The First Stella Cole Boxset

by Andy Maslen

  “Oh. Well that is a pity. I’ll just have to find another dashing fortysomething detective to interview. Thanks for trying, Tim.”

  She hung up.

  Tim looked at his phone in disgust.

  “Bollocks!”

  “What?” Stella said, seeing Vicky frown.

  “He’s gone AWOL. Nobody’s seen him since the day before yesterday.

  “When he was down killing Frankie and Freddie.”

  Vicky put her phone down on the table. She looked across at Stella.

  “He’s running.”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We run faster.”

  “But we don’t know where he’s gone.”

  Stella paused. Leaned her chair back onto two legs and stared at the ceiling. Remembered the look of the ceiling in Freddie’s snug. Arcs of blood spatter decorating the expanse of white. She shifted her weight to make the chair right itself with a clunk as the front legs hit the slate floor tiles.

  “You’re an investigative journalist. I’m a detective. Together we should be able to track him down. Like I said, he can’t just go off the radar. He’s going to leave a trail. All we have to do is find it, then follow it.”

  The two women spent the next hour discussing the division of labour and possible approaches. If they’d bothered to set up a whiteboard, this one would feature the phrases:

  Call wife.

  Ask line manager.

  Call Met contacts: media/cops

  Track down friends/acquaintances: ask on pretext of organising surprise party for 25-years in the service.

  Google “Adam Collier + career move”

  Ask CIs: anyone heard any whispers?

  Over the next few days, they worked all the angles, making dozens of calls, meeting with confidential informants and pushing them for information on anything they might have heard about a senior officer going AWOL, tiptoeing around the upper management echelons at Paddington Green.

  And …

  Nothing.

  In the end, the break in the case came from the same man who felt he had disappointed “Violet Rourke.”

  38

  Flight

  Collier looked across the aisle at Lynne as the plane landed in Chicago. He reached out and took her hand. Squeezed.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  Checked in at The Marriott on North Michigan Avenue, unpacked and sitting side by side on the king-sized bed, they looked at each other. Lynne Collier broke the silence.

  “We’re here, then?”

  “We are. And it’s going to be fine.”

  “But is it? How can you be so sure? What if she follows you here?”

  “She can’t. I asked Rachel Fairhill to keep the move quiet, at least until I tell her the sabbatical’s going to work. There’s no way she can track me.”

  “And then?”

  “Then what?”

  “Then when you tell Rachel you’re staying? They’ll issue a press release, won’t they? They’re bound to. And she’ll read about it or find out from someone at the station.”

  Collier scratched the back of his head. His wife had put her finger, unerringly, on the one, small, gigantic, hole in his plan. Yes. How, exactly, was he going to outrun Stella Cole and her murderous rampage?

  “Look love, you’ve been amazing so far. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how you’d react when I told you about what happened after Theo died. So this is how I see it.” I don’t see it this way at all. But I’m putting my faith in it, all the same. “This is America, OK?”

  “OK. And?”

  “I’ll be with the FBI.”

  “And?”

  “And they’ll arm me.”

  Lynne twisted round so she was facing him directly.

  “And if she comes for you, you’ll shoot her, is that it?”

  “In self-defence, yes. It’s the best I can think of.”

  “Jesus, Adam. You’d better be right.” Her eyes flashed. “Tell me what she looks like these days. It’s a long time since that barbecue and I had a few too many glasses of wine that night.”

  Collier grimaced.

  “She’s hard to miss, I promise you that. She’s had all her hair cut off and —”

  “What, she’s bald?”

  “No. Not bald. You know, a crop. Super short. And she’s gone blonde.”

  “So we’re looking for Psycho Tinker Bell?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Fine. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot. Now. Enough about her. At least for now. Hungry?”

  The next morning, Collier called Eddie Baxter. Collier had finished the paperwork before leaving England, and Eddie had fast-tracked the application through the Bureau’s admin systems.

  “Adam, my man. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Eddie. Really good. And I’m here.”

  “You’re here? What, here London, or here Chi-town?”

  “Here, here. Chicago.”

  “Whoa! I thought you were going to take a few more weeks to, what did you say, leave things shipshape for your successor?”

  “I know. You’re right. I did say that. But I had a lot of leave owing so I took some personal time. Thought Lynne and I might settle in at a more leisurely pace before you start cracking the whip.”

  “Ha. Very good. It’s not a bad idea. Listen, it’ll probably take me a week or so to get the final sign-off from our human resources people on the sabbatical. You good till then?”

  “Totally, yes. Absolutely. But there is one thing?”

  “Name it, buddy.”

  “We’d really like to find somewhere to live. Do you guys have a relocation person who could help us?”

  “Oh, sure. We work with a real estate agent who looks after folks transferring in from out of state. I’ll hook you up with her. She’s a real nice lady. Her name’s Yvonne Wallace. I have your email address. I’ll introduce you, then you guys can meet with Yvonne and she can show you around a couple neighbourhoods. You need a car?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Talk to Yvonne. I think her brother, or her brother-in-law, some family member, anyway, well, he owns the Ford dealership out in Lincoln Park. Maybe he can set you guys up with a ride.”

