by Andy Maslen
“Georgina Stella Drinkwater. We call her Georgie.”
“She looks happy enough. How old is she?”
“Seven weeks.”
Jason made coffee for himself and Callie, and a camomile tea for Elle. When all three adults had their drinks, he asked the inevitable question.
“Is this about Stella?”
“It is, yes.”
“She’s all right, isn’t she?” Elle asked, her brows drawn together, grooving two short vertical lines above the bridge of her nose. The baby snuffled and wriggled, and she resettled her.
“Yes. We don’t know when she’ll be back in the UK, but when she does arrive, we need to speak to her immediately. You’re her only family, is that right?”
“We’re her closest family. I think she has a cousin or two somewhere, but I don’t think she really sees them.”
“So what I’d like to ask you to do is call me or email if she makes contact with you. In fact invite her to stay with you instead of going back to her place.”
“She can’t do that,” Jason said. “I just sold it. Yesterday, in fact. I need to email her about it.”
“So much the better. Look, this is me.” Callie handed Jason a card. “Let me know as soon as you can if she makes contact. Then I can—”
Callie didn’t get to finish her sentence. A little girl of five or so burst into the kitchen, swinging a Barbie doll by the hair and singing at the top of her voice.
“And we’ll all go down to the seaside and we’ll all—Oh. Hello,” she said, looking at Callie with a frank, appraising stare. “Who are you?”
“This is Callie, darling,” Elle said. “Callie, meet Polly.”
Callie extended her hand, which Polly shook very seriously, three times, in a vigorous up-and-down motion.
“I am very, extremely pleased to meet you. What job do you do?”
Jason and Elle laughed. Elle spoke ahead of Callie’s answer.
“Polly’s going through a careers phase.”
Callie nodded as if being interrogated by five-year-old girls was an everyday occurrence for senior officers in the Metropolitan Police Service.
“I am a police officer. A detective.”
“Oh, that one again. Like Auntie Stella.”
“Yes. Just like your auntie.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No. Only special police officers have guns.”
“Then what would you do if a really, extremely bad man or lady tried to hit you or put a knife in you?”
“Well, I would probably have a special vest to protect me. And I would have colleagues with me so we could work together as a team to stop the bad person from hurting anyone.”
Polly’s eyes widened. Then she smirked.
“A vest?” She put her hands on her hips. “Well I don’t think that would be any good. You should have armour.”
Callie was about to explain that the type of vest she was talking about was made of Kevlar, not cotton. Then she realised a rabbit hole awaited. She changed tack.
“Do you know what, Polly. That is a very clever idea. Vests!” She rolled her eyes and tutted for good measure. “When I get back to my police station I am going to go straight to the chief of all the detectives and tell him we should have armour.”
Polly seemed delighted by this turn of events. She smiled.
“I have lots of good ideas. About everything. If you want another one, talk to Daddy or Mummy, only she’s a bit busy with Georgie, but anyway, tell them to ask me and I will send you another idea, you know, for uniforms, or police cars, or how to capture bank robbers or, or,” she spread her hands wide, “anything!”
Over the adults’ laughter, Polly made a gracious exit, curtseying and then skipping back out the way she’d come. Callie finished her coffee and stood up to leave, securing a promise from the Drinkwaters that they would get in touch with her should Stella turn up on their doorstep.
Back in her car, she reprogrammed the satnav for Vicky Riley’s address in Hammersmith. It took her twenty-five minutes to reach the house. She’d phoned Vicky the previous day and arranged a short meeting. She went over the same ground with her as she had with the Drinkwaters. After discussing what Vicky should do if Stella were to appear, Callie broached a subject most coppers found distasteful at best and downright dangerous at worst. Media coverage.
“I know you have a job to do. And I respect that. But I have to ask you not to report on any of this.” And if you try to, your editors will find themselves served with a D-notice, so it won’t do you any good.
As if reading her mind, Vicky gave her an unexpected, but welcome answer.
“I expect you’d send anyone who agreed to run my story a D-notice wouldn’t you? We call them ‘Go To Jail’ cards in the trade. Though I have to say, it strikes me as odd the way we still allow censorship of the media in the 21st Century.”
Callie shrugged.
“Above my pay grade, as they say.”
“Well you don’t have to worry. As you know, I moved from being a passive observer to an active participant in Stella’s crusade some time ago. I’m hardly in a position to turn whistle-blower.”
Callie’s last stop of the day involved a one-hour-five-minute drive right across London, from west to east. She pulled up outside a swish block of apartments in Docklands. Locked the car and pressed the intercom button.
“Hello?”
“Lucian, it’s Callie McDonald.”
“Come on up.”
The latch clicked and Callie pushed through the door.
Though she didn’t know it, her reaction on seeing the inside of Lucian Young’s flat was identical to Stella’s the first time she had called round.
“Goodness me! Are we paying our forensics officers more than our chief constables nowadays?”
Lucian smiled. He was a very attractive man, Callie thought. In a more interesting way than Jason Drinkwater. And a beautiful dresser.
“I made some money at university. A technology start-up. Stella gave me the third degree, too. I think she suspected I might be on the take.”
