by Andy Maslen
Various therapists have tried to help her. But one after another they have all given up. The usual explanation is that the trauma prevented her from making any long-term memories.
She opened her eyes and wiped away the tears that had wetted her cheeks. She ground her teeth together. With Brömly dead, she’d have to work fast. If the others had any sense, they’d be talking precautions now.
She pulled up the second profile she was working on and looked at the woman’s kindly face. She looked like a grandma. One who baked kanellbullar for her grandchildren and pinched their cheeks, rosy with cold after a morning sledging at Mormor’s house.
She read the first line:
Inger Hedlund, 73. Former govt. lawyer.
‘Brömly is gone. Now you, Advokat Hedlund, will know something of the pain you caused,’ she said aloud in her empty flat.
7
London
The next morning, Stella looked over Jamie’s shoulder as he read the paper on his iPad. When she reached the sentence about the mutilation, she swore loudly.
‘Bloody Roisin Griffin! I’ll kill her, Jamie, I swear to god!’
He turned away from the screen and held her by the hips, pulling her towards him.
‘You don’t know it was her,’ he said.
‘Yes. I do. She was the mole when we were hunting Robey and I bollocked her then. Now she’s up to her old tricks again.’
‘It could have been anyone. Didn’t you say the cleaner found his body?’
‘Yes, but— ’
‘Couldn’t she have been approached by the media?’
‘She was interviewed and advised not to reveal that detail to anyone.’
‘She’s probably not making much money, even if her Mayfair clients do pay above the minimum wage,’ he said. ‘If the Guardian waved some cash under her nose and promised anonymity, she might well have decided it wouldn’t hurt to sell the story.’
‘Don’t be so bloody reasonable!’
‘I work in a caring profession, what can I say? I see every side of a person’s character. Anyway, the article doesn’t say which body part, so you can screen out the attention-seekers who ring in to confess.’
Stella conceded the point with a kiss. But inside she was still fuming.
‘Got to go. Have a good day. See you at mine tonight?’
‘Is it Friday?’
‘It is.’
‘And are we spending the weekend together in London?’
She poked him in the chest, grinning. ‘We are.’
‘Well then. I’ll see you at yours. I’ll buy a nice bottle of wine.’
‘What makes you think I haven’t got a nice bottle of wine already?’
‘I think you’ll have a bottle of wine. But I feel like celebrating. I’ll go to that independent wine merchant on Marylebone High Street.’
‘All right. I’ll be home as soon as I can manage.’
On the ride in to work, Stella turned over Jamie’s words in her head. On one level, the purely rational level, she knew he was right. Well, she knew he was right that it could have been anyone.
But anyone also included Detective Inspector Roisin-bloody-Griffin. Plus there was the small matter of the non-rational part of Stella’s brain. The intuitive, emotional part that could see beyond the surface to what lay beneath.
If Brömly had been trying to atone for some sin of the past, she doubted it could be worse than hers. Thirteen people dead by her hand, in a variety of MOs ranging from straightforward shootings to methods altogether more medieval.
She pushed the thought aside, because it was always followed by the same horrible idea. That one day, she would have to confess to Jamie what she’d done.
Her feelings for him were the real thing. And although she hadn’t used the L-word, either to him or to herself, she knew that was the truth of it. She loved him. And she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. But the idea of confessing – that word again – to being a multiple murderer?
How could he stay with her after that? Even if her actions had been sanctioned at the highest level, he couldn’t look at her the same way again after that. Could he?
Overtaking a string of London-bound commuters with a flick of her wrist, she focused on the immediate future instead. Specifically the meeting she had planned with Roisin.
The meeting took place at 8.43 a.m., as soon as Roisin appeared in SIU. Stella beckoned her over to her office.
‘Close the door,’ she said.
Roisin sat facing Stella, arms folded. Ignoring the dangerous look on her DI’s face, Stella flopped a copy of that day’s Guardian in front of her, folded to the page with the report of Brömly’s murder. Roisin glanced at it then back at Stella.
‘Am I supposed to know what’s going on?’
‘A body part resting on a Bible. The one detail I wanted keeping back. And there it is in black and white.’
Roisin’s eyes flashed. ‘What, and you think I leaked it. Is that it?’
Stella’s pulse was bumping uncomfortably in her throat. ‘Well did you?’
‘No! I didn’t. And it doesn’t say tongue, does it?’
‘No. And that’s about the only mercy, to coin a phrase, in the whole thing. I told you before what would happen if you crossed me.’
‘Yes, you did,’ Roisin said, raising her voice to match Stella’s. ‘And I haven’t. It could have been anyone. You know what crime scenes are like. How many CSIs were in that flat? Uniforms milling about? The photographer? Dozens of people saw that disgusting thing. So why are you picking on me again?’
Stella couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She let her temper have its head. ‘Why? Why do you think? You were taking bundles of cash in brown envelopes from that shitbag at the Sun, that’s why!’
Rosh jerked her chair back and stood up.
‘I don’t have to listen to this. You’re totally out of line. I’m going to complain to my Fed rep.’
‘Good! Do that! And while you’re about it, tell them you’ve been kicked off this case. Now get out.’
