A Beautiful Breed of Evil (The DI Stella Cole Thrillers Book 5)

by Andy Maslen

  At 8.30 a.m., she called her best friend and arranged to drop by an hour later. Vicky Riley was a journalist.

  The first time they’d met, Stella had thought she’d been having an affair with Richard. It transpired that, before Richard’s death, she’d been working with him on a piece that would have exposed the rats’ nest of PPM conspirators.

  They’d silenced Richard and made an attempt to frighten Vicky off, too. She’d helped Stella go after the conspiracy’s leaders. Over the months and years that followed, they’d grown close.

  Vicky opened the front door and smiled. Then she frowned.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Frowning with concern, Vicky hugged her then pulled her inside and closed the door. Stella followed her into the kitchen. Vicky had married her fiancé the previous year. Her new life suited her. Still slender, with a bum Stella was openly envious of, she was more relaxed and had lost some of the anxiety creases around her eyes. She’d had her long blonde hair cut into a choppy short style that emphasised her cheekbones and china-blue eyes.

  Damien was sitting at the table, mug of tea at his elbow, staring at his laptop. He rose from his chair when Stella appeared. Coming round the table he hugged her.

  ‘How’s our favourite murder detective?’ he asked, his Yorkshire accent unaltered by his time living in London.

  She forced a smile. ‘Off to Sweden this afternoon.’

  Damien smiled. ‘So you’re an international murder detective now. Maybe I should get our features department to do a profile for the Saturday paper.’

  Stella glanced at Vicky, and was glad to see she picked up the message.

  ‘Leave Stel alone, darling. In fact, shouldn’t you be off to work? The Guardian won’t write itself, you know.’

  He grunted as he slapped his laptop shut. ‘Huh. The way AI’s going, it probably will before too long.’

  She grinned at him. ‘Yeah, but an AI can’t get drunk with politicians until three in the morning, can it?’

  Once Damien had gone, slamming the front door behind him, Vicky poured Stella some tea from the big brown pot on the table. She looked at Stella, arching her eyebrows.

  ‘PPM isn’t dead,’ Stella said, simply.

  Vicky’s eyes popped wide open.

  ‘What? I thought—’

  ‘That’s the problem. I did kill them all.’

  ‘Then what? I don’t understand?’

  Stella explained what had happened.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Stella shrugged. Even though her plight was just as bad as before, telling Vicky had punched a hole in the lowering grey clouds that had gathered over her head. A few rays of sunshine speared through, showing her a possible route.

  ‘Keep on working the case. Hope Rosh comes up with nothing that links me to their deaths. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  Stella looked up at the ceiling then back at Vicky. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. If she comes up with any evidence linking me to the murders, she’ll want it splashed all over the media. It’ll make her career. But the people pulling her strings want the exact opposite.’

  Vicky nodded. ‘They’d hardly want you in the witness box on murder charges. Too risky.’ Then her expression changed. Her mouth dropped open. ‘You think they’re going to try to kill you, don’t you?’

  There! Vicky had externalised what, until now, had been one of the blackest thoughts to have entered Stella’s mind for years.

  She nodded. ‘I do. Callie pretty much admitted it.’

  ‘But they can’t! After all you did for them. They should have given you a bloody medal or a pension for life.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the way their minds work.’

  ‘Bastards!’ Vicky spat out. Then she smiled. A sly expression like the one she employed when ordering another round of cocktails when they both had work the next day.

  ‘What?’ Stella asked.

  ‘I know what to do. How to protect you.’

  ‘How? And don’t say expose them. It won’t work and I’ll be as much in the spotlight as them.’

  Vicky shook her head, then ran her hand through her hair again.

  ‘That’s not what I mean, although it does involve my journalistic skills, which, as I think you know, are incredible!’

  Stella laughed. ‘OK, Mrs Pulitzer Prize, what do you mean, then?’