“Compared to some of the people I’ve been looking into, a bit of low-level bribery and corruption would be a welcome change, believe me.”
Accepting Lucian’s offer of a tea, Callie sat down at his dining table and admired the view across the Thames from the picture window. When he joined her, handing over a mug and sipping from his own, she laid out the situation. As he worked for the Met, she went into fuller detail than she had with the Drinkwaters or Vicky Riley.
He spoke.
“So, basically, Stella’s after Collier, in the US. Somehow, she’s going to kill him and get out of the country without getting herself shot, or arrested, and when she makes landfall in the UK, you guys will scoop her up and, what, debrief her? Deprogramme her? Decorate her?”
Callie blew across the surface of her tea and took a cautious sip. The tea was very hot, but excellent. Nothing fancy, just English Breakfast.
“Much though I personally would like to give Stella a medal the size of a dinner plate, this whole thing is a whisker away from being the biggest shitstorm in the history of British jurisprudence. Though there’s been precious little prudence since those shitty wee bastards started their little vigilante society.”
At times of heightened emotion, Callie lapsed into a class of Edinburgh vernacular her mother, the Harper Lee-obsessed English teacher, would refer to as, “such a common way of speaking, Calpurnia.”
“Who knows what’s been going on?” Lucian asked.
“Well, let’s see. Stella, for one. Obviously. Me. My boss, Gordon Wade. The Home Secretary. The Justice Secretary. The Prime Minster. Vicky Riley. You know her?” Lucian shook his head. “A journalist for God’s sake, though I think we can count on her silence. And a slimy little band of PPM groupies that we’re taking care of as we speak. So, as you can see, not a small group. But not a large one either. Everyone’s either bound by the Official Secrets Act, their relations
hip to Stella, or their own desperate need to keep this secret. The consequences of going public would be, I think the best word is, severe. I’m sure we can keep a lid on it.”
“How sure?”
Callie snorted.
“Let’s just say between one of them blowing the whistle and me becoming the first president of an independent Scotland, I’d bet on me.”
57
Hitcher, Beware
Covering an average of twelve miles a day, and resting one day in three, it took Stella sixteen days to walk from Ericsburg to Duluth, Minnesota, hiking parallel to US Route 53. At a small town called Virginia in Minnesota, she briefly considered taking the scenic option of woodland trails, but just as quickly rejected it. The probable absence of accommodation would mean either buying and carrying a tent, or sleeping under the stars.
As Ken had recommended, she stayed in cheap, out-of-the-way motels and B&Bs. Without her unholy passenger, she felt clear-headed and completely focused on the final part of her mission to avenge Richard and Lola. She spent the time on the road working through possible scenarios for confronting and killing Collier. Yet the biggest challenge was far simpler. Where was he? Chicago. She knew that. But Chicago was a big place. The FBI headquarters was ridiculously easy to locate, and she’d already spent some time scooting round it on Google maps. But a full-frontal attack on Collier at his place of work would likely result in Stella’s being shot to death way before she got close enough to use the Model 38.
She reached Duluth in early September, suffering from blisters. Her plan was to take a few days off, then do some hitching until her blisters had healed. A few days turned into a week, as she realised she was physically, though not mentally, exhausted.
Ready to move on, Stella stood on the scrubby, glass-strewn shoulder of Route 53 on the southern edge of the city to pick up a ride. She’d been sticking out her thumb for over an hour without a single vehicle so much as slowing down to take a look at her.
“Oh, come ON!” she shouted, as yet another SUV containing precisely one occupant sailed past her. “I can’t look that bad. I’m just an English cop on a walking holiday.” OK, a walking holiday followed by a hunting trip, but you’re not the one who should be worrying. It felt odd, hearing her thoughts expressed only in her own voice, but she was getting used to it.
Another half-hour passed and then, mercy of mercies, a pale-metallic-blue sedan slowed down as it approached her. The driver buzzed down the window on the passenger side as the car rolled to a stop beside her. He looked normal. Not an obvious psychopath, at any rate. Fortyish. Neatly cut sandy hair, gold-rimmed glasses and a cheap-looking but clean suit.
“Where’re you headed” he asked with a smile. His voice was pleasant. Middle-class. Friendly.
She returned the smile, rejoicing inwardly and desperate not to put him off.
“Well, Chicago, eventually, but anywhere along the route would be great, so long as there’s a motel or somewhere to stay.”
His smile widened.
“You’re English, right?”
“In one.”
“Guess it’s your lucky day. I’m going all the way to the Windy City. Job interview. You want to stow your gear in the trunk?”
Stella shook her head.
“That’s OK. I’ll keep it with me. Thanks.”
She opened the door and settled into the deeply cushioned seat, squashing her rucksack in between her legs and holding the daysack on her lap. The car smelled of aftershave. Strongly. But if that was the price for a free ride all the way to Chicago, Stella guessed she could live with it. He pulled away smoothly, not showing off, just piloting the big car back onto the highway. Keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, he spoke.
“Name’s Brent, by the way. Brent Coolidge. Like the president, you know?”
“I’m Jen. Nice to meet you Brent. I was beginning to think I’d be spending another night in Duluth.”
