by Andy Maslen
Collier knelt beside Frankie, avoiding the blood pooling beneath her body. He wiped the Glock thoroughly with his handkerchief then placed it in her right hand and curled her fingers tightly around the grip and over the trigger.
He lifted her arm and, holding her right hand in his, fired a round from the Glock into the wall behind Freddie.
He took the gun from her unresisting hand and repeated the process with Freddie, taking care to place the shot near the existing wound in Frankie’s chest.
“There. Lots of GSR for forensics to find.”
Collier looked down at his clothes. The blood spatter wasn’t too obvious on the charcoal-grey suit. And after his experience meting out some summary punishment to one of Ferenczy’s low-level dealers, he had also opted for a dark shirt. He left the crime scene and went upstairs in search of a bathroom. As he lathered his hands and face with Freddie McTiernan’s sandalwood-scented soap, he pondered his next move. The story he’d arranged at Five Beeches would hold up, no question.
Frankie had removed the Glock from the Exhibits Room without proper authorisation. No doubt from a misplaced sense of loyalty, she had embarked on a quest to avenge what she saw as McTiernan’s involvement in the murder of Stella’s family. The file Collier had doctored would supply corroboration for that part of the narrative. She travelled down to Ingatestone to murder the former gangster. Dying, McTiernan summoned enough strength to wrestle the gun away from Frankie and kill her. Both their fingerprints were on the gun. Both had gunshot residue on their hands and clothes. Carpet fibres in the floor would match both the CID office and Collier’s office. Which was fine, because hadn’t he spoken to her that morning about her request to interview McTiernan?
He reckoned it would be a day or two before Frankie’s absence started causing consternation at Paddington Green. From then until her body was discovered, along with Freddie’s, who knew? If he had a cleaner, it could be tomorrow. Otherwise, when a family member got worried and went round to check on him. Once through the front door, they’d discover the carnage in seconds.
But as Collier dried his hands on one of Freddie McTiernan’s soft, fluffy towels, the sound he could hear most clearly above the ringing in his ears was of doors closing, not opening. The FBI transfer was taking too long. He needed to get out while he still could.
30
Confession
The ball clattered to a stop in a black section.
“I think you’re safe to go home,” Stella said in a rush.
“How can you say that after what they did to Bea and Ralph? They’re probably just waiting till I put the key in the door then they’ll shoot me, too.”
Stella finished her coffee and walked away from the cafe, still speaking.
“Because there is no ‘they’ anymore. I’ve killed them. All but one. And he’s going to bolt, I’m sure of it.”
While she waited for Vicky to respond, Stella smiled to a woman pushing a buggy along the pavement past the cafe. She was about Stella’s age. She smiled back.
“Sorry. Did you just say you killed them?” Vicky asked, her voice transmitting scepticism down the line like a blare of trumpets.
“Yes. I did. Four Pro Patria Members out of six. One had a heart attack before I could get to him and one’s still at large. As I’m laying my cards on the table here, I’ve also killed two psychos they sent after me and seven gangsters, six of them Albanian. I probably got the guy who killed your godparents if it’s any consolation.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
“Where are you? I can’t get my head around, I mean, I can hear you but I can’t process this. Can we meet?”
“I’m in a rather pretty if empty seaside town called Westcliff-on-Sea. Fancy some fish and chips?”
“What train do I need?”
Stella gave Vicky the train times.
“OK. I’ll call you from the station when I get there.”
Ninety minutes later, Stella stood outside Westcliff-on-Sea station, waiting for the 18.13 train from Fenchurch Street.
In ones and twos, then in larger clumps, the passengers emerged from the grey-and-white sliding doors. The flow of people slowed to a dribble, then petered out altogether. No Vicky. Stella checked her watch, then the arrivals board. No doubt about it: this was the London train. She turned around, worried that maybe she’d missed Vicky. Or that Vicky hadn’t recognised her, what with the all-new do.
A tap on the shoulder brought her whirling round. Standing in front of her, blonde hair blowing about in a sudden breeze, was Vicky Riley. Her eyes were hidden by oversized sunglasses. Together with the white cotton jacket and tight jeans over high-heeled, silver-toed boots, they gave her the look of a movie star. The two women embraced. Stella could feel the tension in Vicky’s shoulders and back muscles.
“Come on,” she said, as she released her. “Let’s walk down to the beach. It’s a lovely day to be at the seaside.”
She crooked her right elbow, and Vicky threaded her left arm through the gap. As they walked, she started asking questions in an urgent whisper. Stella was glad the pavements were largely unpopulated, it having reached that time of the evening when the day trippers had gone home and the holidaymakers were off having a drink or an early dinner.
“Did you mean what you said on the phone?”
“About what I did to the PPM members? Yes. Every word. I shot one, smashed one over the head with a skillet, threw one out of a top storey window and electrocuted the other one in the bath.”
“Shit! And you said there were others. Psychos? And Albanians? Jesus, Stella, what’s going on?”
