Hit and Run

by Andy Maslen

  “Thank you. I like it. Drink?”

  “I brought this,” she said, pulling from her messenger bag a wrapped bottle of elderflower fizz she’d bought at a supermarket on the way over.

  “Ah. It’s just I had a rather nice bottle of wine in the fridge.”

  “Alcoholic. Didn’t the gossip reach forensics?”

  He shook his head. “I never listen to gossip anyway. But that looks lovely. I’ll put some ice and lime in it.”

  Sipping their drinks, they stood side by side at the window.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Stella said, crunching an ice cube between her molars, “but how does a forensics guy afford a place like this. It’s a good salary, but this is banker-land.” Please tell me you’re not on the take, screwing up evidence that would put gangsters away.

  Lucian smiled. “Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

  He led her to a white leather sofa and she sat, sinking down into the whuffing embrace of its deeply padded cushions.

  “What was it, lottery win? Inheritance? Bank robbery?” she asked, searching his face for a tell.

  “Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. When I was at university, two friends and I built a website that used spare computing power from its members’ PCs to solve complex analytical problems. We sold it to an American software firm. The money wasn’t enough to retire on, not that we would have wanted to, but we did well enough out of it to buy ourselves houses.”

  “You’re a genius, is that what you’re telling me?”

  He laughed. “Not at all. We were in the right place at the right time. There was a lot of interest in crowd computing and we just had a different take on it. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was an elegant solution to a particular problem. Now, you didn’t come here to probe my finances, did you?”

  “God, sorry, no. Old habits. Have you got something for me?”

  “Yes, I have. I’ll give you the summary, then we can eat, and if you have any questions, we can talk over dinner.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Viola del Diavolo

  LUCIAN RETRIEVED A single sheet of paper from his briefcase and returned to the sofa.

  “It’s a very expensive paint. It’s called,” then he adopted a passable Italian accent, “Viola del diavolo.” Stella raised her glass to him in ironic appreciation. “It means the devil’s purple, more or less. Pretty rare. Normally you’d find it on special-order Lamborghinis or Bugattis.”

  Could Deacon have nicked some banker’s pride and joy and then headed across town to Putney to kill Richard in it? Really? A distant alarm bell began ringing inside Stella’s head.

  She frowned and shook her head to clear the thought.

  “So, not a mass-market car paint then, or something you could order online? I mean, you wouldn’t find it on a Ford or a VW?”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance. The manufacturers keep a very tight grip on distribution. You can see why. If some squillionaire merchant banker finds his Bentley’s the same shade of purple as some kid’s pimped-out Fiesta, there’d be ructions for sure.”

  “Why did you say Bentley? I thought you said it was all Italian supercars?”

  “Here’s the thing. I called the UK distributor this afternoon. I spoke to a very nice young lady called Shelley. And Shelley told me that the only company in this country who’s ordered any recently is Bentley.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Stella said. “It’s so much better than I’d hoped for.”

  “Oh, there’s more. I rang Bentley too. Laid it on a bit thick, said I was calling from the Metropolitan Police’s international car smuggling division. They told me there were only five Bentleys they knew of painted in that colour. Apparently, they only offer it to, what did he call them, ‘selected enthusiasts and collectors’?”

  “You didn’t get the registrations, did you?”

  He shook his head. “I asked for a list, but he clammed up on me. Told me it was more than his job was worth to divulge information about customer cars without a warrant. I’m sorry.”

  She tucked her left leg under her right so she could turn to face him and put a hand on his knee. “No, no. What the hell are you apologising for? This is amazing. If we had that sort of breakthrough every day, we’d be laughing.”

  Lucian smiled. “In that case, you’re welcome. Now, how about some dinner?”

  Clearly, Lucian had found time to learn to cook as well as study forensic science and build crowd computing websites that netted him enough money for a Docklands apartment. He delivered two large, round, white plates to the table. They bore thick slabs of white fish, roasted until the salt-seasoned skin had turned brown and crisped up like a wafer-thin roof over the succulent white flesh beneath. Quivering dollops of a vivid green sauce. And herby roast potatoes cut into small cubes that rustled as they toppled from the serving spoon onto her plate.

