Hit and Run

by Andy Maslen

  Exhibit location M71 was at knee height. Stella squatted in front of the shelf, eyes flicking left and right, looking for the object she believed would lead her to justice for her husband.

  There. Between a hammer and a pair of dirty, off-white knickers stiff with dark brown bloodstains. She plucked the transparent plastic bag from the shelf and held it up to her eyes. To a casual observer, she would have looked very strange. A woman, her face smudged with dirt, her clothes dusty, inspecting a transparent polythene sandwich bag with an open-mouthed expression of reverence as if it contained a priceless religious relic.

  The observer, moving closer, would have frowned in puzzlement. Because the sandwich bag was empty.

  No, not empty.

  In the tip of the left-hand corner, winking in the light from the overhead neon tubes, was a tiny flake of glittering material. It might have been nail varnish, chipped from a rape victim’s scrabbling finger. Or a fleck of plastic from an abducted child’s favourite toy.

  As Stella’s eyes picked out the flake, her own expression changed. The lips compressed into a red line and her eyes narrowed. The forehead, smooth a minute ago, crinkled into lines as if scored with a thin blade. She turned and grabbed a magnifying glass from a nearby desk. No Sherlock Holmes number this, made of ebony and brass. It was rectangular, about the size of a paperback book, and made of pale, lard-coloured plastic. The handle had become grimy through much handling, narrow black furrows between the ridges.

  The rear of the chip was dark grey primer. The glossy upper surface of the paint flake was a deep shade of purple, almost black, like the skin of an aubergine.

  Earlier, Stella had pulled a pair of white nitrile gloves from a box in the storeroom. Now she took them from her jacket pocket and slipped them on. The rolled edges at her wrist reminded her of condoms.

  She slit the red chain-of-custody tape with a penknife on her bike keyring and, holding her breath, tipped the bag so the jewel of paint fell noiselessly into her palm. She turned her face to one side and exhaled. The last thing she wanted to do now was cough or puff or sneeze the flake of paint onto the floor or under a shelving unit. Breathing shallowly through her open mouth, she held her palm up into the light and inspected the surface of the paint flake through the magnifier.

  In the glare of the neon, its colour revealed itself as a gorgeous, rich purple, not as dark as it had first appeared. And it glittered as if impregnated with diamond dust.

  “You’re not from some crappy cut-and-shut job, are you?” she muttered. “Did Deacon nick you first?”

  The paint fleck winked back at her.

  Holding her breath again, Stella cupped her palm a little and tipped the flake back into the evidence bag and sealed it with the cut edges of the tape. Into her pocket it went, along with her keys. She picked up the folder and took it to the photocopier.

  *

  That night, in a twenty-three-million-pound townhouse facing a semi-circular park on the border between Knightsbridge and Chelsea, a man twitched as he slept. His name was Leonard Ramage. His full title, as listed in Who’s Who and several other directories of establishment figures, was The Honourable Mr Justice Sir Leonard Ramage. He was dreaming. It was the same dream as always. And it ended the same as always.

  Ramage started from sleep, his chest slicked with sweat.

  “Fuck!” he said, reaching for a packet of cigarettes on his bedside table. He levered himself out of bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, snapping the vintage gold Dunhill petrol lighter repeatedly until the flame jumped from the wick and he could draw in a lungful of smoke.

  From the bed, a voice curled over towards him like the smoke now snaking away from the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  “What’s the matter, Judge?”

  He spoke without turning. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “Do you want to make love again?”

  “No. And I wish you wouldn’t call it making love.”

  “Fine.” The voice was petulant now. “Do you want to fuck me again? Is that better?”

  “Yes. And no. In fact, I don’t need you anymore today. Your money’s there, on the dresser. Get your things on and go. I’ll call you in two weeks. My wife’s back from Paris in the morning, and she’s staying here until her next trip.”

  “Fine. But I need a little extra this time.”

  Ramage turned from the window. “Why?”

