Hit and Run

by Andy Maslen

  It was a shot of the same car as she’d seen on the CCTV feed at Urban Oversight. There was the number plate. And there, clearly visible behind the wheel, was Sir Leonard Ramage.

  “I’ve got you, you bastard,” she whispered, so quietly that Riordan frowned and moved his head closer to Stella’s.

  “What did you say? Is that him?”

  She looked at him, her eyes glistening in the light from the chandeliers. “Yes. It’s him. Thank you, Barney. Thank you, so much. She’ll get justice now.”

  “Who will? The little girl? Did you know her?”

  Stella fought back her tears. Shook her head.

  “She was someone else’s daughter.”

  Halfway through her dinner – Thai-spiced tiger prawns, lemon sole, French beans – Stella’s phone rang. Excusing herself, she took it out to the lobby. It was Vicky Riley.

  “Vicky? Are you okay?”

  Riley’s voice was high-pitched, breathy. She was panicking.

  “Oh, Stella, thank God! There’s someone outside my house. I think he’s trying to get in.”

  “Right. First of all, I want you to stay calm. You panic, you lose. Have you got anywhere in the house with a locking door?”

  “Yes. My office. It’s the back bedroom.”

  “Go there now. Lock yourself in. Do not speak to anyone who calls your name. No, wait!”

  “What?” Riley’s voice was still breathless, but she sounded like she could follow instructions.

  “Get a weapon. A kitchen knife, a big torch, a fire iron. Then go. I’m coming as fast as I can.”

  She ran back to Riordan. “How do you fancy being a knight in shining armour?”

  He put his knife and fork down and swallowed the lump of steak he was eating. “What’s going on? You’re all pale.”

  “I need to get to Hammersmith. Fast. That car of yours move, does it?”

  He grinned.

  They ran to the front door of the hotel, drawing wide-eyed glances from the people on their side of the ballroom, stopping just long enough to get the concierge to phone for the valet parker to bring the car round.

  “Right, it’s a terraced street just off the Goldhawk Road. You know how to get there?”

  Riordan nodded, lips set now into a grim line. “More or less. Give me directions too. That way I won’t fuck up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sending a Message

  RAMAGE JABBED HIS knife at Adam Collier’s face. He was scowling. While Stella and Barney were waiting for his car, the two PPM members were dining at an Italian restaurant just three hundred metres to the east, in Soho.

  “I’m telling you, Adam, it’s time you pulled your bloody finger out. I was confronted in my own robing rooms at the Old Bailey, for God’s sake. My sanctum sanctorum! One minute I’m preparing to sentence some lowlife pimp procuring underage English girls for Russian oligarchs, the next I’m being interrogated by one of London’s finest about my whereabouts for the night I dealt with Richard Drinkwater.”

  “What did she say her name was?”

  “Black. DI Stephanie Black.”

  “Which station?”

  “West End Central.”

  Collier pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Nick Ashley. He runs CID there.”

  Ramage sliced another piece of pink lamb, daubed it with mint sauce and pulled it off the fork between his teeth as he waited for Collier to dial. He watched, and waited. Collier waggled his head from side to side and mouthed, “Still ringing.” Then he nodded.

  “Nick, it’s Adam Collier. How are you?”

  Ramage wanted to grab the phone from Collier and ask the question himself. It took much self-control to sit, eating, while Collier bantered with his opposite number. Finally, he asked.

  “Listen. Have you got a DI working there, goes by the name of Stephanie Black?”

  Ramage scrutinised Collier’s face for any sign of what his colleague was telling him, but it was still. Then a minute frown, just a momentary drawing together of those heavy, black brows.

  “Well?” Ramage said, when Collier ended the call.

  Collier shook his head. “No. There’s nobody in his command called Stephanie Black.”

  “She had a warrant card. There’s no way Shirley would have let her anywhere near me otherwise, however insistent she was.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Didn’t ask. Quite honestly, Adam, when some wild-eyed harpy bursts into my private chambers, bearding me in my lair, as it were, and asking for alibis, I don’t always think as straight as I should.”

