by Andy Maslen
Lynne eventually pulled in to the parking lot for a branch of Whole Foods Market. Stella followed her in and selected a spot a couple of rows further back from the front of the store. Keeping her own sunglasses on, she tailed Lynne into the store, where the heating was going full blast. She ran her fingers through her hair, approving of the way it had grown out of the ultra-short pixie cut.
Picking her moment carefully, Stella contrived to enter the fresh food market from one end just as Lynne arrived from the other. Keeping her basket in the crook of her left elbow so her right hand was free, she worked her way through the browsing shoppers, closer and closer to the woman she had begun to think of as her target.
When they were side by side, Lynne Collier examining aubergines and Stella prodding at a package of lettuces, Stella turned and spoke.
“Excuse me, you couldn’t pass me one of those aubergines, could you? They look so lovely.”
Lynne Collier smiled as she passed Stella one of the glossy, dark-purple vegetables. Another unpleasant echo.
“You’re English!” she said. Then coloured slightly. “Sorry. Of course you’re English, duh! Me, too. In case you couldn’t tell.”
Stella returned the smile.
“It’s OK. I’ve got used to it. Every time I ask for a coffee or speak to someone in a shop, sorry, store, it’s ‘Oh, I just luurve your accent!’”
Lynne laughed and suggested that once they’d finished shopping they have a coffee together in the store’s cafe.
“We can see if you’re right,” she said, still smiling. She held out her hand. “Lynne.”
Stella took it.
“Jen.”
Cappuccinos and pastries ordered and sitting in front of them at a window table, Lynne asked Stella what she was doing in Chicago.
“Freezing my bum off! I had no idea it got so cold here.”
“Me neither. Adam, he’s my husband, told me I’d need to buy a new winter coat but I just laughed. I said my old one would be fine. Well, maybe for London, but here? I nearly got frostbite the first time I went outdoors in the winter. So when your bum is warm enough, what do you do?”
“I’m travelling. A career break. I was in Canada over the summer then hiked and bussed my way down here. I heard the people were really friendly.”
“Oh, they certainly are. Not like New Yorkers. Or Parisians, for that matter. Here, they stop to chat. It’s a bit disconcerting at first, but it’s more like England.” She took a sip of her coffee. “A career break, you said. That must be fun. What were you doing before?”
“I’m an actuary.”
“Oh.” Lynne’s forehead puckered with thought. “That’s insurance, isn’t it? Or something?”
Stella nodded then took a sip of her cappuccino.
“You’re right. Basically my job is, I mean was, to calculate the odds of bad things happening. It can be anything that insurers write a policy on, literally from pirates attacking a ship to someone nicking your Rolex. I specialised in life insurance. So, for example, I would work out the chances someone might die by falling down stairs, or being involved in a plane crash or even, oh, I don’t know, getting killed by a burglar or shot in the street by a bank robber.”
“Wow! That sounds kind of gruesome but interesting at the same time.”
Stella nodded as she finished a mouthful of croissant.
“It is. Was. I was pretty good. I used to do a party trick where you’d tell me what job you did and I could give you the chances, the actual statistical chances, that you would die while at work.”
Lynne’s eyes widened and she smiled.
“Go on, then. Do me. I’m a teaching assistant in a primary school.”
“Inner city or nice and leafy?”
“Er, if those are the choices, nice and leafy.”
Stella paused for effect then quoted the last two digits of her warrant number.
“Two-point-seven percent. Probably a slip, trip or fall. Or a car accident on school grounds.”
Lynne laughed loudly, drawing curious and then amused stares from a couple of their neighbouring tables.
“What are you, a human computer?”
“Nope. Just a very experienced actuary.”
“Oh, you should do Adam. He’ll probably come out way higher than me. He’s a police officer.”
“Uniformed?”
“Yes. But he’s a detective. A chief superintendent. He’s on a sabbatical.” She leaned closer and adopted a stagey whisper. “With the FBI.”