“OK, look. After we spoke last time, my investigation turned up trumps. I identified the members of the conspiracy. But they must have found out I was after them. Don’t ask me how. Maybe I wasn’t as careful as I should have been about covering my tracks. They sent people after me. One of them was the guy who killed your godparents. And I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. They were innocent. It should never have happened.”
“Please don’t apologise. And remember, I was already digging into PPM myself. That’s why they went after Richard.”
Stella nodded.
“Anyway, the hitters they sent weren’t good enough, apparently. The last one got herself admitted to the psychiatric ward at St Mary’s in Paddington. I threw her down a stairwell.”
“Wait. What? What were you doing in the loony bin? Sorry, I mean—”
Stella laughed.
“It’s fine. Everyone there called it that. Well, everyone who didn’t get to choose whether they went home at five-thirty did. My boss and the station pathologist sectioned me. He’s the final piece of the jigsaw. My boss, that is. Detective Superintendent Adam Collier.”
“Fucking hell, this is crazy! And he’s the only one of them left? You’re sure?”
“I took their leader’s mobile phone off him right before I killed him. He had them all listed. All the members.”
They’d reached the beach by this point and Vicky sat on a bench facing the sand.
“I’ll sink up to my ankles in these heels,” she said, bending to unzip her boots, then taking her socks off. Stella sat beside her and for the second time that day, went barefoot as they walked onto the beach.
“Arresting them was never part of the plan,” Stella said. “It wouldn’t have worked, anyway. They’d just have got each other off. They killed my family, Vicky. They had to pay. Properly.”
Vicky turned her face towards Stella. She pushed the sunglasses onto the top of her head, revealing the amazing blue eyes that Stella had noticed the first time she’d met Vicky.
“Are you OK? I mean, you’re really calm, but you’ve just told me you’ve killed, like, a dozen people.”
“Thirteen, actually, but let’s not split hairs.”
Vicky stopped walking and faced Stella. She gripped her by the upper arms and stared intently into her eyes. Stella stared back. She could fe
el it. The moment of truth. How was Vicky going to play it? As far as Stella could see, there were three possibilities. Option one, call the police and report a mass murderer strolling along the soft, golden sand at Westcliff-on-Sea. Option two, keep shtum and write the whole thing up as a “story of the century” exposé of criminality at the highest, and some of the lowest, levels of the British legal system. Option three … well, yes, what exactly was option three? She watched Vicky’s mouth open as she began to answer.
Other Stella was standing behind Vicky’s left shoulder. She’d cocked her head to one side. Waiting. Stella prayed Vicky wouldn’t go for option one. Didn’t know if she’d be able to control Other Stella. Vicky spoke.
31
Honesty is the Best Policy
Collier stood in front of the mirror in the hall and checked his appearance. Hair in place. Tie straight and properly knotted. He tweaked it with thumb and forefinger anyway. Leaning closer, he examined his face and neck for blood spatter. Nothing. He looked down. A forensics officer would see the fine droplets of blood dotting the charcoal suit jacket and trousers. But he wasn’t planning on subjecting himself to that level of scrutiny. The toecaps of his shoes shone. He rubbed each one up and down on the calf of the opposite leg. And then he left.
Outside, he glanced at the Rolls Royce. A sudden urge to defile the gold bodywork seized him. No. Don’t spoil the story, Adam. On a whim, he wandered across the striped lawn, past a shed, heading for a stand of black-stemmed bamboo waving in the soft breeze blowing left to right across the garden. As he reached them, he heard the tinkling of an ornamental fountain. Underlying the sound was a coarser burble, as from a pump. Beyond the stand of bamboo, a huge pond had been built, raised up from the ground rather than sunk in. The foot-high brick walls were topped with rough-hewn stone cappings. At one end, a heavy-duty pump had been concealed beneath more stonework, but its outflow pipe was clearly visible and an island of bubbles spread out across the water. He leaned over and peered in.
Gliding just beneath the surface, a huge, white-and-orange fish flicked its tail, rippling the water. Two more giants hove into view, one bluish black, the other a pale lemon yellow.
“So you were into koi carp were you, Freddie?” he said, prodding one of the fish on its back with a finger. “Expensive hobby.”
He walked back to the shed and opened the door. Inside the dim, pine-smelling space, he saw a large petrol mower. Above it, on a shelf, stood a green plastic container that sloshed heavily as he took it down. Smiling, he wandered back to the pond. He put the container down beside the brickwork, then leaned down and wrenched the cable from the rear of the pump. With a stuttering burble, the pump died. The last few bubbles dispersed on the surface of the water. Without hesitation, he unscrewed the cap on the container and emptied the petrol into the pond. With the harsh smell irritating the inside of his nose, he walked back to the shed, tossed the empty can inside, shut the door and made his way back to the drive.
He stopped at the Rolls Royce.
“Oh, well. In for a penny,” he said.
His front door key had a sharp point. As he drew it down the side of the car facing the garden he grinned at the obscene metallic screech.
“A cop who was trigger-happy and a vandal! Just wasn’t your day, was it?”
