her. What if she couldn’t stop? What if Other Stella stopped being “other” at all?
Her phone rang, startling her. She looked down. And smiled. Thank Christ! Caller ID told her it was Vicky Riley, the freelance journalist who’d been working with Richard on exposing Pro Patria Mori.
“Vicky. How are you doing?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure. After they killed Ralph and Bea, I just fell apart for a bit. Living in a camper van with Gemini Moon didn’t exactly help with my sanity either.”
“I can imagine. Did the police give you any more information about the killer?”
“I saw their bodies in the morgue when I did the identification. Ralph had three bullet holes in his chest. They shot Bea right in the middle of her forehead. Like the little girl in the nursery rhyme.”
Vicky laughed. A broken, mirthless sound that sent a shiver down Stella’s spine. Stella took a sip of the coffee. She had the seating area to herself but a few people were queuing at the serving counter. She turned away and lowered her voice.
“Look, I’m sorry to have to ask this, but we have to be objective. Are you completely sure it was PPM? I mean, and no offence, but farmers do keep guns and I know that a fair few commit suicide that way if, you know, they have debts on the farm or whatever.”
“I’m totally sure. The detective who interviewed me said, and I quote, ‘There are certain signs that the murders were the work of a professional.’ Plus, they weren’t shotgun injuries. I know enough about guns to know the difference. These were holes. Big ones, but holes. Like from a rifle or a pistol. I talked to a friend in the US. He covers the crime beat in Baltimore. I asked him what the cop meant about ‘certain signs.’ He said it was things like grouping. That’s when the bullets are close together. Ralph had three over his heart. You could have covered them all with your palm. And headshots. No brass at the scene. You know what that means?”
“They collect the casings so forensics can’t trace the weapon.”
“Yes. And nothing was taken. So robbery wasn’t the motive. They were executed. To threaten me.”
“Where are you now? Still with Gemini?”
“No. I had to leave before I throttled her. All her talk of rebirth and reincarnation was making me ill.”
“At home?”
“Nope. I don’t know if I can ever go back there. I wouldn’t feel safe. I’m staying with a friend. A journalist.”
Stella felt a momentous decision approaching. How far do I let Vicky in o
n this? A roulette wheel in her brain spun, then slowed, and the little white ball skittered and bounced between the black segments marked “TELL” and the red, marked “DON’T.” It came to rest.
29
A Promising Career
Collier looked at Frankie with a dead-eyed stare. He lowered the Glock to his side.
“He was scum, Frankie. They all are. Parasites in pink cashmere, ruining lives, getting fat on the profits of evil. We were doing fine work.”
“We?”
“Pro Patria Mori. I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now.”
“The conspiracy that Stella claimed killed Richard and Lola. It’s real?”
“Oh, yes. It’s real. The trouble is, I’m the only one left. There are a few people out there who are willing to help me out with operational matters, but Stella has been surprisingly effective in reducing the council’s numbers.”
Frankie’s breath was coming in sharp little gasps, and sparks were flickering in her peripheral vision. She lifted her chin. I’ll finish this for you, Stel. I’ll bring him in and you can get justice for Richard and Lola. She held her hand out, noticed it trembling. Stiffened her arm.
“Give me the gun, sir. It’s over.”
Collier smiled sadly.
“I’m afraid you’re right, Frankie. It is over.”
He held out the gun towards her.
She reached for the muzzle, fingers opening to curl round the squared-off black barrel and began speaking.
“Adam Collier, I am arresting you under—”
Then she saw his index finger curling tighter round the trigger.
No! she said. But the word was only audible in her head.
The hollow point rounds took her full in the chest, over the heart. She died while she was still standing, as the organ ruptured and burst. She fell sideways, blood soaking the front of her blouse around the entry wounds.
“You were a good cop, Frankie. You had a promising career in front of you. In or out of PPM, you would have made it. Now we have to tell a little story together. You can help me with that, can’t you?”