  Over the next twenty minutes Vicky outlined a plan to keep Stella safe for the rest of her life. And, as she outlined each stage, Stella felt more holes being punched through the leaden clouds over her head until the sun burnt off the remaining tatters and flooded the kitchen with light.

  14

  Chicago

  Roisin scanned the reception area. So this was the FBI. She felt a low-level buzz of adrenaline as she waited for SAC Baxter to come and collect her.

  Sharply-dressed agents marched through the gleaming white space. If the dress code for the Feds had eased up, as the briefing she’d read on the plane suggested, it must have been in incredibly subtle ways.

  The men all wore conservatively cut two-piece suits in a rainbow of shades from navy through charcoal to black. White shirts predominated and the ties were, if it was possible, even less flamboyant than the suits. Black, navy and grey were favourites, though she did see one guy sporting a burgundy number.

  For the women, the memo must have been headed: You can’t go wrong in a trouser suit. She supposed trousers were more practical. But these girls really needed to lighten up. Presumably trying to outdo the men, they stuck to a sober palette taking in black, gun metal and dark tobacco with an occasional beige number to lighten the mix.

  For the ones wearing skirts, American Tan tights were the order of the day, slipped into sensible low-heeled court shoes.

  She glanced at a couple of bulging jackets and oddly-kinked jacket flaps. Then it hit her. Every bloody person in the building was carrying a gun. No need for urgent calls to SCO19 here. You needed tactical support? You were tactical support. Would she be issued with a gun? Or, what did they call them, a sidearm? She thought about it briefly and realised she was hoping the answer was yes.

  A cheerful male voice snapped her out of her nine-millimetre calibre daydream.

  ‘Detective Griffin?’

  She looked towards the source of the greeting and stood. Striding across the polished floor towards her was a man in his late forties. His ginger hair was a few shades lighter than her own, and immaculately cut, parted with laser-like precision on the left. His moustache gave him the look of a country and western singer. He was smiling. One of those dazzling American smiles: all teeth, underpinned by a genuine good humour towards visitors.

  He shook her hand.

  ‘I’m Special Agent-in-Charge Baxter. But please, call me Eddie.’

  She smiled. He was an easy man to smile at.

  ‘Thanks, Eddie. Roisin.’

  ‘Hey, Roisin,’ he said, not stumbling at all over the Christian name so many of her British colleagues seemed to find incomprehensible, despite only being two syllables long. ‘Welcome to Chicago, and welcome to the Federal Bureau of Investigations.’

  He led her over to a set of lifts – Elevators, she mentally corrected herself – and a few minutes later they were sitting in a light, airy office on the top floor of the building.

  He arranged coffee and biscuits – Cookies, Rosh! – and motioned for her to take a seat at a table by a plate-glass window that gave onto an expanse of manicured parkland that stretched to W. Roosevelt Road.

  After a couple of minutes of small talk, he pushed the conversation into a higher gear.

  ‘You’ve read the file, so you know where we’re at. What else can I tell you?’

  Roisin had spent most of the eight-and-a-half-hour flight thinking about how best to work the investigation.

  ‘Can you take me to the crime scene?’

  He nodded. ‘Not personally. To
o much admin, I’m afraid. But after we’re done here, I’ll introduce you to the agent I’ve assigned to you for the duration of your stay.’

  ‘Where’s the SUV you recovered?’

  ‘We have a fully equipped auto analysis facility on site.’

  ‘Has it been examined?’

  ‘Only superficially. Once we realised the bodies were Adam and Lynne, I put everything on hold.’

  At his use of their Christian names, Roisin remembered something Rachel Fairhill had said to her. Adam had been seconded to the FBI at Eddie’s invitation.

  ‘I’m sorry, by the way,’ she said. ‘I know you and Adam knew each other.’

  He grimaced. ‘Thank you. We weren’t close friends. But, honestly? It’s been quite a few years since he came out here. Things move on, you know?’

  She nodded. ‘Are the guns here, too?’

  ‘In our ballistics lab.’

  ‘Can I see them, too?’

