by Jaime Raven
‘B … but how is that possible?’ I asked him. ‘I didn’t even know I was pregnant. I haven’t missed a period.’
He gave a gentle shrug. ‘It happens, I’m afraid, and far more often than you might imagine.’
The sight of the blood in the toilet and the severity of the pain in my gut had prompted me to tell a nurse and before I knew it I was in a trauma suite being prodded, poked and tested. I’d expected them to say that I was having a severe period, a reaction to what had happened to me. Not in my wildest dreams had I expected to be told that I had lost the baby that Aidan and I been desperately trying to conceive. Surely it wasn’t possible. It had to be a mistake.
‘I know it’s hard to accept,’ the doctor said, and his voice oozed sympathy. ‘But you were at least seven weeks pregnant and I’m guessing you’ve not had any symptoms.’
He was right. I’d had no reason to suspect. I hadn’t missed a period and the next one wasn’t due for another week. And I hadn’t experienced morning sickness, swollen breasts or cravings. Nothing to signal that a new life was forming inside me.
Jesus.
The tears came then, gushing out of me like scorching water from a tap. I wanted to curl up in a ball and die, or at least wallow in grief and self-pity until I was strong enough to face up to what I’d lost.
But I couldn’t do that because I had Aidan to think about. He was my priority now, and the thought of having to tell him filled me with despair.
44
Rosa
The lie she told Alice was a simple one.
‘I had an accident this afternoon,’ she said as she walked into the small Italian restaurant at just after eight thirty. ‘I fell down the stairs at the hotel. It was really stupid of me. I managed to hurt my shoulder and bruise myself in a few places.’
She held up her arm to show the graze on her elbow.
Alice was mortified. ‘Oh, you poor thing, that’s awful. You really shouldn’t have come out. I’d have understood.’
‘I wanted to see you,’ Rosa said. ‘I wasn’t going to pass on our date just because of a little pain.’
Alice fell for it just as Rosa knew she would. Her expression was one of concern and not suspicion.
As soon as they were seated at a cosy table near the window, Rosa was glad she’d come. The painkillers were working their magic and she was no longer berating herself. After all, the mission hadn’t been a total failure. She’d killed one cop and wounded another. And according to the latest news reports, she’d also shot Detective Laura Jefferson’s partner, who was now in hospital.
With any luck he would die. But if he did survive then she would apologise to Roy Slack and at the same time assure him that she wouldn’t miss the next target.
The fact was she couldn’t afford to. Not if she wanted to restore her reputation as the best sicaria in the business.
Rosa found it such a joy to be with Alice. The evening flew by and for much of the time she was oblivious to her own discomfort.
Alice was so considerate, so understanding, that Rosa felt almost guilty for deceiving her. It was yet another emotion she had rarely experienced and she was beginning to wonder what was happening to her. It was like a light had come on in her life, suddenly changing everything from sepia to full-colour.
‘I’m so glad you decided to come despite what happened to you,’ Alice said after she insisted on paying the bill. ‘I know it can’t have been easy. You are such a dear.’
‘A fall down the stairs was never going to stop me,’ Rosa said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.’
Alice reached across the table, took Rosa’s hand and squeezed it.
‘Then you won’t mind me telling you that I’ve been counting the minutes,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t concentrate at work. I just kept thinking about making love to you again.’
They looked into each other’s eyes, and Rosa knew that what passed between them, unspoken, was something meaningful. It made her want to tell Alice everything about herself, to open up her soul for the first time in her life.
No other woman had ever made her feel this way and it scared her. She’d known for years that she had nothing to offer when it came to relationships because of who she was and what she did. She’d therefore resigned herself to always being alone.
So far it had suited her. She’d gone from one sexual tryst to another. She’d never felt vulnerable, or exposed, and she’d never had to deal with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.
Until now.
Alice Green had got under her skin after only three nights. Rosa found everything about her intoxicating. Her beauty. Her eyes. Her gentleness. Her silky smooth flesh.
Rosa had heard about people being swept off their feet, but she’d never thought it would happen to her.
But it had, because Alice knew how to get inside her head. She did it by being herself. And by being genuine and affectionate and real. These were traits that Rosa wasn’t used to. Traits that were sweet and warm and irresistible – and so very dangerous because they were having such an effect on her. She was losing control of her emotions and that was unsettling. How long, she wondered, before she started having doubts about who she was and what she did.
But Rosa was determined not to worry about it or allow it to spoil the rest of the evening. Instead she decided to embrace the feeling, and she even imagined herself sharing more with Alice than just a few nights in London.
‘When we get back to the apartment I’m going to give you a nice gentle massage to help ease those aching muscles,’ Alice said.
It put a spring in Rosa’s step as they walked from the restaurant back to the flat. And it stopped her mind from drifting back to what had happened in Balham. She needed to push that behind her and live in the moment again.
She had a glorious night to look forward to in Alice’s bed. And then tomorrow she’d redeem herself with a killing that people would talk about for years to come.