Roisin slammed the door so hard the noise made Stella’s ears ring. She watched Rosh storm over to her desk, grab her things and then march out of SIU.
Her pulse was racing and she felt sick. Ordinarily she’d make for the ladies to splash water on her face, but she had a shrewd idea Rosh would have beaten her to it. Instead, ignoring the worried glances directed at her, she headed straight for Callie’s office.
Callie looked up with a smile. It vanished as Stella pulled out the visitor chair from under the desk and fell into it.
‘What’s up, wee girl? You look like you lost a tenner and found a severed tongue in your handbag.’
Stella laughed despite her roiling emotions. She wasn’t at all sure Callie’s bizarre image wasn’t preferable to what had just happened. She explained how she’d just blown up at Roisin and booted her off the case. As she relayed the details, the certainty she’d felt on the ride in to work disappeared. In its place, a sick feeling that she may have completely over-reacted.
She watched Callie’s face for a sign. But her boss was as inscrutable as ever. Her deep-red lips a straight line. Her eyes giving nothing away. Her complexion pale, as it always was.
Stella cracked first.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘What do you think?’
Callie leaned forward and steepled her fingers under her nose.
‘You’re a DCI. You’re an SIO. I can’t think of any more bits of alphabet soup but I’m sure you’ve got some. I know you and Roisin never saw eye to eye. She’ll create a bit of a fuss, but I’ll try to contain it.’
‘I can’t work with her anymore. I want her gone.’
‘Leave it with me. I need to figure out how best to contain the fallout.’
‘Speaking of fallout, she said she was going to talk to her Fed rep.’
Now Callie did smile. Briefly.
‘Aye, well they all say that, don’t they?
Look, Stel. You get results, which is what I care about,’ she said. ‘Leave Roisin to me. I’ll have a word with her. Maybe I can iron things out.’
As it turned out, Callie’s ironing took care of itself. An hour after Stella left her office, her desk phone rang.
‘Ma’am, I’ve got Assistant Commissioner Fairhill for you.’
Callie stood. Always better to have room to breathe when the brass called you. Funny. She knew as far as SIU was concerned, she was the brass. But nobody in the Job could look up and see clean air. A snatch of a poem her mum used to take pleasure in reciting came back to her now. Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.
Callie stopped trying to puzzle out where in the flea biting-order she belonged.
‘What can I do for you, Ma’am?’
‘It’s bit of an odd one, actually. Could you come down to Scotland Yard? I’d rather explain in person.’
Half an hour later, Callie found herself sitting opposite Rachel Fairhill in her luxurious fifth-floor office. A desk the size of a tennis court dominated the light, airy room. In front of it, not one but three black leather chairs waited for a visitor to choose between them.
In a mark of the Met’s architectural as well as organisational hierarchy, AC Fairhill also had space for a circular conference table that would seat six. A leather sofa and two matching armchairs grouped informally around a steel-and-glass coffee table completed the furnishings.
Rachel gestured for Callie to take one of the chairs at the conference table, and joined her there after a brief handshake. Rachel pushed a petrol-blue folder forward.
Callie opened the folder. The first sheet of paper inside bore a logo that immediately piqued her curiosity. A blue-and-gold seal enclosing a red-and-white-striped shield surmounted by the scales of justice. The design was strong, eye-catching, and familiar to anyone with half an interest in American law enforcement, let alone a senior Met detective. The legend spelled it out for the rest.
DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
Callie’s brain went into overdrive. Why was Rachel showing her an FBI file? A nasty memory, which she tried to keep buried, scrabbled its way upwards into her consciousness.
Adam Collier, correction, the late and unlamented Detective Chief Superintendent Adam Collier, had transferred to the FBI Field Office in Chicago seven years earlier. Stella had gone after him. And whilst she’d never explicitly told Callie what had happened, her meaning was unambiguous. Collier would never be returning to the UK to cause trouble.
To the right of the FBI seal, the letterhead proclaimed the memo, or whatever it was, had come from the desk of Edward H. Baxter, Special Agent-in-Charge, FBI Chicago Field Office.
She turned it over.
The next document, a full-colour photo, occupied her for much longer. A human skeleton on a stainless steel autopsy table, labelled John Doe. She moved it to one side. The next sheet bore a similar photo, this time labelled Jane Doe.
She turned over once more. A black SUV, clearly one that had not been looked after, sat in what appeared to be an inspection bay of some kind. Its windscreen was shattered.
The final set of images showed two handguns. Turning back to the autopsy photos, Callie looked up at her boss, eyebrows raised in question, not trusting herself to speak.
‘I had a call yesterday evening from SAC Baxter,’ Fairhill said. ‘He insisted I call him Eddie. You’re looking at the skeletons of Adam and Lynne Collier.’
Callie’s gasp was entirely natural. If Stella had been clear about Adam, she had been entirely opaque about Lynne’s fate. Callie felt a pang of shame. Nobody had given any thought to Collier’s wife. That included her. The focus, and the urgency, of the op had all been on erasing Pro Patria Mori from the face of the earth.
‘Are they asking for our help, then?’ Callie asked.