  ‘Sure you can. I’ve arranged for you to have full access to the evidence locker, the armoury, the works.’

  ‘Thank you. One last thing. Will I be issued with a firearm while I’m out here?’

  His ginger eyebrows flickered upwards. With surprise, she assumed, But he hid it well.

  ‘I thought you Brit cops were all anti-gun?’

  She grinned and thickened up her accent. ‘Well, for a start, I’m Irish. A proper Colleen. And also, some of us believe in protecting ourselves.’

  The reality had nothing to do with self-defence. Roisin doubted she’d be allowed to get anywhere near trouble while under the care of the FBI. She just wanted to know what it felt like to walk around with a pistol on her hip.

  Eddie grinned back.

  ‘Do you have any experience with firearms?’

  ‘I have my Met firearms proficiency certification. I keep it up to date. I brought it with me, if you want to see it.’

  He smiled. ‘There are some formalities to go through, but we can issue a temporary permit and a sidearm for you while you’re here. You won’t be able to carry it unless an FBI agent is accompanying you.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thanks, Eddie.’

  ‘All right then. Any more questions at this stage?’

  Roisin shook her head, making sure she kept her eyes on Eddie and powering up the gaze her sisters called the Green Lantern.

  ‘None for now.’

  He reached for his desk phone. ‘Let me call Simone and she can give you the tour.’

  He spoke briefly then replaced the handset. ‘She’ll just be a couple of minutes. One other thing. How are you fixed for tonight?’

  She shrugged. ‘Eating in my hotel, I guess. Early night. I hadn’t really thought.’

  ‘Let me take you to dinner.’

  She glanced at his left hand. Saw a gold band. ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Sure. We can discuss the case. I’ll make sure you get some of the best food Chinatown has to offer before you depart for the land of a thousand cheeses.’

  ‘Thanks. I look forward to it.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at your hotel at six-thirty.’

  Roisin remembered that Americans reputedly ate early. Eddie’s suggestion confirmed it.

  At a knock on the door, Eddie rose from his chair. ‘That’ll be Simone.’

  He opened the door to admit a striking black woman. She stood at least six feet in her heels, which meant she towered over Eddie.

  Smiling broadly, she came to shake Roisin’s hand.

  ‘Hi. Special Agent Simone King.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Roisin Griffin. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Oh, you have such a great accent,’ Simone said.

  Roisin smiled. She felt like a visiting member of the Royal Family instead of a DI for the Met’s unlovely outpost in Paddington.

  Agreeing to meet Eddie in the lobby of her hotel, Roisin let Simone lead her away and back towards the elevators.

  Visiting the evidence store meant a trip out of the main building along a covered walkway to a separate facility, where Simone escorted Roisin through three levels of security.

  After introducing her to the supervisor, Simone requested the two handguns from the Collier case. She led Roisin along a corridor to a locked room she accessed with her swipe card. There, she laid the guns on a table topped with white laminate.

  Seeing the guns, Roisin’s heart rate accelerated. She was looking at the weapons used to kill Adam and Lynne Collier.

  Simone pulled out a chair and sat down, gesturing for Roisin to join her. She put on a pair of nitrile gloves, got Roisin to do the same, then picked up the larger of the two guns and handed it to Roisin.

  ‘Know what that is?’

  Roisin turned the gun this way and that. It weighed more than she’d expected. She found the mass of it reassuring. She inspected the barrel and found the maker’s engraved logo.

  ‘Glock 22?’

  ‘Chambered for .40 calibre Smith & Wesson rounds. This is the gun used to kill Lynne Collier.’

  Roisin picked up the smaller gun. Its steel parts were dull with age but it was clean and undamaged. Compared to the bulky, squared-off Glock, it felt like a child’s toy. About half the weight of the pistol, it sat snugly in her hand. She wondered what sort of bullets it took.

  As if reading her mind, Simone pointed at the cylinder.

  ‘You’ve got five .38 Special rounds in there.’