45
Laura
There was nothing the doctor could do for me except to give me tablets to ease the pain in my stomach. I wasn’t ill or injured or cursed with a physical disability. What I had was a broken heart and that couldn’t be treated or cured with any medication.
Nonetheless the pain was immeasurable. And I decided that I was going to have to suffer in silence. I felt that in the circumstances it really wouldn’t be fair to tell Aidan and our parents about the miscarriage. It would have to wait. Or perhaps they would never have to know. After all I could keep it to myself. Pretend that it had never happened in order to spare them the mental anguish.
At least I knew now that I was able to conceive. I wasn’t infertile, which was something I’d feared. So there was no reason to believe that I wouldn’t become pregnant again. And it was highly unlikely that next time a ruthless assassin would force me to miscarry.
But telling myself all this did not stop the tears from coursing down my cheeks. And it didn’t stop me from wondering if my child had been a boy or a girl.
I spent an endless, sleepless night sitting next to Aidan’s bed. He remained unconscious for most of the time after the surgeons carried out an operation on his shoulder.
They stitched up the wound, replenished the blood, and told me what I already knew: that it came close to being very much worse. But there were complications – the bullet had splintered a bone and caused significant muscle damage. It could be months before he was able to use his arm properly. And there was even a chance that it would remain permanently damaged.
He looked awful. His skin was grey and there were dark pouches beneath his eyes. He was lying on his back and an intravenous drip was pumping a saline solution into his arm from a bag.
I kept staring at him, while thinking how lucky I was not to have lost him. Dave Prentiss’s wife hadn’t been so lucky, and neither had Graham Nash.
Naturally guilt reared its ugly head and I told myself I should have done more to protect him. Should have reacted more for
cefully to the fears that he and my mother had expressed.
But I also knew it’d be wrong to direct my anger inwards when those who were really responsible were still out there. And in all probability stalking another victim.
There was the assassin in the motorcycle leathers, who nobody believed was acting alone. And there was the evil shit who was surely paying her to do what he didn’t have the guts or the skills to do himself.
Roy Slack.
Of course I still couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure that it was him. But all my instincts were telling me it was. And since becoming a police officer all those years ago I’d learned to trust them because they were usually right.
I wondered if he’d drawn up a list of those to be murdered. Or had he left it to his bitch assassin? Were we being targeted in any particular order? If so why was I chosen as the third victim?
Another yet-to-be-answered question was who had given them all the information on us? Our personal details. Addresses. Phone numbers. The names of our loved ones.
Was it one of my colleagues on the task force? A bent copper? A piece of scum of the highest order? And if so did that person have a hand in the decision-making process?
Images from the last few days were flying around inside my head. Dave Prentiss’s blood-spattered body. His distraught wife. Graham Nash’s shocked expression as he was led out of the office. The smirk on Roy Slack’s face when I questioned him. Our kitchen door being shattered by the impact of that first bullet. The dark, disturbing figure aiming a gun at me from the garden. Aidan lying on the floor with a bullet wound. And that doctor’s face as he told me that I’d suffered a miscarriage.
Jesus.
Suddenly the rage was rampant in my mind. This couldn’t go on. It had to stop. It was an unprecedented assault on the Met, and a murderous, unwarranted attack on individuals.
But right now there seemed no way of stopping it. Not unless the bitch in black made another mistake. Or we managed to collar Slack and got him to call a halt to the killing spree.
But how likely was that? I was willing to bet the bastard was enjoying himself. He was getting his own back. Making sure he went out with a bang.
It was a sick, deafening swansong from a man who appeared to blame others for the bad things that had happened in his life.
A man who now felt he had a final score to settle.
I saw the woman who killed my unborn baby when I left Aidan and went to get myself a coffee.
The drinks machine was in the waiting room and next to it was a television on the wall. I switched it on and tuned into the BBC news channel.
It was nearly dawn outside so the media had had plenty of time to get across the story. They were reporting that a huge hunt was underway across London for a woman who was believed to be a professional assassin. She had struck early the previous evening at the home in Balham of DI Laura Jefferson, who was attached to the organised crime task force.
The woman had climbed into the back garden and tried to shoot Jefferson through the kitchen window. But the detective had been armed and returned fire, causing the woman to run away. However, the detective’s partner, Aidan Bray, had been hit by a bullet and was recovering in hospital.
The assailant had then tried to flee on a motorbike but came off it when she collided with a car at traffic lights on Balham High Road.
She then opened fire with a revolver on two police officers who arrived in a patrol car. One was killed, the other wounded.
‘The woman managed to escape on the bike and her current whereabouts are unknown,’ the reporter said. ‘But Scotland Yard has just released video footage of the woman and are appealing for anyone who has seen her to come forward.’
Grey CCTV images flicked across the screen showing a leather-clad rider on a motorbike. There were three short clips from different cameras but in none of them could her face be seen.
I felt my breath stall as I stared at the television, and a blind fury welled up inside me.
