by Andy Maslen
“Yes,” a breathy note of suspicion had crept into his voice. “What of it?”
“Can you tell me where you were between the hours of three p.m. and seven p.m. on March sixth, 2009?”
“Not precisely. Not without my diary, which my PA manages for me. But I believe, if memory serves, I was in California for the whole of that month. San Francisco. Meeting investors. I’m a banker. I was working on an IPO for a tech start-up.”
“IPO, sir?”
“Initial public offering. A privately held company sells shares to institutional investors, such as insurance companies, pension funds, banks, hedge funds and so on. Then they, in their turn–”
Stella cut him off.
“Did anyone else have access to the Bentley, sir? While you were in San Francisco?”
“Well, my wife did, technically. I mean, she could have driven it. The keys are at home, and she’s on the insurance. But it’s unlikely.”
“Why is that?”
“Rebecca has her own car. An Alfa Romeo Spider. Little convertible thing. Bright red. She much prefers it to mine. Look, I’d be happy to answer further questions, inspector, but not now. I have to go to my meeting. I’ll text you my PA’s number. Talk to her.”
The numbers for Singh and Godsby went to voicemail.
That left Sir Leonard Ramage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Is it Ever OK to Date a Suspect?
THE PHONE RANG seven times before being answered. Stella was out of patience.
“Come on, you fucker, answer your fucking–”
“Ramage.”
Clipped. Brisk. Commanding. Used to being on control. Sixty-plus. Upper class. All this Stella picked up from two syllables delivered in less than a second. It flustered her and she almost gave him her real name as her mind blanked for a second.
“Uh, Mr Ramage, this is Detective Inspector Stephanie Black. I’m with the Metropolitan Police. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, do you, Detective Inspector? Well, for a start, I’m not Mister Ramage.”
“Sorry? I–”
“I said,” he paused, “Ramage. As you would have heard, had you been listening closely. Those who wish to speak to me, or indeed question me, address me either as Judge Ramage, My Lord, or Sir Leonard.”
Stella breathed in and out once, through her nose. Even though she hated herself for it, she couldn’t stop her heart bumping uncomfortably in her chest. Going up against a judge, any judge, was nerve-wracking for a copper. But this one was a High Court judge. Fuck! What if I’m wrong about him?
“My apologies. Sir Leonard. May I ask you two questions?”
“Please do. It is your duty to ask questions, and mine to answer them. If I can.”
“Do you own a Bentley painted in a special-order colour called Viola del diavolo?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just routine, Sir Leonard.”
“Don’t try that with me Detective Inspector,” he snapped. “I’m a High Court judge, not a spotty teenager with a pocketful of pills.”
Stella had a split-second to make a decision. Put a potential suspect on notice she’d reopened the case or forget all about getting any more information out of the judge. She made her decision.
“We are investigating a hit and run incident from a year or so ago. We believe the car involved was painted in this particular shade of purple.”
Ramage paused for two, maybe three seconds. A pause people take when they’re deciding what to say. Stella had heard pauses like it before. Seen eyes rolling up as their owners sought inspiration in the painted ceilings of interview rooms or their own sitting rooms. Waited as they got their lies straight, or straight enough to say them out loud without blinking.
“Yes. I do own such a car. A rather fine Bentley Mulsanne, as it happens.”
“And, if I may also ask you, Sir Leonard, where were you between the hours of three p.m. and seven p.m. on the sixth of March, 2009?”
Ramage laughed. A short, mirthless sound. Two percussive exclamations.
“Ha! Ha! Detective Inspector Black, was that your name? Are you asking me to provide an alibi?”
“Not at all. I am simply asking you if you can confirm your whereabouts between those times on that date.”
“Of course I can’t. It was over a year ago.”
“Of course,” Stella softened her own voice as the Judge hardened his. “It’s quite understandable. And it was a long time ago. Look, I’m sure you must be very busy, cases and so on. I’ll come to see you in your chambers.”
“No,” he said, silkily. “Don’t come to my chambers. Come to my house. Do you have a pen?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s 61, Egerton Crescent. Chelsea.”