  Ramage realised he’d made a mistake. Not asking for the officer’s warrant card was a stupid error. Shirley would have to go.

  Collier smiled. “We all make them from time to time, Leonard. Even you, the father of our chapel, as it were. What did she look like? Did she have an accent? Anything we could use to track her down?”

  Ramage put his cutlery down and took a sip of his wine. Then another, larger, gulp. He shook his head, exasperated at his inability to remember anything useful. “Look, Adam, this is actually the second time I’ve been questioned by a police officer in the last forty-eight hours, and I can’t say I care for it. She was a youngish, white woman. Brownish hair. Tied back, I think. Slightly built. One of those dreadful, lower-middle-class accents that’s been improved by three years at some provincial university. That’s all.”

  “You’ve just described about three-quarters of the female detectives working for the Met. There’s nothing else?”

  “No!” Ramage snapped. “As I said, I was surprised.”

  Suddenly, Collier’s eyes popped open wide. He leaned back in his chair and smiled, looking at the ceiling. Back on Ramage again, he spoke.

  “We’re a couple of idiots, do you know that?”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “It’s obvious. God, I’m getting too comfortable behind a desk. Who would have the most to gain by investigating you for Drinkwater’s death?”

  Ramage frowned. “Someone who wanted to shut Pro Patria Mori down?”

  “No! His wife! It wasn’t Stephanie Black. It was Stella Cole. Coal-black, do you see? And Stephanie-Stella. Amateurs always give themselves away when they choose aliases.”

  “I thought you said she was chained up in a filing office somewhere.”

  “I did. Obviously, she’s decided to return herself to active duty. In fact, she’s been poking into the case. She logged in to our autopsy files to look at the PM on her daughter.”

  A deep frown spread across Ramage’s features. “I hate to say this, but I think it’s time we convened the committee.”

  Collier swallowed his mouthful of veal. “What about our founding principles?”

  Ramage leaned across the table, not fast, like a snake striking; more like a crocodile easing closer to its prey.

  “I did my duty and removed a dangerous threat to our very existence. Now his wife is coming after me. She has to be dealt with. Before she goes any further. If you think I’m going to let myself be arrested, charged and brought to trial, Adam, you don’t know me very well. Not very well at all.”

  Collier nodded. “Very well. I’ll convene the committee for six tomorrow morning.”

  *

  Cocooned by soft, quilted leather, deep carpet, and what she assumed were many square metres of sound insulation, Stella felt cut off from the traffic. The engine seemed far away, little more than a murmur from somewhere ahead of the vast raked windscreen. Yet her glance at the speedometer told her they were travelling at sixty miles per hour as they overtook a line of stationary cars and taxis.

  “This is OK, right?” Barney muttered, eyes glued to the road as he swerved round the leading car in the queue and jumped a red traffic light.

  “It’s fine. You’re assisting the police. Keep going. Don’t stop for anyone.”

  Barney kept his foot down, leaving a succession of drivers blasting him with their horns.

  “What if the police see
me?”

  “I am the police. Just get us there and let me do the worrying.”

  “You’re the boss,” he said, slamming on the brakes to avoid T-boning a supermarket truck with a giant box of strawberries printed on its side.

  “Take the next right,” she said suddenly.

  “But that’s a no entry!”

  “It’s wide enough. Take it.”

  Barney braked and spun the steering wheel through his hands as he hauled the car through a turn its manufacturers had never intended it to make. Tyres squealing in protest, engine now very audible as the automatic gearbox fought to manage the revs, the Bentley slewed round the corner into the one-way street, losing traction for a second and sending Stella’s stomach flipping as the brick side of a department store rushed at her side window.

  She flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but the big car righted itself and, as she and Barney chorused a few oaths and blasphemies, raced for the other end of the street.

  “Next left!” she ordered and was just starting to unjam her shoulders when a car turned into the road, blocking their path.

  “Shit!” Barney shouted and wrenched the steering wheel hard over to the right.

  The oncoming driver leaned on the horn and pulled as far over to his right as he could go.

  The two cars passed within a hand’s breadth of each other.