The reporter explained that there was no video of what happened at the traffic lights because the camera positioned there wasn’t working. He also said that police were convinced that the woman was responsible for the murders of Dave Prentiss and Mrs Nash.
There followed a couple of interviews with eye witnesses to the accident, one of them a guy with a beard who tried to stop the woman leaving the scene. His name was Martin Dacre and he described her as being in her late twenties or early thirties.
‘She’s rather pretty and has an accent,’ he said. ‘She also has dark hair and some of it was poking out from under her hat.’
Young and pretty, he’d said. I found it hard to believe he was describing a heartless murderer. But then killers these days came in every shape, size and gender. We lived in a world where children carried out terrorist attacks, deranged nurses slaughtered their patients, and young, intelligent men deliberately drove vans into crowds of people.
During the next couple of hours I took calls from several of my colleagues, including Janet Dean and Kate Chappell. They were anxious to know how I was. Kate said she would try to come along to the hospital.
I desperately wanted to tell her about the miscarriage. I wanted her to know that I had lost my baby. But I held back because I decided it was a bad idea.
To everyone else what had happened to me was just collateral damage. In the scheme of things it wasn’t significant. After all, my baby had been a mere embryo, the size of a blueberry apparently, its internal organs not even developed.
So how could that compare – in their eyes – to the murders of Dave Prentiss and Marion Nash?
I phoned my mother and Aidan’s parents to update them on his condition. They’d all seen the news on the TV and were finding it impossible to comprehend what was happening.
This time I spoke to Aidan’s mum, Veronica, and for the first time since I’d known her I heard her cry. I tried to reassure her that her son was going to be all right, but when I told her about the complications it was my turn to break down and sob.
I’d been trying to hold it in, but I wasn’t strong enough. The tears burned tracks down my cheeks and for at least a minute I couldn’t speak.
When finally I was back in control, I said, ‘I’m sitting with Aidan now and he’s sleeping soundly. He should be awake soon and I’ll tell him you’re on your way here.’
The couple had managed to get seats on a morning flight from Alicante and were hoping to arrive at the hospital early afternoon.
Aidan emerged from his drug-induced slumber at 7am and could only vaguely remember what had happened to him. The first words out of his mouth were, ‘My shoulder really hurts.’
‘It won’t for long,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the nurse to give you more medicine for the pain.’
I kissed him on the lips and told him that I loved him. When he smiled up at me the tears threatened again, but this time I held them back.
A doctor was summoned to check him over and she told him that he was responding well to treatment. But she also explained about the complications and I could tell he didn’t fully understand that it could make his life hellishly difficult for months to come.
I then told him what had happened back at the house and held nothing back. As I spoke a frown puckered his forehead and his sad eyes glistened.
‘I’m glad it was me who got shot and not you,’ he said. ‘Thank Christ the crazy bitch fucked up.’
He was dismayed to learn that she had got away and had shot two police officers in the process. He then implored me to stop working for the task force and to state publicly that I had.
‘If you don’t then she might come after you again,’ he said.
I chose not to respond to that because I hadn’t had time to decide what I was going to do. The truth was I had no idea. For one brief moment I was tempted to tell him about the baby, but I pulled back, knowing it wouldn’t be right to add to his suffering.
It would have to remain a secret. My burden. My own personal
hell. At least for now.
Aidan managed to stay awake for about ten minutes. When he was back under I went to the toilet to pee and freshen up. My eyes were dry and sore, as though filled with sand, and I felt depleted.
I washed my face and applied a bit of make-up from my bag in an attempt to conceal the redness around my eyes. But I couldn’t conceal Aidan’s blood, which stained my beige blouse.
The doctor suggested I go home and change, but I didn’t want to leave Aidan, and, besides, the house was still a crime scene and I probably wouldn’t be able to stay there until much later.
I returned to the waiting room and got myself another coffee. Kate Chappell turned up at nine o’clock and I was glad to see her.
She was wearing a dark suit with padded shoulders and her face was taut and sullen. As she embraced me I could feel the tension in her body.
‘I can’t begin to describe how relieved I am that you’re all right,’ she said. ‘But please tell me that Aidan is out of danger.’
‘He is,’ I said, and then filled her in.
‘I came as soon as I could get away,’ she said. ‘It’s sheer chaos out there. And we’re all wondering who’ll be next.’
‘It’s fucking scary,’ I said.
‘You’re not kidding. Nobody knows what to do. It seems the only way to stay safe is to lock ourselves away but that’s not practical. I came here in a car with two armed minders, for God’s sake.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s all so unreal. We’re the police. We shouldn’t need protection. What’s more, every officer who’s assigned to protect us is putting his or her life on the line as well.’
I stopped talking and let the silence fill the room. Kate dropped onto the chair opposite me, and her hands fell onto her knees, fisting anxiously.
For long seconds it was as though we were both paralysed by our thoughts. We just stared at each other, and the only sound was our own heavy breathing. But then came another sound. The all-too-familiar sound of a text arriving on our phones at the same time. Moments later we were both reading the message. It consisted of just three short sentences.