“Wow! That must be exciting. OK, let me have a little think.”
Stella made a point of frowning and looking up at the ceiling. A vent directly above their table was blowing hot, dry air down at them, and she could feel sweat gathering in her armpits. She counted the number of slats directing the air. She returned her gaze to Lynne.
“One hundred percent,” was what she wanted to say. As it was true.
“I would say, as he’s very senior, probably no higher than ten percent. But almost certainly less. I mean, I don’t want you to be worried.”
Lynne shrugged.
“I stopped worrying about Adam a long time ago. Listen, why don’t you come over one day? I’d love you to meet Adam.”
Stella smiled brightly.
“That would be lovely. To be honest I am feeling a little homesick.”
62
Party People
Buying drugs on the street is a dangerous business for the uninitiated. And sometimes for the initiated. Stella fell into the latter category, but despite the snub-nose revolver in her jacket pocket, she felt that heightened sense of awareness all good cops have when they’re undercover. Hypervigilance was the proper term for it. When you seemed to possess 360-degree vision and hearing to go with it. You’re constantly looking for things that should be present but aren’t, and things that aren’t present that should be.
Not knowing the territory made it harder to assess all possible threats, but she’d seen plenty of places like it back in London. She’d caught two buses and walked a block and a half to this vacant lot, identified after some more time on one of the public library’s computers as a prime spot for meeting local drug dealers and their runners. At four in the afternoon, the day still had some light left to offer, but the sky was grey, pregnant with another big snowfall, and every vehicle on the street had its headlights on.
She’d unstrapped the flaps of her trapper hat and rebuckled them under her chin. The gap between down-filled jacket and hat she’d plugged with a woollen scarf, and her hands were encased in lined gloves. Her right hand was. Her left was bare, jammed deep into the jacket’s pocket and clamped round the grip of the revolver. The steel frame was icy on her skin, which was fine. Never had freezing cold metal felt so comforting.
She scanned the snow-covered space. At its periphery, she spotted a likely looking character. In seconds she’d filed a mental ID. Black, male, 18-25. Tall, muscular inside his bulky jacket. Gleaming white hi-tops. He was leaning back against a wall, one foot up on the bricks behind him. In front of him, a fire blazed up out of an oil drum. Squaring her shoulders, she walked over to him, keeping her body relaxed, sending what she hoped were assertive but non-aggressive signals. Customer, not cop. Punter, not prey. As she drew near, she caught a movement to her right and half-turned her head. A second male had appeared from around a corner. Keep going, Stel. You are Sparta!
“What do you want, white bitch?”
She kept her eyes down, which would appear submissive, but allowed her to keep watch on his hands.
“Party drugs. Got anything?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You think I’m a cop?”
“Are you?”
“Do I sound like a cop?”
“She’s got a point.”
This came from the other guy, who was now standing beside the first, stamping his feet in the trodden down snow.
“I’m not a cop, I swear,” she said. “If you must know, I�
�m road manager for a British band playing over here at Buddy Guy’s Legends. The lead guitarist is a total knob-end but he sent me out for party drugs so that’s what I have to do.”
The two black guys laughed.
“What did you call him? A knob-end? What the fuck’s that?”
Stella flashed him a smile.
“It’s a British insult.”
He smiled back.
“I like it. I’m gonna use that. Knob-end. OK, so listen. You want party drugs? I got GHB. You know, roofies? That do you?”
Yes. As it happens I used it to help me murder a barrister back in England.
“Fine. Yes. How much?”
“Normally it’s fifty a bottle, but since you gave me the dope insult, I’ll let you have it for forty-five. K?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
Leaving the revolver in her jacket pocket, Stella counted out the cash. She offered it to him but he shook his head.
“Not to me. To my man, here.”
Stella handed second guy the cash, whereupon first guy unhooked a daysack and rootled around inside before handing over a small plastic bottle of colourless liquid.