  “Thanks, Eddie. Let me know when I can come in.”

  “You bet. Soon as I get a date from human resources, I’ll give you chaps a little tinkle.”

  “You’re a star. Oh, and one last thing?”

  “Shoot.”

  “‘Little tinkle’? That was literally the worst British accent I have ever heard.”

  By the time Eddie called two days later to announce that Collier could come in for his formal induction in a week or so, Collier and Lynne had met Yvonne Wallace. They’d spent the time looking round apartments and houses in a couple of different neighbourhoods that offered quick commutes to the FBI office on Roosevelt Road. Two more days later, and they’d signed a lease for a three-bedroom house in Lincoln Park. The drive to work would take Collier just twenty minutes.

  The Saturday before Collier’s induction, he woke early. The digital clock on his side of the bed read 5:30 a.m. He turned over and curled his arm round Lynne’s sleeping form. She mumbled in her sleep, but didn’t wake. As he waited for the alarm to go off, he tried to anticipate what Stella would do next.

  Be honest. She’ll find us, was his first thought. She’s a good detective. No, a great detective. At best, all I’ve done is to buy time. He turned onto his back and clasped his hands behind his head. Well, what would you do if you were her? Yes. Good question. What would he do? The answer was obvious. In Stella’s shoes, he’d do what he himself had done to Crispin Radstock.

  Track him.

  Find him.

  Kill him.

  But Radstock wasn’t expecting me. That’s the difference. I know she’s coming. I need to set it up. Lay the groundwork. Tell Eddie? Maybe. Or my partn
er. They’ll team me up with an experienced agent. When the time’s right, I’ll tell him. He’ll have my back. Two against one. Provoke her into trying something. Then we bring her down. We—

  The alarm buzzed, startling Collier, who’d almost fallen back to sleep as he revolved the problem of Stella Cole in his mind like a particularly lethal Rubik’s cube. One where if you failed to get the colours lined up face by face, the whole fucking thing would split apart and a wild-eyed vigilante would burst out and murder you in cold blood.

  39

  All PR is Good PR

  Vicky’s sigh as she ended the call was so loud that Stella looked up from the laptop she was working on.

  “Another dead end?”

  “Yup. Have you got anywhere?”

  “Nope. It’s tricky. I don’t want to alert him, so direct approaches are out. But nobody at Paddington Green has seen hide nor hair of him for a couple of days. Which is not like him.”

  Vicky took a sip of the coffee by her elbow, then winced.

  “Cold. Want another?”

  “I’ll make them.”

  Stella got up from the table and arched her back, easing out the kinks in muscles that had been stuck in one position for most of the morning.

  “He wouldn’t have, oh, I don’t know, gone to a conference or something, would he?” Vicky asked.

  “Not without telling someone. No, I think he’s decided to take this completely underground. Gone off the radar.”

  “Into the tunnels.”

  “Down the rabbit hole.”

  “Into a hidey hole.

  “A black hole.”

  “Up his own arsehole.”

  Stella snorted, and soon both women were convulsed with laughter. Vicky’s phone rang, silencing the rising peals of hilarity as each tried to outdo the other with choked-out ideas about where Collier had disappeared to.

  Vicky’s eyes widened as she checked out the caller ID and signalled Stella to be quiet with a raised finger.

  “Violet Rourke,” she said in a clipped, business-like voice.

  “Hi, Violet, it’s Tim Llewellyn. Paddington Green? We spoke a few days ago.”

  “Oh, yes. Hi, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Listen, you were trying to find Detective Chief Superintendent Adam Collier for your piece. ‘Fifty Under Fifty,’ wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Good recall skills.”

  “Yes, well, I now know why I couldn’t track him down when you called.”

  “Oh, really? Why? Has he been arrested?” Vicky adopted a stagey mock-whisper for this last question.

  Vicky looked straight at Stella. Stella raised her eyebrows. Vicky gave her a thumbs up, then waggled her hand, palm downwards. We might have found him.

  “Ha, very good. No. Um, listen, I shouldn’t really be telling you this, so it will have to be off the record, or at least that you got it from me.”

  “Fine. Absolutely. Now, what is it that you shouldn’t be telling me?”

  “He’s left the country. Apparently he’s taking up a six-month sabbatical as a guest of the FBI in Chicago.”

  Vicky didn’t bother trying to hide the surprise in her voice. “Violet Rourke” would have every reason to sound doubtful. She nodded and mouthed “thank you” as Stella put a fresh mug of coffee down in front of her.

  “Isn’t that rather sudden? And why the secrecy? Surely this is exactly the sort of thing the Met likes to trumpet. Hands across the sea and all that?”

  “I agree. And knowing the man a little, I have to say it does seem out of character. Our Detective Chief Superintendent hasn’t exactly been media-shy in the past. Apparently he wants to make sure the whole secondment thing works out. So if it doesn’t, he can slide back in and put the trip down as an extended leave. I got this from the Deputy Assistant Chief Commissioner. Rachel Fairhill, do you know her?”

  “I’ve heard of her, obviously.”