  Stella cut a chunk of the fish, scooped up some of the sauce and placed it into her mouth, which was already watering from the smell.

  “Oh, my, God!” she said, eyes wide, once she had swallowed. “That is fucking awesome. What is it?”

  He smiled. “Italian-roasted cod with salsa verde. That’s a green sauce of basil, parsley, mint, Dijon mustard, olive oil, capers, anchovies, lemon juice, salt and pepper.”

  “Rich, good looking and a demon cook. And yet you’re single. Apparently. No Mrs Young in evidence.” She made a show of peering under the table.

  “Not as far as I’m aware.”

  “What’s the matter with you, then? Do you collect Star Wars memorabilia? Go trainspotting at the weekends? What?”

  He smiled. “I’m gay.”

  “Well, that would explain it. No Mr Young either, though.”

  “No. I’ve had a couple of relationships, but I’m in the middle of a dry spell at the moment.”

  “So, do you get any grief at the station, then?”

  “What about – being black or being queer?”

  “Either.”

  “Honest answer? Not really. They all think we’re boffins from another planet already. How about you? As a woman, I mean. Still a man’s world, isn’t it?”

  “Allegedly. But I don’t let it get to me. Anyone gives me any shit and I’ll put them on the floor.”

  “Amen to that.” He paused, and ate a mouthful of the food before speaking again. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  She shrugged. “Ask away.”

  “How are you coping? Being back, I mean. That was pretty rough, what happened to you.”

  “I’m fine.” Then she shook her head, pursing her lips and frowning. “No. You’ve just been honest with me, so I owe you the same in return. I’m not fine. Not at all. I can function day to day. I get up, go to work, go home, see my baby, run for an hour or two, eat, sleep, then do it all again. But I miss him, Lucian. God I miss him.” Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and dropped into the remains of the green sauce smeared on her plate.

  He got up from his chair and rounded the table to kneel by her side.

  “DI Cole, do you need a hug?”

  She sniffed and blew her nose on a tissue. “Forensic Officer Young, yes, I really do.”

  “Come and sit with me on the sofa, then. I’ll give you a hug and you can tell me about what happened.”

  For the first time since the accident, Stella felt safe enough to open up about her grief. About the wild, mad-eyed shrieking in the early days when the neighbours had called the police, and she’d worried they’d send for Social Services and have Lola removed from her own mother’s care, “for her own safety”. About the sleepless nights and booze-soaked days. About the pills that had calmed her at first, then zombified her until her brain felt like it was a lump of mattress stuffing. And, finally, about the slow-burning desire for justice that had been banking up inside her ever since and now had reached an almost volcanic intensity.

  When she finished speaking, her face squashed against his chest, his hand strok
ing her hair, he waited before speaking.

  “But the law did work in your case, didn’t it? I remember hearing about it. They got the guy. So, justice was served.”

  She pushed herself upright and turned to face him, her face reddened from crying, her eyes blazing.

  “No! It was not. He got three years for causing death by careless driving. He’s probably out by now for good bloody behaviour. And he looked at me as they took him down. He had that look like they all do. Smug little shits. It said, ‘I’ve put one over on you’. He looked me right in the eye and mouthed it at me, or something like it. I know it was a put-up job, Lucian, I just know! He’s a toe-rag. How could he afford a Bentley?”

  Lucian looked down at his hands, which were clasped around one of hers, then back into her eyes.

  “I’m not going to do anything that will put my career into reverse. But if you need any help on the forensics side again, off the record, come and ask.”

  *

  Sitting at her desk in the exhibits room the next morning, Stella was adding information to a pocket-sized black notebook she’d carried around with her since starting work again. The faint-ruled page contained the intelligence she’d gathered so far, plus the questions she needed answers to. It wasn’t a very long list:

  Who was SIO?

