by Andy Maslen
“What does PPM mean?” Stella asked.
“It’s very interesting. If you Google ‘die for your country’ you get a poem by Wilfred Owen. He was–”
“First World War poet. We did him at school. I may not know my contemporary American history, but I’m not completely thick, you know.”
Riley acknowledged her mistake with a nod. “My mistake. Again. The last line of the poem is ‘Pro patria mori’. It’s Latin. It means to die for your country.”
“PPM,” Stella said. “It’s the name. Of this parallel justice outfit. Pro Patria Mori.”
Riley nodded and sipped her wine. “That’s where we got to, as well.”
“And they’re educated, or some of them are, anyway. I wouldn’t expect a bunch of vigilante coppers to go around naming themselves in Latin.” Although I know a man at Paddington Green who’s hinted twice that they exist.
“Exactly! Richard thought it had to involve people right through the legal system. Police, lawyers, judges, even. Politicians too. In the Home Office, maybe. It’s massive, Stella. And if we can break the story, it could be the biggest thing in British legal history since the Birmingham Six. Bigger.”
Stella slurped the last of her coffee. “Okay, first, calm down. Second, this isn’t just a story. If you’re right, this is institutional corruption that includes fucking death squads on British soil. That’s a bit bigger than fitting up suspected IRA terrorists. These people are murderers, Vicky. Dangerous people. With guns. You need to be careful. A Pulitzer Prize won’t do you much good if you’re tucked up all cosy in the footings for a new office block.”
“I resent that. I’m not in this for glory. You’re not the only one who cares about justice, you know.”
Stella shrugged. “Sorry. I’ve never been the best of friends with your lot.”
“Anyway. I know I need to be careful. That’s why I contacted you. You’re on the inside. You might even be able to find out who Deep Throat is. We have to keep going with this.”
“Oh, I agree.” Because I need to find the people who killed my husband and my baby girl. I have plans for them. “Just, you know, don’t expose yourself to unnecessary risk, that’s all.”
They spent another three hours going over every angle, and every lead, thin as they were, that Riley had on her laptop and in her files. At the end of the evening, Stella turned to the journalist.
“I have to go. I’m too tired to do any more on this now. Keep in touch, OK? We can meet again, whenever you like. And if you get anything new, you call me. Immediately.”
She left, then, and was back at her own desk in her spare room forty minutes later, with a fresh pot of coffee by her elbow. On an index card she printed the words, PRO PATRIA MORI. Beneath them, she wrote, ‘high-level legal conspiracy’. Then she pinned it onto the wall in the centre of her display of documents and leaned back in her chair.
“I’m coming for you,” she whispered.
*
Stella sat, thinking hard. The exhibits room had been busy all morning, with exhibits officers on various cases and operations coming and going, dropping sealed evidence bags off, collecting others, asking for help tracking down this bloody shirt or that bag of skunk. But now, mid-afternoon on the day after her conversation with Vicky Riley, it was quiet enough. She was doodling on her pad and scanning down the list of points and questions she’d written earlier.
She added three more questions.
Who murdered Richard and Lola?
Why?
PPM connection?
“Fuck this!” she shouted into the empty room. “Come back Reg, I need you here. I’ve got stuff I need to do.”
Reg had called that morning, telling her he was still in pain and on medication, but would hopefully be back at work the following Monday. She decided to get back to the desk research into Edwin Deacon’s case. That at least she could do from the exhibits room. Jiggling the mouse on the ancient computer, she murmured to it.
“Come on you antiquated piece of crap. Boot up for Mummy.”
She waited for what seemed an eternity until finally the clockwork guts of the machine cranked it into flickering life. A few clicks later, she was staring at the main search screen for HOLMES. The case number was etched into her brain, and in a half-second of blurred fingertips she entered it. Up came the main screen for the case. She clicked on the one labelled ‘court case’ and then ‘personnel’.
Defence barrister: Maurice Anstey
Prosecution barrister: Louise Stannah QC
Judge: Hon. Mr Justice Sir Leonard Ramage REPLACED Hon. Mr Justice Julian Frizzell-Gorman
Stella noted the three names, wondering why the original trial judge had been replaced, then cross-referenced them to a Metropolitan Police database of law firms and their members, plus all County Court and Crown Court judges. More notes followed the names into her phone: phone numbers, email addresses, physical addresses of their chambers.
Her finger was poised over the screen of her phone, ready to dial the number given for Anstey, when she realised she had no plausible reason to be ringing him. Or either of the others. Maybe Riley would be a better option. Journalists could always invent a cover story. She decided to hold off calling them till she’d discussed it with Riley.
Next stop, the purple Bentley. A list of owners was the prize, but now she had an identifiable vehicle she could at least get going on the CCTV. Her old street was free of cameras; it was far too quiet for any of that. But Putney High Street ought to be solid for coverage from Putney Bridge all the way through the shops and up to Tibbet’s Corner, where drivers could choose from Wimbledon, Roehampton or the A3 towards Richmond and the southwestern suburbs of London beyond that.
She consulted another database on the PC, then picked up the desk phone and punched in a number. A woman answered.
“Wandsworth Police Station. Traffic.”
