by Andy Maslen
Stella snorted with laughter. Freddie couldn’t help smiling at the memory of his first encounter with the woman who would become his wife a year later. The woman who’d leave Ireland to be with him in the East End. Who’d bear him three kids, then move with him out to the moneyed Essex suburbs.
“So then what? After you’d charmed her with your East End blarney?”
“She joined me in the family firm. I said she was tough. We built it up together. She enjoyed the money side. But the thing with my Mary, she couldn’t abide being bullied. Round about 2003, we started getting some aggro from this Afghani gang. Bringing in heroin from Pakistan. Violent fuckers, they were. The word going round was they were ex-Mujahideen or however the fuck you say it. They destroyed the Robertson gang. Took Gary Robertson out to Hackney Marshes and cut him up into about a hundred little pieces. They filmed it and sent the video to his wife. Told her the sons would be next unless they gave up the business. So, she did, didn’t she? Hadn’t got any choice. But those fucking Afghanis did them anyway. Simon and Gary Junior got found in the middle of Lower Clapton Road early one morning. In half a dozen black bin bags. After that, Junie lost the plot. Did herself in with pills and vodka inside six months.
“Anyway, we held our ground. It got pretty brutal for a while. Lot of good people got burned. Those mad bastards didn’t care. They had Kalashnikovs, for fuck’s sake. Brought them in with them. I mean we had shooters, too, but it was mostly shotguns like that one I gave you to do Ferenczy. In the end, I decided we had to go all out. Me and Mary, we worked out a plan. Massive, end of the world, pre-emptive strike. We had about thirty blokes, all tooled up like something out of a war film. Called in favours from everyone who owed me. We steamed into their HQ at four in the morning with sawn-offs, pumps, Browning Hi-Powers, hunting rifles, everything. It was a bloodbath, basically. We lost five blokes, but every single one of those fuckers was dead by half-past. There was so much blood you could taste it in the back of your throat. I mean, we were literally splashing through it.”
Freddie stopped, cleared his throat, took a swig of the cognac. Felt it burning his throat and enjoyed the sensation. He looked at Stella. Her eyes were fixed on his. She took a pull on the vodka, rattling the ice cubes against her front teeth.
“What happened?” she asked.
“One of ’em wasn’t dead, was he? Mary was standing in the middle of them. Shotgun over her shoulder. Hair tied back, blood all over her top. My God, I never saw her looking more beautiful. She looked like a pirate queen. This one Afghan, he rolled over and grabbed a Kalashnikov off this dead bloke. Shot her point blank. She never knew what happened. Dead on her feet. That was the only mercy.”
“Jesus. What did you do?”
“Me?”
He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fists until sparks shot in all directions under the lids. Remembered the blind rage that ignited inside him. Saw himself standing there, poleaxed. Then rushing over. Grabbing the Kalashnikov and emptying the mag into the man’s face. The dry sound of the gun clicking as the last round left the muzzle. Turning it round and grabbing the barrel, still burning-hot. Battering what was left of the Afghan’s torso until all that was left of him was red paste on the floor. Being wrestled away by two McTiernan cousins. Screaming with rage and grief, twisting in their grip to see his beloved Mary being borne aloft by two more and carried away, back to the trucks. Giving the order that would cement his reputation. “Kill them all. Every middleman. Every dealer. Every runner. The accountants. The shippers. The packagers. The mules. Every, single, fucking one of them. And nail one of my business cards to their faces.”
“Me?” he repeated. “I grieved. That’s what I did. Sold my shares in the business and retired.”
“I’m sorry.”
He grunted and drained his cognac.
“Ancient history, Stella.”
“You know you said you went in tooled up?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You still have those long guns in your workshop. Did you keep any of the shorts?”
“Bloody hell, you don’t fuck about, do you? We sent you off in a fucking wheelchair with a sawn-off under your blanket, and now you’re asking me for a pistol. Well, as it happens, you’re out of luck. Those guns in my workshop are for sport only. In case you didn’t know, handguns are illegal in this country.”