  Who was Deacon’s defence brief? Jury members? Judge?

  Paint chip: Viola del diavolo. Rare. Five Bentleys in UK. Investigate owners.

  Orig. physical evidence misfiled on computer. Who had access?

  She snapped a rubber band round the notebook’s hard covers. Her bike jacket hung over the back of her rickety swivel chair; she stuffed the notebook into the inside pocket. The place was so quiet she was starting to miss Reg and his endless advice about vegetable growing, a subject Stella had signally failed to convince him she didn’t care about.

  The door opened and in walked Howard Floyd.

  Stella looked up. Even though there were dozens of officers working at Paddington Green she’d rather see, she still smiled at him. A boring fat bastard was better than no bastard at all.

  “Hi, Pink. You the exhibits officer for a case or something?”

  Floyd strolled over to Stella’s desk and sat on one corner. She couldn’t help wrinkling her nose at the way the flesh of his buttocks sagged over the edge of the desk.

  “Me? No. What do you think I am, some wet-behind-the-ears Hendon graduate?” Before Stella could frame a reply, he continued speaking. “I just heard something on the grapevine that you might find interesting.”

  He paused, clearly expecting her to prompt him in some way so he could drag out the moment of expectation. With nothing else to do, she went along with the script.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that then? Doughnuts banned for the clinically obese? Compulsory wardrobe consultancy for the terminally slobby?”

  He frowned and tucked his chin into the folds of fat at his collar.

  “No. It’s about Edwin Deacon.”

  Stella straightened in her chair and leaned forward, her fingers clenching into fists. “What about him?”

  “Took a one-way trip to the infirmary at Long Lartin last night, didn’t he? Seems he got misclassified in the middle of being transferred from HMP Bure. Get this. To a fucking paedo! A kiddy fiddler. A–”

  “Yes! I get it, Pink. A Rule 45.”

  “Yeah. And it seems a few of the gorillas up there took a dislike to him on his first day. Beat him senseless with baseball bats they made in the carpentry workshop. They wheeled him into the infirmary, but he had some kind of brain bleed and flatlined.” Floyd picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and turned it over in his hand. “Seems there is justice in this world after all, eh, Stel? Like I said to you the other day, there are people out there who are making things happen the way they ought to, instead of the way those muppets on juries figure it should.”

  Something about his I’ve-got-a-secret demeanour – all winks and nose-tapping – made Stella start listening to his story more closely.

  “Sorry Pink, Howard, I mean. What do you mean, ‘people who’re making things happen’? What kind of people?”

  He stood up, reddening and ran a hand over the shining scalp at the front of his head. “It’s nothing, Stel. I just meant those guys at Long Lartin did you a favour. Did us all a favour, given what a little scumbag Deacon was. I’ve arrested him myself at least twice. Look, I have to go. I’ve got a shitload of witnesses to contact about a murder-suicide in some mansion flats over Maida Vale way. Later, okay? Maybe grab a coffee or something?”

  “Yes, okay. That would be good.”

  Once Pink had left, Stella leaned forward and rested her head in her hands so the palms squashed her cheeks in. Her mind was full of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The bastard was dead. Good! But now she’d never be able to question him about what actually happened that day. Why he’d killed Richard. Whether it really was careless – or even dangerous – driving, or whether there was more to it. The files were still there, though.

  Then she sat up straight, and smacked herself hard on the forehead. A horrible realisation was dawning in Stella’s brain. Normally she’d think of it as a hunch. Only that sounded too much like a good thing. The look Deacon had given her as he was being led off to start his pathetic three-year sentence. It wasn’t just the smirk of the affectless killer. It was smugness. He was grinning because he’d got one over on a cop.

  “Fuck!” she said. “You told me. You didn’t say, ‘You’ve been bad,’ did you? You said, ‘You’ve been had.’” She slammed her fists down on the desk, making a plastic pot of chewed biros rattle and spill its contents. “It never was you, was it? Death-by-careless, death-by-dangerous, you didn’t give a flying fuck one way or the other, did you?”