“Hi. DI Cole here, Paddington Green nick. I need to review CCTV footage from Putney High Street for April ninth, 2009.”
“Sorry, DI Cole. Not our cameras. It’s the council you need to speak to.”
“Which department, Highways?”
“Should be, yes, unless they’ve rebranded themselves.”
Another search, another number. Stella dialled again. This time, having escaped the litany of automated options – everything from complaining about noisy neighbours to reporting fly tipping – she was through to a real human being. She repeated her credentials, and her request, breathing slowly to keep herself calm, despite her urge to yell and scream.
“Yeah,” the man drawled after a wait of what was only three seconds but felt to Stella like three hours. “Not our department anymore. The council outsourced CCTV to a private firm eighteen months ago. Outfit called Urban Oversight PLC. You’ll have to call them, I’m afraid.”
“Okay. You don’t have a number, I suppose?”
“No, we do. Hold on.” Stella heard the heavy clack of inexpert fingers on a keyboard. “Here we are. Urban Oversight.” He read out the number.
Stella thanked him, hung up, and dialled the number.
“That’s over a year ago,” the CCTV manager at the firm said when she finally reached the right person. “It’s probably been deleted. Hang on, I’ll have to check the archive. Could be it’s been backed up at one of our data centres; we recently leased another ten thousand square feet in Sweden, just outside the Arctic Circle, if you can believe that.” Stella could believe it, she told the man, while silently wishing him to shut the fuck up and tell her what she wanted to know. “I’m just going to put you on hold for a minute,” he said.
The phone ticked and beeped twice and then went silent: no Vivaldi to soothe the jangling nerves or wind up the caller to breaking point depending on their state of mind. Just an eerie, echoing silence during which Stella began to wonder if she’d been cut off. Then the line clicked again.
“Hello? DI Cole? Sorry. To keep you waiting, I mean. You’re in luck. Everything’s there. When do you
want to come over?”
Five minutes ago, that’s when. “It’ll have to be next week. Listen, can you put a flag on the footage so nobody deletes it by accident?”
“No problem. Not that anyone would, anyway. It’s a new DAP from our CIO.”
“A what from your what?”
“A digital archive protocol. From our Chief Information Officer.”
“Thanks. Okay, I’ve got it. There’s a DAP.”
“That’s right. Can’t go breaking the DAPs can we?”
Stella sucked air through her teeth. “More than our job’s worth. Listen, thanks. I should have said that before. To whom am I speaking, please?”
“Dave Locke.”
“Thanks, Dave. I’ll call you as soon as I can to fix an appointment. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Always happy to help oil the wheels of justice, DI Cole.”
The call over, Stella leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. Something was hovering just beyond her conscious mind. In the old days, the good old days, she’d have parked it then mulled it over while sinking a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the pub. Now, religiously sober, she couldn’t access her subconscious the way she used to. She tried slapping her forehead, but all she managed to do was give herself a headache. Maybe this was another item to add to the list of things she needed to discuss with Riley.
She picked up the phone again and called Lucian. She spoke as soon as he picked up.
“Do you still have the name and number of the guy you spoke to at Bentley?”
“I’m fine thanks, Stella. How are you?”
“Sorry. Hi Lucian, how are you? Are you fine? Good. So, I have a question for you. Do you still have the name and number of the guy you spoke to at Bentley?”
He laughed. “Yes, I do.” She heard a clonk, then a muffled rustle. She pictured Lucian putting the handset down on his desk and sifting through bits of paper. “Here we go. Robin Brooke. Got a pen for the number?”
The phone number noted down, Stella spoke again.
“I want to talk to you about some more stuff. Are you free tonight?”
He laughed. “Sadly, yes. Do you want to come round?”
“Yes. I’ll bring food, try to return the favour.”
“I can come to you if it’s easier.”
“No!” She paused, slowed her breathing. “No, it’s fine. Let me come to you. Steak all right?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Paint
STELLA DIALLED THE number Lucian had given her.
“Bentley Public Relations. Robin Brooke’s phone.”
The voice was pleasant, light, female and very, very posh. Stella immediately felt at a disadvantage. She tried to elevate the tone of her own voice to match the cut-glass accent at the other end of the line.
“Yes, hello. This is Detective Inspector Stella Cole from the Metropolitan Police. Is Mister Brooke available, please?”
The woman sounded more amused than anxious, which further unsettled Stella.
“Goodness me! Has our Robin been a naughty boy and broken the speed limit in Mayfair, officer?”
“Haha!” Oh, God, fake laugh. Come on, Stella, step up. “No, madam. That would be a matter for my colleagues in Traffic.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’d hate to think how much taxpayers’ money it would cost to send a detective inspector after a speeding motorist. Anyway, I see him across the office. Hold on a sec, would you? Robin?” Her voice increased in volume, but retained the easy, confident tone that had put Stella off her stride. “There’s a policewoman on the line for you.” She made “policewoman” sound like “sewage worker”. Stella took a deep breath and let it out again. “Something about a speeding ticket.” Her voice returned to its previous conversational pitch. “He’s just coming, officer.”