Stella nodded at the irony of being lectured on the Firearms Act by a retired gangster.
“Just asking.”
The following morning, Stella got up early and called for a cab. Freddie had told her Frankie was coming down at one and that he was going to play golf afterwards, but she didn’t fancy hanging around the house and said she’d make a move straightaway.
“Gate code’s twenty-nine, eleven” Freddie said. “Mine and Mary’s wedding anniversary. Take the spare key off the rack by the front door. It’s the keyring with the little silver shamrock.”
While the cab driver took her to a little coastal town called Westcliff-on-Sea, Stella re-read the text Frankie had sent the previous day.
Boss. I think you were right about The Model. Call me.
But she didn’t call. It was best if she did what she had to do without involving Frankie. The girl had a great career in front of her, and what Stella was planning as the final act of her revenge against Pro Patria Mori would taint anyone beyond all hope of redemption.
25
A Nice Trip to the Coast
Shading her eyes against the sun, Stella watched the taxi drive off along the grandly titled Western Esplanade. Despite the good weather and its being the height of summer, Westcliff-on-Sea had apparently failed in the mission of all seaside towns to attract tourists, trippers and holidaymakers. She turned a complete circle, checking out who had ventured to this quiet, quaint corner of the Essex coast. The answer seemed to be a few dozen elderly couples – white haired, matching windcheaters in shades of sage, beige and heather – and, oddly, a group of bikers, cruising westwards on a long convoy of well-maintained Honda Gold Wings, Harley Electra Glides and BMW R 1200s. The bikes were more like small cars than Stella’s old Triumph Speedmaster. Hard panniers with matching paintwork, top boxes, and even trailers adorned the heavy bikes. Most were two-up, and Stella was amused to see how many of the pairs wore matching leathers and helmets.
Walking towards the beach, she passed between two palm trees, part of a row that stretched for fifty yards or so along the pavement.
“Like LA from Poundland,” a sardonic voice said from beside her.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” she said, not looking round.
“You haven’t needed me. Nice job on that fat Maltese cunt at the hospital by the way.”
“I half expected you to turn up then, to be honest.”
Other Stella shrugged.
“What can I say? I don’t like hospitals. Especially psychiatric wards. They’re full of mad people!”
“Is that why you only appeared again when I was leaving?”
“Relax! You did OK. Don’t worry, I had your back. You do remember the scalpel, don’t you? No way would I have let anyone stop you leaving.”
“Yeah, that’s what worries me.”
Stella reached the sand. Here and there, a few old couples, and families with very young children, were sitting on blankets or woven mats. Eating ice creams, drinking coffee from tartan flasks, making sandcastles, checking phones … being normal.
Not a vigilante or a murderer among you, Stella thought.
“For all you know, they’re all at it,” Other Stella said. “Look at him.” She pointed at a man in late middle age, thinning hair, glasses, trousers rolled up to just below his knees. “He might have taken a butcher knife to a few skateboarders making his life a misery. Chopped them up and buried them in his immaculate rose garden. Or her.” A young mother, white cargo shorts and a black bikini top, dandling a toddler on her lap. “Some of the other playgroup mums said unkind things about her baby so she held a coffee morn
ing and laced the carrot cake with strychnine. You’re a copper, tell me it isn’t possible.”
Stella knew it was possible. Of course it was possible. Just not likely.
“You know as well as I do, nine out of ten murders, it’s one spouse doing the other. That or rival drug dealers. Just because the media prefer to report the outliers doesn’t mean this lot,” she waved her arm in a half circle, “aren’t all psychopaths.”
“Whatever you say, Stel. You’re the expert.”
“I’m the real person, that’s what I am.”
“You think? I’m not so sure. I think I have a far better hold on reality than you do. I’m the one keeping you on track. We’re free now. That means Collier’s time is up. We’re going to get him this time. And then the others.”
“What others? He’s the last of them.”
Other Stella took a step closer until she was standing right in front of Stella. Then she slapped her, hard, across the face.