  Stella looked sideways and saw a woman’s face in the passenger-side window next to hers, pale in the street light, eyes wide, mouth frozen in a scream. The Bentley hit the kerb and crunched its transmission on the stone as it mounted the pavement, scraping the driver’s side bodywork along a brick wall with a hideous metallic screech.

  And then they were safe, pulling out into regular two-way traffic.

  “Where now?” Barney asked, breathing fast.

  “Second left then down to the end of the street.”

  Ninety seconds later, he pulled over into a residents-only parking space and both he and Stella swung their doors open and were out of the car.

  “Follow me!” Stella said and ran back down the street to Vicky Riley’s house.

  “Knock and ring. Call through the letterbox. Make a noise,” she ordered Barney. “Tell her who you are and say I’m going round the back. And if anyone comes near you, warn them off once then hit them.”

  Then she was gone, leaving the bewildered footballer hammering on the door and ringing the bell, before crouching to bellow his name through the letterbox.

  The back of the house was protected by a six-foot wooden fence, overgrown with ivy. Stella took her shoes off and chucked them over the fence, then backed up a couple of steps, ran, and leapt, getting her hands onto the top edge of the fence and hauling herself over and into the back garden. As she dropped onto the soft earth of the flowerbed she felt the hem of her dress catch on something and heard a rip.

  The lights were on in the kitchen and the room next to it, which appeared to be a sitting room. The picture window overlooking the garden was smashed. Just a few triangular shards of glass remained in the frame. Stella pulled her little helper from her handbag and gripped it tightly in her right hand. Her breath was coming in gasps, despite her fitness, more from adrenaline than exertion.

  She looked at the kitchen door. The intruder could be in there. He could be armed. A knife, maybe even a pistol. Fools rush in, Stel. Yes, they do. So do police officers. She ran for the door, pushed the handle down and leapt through, swinging her head left and right, eyes probing the corners of the room. It was empty.

  She went left, through the door that led to the living room. Nobody. Finally, with Barney’s voice echoing down the hall as he called through the letterbox, she ran for the hallway, calling out as she took the stairs two at a time, ready to smack the little helper into any face that came towards her that didn’t belong to Riley.

  “Vicky? Vicky? It’s Stella. Are you, OK?”

  She reached the landing. It was narrow, with a dogleg halfway along marked by a flight of two steps. All four doors leading off it were closed. Panting, she put her hand on the brass doorknob of the closest door, twisted it and pushed through, little helper clamped in her fist.

  A black-clad figure rushed at her from the shadows, arms outstretched.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Help Wanted

  STELLA STEPPED BACK with her right leg, adopting the fighting stance taught her by Rocky. Soft through both knees to stay flexible and prevent her attacker using her own legs as levers. Weight borne equally left and right, up on the balls of her feet, ready to counterattack after her first feint. Her assailant threw herself at Stella, wrapping her arms tight around her middle.

  “Oh, Stella, thank God you’re here!”

  Heart still thumping, Stella relaxed and returned the hug, little helper still clutched in her right fist. Riley seemed in no hurry to release her and so she stood, feeling the other woman’s breath coming in fast gasps against her own ribcage. Finally, she prised herself free.

  “There’s nobody here, Vicky. It’s OK. Come on, I’ve got reinforcements waiting at the front door.”

  Riley pulled the front door wide and then did a double take. Stella smiled, enjoying the fast-changing range of emotions taking turns to move Riley’s features around.

  “You’re–” Riley managed, in the end.

  “Vicky Riley, Barney Riordan,” Stella said dryly.

  “Hi Vicky,” Riordan said, extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Leaving the journalist and the footballer in the kitchen drinking coffee, Stella opened the door to the sitting room. At first, she didn’t move; her training had been explicit on this point. You didn’t contaminate a crime scene. Ever. The days of clueless plods marching through puddles of blood and smearing latent prints were, thankfully, a thing of the past.