Rachel nodded. ‘They’ve requested someone senior to fly out there. I want you to send Roisin Griffin.’
Callie managed to maintain an expression of professionalism and calm. But inside she was panicking. Sending the one DI who regarded Stella as her enemy – Oh, yes, she’d heard plenty of canteen gossip to know the truth of it – could bring the whole edifice of secrecy crashing down about their heads. Not to mention putting Stella in a situation from which there were no good exits.
The fact that Stella had just thrown her off the Brömly case added petrol to an already merrily burning fire.
‘Callie?’ Fairhill was looking at her with raised eyebrows.
‘Sorry. It’s just we’re understaffed as it is and Roisin’s a great detective. I’m not sure we can manage without her.’
It was a lie, but a necessary one. Out of the two evils, having Roisin inside the team causing trouble was infinitely preferable to have her doing the same thing but from the outside.
‘I know you took a hit in the last budget round, but needs must. Send DI Griffin to see me this morning.’
Outside in the fresh air again, Callie drew in a breath and exhaled noisily. She permitted herself a brief expletive, drawing the curious gazes of a couple of police staff re-entering the building. A black Jaguar XF saloon drew up beside her with a whisper of rubber on hot tarmac. She climbed into the back seat, grateful for the aircon.
‘Back to Paddington Green, Ma’am?’ the driver asked.
‘Yes, please, Bash. Take the scenic route, though, eh?’
Kamal “Bash” Bashir had been with her for five years now, and had a good driver’s ability to sense when his boss needed to talk and when she wanted quiet. He used it now.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked as he nodded to the gate guard and joined the southbound traffic on the Victoria Embankment.
‘You know when people say they’re between a rock and a hard place? From where I’ve just been put, a rock-and-hard-place sandwich looks like a bloody nice place to be.’
‘That bad, eh?’
Under stress, Callie’s refined Edinburgh tones slid towards the rougher tones of the docks down in Leith. They did so now.
‘Och, Bash, ye’ve no bloody idea!’
‘You want me to recite the Serenity Prayer?’
‘Ye want me to kick you up the bloody arse?’
Bash laughed. He pulled away from the traffic lights holding them back from Hyde Park and drove west along Birdcage Walk. As they cruised down the tree-lined avenue, Callie compiled a mental pro/con chart for Rachel’s news.
Pro
It gets Roisin out of Stella’s hair for a bit.
Roisin feels she’s got a high-profile case all to herself.
She gets to salve her wounded pride.
Callie gets a tick from the Assistant Commissioner.
Roisin is a solid but unexceptional DI: maybe she’ll come up empty-handed.
Con
Where do we bloody start?
The FB-bloody-I have just found Adam-bloody-Collier’s bones.
And his wife’s.
AC Rachel Fairhill has sent Stella’s sworn enemy to investigate.
The FBI are giving her her very own Junior Special Agent Kit.
Roisin might be unexceptional but she is dogged, and extremely highly motivated.
The whole shit-show is coming back to the UK.
Where I, Gordon Wade and god knows who else will be royally screwed.
When Bash dropped her at Paddington Green, Callie did not return immediately to her office. Instead, she walked up Edgware Road for a few hundred yards until she found a quiet little side street. She turned into it and continued until she found a tiny park, enclosed on all four sides by black iron railings.
In the centre of the park stood a graffitied bandstand, a relic of an earlier age, when folk might congregate on a Sunday afternoon to sing along to patriotic songs. Its sole purpose nowadays was as a meeting place for kids bunking off school and, at night, winos and druggies. At this time of day, though, it was deserted.
Callie pulled out her phone and called her old boss, Gordon Wade.
‘We’ve got trouble,’ she said, as soon as he answered.
‘Explain.’
She explained.
‘Can you keep it contained?’
‘I’m not sure. I think it’s going to end up back here.’
Wade paused for a few seconds, and she could hear his breathing down the crystal-clear line.
‘Then we have no choice. Cole gets burned.’
‘We can’t just throw her to the wolves! The media’ll take her to pieces. It could kill her. You know what happened before.’
‘Aye, I do. And I also know the committee agreed to suppress it. For ever, hopefully,’ he said. ‘But if anything popped up from the mire—’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I’m sorry, Callie. It’s the only way.’
She knew he was right about disavowing Stella. In her head, if not her heart. Writing her off as a maverick cop with a vigilante complex was the safest course of action. But she also felt the bitterest sense of being a betrayer of the woman she regarded as a friend.
Callie agreed to go through with the contingency plan, and ended the call.
On the short walk back to Paddington Green, she reflected ruefully on the discussions that had occupied her time a few years back. She’d argued vehemently that they should protect Stella. But, in the end, the bigger fleas had simply bitten back harder.
Several hundred miles to the north, Wade called a contact on a freshly purchased burner phone.
‘We may have trouble.’
‘PPM?’
‘What else?’
‘God, will it ever end?’
‘Cole could be exposed. They’ve found the Colliers.’
‘Would she talk if they arrest her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Better not take any chances, then.’
‘Disavowal?’
‘I think we both know that’s not watertight. She needs to go. Permanently.’