“I told you! Their wives. Husbands. Lovers. Children. I don’t care. I’m going to track them all down and kill them. One by one. And let’s not forget the foot soldiers. Linda Heath, that prissy little bitch in HR. She’s one. I’m going to enjoy doing her. Maybe I’ll choke her with one of her stupid professional aptitude forms. And Pink. That fat, racist lech. He supports them. The SCO19 shooter, too. You blew her foot off, which was actually pretty funny. She had to take a medical discharge. Obvs. But she’s still walking around. Well, hopping. She tried to kill you, Stel. So she’s going down.”
“No. I told you. Collier has to pay. But when he’s dead, this is over. I’m over.”
“And I told you,” Other Stella jabbed a sharp fingernail into Stella’s sternum, “that I won’t allow it. I’m having too much fun. Remember why you started this.”
Stella turned away, towards the sea, looking towards the horizon, a bluish-green fuzz where the sea met the sky. Trying to shut Other Stella out. Willing herself back in control. Forcing her violent, sarcastic alter ego to disappear.
Sunlight bounced off the water in glittering splinters, making her squint. Seized with a sudden urge to paddle, she bent to take off her shoes and socks. She tucked the socks inside and lined the shoes up beside each other facing the water. As she straightened, bright white sparks fizzed and wriggled on the edges of her vision and she staggered a little. She caught the sun full in the face. A bright flash. She squeezed her eyes shut.
She opened them again.
Looked around.
Frowned.
Rubbed her eyes and shook her head.
Everyone had disappeared. The beach was empty. The sun was still high in the sky, but now it was a boiling, angry orange. Sharp-edged streaks of black cloud raced across the sky with a tearing shriek, as if someone were dragging a knife through a cloth revealing a hellish abyss behind the slashes.
Stella’s pulse was bumping in her throat, and her skin felt cold and clammy. She felt an overwhelming urge to run, but when she tried to move, her feet wouldn’t obey her. Looking down, she wailed with fear. Bony, bloodless hands, one missing its index finger, one naked of skin, had emerged from the rippled sand to grasp her ankles. She strained to pull herself free but the hands just gripped tighter, until the fingernails dug deep into her skin, making her cry out with pain as blood began to flow over her insteps in narrow rivulets.
“Turn around.”
Stella felt herself rotating on the spot. To face Other Stella.
Other Stella was stone-faced. She pointed away, down the beach.
“Look who’s coming.”
Stella screwed her eyes up.
“No. Stop. You can’t.”
“Yes. I can. Open your eyes.”
26
L is for Lola
In the distance, a low, rectangular form is emerging from the heat haze rising from the sand. It shimmers. It is dark, and at first, Stella can’t discern the colour. Dark brown, maybe, or blue. Deep red? No. It is purple. A deep, glistening purple. Clouds of dry sand boil up to each side of the onrushing shape.
It is a car. Moving fast. The sun bounces off the paintwork, making it sparkle. She hears the roar of the engine. Deep, growling, snarling: a predator racing towards her, intent on a kill.
She looks to her right, away from the sea. From Western Esplanade, a small, silver car emerges between two palm trees. It has turned off the road and is trundling towards the beach. The palms are whipping to and fro, their broad, deep-cut leaves snapping in a sudden, squally wind that has sprung out of nowhere.
Stella knows the car. It’s Richard’s Fiat Mirafiori.
“No,” she moans. “Don’t do this to me.”
“It’s for your own good.”
The purple car … the Bentley … Ramage’s Bentley … it’s speeding closer to Stella. Tearing along the hard-packed sand. The engine bellows. She sees his skull-like face behind the windscreen. It’s grinning obscenely and the tooth she forced him to pull out with pliers has grown back.
She can hear Richard singing to Lola inside the Fiat.
“We’re all going to the zoo tomorrow, the zoo tomorrow, the zoo tomorrow. We’re all going to the zoo tomorrow, we’re going to be OK.”
“No, Richard!” she screams. “You’re not! He’s going to kill you! Turn round!”