  The figure emerged from the shadows and came to stand facing Ramage, rubbing a hand over small, high breasts, the left sporting a small tattoo of a red rose dripping blood, and down over a flat belly. Her eyes were smudgy with dark grey makeup, and her glossy, blonde hair was tousled with sleep. “I’ve had a journalist from one of the posh papers sniffing around like a bitch in heat. She’s been talking to all the girls on the high-end circuit. She seems to think there’s some sort of conspiracy involving senior legal types. You know, Judge. Like you. Told me I could make myself a tidy little sum if I was to give her a few little titbits of information. All off the record, of course.”

  Ramage glared at the woman, who purported to be called Kiara. As well as the rose, she had a small butterfly tattooed under the angle of her jaw on the right. He pushed a fingertip against the hard plane of her sternum.

  “Just what are you saying?”

  The woman smiled. “Nothing. Just that a girl’s got to live. And quite frankly, she’s offered me a lot more than I get,” she swept her hand around the bedroom, ending up with it pointing at the bed, “for doing this.”

  “So, you want me to pay you off, is that it?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. But the lady from the paper was quite persuasive.”

  Ramage exhaled through his nose. Then took another deep drag on the cigarette before blowing the lungful of smoke out towards the ceiling. “I haven’t any more cash here than that.” He pointed to the carefully stacked pile of banknotes on the dressing table. The money sat between an open-topped leather tray, divided into compartments for cufflinks, change and keys, and a trio of bottles of expensive aftershaves and colognes. “But I can get it easily enough. How much did she offer you?”

  “Ten.” She paused for a beat. “Grand.”

  Ramage doubted it was even a quarter of that ludicrous sum.

  “I’ll double it. But that buys your absolute and total discretion. For ever. Understood?”

  “That’s very generous of you, Judge. And, yes, of course. My lips are sealed. Except, you know, when you–”

  “Shut up and get out! Now! And take your money. I’ll call you tomorrow with a place to meet.”

  With the house to himself again, Ramage sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up his phone.

  “Bit early isn’t it, Leonard?” Howarth’s voice was blurry with sleep and edged with irritation.

  “I’ve got a problem. We have a problem.”

  Howarth’s voice sharpened and his diction improved instantly.

  “What sort of a problem, precisely? It must be serious if you’re calling me at this ungodly hour.”

  “There’s a journalist sniffing around. I’m not sure, but it sounds like she’s heard something about PPM.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “And I know this because some grasping little tart just attempted to blackmail me. I’ve offered her double what she claimed the media bitch promised her.”

  “You’re not going to pay her, surely? She’ll only come back for more.”

  “Yes, thank you, Charlie. I have, actually, tried a few blackmail cases in my career. Of course, I’m not going to pay her.”

  “Then …?”

  “Call Collier for me. I’m convening a subcommittee at six a.m. I want this dealt with permanently. Tomorrow.”

  At six that same morning, Adam Collier, Charlie Howarth and Leonard Ramage were sitting around Ramage’s handmade walnut burl dining table. It had cost him more than a police constable made in a year, including overtime. His housekeeper kept the swirling copper s
urface buffed to a high shine with beeswax polish. They were eating flaky, buttery croissants and drinking freshly brewed coffee. And they were discussing a murder. A forthcoming murder.

  “She can’t really have anything, Leonard,” Collier was saying. “The group’s security is watertight. Airtight. Nobody would ever even hint at its existence. She’s just fishing.”

  Ramage dabbed at his lips with a white damask napkin. “Maybe she is just fishing. But she’s fishing for something in particular, and that concerns me, as it should you.”

  “Oh, it concerns me. As does your little friend’s pathetic attempt at blackmail.”

  “Can we deal with that first ?” Howarth asked. “I have to be in court at ten and if I need to arrange anything I need to get it done as soon as possible.”

  “I’m going to meet her on an abandoned industrial estate a few miles from here. One of those derelict sites down by the river the developers are snapping up like dogs after butchers’ scraps,” Ramage said.