“And I bet you were real sorry about that.”
“Yup. I think I’d pretty much exhausted the city’s delights after my third day.”
“Third? Make it the second. Hell, make it the first.”
“So, do you live there?”
“Uh-huh. Born and raised. But my Mom just died and left me some money so I figured, it was now or never. To get out, I mean.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Oh, don’t be. She got meaner as she got older. Fatter, too. To be honest I’m glad the old bitch is dead.”
For the first time since climbing into the car, Stella felt a twinge of unease. She squeezed the daysack, feeling for the reassuring lump of steel wrapped in cloth. Brent was smiling. He turned to her and spoke again.
“I guess that sounded kinda mean. Especially if you never met my Mom. Let’s change the subject. You like movies Jen?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What’s your favourite? No, let me guess. One of them, whatdya call ’em?” He snapped his fingers. “Chick flicks! You like those? Where some lame-ass bimbo is all, like, Oh, I got cancer and I never found true love?”
Stella’s antennae were twitching properly now. His voice had slipped down the social ladder a couple of rungs. She checked her door mirror. The road behind them was empty. She looked ahead. A lone truck in the distance on their side of the road. A second coming towards them.
“Not really. I’m more into action films. Especially if they’ve got a female hero. Kill Bill. Films like that.”
“Yeah? I saw that one. It had that blonde chick in it. What’s her name? Uma something?” He pronounced the actress’s name Yuma.
“Uma Thurman.”
The oncoming truck roared past, making the car sway as the mass of air it was pushing ahead of its vast chrome grille buffeted the driver’s side.
“Exactly right. So aren’t you gonna ask me what kinda movies I like?”
“OK, Brent. Tell me. I’m guessing it’s not chick flicks, right?”
“Ha! Good one. No. I’m into adult stuff. Lesbian, mainly, or barely legal. Those college girls?” He whistled. “They can really take it, if you know what I mean.”
He turned to face her and she caught the look behind the eyes she’d seen many times before. Rapists had it. Child murderers. Paedophiles. Serial killers. Scumbags. It was the quiet, confident look of a natural-born predator.
Her pulse was bumping in her throat. She’d started loosening the clips on her daysack a few minutes earlier, sensing that Brent was about as far from a knight in shining armour as it was possible to get without actually being a dragon.
“You know what?” she said. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m going to walk back into Duluth and stay for a couple more nights. Just drop me anywhere here.”
By way of response, Brent, if that was his real name, thumbed the central locking button on his side of the car.
“I have a better idea, Jen. Why don’t we pull off the ol’ 53 and find us a little privacy somewhere? I got a laptop back there,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the back seats. “’S got some real high-quality entertainment loaded up and ready to go. We could get comfortable and watch a little girl-on-girl action to get us in the mood.”
Stella hardened her voice.
“Stop the car. Now. I’m getting out.”
Her hand was inside the daysack now, unwrapping the cloth from the revolver. He didn’t seem to have noticed. Maybe because he was now holding a butcher knife in his right hand. His grin had taken on a twisted quality. He glanced sideways.
“I don’t think so, little lady, with your hoity-toity British accent. No. I think we’ll do what I just suggested. Then maybe after that you can show me some proper gratitude, seeing as how I stopped to give you a ride and all.”
And then, despite the absence of Other Stella, Stella felt an utter calm descend on her.
58
What Happens When You Fuck With Stella Cole
Stella looked down at the butcher knife. It had been a long time since a man with
a blade had frightened her.
She withdrew her right hand from the daysack. Smiling, she twisted round in her seat so she was facing Brent. She cocked the revolver. The click was nice and loud in the cabin. He looked across, and his eyes widened.
“Shit!” he said.
“You brought the wrong weapon to a gunfight, Brent,” she said. “Now pull over.”
He did what he was told. Like all of his kind, deep down, he was a coward. She really wanted to kill him. But that would have been Other Stella’s way. She wasn’t a vigilante. She was only there to exact revenge on her family’s murderer.
When the car came to a halt, Stella unclipped her seatbelt and opened her door. Holding the Model 38 steady in his face, she wrestled her rucksack up from between her knees and dumped it out onto the shoulder. The daysack followed it.
Stella wanted to make a clean exit. She decided he needed a little warning.
“I’m leaving now. When I close the door, you’re free to go.”
He nodded frantically.
Keeping him in her sights, she put her right foot onto the tarmac.
He floored the throttle at the same moment, throwing her backwards and wrenching her left leg around as she was thrown backwards onto the shoulder.
As she rolled over and over, she heard his shriek over the engine noise.
“Bitch!”
She loosed off a shot, which shattered the rear window. The car swerved wildly for a couple of seconds then righted itself, and he was speeding away from her.
59
Bar Job
“Fuck!” she yelled, in frustration, and pain.
She tried to stand but collapsed with a scream. Her ankle was twisted badly and wouldn’t take her weight. She looked both ways along Route 53. The road was empty. Stuffing the gun back into her daysack, she bum-shuffled to the far edge of the shoulder where it met the verge, dragging the bigger bag by one shoulder-strap.