But of course, he doesn’t. He can’t hear her. He’s halfway across the flat expanse of sand. The sea beckons him. Lola will love it. He can hold her up and dangle her beautiful little feet in the water. Lift her up as she squeals with delight when the waves tickle her toes. They are moving right to left in front of her. Ramage is approaching in a straight line towards her. The two cars are writing a big capital L in the sand. L is for Lola.
She tries to turn away, but Other Stella holds her head in a vice-like grip.
“You have to see this,” she hisses, right in Stella’s ear. “You have to remember.”
Ramage is so close now, Stella can see his eyes. They glitter with murderous intent. He is speaking in a dark, smoke-roughened voice. She can hear him.
“You bitch. You killed me. Me! When all I was doing was preserving justice. He would have exposed us. This was sweet and proper. He had to die for his country.”
The little silver Fiat is almost at the water’s edge. Stella sees Lola in her baby seat. That soft, pink face. Blue eyes. Wispy blonde hair. She looks happy. She’s waving her pudgy hands and smiling at her daddy. She looks to her left and catches sight of her mother. She waves. She speaks.
“Mama—”
The bang is so loud, Stella thinks she has gone deaf.
The Fiat flies towards her, spinning in mid-air.
Who thought it was a good idea to stick a pillar box on the beach? It’s far too far for the postman to walk.
The Fiat hits the red iron cylinder with the grinning black mouth.
Richard’s head slams sideways under the impact. It meets the scalloped rim of the pillar box, which has punched in the side window.
Stella’s hearing returns in time to catch the sickening crunch as Richard’s skull shatters against the blood-red iron. He flops back in his seat. Dead.
“Lola!” she screams. “My Lola!”
The flames burst in a bright yellow ball from the engine bay. Lola isn’t smiling anymore.
Stella is weeping and moaning as the petrol tank ignites with a whoomp. Soon the car is burning, and she can see nothing but flames and black smoke.
Her nostrils fill with the acrid stench of burning rubber, and through her streaming eyes she sees Ramage driving away in the big purple car. Then the scene before her freezes and the colour leaches out of the flames. Stella realises she is staring at a faded photograph held between her shaking fingers.
She sinks to her knees. Pounds her fists against the sand.
“Make it stop,” she wails. “Please. I’ll do what you want, but please make it stop.”
27
Retired
Just before noon on the day of her interview with Freddie McTie
rnan, Frankie found herself holding open the door of her silver Audi A3 for Collier. She felt like a chauffeur and resisted the urge to salute as he approached. He must have read her mind because as he approached the car he smiled.
“No peaked cap, Frankie?”
When they were both buckled in, she let off the handbrake and drove out of the Paddington Green carpark and onto The Westway. The traffic was heavy all the way through central London, the City, the East End and out into the eastern suburbs.
Frankie and Collier had been caught in an embarrassing clinch at an office party some years before. Frankie tried to avoid thinking about the sweaty, alcohol-fuelled snog as she piloted the car towards the A12 and Essex. She glanced down and saw, with regret, that the seat belt had tightened against her breasts, opening a gap between two of her blouse buttons.
“Is Stella going to be OK, sir?” she blurted, more from a nervous desire to distract herself than anything else.
“For a start, it’s Adam, as I think I told you before. And in answer to your question, I really don’t know. You saw her point the gun at me, Frankie. You heard her raving about conspiracies and murders. I’m not an expert in mental health disorders, but at the very least I’d say she’s suffering from some kind of delusion. I’m guessing some kind of delayed reaction to the deaths of Richard and Lola. What do you think? You’ve worked with her for the last few years.”
Frankie pulled out to overtake a lorry and used the time to frame some kind of response. She’d become convinced that Stella was onto something. Lucian had settled the matter for her. And overnight, replaying that crucial line of Stella’s about Collier’s “friends in Pro Patria Mori,” she’d had the unsettling thought, What if Collier really is involved? What if Stella was right about him?
“Stel’s strong. I think she just needs some help. Maybe some therapy. It’s just—”