He waited on the pavement for the gate to close. The clack as the latch engaged behind him brought a final smile. “If he was our final target, then I’d say we did a pretty good job,” he said to a squirrel clinging to a tree. He looked left as he drew level with the side road. Frankie’s compact Audi looked out of place on a street where all the residents seemed to park their cars on private drives or in garages. But it was clean, smart and didn’t look like it had been dumped by joyriders. No doubt some suburban busybody would eventually stick a printed note under the wipers asking the owner to “kindly park your car somewhere else,” or report it to the local neighbourhood watch, but until then it would remain hidden from the police.
Collier walked from Mill Green Road to Ingatestone station. The journey took him half an hour. While walking he made a call.
“Linda? It’s Adam.”
The HR manager’s voice was breathy.
“Hello Adam. How can I help?”
“What have you been doing this afternoon?”
“Oh, you know, paperwork. Endless appraisals, evaluations, and on top of that, we’re trialling a new piece of recruitment software that’s supposed to help us make better hiring decisions.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Sadly, no. Just little me. I’ve been all on my own in my office.”
“No, you haven’t. I’ve been with you. We were discussing staff budgets all afternoon.”
He heard a moment’s hesitation. When she spoke again, the girlishness had gone, replaced with something altogether steelier.
“Yes, of course. When did our meeting finish? Six? We went for a drink afterwards?”
He smiled, causing a man trimming a privet hedge with old-fashioned shears to smile back and nod.
“Perfect. Thank you, Linda.”
Next, he called one of the detective sergeants under his command.
“Jake, it’s Adam. Have you seen Frankie?”
“No, sir. I think she was going to interview a snitch or something. She wasn’t specific.”
“If you see her, will you ask her to come and find me? I’m in HR with Linda Heath. Been there all afternoon for my sins.”
He took the 15.02 train back to Liverpool Street, paying for his ticket with cash. Back in London he took the tube to Kew and was back home at 5.00 p.m.
Closing the front door behind him and dropping his keys into the bowl on the hall table, he called out.
“Hello? Lynne?”
He went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle of red wine, pouring himself a decent-sized glass and downing half of it.
Lynne appeared in the doorway, towelling her hair.
“You’re home early. I just had a shower.”
He saw her looking at the wine. He picked up the bottle.
“Want one?”
“Adam Collier! It’s not even six!” Then she smiled. “Sure, why not?”
He poured her a glass, topped up his own then motioned to the table.
“Sit down, darling. There’s something I need to get off my chest.”
Her forehead creased and her eyebrows drew together, carving a deep groove above the bridge of her nose. She gulped some wine down then immediately started coughing. Collier waited until the paroxysm had passed, leaning round to pat her on the back. She looked across at him and he could read it in her eyes. The fear. That this would be the moment it all unravelled.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is everything OK? Has something happened at work?”
He laughed, a sardonic sound that sounded harsh even to his own ears.
“You could say that.”
“You’re not leaving me, are you? Please tell me it’s not that.”
He reached over and placed his large hand over her smaller one, feeling the wedding and engagement rings under his fingers.
“No. I’m not leaving you. But after I tell you what I need to, I wonder whether you’ll want to stay married.”
Her face creased still further and for a moment he wondered whether she would start crying.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, for God’s sake. What is it, darling? Tell me. Whatever it is, I promise I’ll help you. We’ll get through this like we always do.”
He took another mouthful of the wine, swallowed it without tasting. And spoke.
“Do you remember what you said when Theo died?”
Her eyes popped wide.
“What?”
Collier tried again.
“When they turned off the life support and came to tell us when he was gone. Do you remember what you said? The very first thing?”
Lynne gulped some wine. He could tell it wasn’t what she’d been expecting. She looked up then retu
rned her gaze to him.
“I said – I think I did, anyway – that I wanted to kill the little bastard who stabbed him.”
Now or never, Collier thought. I need someone I can trust.
“I felt that way, too. A few weeks after that, I had lunch with a judge. He invited me to join an organisation. An organisation that was providing justice for people who’d been hurt like we were.”
Lynne opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand. If this was going to go the way he wanted it to, he needed to keep talking.
“We looked at miscarriages of justice. Basically, where the guilty walked free. Like Crispin Radstock. We were putting things right. Then things got messy. A journalist and a lawyer started investigating us. The lawyer died and his wife started coming after us, one by one. The others are dead, all but one by her hand. It’s just me now, and I’m frightened she’s coming after me to finish the job. That’s why I want us to move to the US. We need to get away, Lynne.”
He paused, watching, waiting for a response. Trying to figure out his options if she took the high ground. Not wanting to look the obvious answer in the face. She saved him the trouble.
“This organisation that recruited you.”
“Yes?”
“They kill people, don’t they? Criminals I mean. The bad ones. The rapists, the murderers.”
Collier nodded. She stared straight into his eyes and he waited.
“Why didn’t you kill Radstock?”
“I wanted to. But he disappeared. I looked for him, Lynne, believe me, I did. But in the end other things just got in the way. But you found him where we couldn’t.”
“So—?”
“So now I know.”
She nodded, her lips set in a grim line.
“Yes, you do. But you said the lawyer’s wife is coming for you. Is it Stella Cole?”
He blinked. How did you get there so fast? He decided to ask.