  Ah, what the hell, it’s only a crime scene if there’s going to be an investigation. If there’s going to be a hunt, it doesn’t matter. She stepped into the room. Splinters of glass were scattered on the pale green carpet like ice thrown across a frozen pond. Lying on one of its flat faces was a brick. Tied around the brick with string was a piece of ivory paper. Stella retrieved the brick and took it back to the kitchen, placing it dead-centre on the table between the three mugs of coffee Vicky had made.

  “Present from your prowler,” Stella said.

  “That’s old-school, that is,” Barney said.

  “How very post-modern,” was Vicky’s take.

  Stella cut the string with her penknife and discarded it.

  “Shouldn’t you be, like, bagging that, or something?” Barney asked. “You know, for evidence.”

  She stopped, and turned to Barney. “Absolutely. Listen, Barney, you’ve been fantastic help, getting me here so quickly, but from here it’s police business, as you said. This is going to take a while. You can get back to the ball and press the flesh a bit more. I’ll be sure to mention you to my boss. You never know, there might be a commendation in it for you. Look good to be on the front page for a change, instead of the back. And we’ll find a way to pay for your car to be fixed.”

  He frowned. “No need. I’ll get it done on the insurance.” Then he smiled. “If you’re OK, then?”

  “I am. And Barney,” she said, putting out a hand to touch him on the arm as he was turning to go. “Thanks for inviting me. It was fun.”

  With Barney gone, Vicky looked at Stella, her gaze steady, unblinking. “You aren’t investigating this, are you?”

  Stella nodded. “I am. Just not through official channels.” She unfolded the note and read out the short, printed message.

  “Riley. You think you’re doing good. But you’re threatening justice. Beware. Justice may retaliate. Find another story. Before you become the story.”

  “It’s them, isn’t it?” Vicky said. “Pro Patria Mori.”

  “Looks like it. You need to move out for a while. It isn’t safe here. Not now they know this is your home.” Vicky nodded. Glad th
at she wasn’t dealing with a weepy, what-about-my-cats kind of victim, Stella gave her standard speech. “Do you have someone you could stay with? Someone they wouldn’t connect with you?”

  “My godmother. She lives in Wales. On a farm. She rears pigs. Gloucester Old Spots.”

  “OK, good. Pack a bag and leave now.”

  “I don’t know if she’s there. I’ll have to ring.”

  “No! Don’t ring. Don’t use your phone at all. She’s a farmer, she’ll be in. They always are. If she isn’t, find a hotel or a pub with rooms. And don’t drive. They’ll have your registration number. The ANPR cameras on the bridges will pick you up and then they’ll have you again.”

  “The what?”

  “Automatic–”

  “Number plate recognition, OK, got it. So, the train, then?”

  “Then a taxi. Get a disposable phone on the way if you can. Here’s my number. Text me when you’re safe.”

  *

  At six thirty the following morning, Collier and four other senior members of Pro Patria Mori were sitting round his kitchen table. The others were Sir Leonard Ramage; Charlie Howarth QC; Debra Fieldsend, a Crown Prosecution Service lawyer; and Hester Ragib, a barrister.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a problem,” Collier began. “Stella Cole, one of my officers, is pursuing leads that will, in all likelihood, take her to Leonard’s role in the Drinkwater affair.”

  Howarth spoke next.

  “Are you about to propose what I think you are, Adam? Because that goes against the grain, you know. Defending the police is one of our founding principles, you know that. It’s who we are.”

  Ramage opened his mouth to speak, but Collier glanced at him, signalling with a minuscule shake of his right hand to stay quiet. For now.

  “I’m fully aware of that, Charlie, since I am a police officer. But sometimes we need to forget the founding principles and concentrate on what’s right in front of us.”

  “Which is a meddling detective trying to put one of PPM’s members in handcuffs,” Fieldsend said. “I’m with Adam on this. If Leonard had run down an innocent passer-by, or if you, Charlie, knocked down a yummy mummy out for a post-school-run jog, I’d say, ‘You should have been more careful. Nobody is bigger than justice. Nobody is more important than PPM and the work we do’. But that’s not the case here, is it? Leonard removed a very real and potentially devastating threat to our very existence. He deserves our support.”