  ‘How close would you have to be to be sure of killing someone with a gun like this?’

  Simone shrugged. ‘It depends what kind of a shot you are. This thing’ll group at five inches out to fifty yards if you’re good enough. But if I wanted to be sure? And I was under stress? In a fast-moving situation? The closer the better. Certainly no more than ten yards. Probably less.’

  ‘Do you have a theory as to how it happened? I’ve studied the schematics and the whole thing just looks weird.’

  Simone nodded and smiled at Roisin.

  ‘I know, right? Two weapons, two bodies. Everyone at Preston PD assumed it was a murder suicide, or a suicide pact. But when I started looking at it, the whole thing fell apart pretty rapidly.’

  Roisin nodded excitedly. Simone had voiced her own thoughts. If Adam had shot Lynne first with the Glock, that would account for the .40 S&W round recovered from her skeleton.

  But then he would have had to switch to the Airweight to account for the .38 Special inside his skull. So why was the Airweight recovered outside the SUV?

  Then again, if Lynne had shot herself with the Glock, she couldn’t have gone on to shoot Adam with the Airweight. And if it was a suicide pact, why not sit together in the SUV? And why drive out onto the ice?

  ‘So the only explanation that makes sense is—’ Roisin said.

  ‘A third shooter,’ they said together.

  Grinning, Simone got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’

  Bemused, Roisin followed Simone along the corridor, where she dropped off the Glock and the Airweight at the counter.

  Simone stopped off at her desk and picked up a cardboard carton from underneath. From the way she lifted it, Roisin didn’t think it could be too heavy. It certainly wasn’t full of more hardware, even if that had been allowed, much less stacked with documentation.

  15

  Stockholm

  Whether it was the hotel bed, or the distance she’d put between her and the troubles she’d left behind in London, Stella slept better than she had for days.

  She checked her phone on waking. No messages from Jamie. Again. Sighed. Holding to her vow of silence was proving hard. She sent a quick text.

  How are you?

  Uncertain of the Swedish police dress code for detectives, but feeling a degree of decorum from a visiting Met DCI was appropriate, she dressed in a smart navy jacket and khakis over burgundy loafers.

  Her white shirt was crisp from the iron in the hotel room. She even stood for a minute by the lift, buffing the tops of her shoes under the shoe polishing machine.

&
nbsp; After a hurried breakfast of toast and peanut butter plus an apple from a glass bowl overflowing with fruit, she headed out for the headquarters of the Swedish Police Authority on Kungsholmsgatan.

  Halfway to the station, she began to wonder whether she’d have been better off getting a cab. The heat was intense and it was only eighty-thirty in the morning. Her shirt was sticking to her back and inside her trousers her legs were prickling with sweat.

  Hoping for some shade, she crossed into a park called Kronobergsparken. Landscaped with rolling hills and plenty of broad-branched trees, it offered a respite from the sun and a shortcut to the SPA building. Ten minutes later, having crossed the park via a series of winding tarmac paths, she arrived at the main entrance. The HQ consisted of a whole block of buildings, faced in red granite panels.

  Oskar came down to reception to meet her and ten minutes later she was sitting at his left hand in a large conference room filled with Swedish cops. Stella glanced around, noting that the uniformed cops wore sidearms on their hips. Presumably the detectives wore weapons too, in shoulder holsters. Or on their belts. Oskar stood.

  ‘Good morning everyone,’ he said, speaking English. ‘Before we start, I’d like to welcome Detective Chief Inspector Stella Cole. She’s from the Met in London and she’s leading their investigation into the murder of Ambassador Brömly.’

  The assembled cops offered a variety of greetings, all in English, accompanied by smiles and nods.

  Stella felt embarrassed by the Swedes’ language skills. She couldn’t have introduced Oskar to SIU in Swedish and, even if she had, how many of her team could have welcomed him in his mother tongue? She knew the answer. None. She resolved to learn as much Swedish as she could during her stay. No time like the present, she thought.