  “That’s perfect,” Collier said. “I have someone in mind for the job. She’s very capable, aced the sniper training course, shoots for the Met in competition. I gather the army tried to poach her when they found out how good she was.”

  “Loyal?” Ramage asked.

  “One hundred percent. I vetted her myself. She’s like a pit bull with guns instead of teeth. If I were to let her off the leash, I doubt there’d be a criminal left alive in the whole of the Met’s jurisdiction.”

  “Excellent. I’ll tell the tart to meet me at two this afternoon. I’ll text you the exact location, and your attack dog can set up or whatever these people need to do.”

  “Shall we return to the subject of this journalist?” Howarth asked.

  “By all means,” Ramage said. “In fact, I have a plan for her. When I meet Kiara this afternoon, I’ll get the name out of her first. So, Adam, better tell your pit bull to hold her fire until I give her a signal.”

  “Make it something obvious. We don’t want her dead too early because you scratched your nose.”

  “I’ll point straight up at the sky. How about that? Obvious enough?”

  Collier smiled. “That should do it.”

  “Then what?” Howarth asked.

  “Then we can do some sniffing of our own, can’t we,” Ramage said. “More coffee?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kill #9

  HER SHOOTING SKILLS had been developing since her father bought her that first, beautiful rifle when she was nine. Her total official kills amounted to two. The number of people she had dispatched unofficially was six. Each kill had given her an increasing amount of pleasure. Now she was making herself comfortable on the roof of a tower block overlooking a patch of disused ex-industrial land that stretched down to the Thames. A row of abandoned Portakabins stood with their backs to the river. Their windows were covered with perforated steel sheets, which were covered in graffiti, along with the rest of the tatty units.

  Beneath her, she had spread a sheet of olive-green canvas. Beside her right elbow was her mobile phone. Next to the phone was a pair of Zeiss Conquest HD 15x56 binoculars. They’d proved their worth as spotting kit during early morning and twilight put-downs and had cost the thick end of fourteen hundred pounds, far more than she could ever have afforded; as PPM had paid, that didn’t really matter. It was the piece of kit in front of her that she was focusing on.

  The weapon wasn’t a standard-issue police rifle. For its marksmen – and they had all been men until she joined – the Met had opted for a Heckler & Koch G3K semi-automatic rifle. She had tried out a variety of rifles during a trip to the US and had decided that the Accuracy International AT308 was a better weapon for her specialised role. Its folding stock made it more easily portable and less likely to attract unwanted attention, although her masters would see to it that she never found herself anywhere near the inside of a courtroom. Or not from the wrong side of the dock, at any rate.

  When Adam Collier had introduced her to PPM and asked her about weapons, she had, without hesitation, told him she wanted the AT308 for her new duties. One had been procured, along with a telescopic sight, a suppressor and a bipod. Together with the .308 Winchester ammunition, the rifle spent its spare time in a black-painted, steel gun cabinet in her garage.

  The rifle was mounted on its bipod now. She had leant on the bipod’s legs to drive the spiked feet into the asphalt covering of the roof.

  She checked her watch, a black-and-gold Casio G-Shock bristling with buttons, crowns, bezels and additional digital displays on the face. She loved the watch and thought it suited her wrist, which was muscular where other women her age had slight, bird-like bones.

  13.58

  She raised the binoculars to her eyes and watched the kill zone. Off to one side, she caught movement. A dark purple car hove into view and pulled up at the edge of the concrete apron in front of the Portakabins. Cars didn’t interest her. This one was big and looked expensive, to judge from the chrome on display and the huge wheels. It was a beautiful colour. Like a glittering aubergine.