The deal done, nods were exchanged and Stella hurried away, out of the lot and back to her car, cursing the cold as she walked.
63
Star of the North
After kissing her husband goodbye and watching through the front window as he drove off, Lynne Collier took a leisurely shower before dressing. One of her new neighbours had invited her round for coffee later that morning, and she was looking forward to the company. At first, the move to Chicago had been exciting. And putting geographical distance between herself and her old life – and her old sadness – had worked. For a time. But when Adam had spent his two weeks at Quantico, she had moped around the house, run errands, attended the initial flurry of “welcome, neighbour” coffee mornings and jogged around the neighbourhood in an effort to distract herself. But without the routine demands of her job, she had begun to sink into depression. Theo was always in her thoughts. Why wouldn’t he be? He was her only child. Her brave, beautiful boy.
Adam took pains to reassure her that she’d soon feel better and that, if he could swing it, he intended to apply for a permanent position with the FBI. And failing that, the Chicago Police Department. She’d agreed that the more space they could put between themselves and his former colleagues the better. Even if the detective with the vigilante complex was dead, it was still preferable to be thousands of miles away from the world of the Met and the possibility of his being investigated.
So when she’d bumped into another ex-pat, and a woman at that, in Whole Foods Market, it had seemed that here was a chance to do something about her own life, not just his.
At 8.23 a.m., her phone rang. Checking the caller ID she saw it was Jen. She smiled. Maybe things really were changing. She permitted herself a small flicker of happiness.
“Hi, Jen, how are you?”
The voice at the other end of the line was anything but happy. Jen either was, or had just been, crying.
“Oh, Lynne, I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I’ve just had such terrible news. It’s my parents. They were killed in a car crash yesterday. A lorry on the M1. My sister texted me last night. I don’t suppose I could come over, could I? Only I don’t know anyone else in Chicago and I—”
“You poor thing. Come over now. Right now. Drive carefully.”
Lynne put the kettle on. While it was boiling, she called her neighbour and cried off the coffee morning. She felt a thrill of anticipation. It wasn’t that she was pleased her new friend had just lost her parents. It was just that, for once, she could help someone else cope with their grief instead of the other way round.
She’d just laid out some cakes and the tea things when the doorbell rang. Frowning, she checked her watch. Only ten minutes had passed. She went to the front door and opened it.
There stood Jen, red eyed, pale, hair standing up in damp spikes.
“I was already nearly here when I thought I’d better call you, in case you were busy or something. I’m sorry if I’m early.”
Lynne pulled her across the threshold, kicked the door to behind her as a blast of freezing air forced its way into the hall, and drew her into a hug.
“It’s fine. You’re here. That’s the important thing. Now, let’s get your coat off and then we can sit down in the kitchen.”
Jen looked a mess. Without makeup, she looked like a lost child, not a grown woman. Her eyes flicked here and there, hardly settling on anything for more than a few seconds. Lynne decided to take charge.
“Here,” she said, pouring tea into two identical dove-grey mugs. “Drink some of this and then tell me what happened.”
“Thanks, mate,” Jen said with a sniff. She fiddled around inside the cuff of her cardigan and frowned. “Have you got a tissue please? I must have used up a whole box last night.”
“Of course. Stay right there.”
Lynne rose from her chair and hurried off to the downstairs bathroom. She returned with a peach-and-yellow box of tissues to find Jen sitting in exactly the same position as when she’d left the room. Her gaze hadn’t shifted. She was still looking down at the surface of her tea.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked.
Jen looked up, her face impassive. Lynne recognised the symptoms. Her own grief had taken her so hard it had shocked her into immobility for hours at a time. She drank some of her tea while she waited for Jen to speak.
“They were driving to see an old friend of theirs in Derbyshire. The weather was lovely according to Frankie. She’s my sister. Then according to the accident report, this huge purple lorry just swerved across three lanes and smashed into their car. Dad was driving and he lost control and they hit the crash barrier and the car turned over. It, it—” she sobbed. A loud, broken cry in the silence of the kitchen. “It caught fire. They were burned to death!”