“Name?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your name, madam. For my notes. We like to keep quite detailed records of everyone we speak to.”
“Oh, err, of course. Well, it’s Miranda fforde. With two small f’s.”
“Thank you, madam. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Here’s Robin,” she said, quieter now.
A young man’s voice. Not so upper class, but still cultured, and with a hint of a drawl that spoke of privilege and breeding, if not necessarily education.
“Robin Brooke. How may I help you, officer?”
“Well, sir, for a start, it’s ‘Detective Inspector’. My title, I mean. But pleasantries aside, I believe you spoke to a colleague of mine recently. About some paint?”
“Oh, yes. One of those forensics chaps. Wanted to know about a special colour. It’s called–”
“Viola del diavolo, yes, sir. I need a list of the customers who ordered that particular colour for their Bentleys.”
He’d stonewalled Lucian, but Lucian was a tech. Now he was talking to a DI, would he have the nerve to brazen it out a second time?
“As I explained to your colleague, Detective Inspector, that information is confidential. Enthusiasts of the Bentley marque are private people, and they like us to help them keep it that way. I’m afraid that unless you can produce a warrant, my hands are tied and my lips are sealed.”
Jesus! Was he making fun of her? I’d like to tie your hands, believe me, son, I would. I’d have you screaming for mercy in seconds. Then we’d see how sealed your lips really were. And what was all this shit about warrants? Sometimes it was like every member of the public was an amateur lawyer. That or a forensics specialist, always bleating on about latent prints and DNA. She took a deep breath.
“Which, of course, I am happy to go away and get from a judge. But I’m investigating a double murder, and you may not be aware of this, sir, but a day’s delay, even an hour’s delay, can help a criminal escape justice.” Brooke tried to speak, but Stella cut him off and continued. “So, I’m thinking, I could get a warrant, as I say. And I could call a press conference when we finish our call and tell the media our prime suspect was driving a customised purple Bentley when he killed a man and his baby daughter. Of course, I can’t be sure what that would do for your public image, or that of your privacy-loving customers. But I’m just a simple policewoman, not a public relations expert like you or the fragrant Miranda fforde with two small f’s.”
She waited. One, two, three …
“Fine. I need to go and talk to someone. Can I call you back?”
“Of course, and thank you for being so understanding. I’ll give you five minutes. Then I’ll call my press officer.”
No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll call you in five. Or less.”
“Fewer.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s ‘fewer’. You’ll call me back in five minutes or fewer. Less is for stuff you can’t count, like patience. Fewer is for things you can, like minutes.”
Three minutes later, her phone rang. She watched it and counted. No voicemail on these old things: they rang for ever or until the caller got bored and hung up. An exhibits room assistant passing her desk looked over. Stella smiled at her.
“Making someone sweat,” she said.
The assistant, a plump, pretty girl in her early twenties with heavy-framed glasses, a shiny black nose ring and long blond hair, smiled back and walked away.
Stella let the phone ring eleven times before she lifted the handset from the cradle and placed it against her ear.
“DI Cole?” a man asked. It was Brooke.
“Yes, Robin. What do you have for me?”
“Five names. As requested. And five mobile numbers. I thought you’d want those, too. I can text them to you if you want, or email them?”
“That’s really very thoughtful of you. Saves me a little bit of unnecessary legwork.”
“You said it was a murder. A man and a baby. Well, that isn’t right. I don’t care who did it or what car they were driving. They should be caught. Just–”
“Keep your name out of it? No problem. Just read them out to me. N
o need for an email trail, is there? We’ll just imagine I found it all out on the Internet.”
The first name on the list made her eyes widen. Stella didn’t follow sport. She’d snuggle next to Richard and watch England football games or the Olympics, the Wimbledon finals maybe, but more to keep him company than anything else. But you’d have to be a hermit or in a coma not to know who Barney Riordan was. Twenty-two, signed the previous year by Fulham for eight million pounds. Though he wasn’t as good-looking as Beckham, he’d clearly snagged himself a capable agent. Londoners couldn’t catch a bus or walk past a poster site without seeing his brooding face staring down at them from above a rack of steely abs and a pair of snowy-white boxers. He endorsed anything that moved, it seemed, and was rumoured to be making triple his salary in fees from brands delighted to have him shilling for their breakfast cereals, aftershaves, cars and, of course, underwear.
Well, well, this was going to make stage two a lot more fun. “Hey, Daisy!” she called out to the girl with the glasses, who was tapping away at a computer on a nearby desk. “Guess who yours truly is going to be interviewing next week?”
The girl turned round and frowned, looked upwards with her chin cupped in her right hand. She stayed that way for several seconds.
“The Chief Constable of South Yorkshire Police,” she said finally.
“What? Did you actually think that one out logically or something? No! Barney Riordan.”
Daisy’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“Really? Rear of the Year Riordan?”
“Yes, if that’s what you call him.”
“Have you seen his bum? God, I’d give him one.”
Having scored what she felt was a definite hit with her coup, Stella returned to the list of names and numbers.
The second and third names meant nothing to her. Arthur Godsby and Asha Singh.
The fourth name, again, meant nothing. Mark Easton. As she took in the fifth name her eyes widened.