  “Well, she asked me to draft a couple of press releases so that if and when the move is confirmed, we can make some noise about it. I thought, if that happens, you might like the exclusive. You could do a profile or work up some sort of feature about inter-agency cooperation. You know, the Met’s brightest stars now shining at Quantico.”

  Vicky nodded at Stella and smiled.

  “Tim, I absolutely love it,” she gushed. “And of course, an exclusive would be fantastic. Just let me know when and where I can meet your golden boy. I have a travel budget so a trip to the Windy City might well be possible.”

  “I will. But like I said, for now this is all off the record.”

  “Of course. I understand. And Tim?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re a star.”

  Vicky ended the call and punched the air. “Yes!”

  Stella held her hands wide.

  “Well?”

  “He’s in Chicago. With the FBI. Some sort of sabbatical or secondment. They’re not making it public in case it doesn’t work out.”

  Stella sat up and slurped some coffee.

  “This is it. This is the final act. We follow him to Chicago. The FBI will have a field office there. We find out everything we can about his routine. Then we pick our moment and take him off the street or from his house or something.”

  Vicky felt a sudden surge of adrenaline that made her skin clammy and her hands shake. Stella’s glib confession of having murdered – all right, killed – a dozen or more people came back to her. She put her coffee down.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.” Relief washed through her, and the feeling convinced her she was making the right decision. “Right up until a second ago this was like a massive adventure. You know, the avenging angels. And now—”

  “You’re going to kill someone. Like I said, I’m in this too far to back out. But you aren’t. Stay here, Vicky. Support me from London. I’ll need help, that’s for sure. Just, not for the business end of things. You’ll know he’s gone. You’ll know Bea and Ralph’s murderer is gone. There’s your closure. Hate that word, by the way. Draw a line under it. Move on. You don’t want to come with me where I’m going, believe me.”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just, keep all your notes on PPM. All the research you did with Richard. And when this is all over, publish the lot. The whole fucking lot. If you don’t get a Pulitzer or whatever they give out over here for journalists then there really is no justice in the world.”

  Vicky watched Stella stand up and leave the kitchen for the hallway. When she reappeared she was wearing her jacket.

  “Fancy a shopping trip? I believe Chicago gets pretty hot in the summer.”

  Later that night, when Vicky was asleep, Stella left the house. Dressed all in black, she headed for a minicab firm office and asked the controller there for a car to take her to Paddington.

  40

  Entering, But Not Breaking

  Perhaps in telly-land, police stations are 24/7 hives of activity. Detectives staring at crime scene photos under the harsh light of halogen desk lamps. Forensics officers scrutinising blood spatter or friction ridge prints under microscopes. Senior officers pacing in front of subordinates exhorting them to greater efforts or yelling at them for incompetence. The reality is different. The front desk will be welcoming a steady stream of drugged, drunk or mugged citizens. Bloody-faced scrappers will be arriving in handcuffs, sandwiched between eye-rolling constables in uniform. Wide-eyed teenagers who’ve taken their parents’ cars without permission will be standing sheepishly next to traffic cops while their situation is explained to them. But elsewhere, the station will be quiet. Yes, detectives work shifts like everyone else, but budget cuts mean CID offices aren’t buzzing with activity once the small hours roll around.

  Stella arrived on foot at the rear entrance at 3.30 a.m., having told her minicab driver to let her out a hundred yards to the east. She took a quick look around to make sure none of her colleagues were approaching from the car park and swiped Fran
kie’s ID card through the security scanner.

  The motion-activated lights flicked on as she closed the door behind her. Opting for the stairs over the lifts, she made her way to the Murder Investigation Command floor. Her feet scraped on the bare concrete steps, making a sound like sandpaper.

  Can’t be helped, Stel, she thought. Just pray you don’t meet anyone coming down.

  “Be realistic babe,” a voice behind her said. “Who takes the stairs at this time of night? Feels like the set of a bloody zombie film.”

  “Yeah, well you’d better be right. I’m not sure how my ‘Oh, I got better’ speech will wash if anyone asks me what I’m doing out of the nuthouse.”

  “We could always do what we did to that Maltese bitch.”

  “No!”

  Stella stopped dead and whirled round.

  Other Stella stood waiting for her response. A smile curved her lips upwards but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “Squeamish?” Other Stella said.

  “It’s not about squeamishness. Jesus, after the things I’ve done, I think we can safely say I’m not bothered by the sight of blood. But no cops, OK? I’ll talk my way out of trouble – if we meet any.”

  “Fine. You’re the boss.”

  The corridor leading to the MIC office was empty. Checking the way was clear, Stella hurried along to the door into what she realised she was thinking of as her former workplace. She peered through the small rectangular window. Nobody about. Perfect! She swiped Frankie’s card again and was in. Weaving through the desks, she made her way as quickly as she could to Collier’s office. The door was locked. She pulled a set of picks from her pocket. Twenty seconds later it was unlocked and she was inside and closing the door softly behind her. She tweaked the blind cords to close the slats. Withdrawing a small black torch from her pocket, she switched it on and sat down at Collier’s desk.