Lynne reached across the table and gently placed her hand on Jen’s shoulder.
“I am so, so sorry. How, just, how awful.” She took another gulp of her tea. “When are you going back to England?”
“As soon as I can get a flight, I suppose. Frankie said she’ll meet me at Heathrow.”
Lynne watched her as she took a sip of her tea, then emptied her mug in one go. Lynne matched her, wanting to find a way to help but also needing something to do. She stood.
“Shall I make some more tea?”
“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”
Lynne moved to the counter, bumping her hip on the corner of the table. While she refilled the kettle, she asked a question over her shoulder, just to keep Jen talking.
“How long had they been married, your, um … your parents?”
“Oh, you know, bloody ages! They had their golden wedding last year. We did this huge banner for the party. Marilyn and Ronnie. 50 Magic Years.”
Lynne sat back down at the table while she waited for the kettle to boil. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth.
“Try to cling onto that happy memory, Jen. It’s import— Oh.”
A cold gust of nausea had flushed through her like the wind that blew off Lake Michigan.
“Are you all right?” Jen asked, from far away.
“Yes, fine. I just felt a little faint there for a, you know … That teapot must have boiled by now.”
“I’ll do it,” Jen said. “You just stay where you are. You look a little pale.”
“I’m five. Fine. I’m fine. I just need to —”
During the time she’d been in North America, Stella had grown accustomed to long-distance travel. So the five-and-a-half-hour drive from Chicago to Preston, Minnesota felt like a breeze. She’d checked out of her hotel early that same morning, made a few purchases at a hardware store, then used the ladies’ room in a nearby branch of Starbucks to mess up her face and hair before driving up to Lincoln Park. Her only stop had been at a tyre place where she’d had winter rubber fitted.
Once the GHB had done its work on Lynne Collier, Stella had guided her into the rental car and driven straight out of the city on I-90. Finding a quiet spot to the rear of a retail park, she stopped the car and transferred Lynne’s cable-tied form to the trunk. She’d taken care to fill it with a thick duvet and a spare down-filled jacket, so it made a comfy bed for her hostage. She wrapped her up and slid a knitted bobble hat way down over her ears then drove carefully through the northwestern suburbs: Avondale, Irving Park, Jefferson Park, Norwood Park, Rosemont. She watched the city disappear behind her and drove on, into the Illinois countryside.
The place she’d selected was so remote and so small, the mapmakers hadn’t even bothered to name it. Minnesota might be a state of a million lakes for all she knew, but if they had names, they were too big. Too likely to have some eager beaver fisherman towing an ice hut onto the frozen surface. No. Stella wanted privacy.
She pulled into the courtyard of the Motel L’Etoile du Nord at 3.35 p.m. The sky was a uniform whitish-grey and looked to offer no more than an hour or so of daylight. Despite the cold, she chose the spot furthest from the office. If Lynne woke and started kicking out, the noise wouldn’t carry far enough. She paid cash for a single night and returned to the car with the unit key. She popped the trunk to find that Lynne was snoring loudly, curled foetally under the down jacket.
After unlocking the unit and lugging her bags inside, Stella reached down into the trunk and brushed the back of her index finger along Lynne’s cheek. The woman stirred and mumbled something.
“Hey,” Stella said. “Lynne. Time to go. I can’t leave you out here, you’ll catch your death.”
“What?” Lynne’s eyes, gummy and red, opened. “Where are we?”
“Preston, Minnesota. Come on. Up you get.”
Stella leaned over, grabbed Lynne under her armpits and hauled her into a sitting position. Then she worked her legs over the lip of the trunk and cut the cable ties around her ankles with a pair of scissors. With a bit more encouragement, both verbal and physical, Lynne tottered into the cabin, where she collapsed onto the double bed, face up.