“Thank you, Sir Leonard. Shall we say nine o’clock this evening?”
“Bit late, isn’t it?”
“The Met never sleeps. You should know that, Sir Leonard.” The line went dead. Ramage had hung up. “Pompous old fart,” she said.
She made a couple of notes on the document and was thinking about more coffee when her phone rang.
“DI Cole? It’s Barney Riordan. The footballer?”
As opposed to Barney Riordan the bricklayer? Mind you, that’s very becoming modesty for someone earning a few million quid a year for kicking a football about.
“Hello Mr Riordan. All set for our meeting?”
“That’s what I’m phoning about. And please call me Barney. Mr Riordan’s what they call my dad. Anyway, I can’t make it. The manager is having us all on an extended medical right through lunch. Some new psycho-something or other he’s bringing in. Supposed to make us more focused. So, like I said, I can’t make lunch. Not today, anyway. Do you want to make it tomorrow?”
“I really would prefer to keep things moving as quickly as I can, Barney. Tomorrow isn’t really an option, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. OK.” His voice suddenly lightened. He sounded excited, like a small boy. “I’ve got an idea! Oh, they’re going to love this. Look, you know I said I had a charity dinner to go to tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me. You can be my ‘plus one’.”
“That wouldn’t really be appropriate.” But it would be a massive coup. “And you must have somebody who you’d rather take than a police officer. We’ve never even met.”
“It’s not like what they write in Hello and all them celebrity mags. I’m single. Those girls are basically groupies. I’m not seeing anyone. Plus, you’re a detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am.”
“That was my second choice at school. If I couldn’t have been a footballer I wanted to be a copper, uh, a police officer, I mean. When I wasn’t training, I used to love all them shows. The Bill, Hill Street Blues, Murder One. Hey, you could be like that female one off Prime Suspect. Helen Mirren, yeah?”
Stella smiled despite herself. He sounded so innocent.
“Fine. And thank you. I’d love to come.” Unless it turns out you killed my family, in which case I will gut you like a fish. “Dress code?”
“Pardon?” He sounded worried all of a sudden.
“What’s the dress code?”
“Oh, sorry. Thought you said arrest code. Had me worried there for a minute. Black tie. I guess that means a dress for you. Cocktail dress, probably.”
“Thank you. Where and when?”
“It’s the Café Royal. On Regent Street. Starts at seven.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“No need. Much better if we arrive together. I’ve got to keep up my image, haven’t I? I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.”
Stella gave him her address then ended the call. She pursed her lips and frowned. Didn’t see that coming. Then she slapped her forehead.
“Fuck! Daisy’ll kill me.”
Biting her lower lip, she twisted her wedding ring – a plain gold band – round and round. She called Daisy.
“Yes, boss? Everything OK? I�
��ve got my interview suit on and taken out my nose ring like you said.”
Stella looked down at her wedding ring and the eternity ring on the next finger over: bands of rose and white gold with a single diamond set into the rose gold. For Lola. She straightened her back.
“I’m afraid we’re not going. He’s got a medical.”
There was a second’s pause and Stella could hear the young woman take a breath before answering. Could picture her, brow wrinkling in dismay. Then shaking her head.
“Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to ask him out then.”
It was a pretty good attempt at masking her disappointment and Stella wanted to let her keep her dignity, even if keeping her lunch date with Barney Riordan had just been taken away from her. She decided on what to say before wondering if it were possible.
“Listen, don’t be cross, but he’s taking me to a ball tonight. Said it was the only time he could speak to me today. It starts at seven. Be outside the Café Royal, and I’ll introduce you.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Given you’ll agree to be my tea and coffee slave for the rest of your career, it seems like a fair exchange.”
That afternoon, Stella was waiting outside a stout wooden door at the Old Bailey. The door had four rectangular panels and a brass knob. Below the knob was an old-fashioned keyhole, surrounded by a battered brass escutcheon in the shape of a shield. It was dented and scratched but polished to a satiny sheen. In the centre of the upper portion of the door was a brass frame about ten centimetres by four, composed of two thin rails and a back-plate. Into it, someone, a clerk perhaps, had inserted a piece of beige card with the words ‘Mr Justice Ramage’ in elegant calligraphy.