  She reclined in the chair and let her head hang over the back. She stared at the ceiling and listened to a little, quiet voice inside her head.

  Go back to the evidence, Stel, it said. It all starts with the evidence.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Bad Day

  AMID THE MOLECULAR gastronomy and playroom antics of London’s more adventurous chefs, Vivre Pour Manger in Soho’s Goslett Yard stood out for its utter lack of pretension. It was neither fashionable in its location nor experimental in its cuisine. It catered to a demanding, and loyal clientele who wanted traditional French haute cuisine, didn’t mind what they paid for it, and would have been horrified at the idea that their beloved restaurant had resorted to anything so vulgar as advertising.

  They came for the privacy. They came for the discreet but efficient service. But, above all, they came for the food, which a famous critic had dismissed in the pages of The Times with the phrase, “unadventurous food for people whose pockets are deeper than their thirst for new experience”. Inside, soft, burgundy-coloured velvet curtains hung against the white brickwork to soften the acoustics of the room.

  The two men eating at a dimly lit corner table were munching escargots served on stainless steel plates, the snails drenched in miniature baths of liquid, garlic-infused butter. The silver-haired man with his back to the wall was straight-backed, his deep-brown eyes gleaming healthily from a tanned complexion. He was a High Court judge, and very definitely of the old school. A man who, before the policymakers banned it, would have taken great pride, and pleasure, in being known by the populace as “a hanging judge”. What was left to him now? No flogging. No birching. No stocks, stake or pillory. Even “life means life” – or a “whole life order” as the less poetic legal code had it – was a rarely available privilege these days. Sometimes it seemed to him that every multiple murderer and paedophile could be relied upon to start bleating about their “rights” within seconds of grasping the polished wooden rail of the dock before him.

  Opposite him sat a younger man. Dark-brown hair cut short and parted on the left. Startling cobalt-blue eyes that contrasted sharply both with his dark hair and the swarthy complexion. His cheeks were heavily shadowed with stubble. His h
ands were flat and square with immensely thick, blunt-ended fingers. He looked as though a circus strongman lurked inside the soft grey, wool and cashmere suit instead of its rightful owner.

  In a way, he was a circus strongman. The ring he performed in was the courtroom. His feats of strength were verbal, rather than physical. And his stage rig, rather than a leopard-skin leotard knotted over one shoulder, was a sweeping black legal gown – smooth, starched, white lawyer’s bands at his throat – and an off-white wig that he’d found in a chest in his grandfather’s attic as a boy. Only up-and-comers purchased new wigs. Serious lawyers, from serious legal families, inherited theirs, or else had the sorts of connections that could procure a suitably distressed item that gave its wearer the appearance of having been practising law since the times of Oliver Cromwell.

  The lawyer was speaking now.

  “Did you hear about Stella Cole?”

  The judge dabbed a slick of grease from his lips with a thick, white napkin. “Stella who?”

  “Cole. Detective Inspector Stella Cole, Judge. It was her husband–”

  “Oh, that Stella Cole,” the judge interrupted. He steadied another cream-and-caramel-striped snail shell with his left thumb and forefinger. With a tiny, bone-handled fork he picked the delicious curl of dark-brown meat from its interior. “Forgive me, Charlie. One meets so many people.” The judge let his remark hang between them like smoke.

  “She’s back at work. I spoke to Adam. I gather she’s been put on light duties. They’ve bumped her down to administration. With any luck, she’ll have a breakdown caused by acute boredom and get pensioned off the force.”

  The judge grimaced. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, Charlie.”

  “Come to what?”

  “PPM going after civilians, even troublesome lawyers and their families. Look at us. We’re discussing how to force a detective inspector – a good one if my sources are correct – out of her job in the Met. We were never supposed to be about that, were we?”