  A man got out. Oldish. Maybe mid-sixties. He was in good condition. His skin was tanned and it looked genuine, rather than the orange glow of a salon. His silver hair was swept back from a high forehead. She put the binoculars down and switched her grip to the butt of her AT308, settled her right cheek against the black plastic pad on the stock and sighted through the scope. Every line and mole on his face was pin sharp. His eyes were dark brown with white crow’s feet at the outer corners, slicing through the tan. Maybe he played sports all year round. Tennis probably, or golf. Tennis, she decided. She placed the junction of the Schmidt & Bender’s cross hairs over his left eye.

  “Pow!” she whispered. “You’re dead.”

  He strolled to a position in the middle of the concrete apron, in front of the centre Portakabin. The door behind him was emblazoned with tags. The only one she could read said, “J-Mex”; it was done in black, white and a bright red that reminded her of the blood of the first deer she shot.

  Three minutes passed. The man checked his watch and frowned. He looked around him and scanned the buildings beyond the kill zone. He looked straight at her position, but at that range – two hundred and fifty metres – he wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond the general outline of the roof.

  She switched back to the binoculars. Then she saw the target arrive in the kill zone. Her heart rate remained untroubled by the approaching action. She drew the bolt back to chamber the only round she knew she’d need, and pushed it forward again with a soft, muffled click.

  A small red car, tiny in comparison to the man’s, came round a corner between two larger industrial units. It pulled up with a jerk and the driver’s door swung open.

  “Target acquired,” she whispered. She placed her binoculars by her right hip and snuggled her cheek against the AT380’s stock again. “Target is a female. Slender build. Five foot six in her heels, which are, frankly, ridiculous. Why do tarts always dress like tarts? Black hair, looks like a wig, in a bun. Large gold hoop earrings. Tattoo of butterfly under angle of jaw on right side.”

  The man and the woman were talking now. Lots of hand gestures from the tart, although she was standing still, which made the shot easier. But less challenging.

  *

  At ground level, Ramage and the woman calling herself Kiara, though her real name was Lorna Hammond, were discussing how he could trust her to keep her side of the bargain.

  “I told you, Judge,” she said, hand held out for the padded envelope she believed contained twenty thousand pounds in cash, “I get the money, I clam up tighter than a nun’s you-know-what.”

  “Yes, and I told you,” Ramage said, still clutching the package of torn-up photocopier paper, “I need a gesture of good faith.”

  She smiled at him and fluttered her spidery false eyelashes at him. “It’s a bit public for that, don’t you think?”

  He clamped his lips together in irritation for a second, then
spoke.

  “Her name.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Give me her name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “Don’t play dumb, you stupid little tart. The hack. The journalist. The nosy bitch who’s been sniffing around my affairs.”

  “Oh, her. Why didn’t you just say so? Money first.” She held her hand out, and crooked her fingers, beckoning him.

  He pushed the envelope towards her. As she closed her fingers around it, he gripped tighter.

  “Name first,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes, which were a grey-green, like the sea in winter. “Fine. Vicky Riley. The Guardian. I think she said that’s where she worked.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She sounded impatient now. “I remember because my best friend at school was called Vicky. Now. Money, please.”

  Ramage released his grip on the envelope and took a step back. He watched as she ripped open the flap. Then took another step away from her. As her eyes flicked from the contents of the envelope to his, he smiled.

  “What the fuck’s this?” she asked, holding out a handful of plain, white scraps of paper.

  “What? Do you think money grows on trees? Or falls from the sky?”

  As Ramage uttered this last, rhetorical question of Kiara, he pointed upwards. And took a third step away from her.

  She followed his pointing finger and stared up, exposing a long, pale neck.

  The side of her head blew out with a sound like a bucket of water being thrown at a wall.

  Blood, bone and brain matter sprayed out in a red, yellow and grey cone that reached the door of the Portakabin behind her.

  The sound of the shot arrived a few milliseconds later. A dull “thump”, it might have been a door slamming or a car reversing into a bollard.

  She collapsed sideways, her knees buckling and twisting, and came to rest, a corpse now, rather than a person, facing the sky. A broad river of bright arterial blood fanned out from her broken skull and flowed towards the Thames.