Earlier, she’d rung round a few contacts in the barristers’ chambers clustered around the law courts and discovered that The Honourable Mister Justice Sir Leonard Ramage – See? she’d thought. You are a Mister! – was hearing a case at the Old Bailey that day.
Heart thumping, feeling like a schoolgirl summoned to see the headmaster, she knocked twice, fast and loud, then twisted the doorknob and walked in. A middle-aged woman standing with a sheaf of papers in the centre of the room whirled around to face her. She was birdlike, thin, with stone-grey, collar-length hair held back by a black velvet Alice band. Her eyes were magnified by thick-lensed, gold-framed glasses. Her mouth dropped open, revealing small, off-white teeth.
“Excuse me! These are Sir Leonard’s private chambers,” she said, almost breathless at the sheer audacity of Stella’s arriving unannounced.
“That’s why I’m here. Is he in?”
The woman was gaping now, her mouth working like a landed fish, her eyes widened so that the grey irises appeared to float in the white.
“Is he in? Of course he’s in! But you can’t come in here. You’ll have to leave, I’m afraid. Now.”
The woman bustled towards Stella, who stopped her with an outstretched hand that held up her warrant card. The worn, black leather folder held the silver-and-blue force badge of the Met on the right, and Stella’s official police ID on the left. She made sure her fingertips covered her name. She flipped it closed and pocketed it before the woman could get a closer look.
“Detective Inspector Stephanie Black. Is he through there?” She jerked her chin in the direction of a second door that led, presumably, to the judge’s private office, or robing room.
Flustered, the woman was more compliant. “Well, yes. He is. But you really ought to have rung to make an appointment. You can’t just go–”
But Stella did just go.
She pushed through the door.
Ramage sat behind a huge mahogany desk, inlaid with a sheet of dark red leather with a gold-tooled edge. He looked up at Stella. His eyes were so dark brown as to be almost black. He frowned, and the frown deepened as she flashed her ID again. Behind her, the PA hovered, trying to get round this intruder so she could protect her employer.
“I’m sorry, Judge,” she said, her voice pleading. “She said she was a police officer, and, well, she was very persistent.”
He smiled, though not at Stella.
“No matter, Shirley. I can deal with our guest. That will be all. He focused on Stella. “Detective Inspector Black, I presume.”
“In one, Sir Leonard. I apologise for barging into your chambers, but I’m afraid matters have taken a turn that makes my coming to your house this evening impossible.”
Now the judge did smile. But it was a grim, humourless expression, in which his canine teeth seemed to do most of the work.
“You have a great deal of confidence, Detective Inspector, to invade my place of work. You’d better have an extremely good reason.”
“I think I do, Sir Leonard.”
“Well then, you’d better take a seat and ask your questions. Do I need a lawyer? This place is crawling with them.”
She shook her head. “Just routine enquiries, Sir Leonard, as I said on the phone. No need for a lawyer. You’re not under caution. I’m not even going to take notes.”
He smiled again. His eyes stayed clear and did not crinkle at the corners. Only his mouth moved, extending a fraction.
“Just helping the police with their enquiries,” he purred.
“Exactly. Did you have a chance to ask your PA – Shirley, was it? – about your movements on the date I gave you?”
“Indeed I did.” He moved to one side the paper he had been reading and withdrew a sheet of crisp, white, A4 printer paper from a folder. From her vantage point, Stella could see a single line of type. It looked like Times Roman. He took a pair of half-moon spectacles from the top pocket of his jacket and slid them onto his nose, peering down at the paper. “It says here I was having dinner. At my club.”
“Which club would that be Sir Leonard?” Jesus, if I have to say Sir Leonard one more time, I swear I’ll start tugging my forelock. Must remember not to curtsey on the way out.
“Black’s. Ironically.”
“Did you dine alone? Apart from the other members, I mean? Would there be someone who can corroborate your story?”
He looked up, staring at Stella over the lenses of his reading glasses, which made her feel as though she had been summoned to see a particularly fierce headmaster.
“Corroborate my story? My, my, Detective Inspector, are you sure I’m simply helping you with your enquiries?”
“I just have to follow routine, Sir Leonard. As I think you probably know. With your legal training.”
“Just so. Well, for your routine, I was with someone. Someone you may have heard of. Detective Chief Superintendent Adam Collier. He’s at Paddington Green. To which station did you say you were attached?”
He was watching her the way a lion watches an antelope as it stalks closer. Eyes zeroed in on her, muscles tensed. Ready to pounce.
“I didn’t. But it’s West End Central.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m sure you can find a way to contact Adam. He’ll corroborate my story for you. Now, if there’s nothing else, I am trying a case, had you not determined that for yourself.”
She stood. “No. There’s nothing else. And thank you, Sir Leonard. You really have been most helpful.” She turned to leave. Then stopped. Turned back as he was lowering his eyes to his paperwork again. “May I take that?”
“Take what?”
“That sheet of paper. With the details of the dinner on it?”
He sighed. “If you must, yes, take it. Then please leave.”
*
Stella stepped out of the shower. It was half past five. Plenty of time for a girl to get to ready for a date with a professional footballer. Oh, fuck, Stel! What the hell have we got ourselves into? There’ll be press there, everything. Doesn’t matter. He’s a suspect. She dried herself, scrubbing at her hair and pulling it through the bunched-up towel. Now: undies, then dress, then hair and makeup.
She owned precisely one cocktail dress. She took it off its silk-covered, padded hanger and laid it on the bed. It was al
most black, but actually a deep, dark, green, like a mallard’s neck. Richard used to call it her “Emily dress” after they saw an actress of the same name wearing one just like it to some awards event or other. It had been wheeled out for official dinners, hen nights and the very occasional legal party Richard had taken her to. She picked it up and held the stiff bodice up to her face.
Then she jerked it away again, tears pricking her eyes. It smelled of him. His aftershave. She remembered. They’d danced the last dance together at a ball organised by a barrister friend of his. What was her name? Caroline something? It was in aid of a children’s charity her chambers sponsored. Stella had taken the piss out of him because he’d unaccountably drenched himself in the stuff. “Richard fancies Caroline, Richard fancies Caroline!” she’d chanted in the taxi, much to her husband’s embarrassment and the driver’s amusement. “Going to make a real impression on your ladylove tonight, aren’t you? She’ll swoon in your arms. Mind you, it’ll probably be asphyxiation.”
Shaking her head to rid herself of the memory, she selected her best underwear: matching black lace bra and knickers. Sheer black tights, too. Not stockings. Richard had loved them, used to plead with her to wear them. And she’d always given him the same answer. “You first!” She turned to the mirror to give herself an honest appraisal. Still a little on the skinny side, Stel, but at least Bob and Charlie have come back. She gave her boobs an experimental squeeze. Yes, enough cleavage to keep Mister Riordan interested.
With the dress safely wriggled up over her hips, she reached round to do the zip up. She managed all the way to the beginning of her shoulder blades before realising it had always been Richard’s job to tug it home over the last four or five inches.
“Really?” she said, her voice loud in the empty bedroom. “I’ve got a loaded, untraceable, police-issue Glock in a shoe-box, but I can’t get my bloody dress zipped?”
She sat on the bed. Come on, Stel, it’s just another challenge. Think. She nodded, once, stood, and reversed the zip till she could step out of the dress. She hurried out of the bedroom for the stairs, almost skidding on the top step, unaccustomed to the slithery nylon of the tights. It took her five minutes of searching cupboards and the drawer of random odds and sods in the kitchen before she found what she was looking for: a ball of butcher’s string. Thin, smooth, white and strong. She cut off a few feet. Upstairs, she looped it through the tab of the zip and then, as she pulled the dress up over her hips – still a bit bony, Stel – flipped the loose ends over her left shoulder. She wound them round her right fist, took up the slack, extended her arm towards the ceiling, and felt the two sides of the dress close around her. “Ta dah!” she whispered. “Now who’s the practical one, darling?”