If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (12 page)

Stark felt as if he was trapped in some terrible game of hospital hokey-cokey. Maggie got him a lift to Lewisham, taking the opportunity to call him ‘sweetie’ again. He might have to address that before the rest of the station joined in. His tramp round the hospital in search of the police suite put a sufficient sheen of sweat on his brow to satisfy the DCI that he
had
run. He thought longingly of food, and the pills he’d not taken. Fran frowned at his appearance and stepped outside to watch proceedings on the monitor. Like most, Lewisham Hospital had a dedicated police room equipped with interview-recording equipment.

Stark settled into the chair next to Groombridge, who switched on the camera.

‘Interview continued with suspect calling himself Harry Maggs, twelve twenty-five, Saturday, May the sixteenth, 2009, police interview room, Lewisham University Hospital. Present, Harry Maggs, DCI Groombridge, Dr Hassife Shamir and arresting officer Constable Joseph Stark. The suspect has been read his rights in full and confirmed his understanding of same. The suspect is detained pending charge relating to the death of Kyle Gibbs. The suspect has been offered legal counsel and refused. Mr Maggs, can you please confirm your full name?’

Maggs stirred but said nothing, glaring at Stark.

‘You have been officially made aware of your rights, Mr Maggs. Silence will not work in your favour. Is your name Harry Maggs, yes or no?’

‘Get him to ask me.’ The jerk of Maggs’s head indicated Stark.

Groombridge made an after-you gesture at Stark, with a look of displeasure.

‘Dirty Harry,’ said Stark. ‘Am I right?’ Maggs stared, sizing him up. ‘Dirty Maggs, army nickname?’ Maggs’s stare continued and Stark waited. Some people couldn’t let a silence go unfilled, though he suspected Maggs probably wasn’t among them. He was about to press on when Maggs appeared to make his mind up.

‘Harry to my mates,’ he said gruffly. ‘Alan to the likes of you.’

‘Alan Maggs. Any middle names?’

‘Corporal. Five nine seven two six four five five three.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘Find out for yerself, Blue Top.’

‘We will,’ said Groombridge. ‘Interview suspended twelve twenty-nine.’ He switched off the camera.

‘Wait, I haven’t said what happened yet. You got me wheeled all the way over here to listen to what I have t’say!’

‘No. We got you wheeled all the way over here to find out who you are and what you did. And we’ll get you wheeled all the way over here again once I’m satisfied with the first half of that question. And we’ll keep getting you wheeled all the way over here till I’m satisfied you’ve answered all my questions in a truthful and co-operative manner.’

‘That’s enough, Inspector,’ said Dr Shamir, seeing Maggs go red with anger, gripping his side in pain.

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Groombridge. ‘We’ll pick this up again later today, Mr Maggs.’ He stood and stalked out. Stark followed and outside found Groombridge casually watching the monitor with Fran. There was no sign of anger on his face. Stark realized he’d just witnessed a piece of theatrical bullying, carefully applied just after the recording equipment was turned off.

‘Are we not here for a statement, Guv?’ asked Fran, warily.

‘Change of tactic. He’s not taking this seriously. We need to gain the higher ground. Isn’t that right, Stark?’

‘Guv.’

Groombridge gave him a long look.

‘And the Ferrier Rats?’ asked Fran, pointing to the clock.

‘Spring them. Let them think they’re in the clear, for now. I’m tired of being given the run-around. Let’s get Maggs’s history and come back armed. Come on then, Trainee Investigator, this is your area of expertise. Time to investigate.’

Theoretically the Ministry of Defence was as beholden as any other employer to provide the records of employees past and present. In reality their fastidious bureaucracy could drown any obligation. Knowing his two stripes wouldn’t get him far, Stark started from the position that he was calling on direct behalf of Superintendent Cox. It was entirely possible this would land him in the shit, but he had inexperience and low rank to hide behind and, technically, it was true. Even so it was painful, bouncing from one low-ranking bureaucratic clone to the next, his misery compounded by hunger. But then a breakthrough: ‘My superior will be back at fifteen hundred hours,’ was the best and final offer from the last official, but the man made the error of giving Stark his name and direct number. This blunder revisited him at 15.01, then again at 15.15, 15.30 and 15.45. At 16.00 he lost his temper and hung up, at 16.15 he demanded Stark stop calling but Stark politely reiterated the vital urgency of the matter to his commanding officer, slipping in the fraternal underling card. At 16.29 the brother-underling phoned Stark. A copy of Maggs’s service record had been emailed, now piss off, was the gist.

Stark took the printout to Groombridge, who was on the phone but waved him in. ‘Yes, sir. In fact he’s just appeared before me. I’ll ask him now,’ he said, hanging up. Stark’s stomach growled in the ensuing silence. Groombridge raised an eyebrow. ‘That was Superintendent Cox. He’s curious to know why he received a call from a Ministry of Defence official complaining about harassment. Have you been claiming our leader’s authority in your dealings, Constable?’

‘Yes, Guv.’ When the game’s up, ’fess up.

‘Did it work?’

‘That, and making a nuisance of myself, Guv.’ Stark handed over the printout.

Groombridge scanned the front page. ‘Hmm, then the super can
sleep at night, knowing he corroborated your baseless claims in a just cause.’ He gestured Stark to sit while he read on. When he’d finished he pushed it to one side, leant back in his chair and considered Stark over steepled fingers. ‘So, Trainee Investigator, are you going to tell me just what kind of shit you’re in?’

Stark blinked. ‘Guv?’

‘Don’t play dumb, Constable. The super received two calls of complaint this morning, both about you, both from the Ministry of Defence, yet apparently unrelated. The other call was, if anything, angrier and delivered from higher up. You stand accused of “failing to co-operate with a matter of the utmost seriousness”.’

Had the caller said what it was? There was no subtle way to ask. Groombridge paused, which might mean he hoped Stark would explain. Stark said nothing.

‘I can only imagine this relates to your avoidance of calls from one Captain Pierson, and subsequent public disagreement with her outside this very station.’

Stark was mortified: he had hoped the incident was forgotten. Was the whole bloody station discussing this? At least it seemed Groombridge didn’t know more. Did Cox?

‘You may be pleased to know that the super doesn’t respond well to bullying. He told the caller to … Well, I’ll leave that to your imagination, but the essential point was that this seemed a matter between the caller and you.’

Stark just managed not to sigh with relief.

‘I, however, disagree,’ added Groombridge, a menacing nuance in his tone. His eyes bored into Stark, unblinking. ‘I need to know if this affects my case. So will the CPS. We need to know if you can be put on the stand or if you’re … tainted.’ A word with broad scope and nothing but the worst connotations.

‘It’s just a procedural matter, Guv. The army dotting
i
s and crossing
t
s.’

Groombridge’s eyes narrowed. ‘Constable Stark, if you think I can’t spot a half-truth a half-mile off, think again.’

‘It’s complicated, Guv, but nothing to trouble you or the CPS.’ What else could he say?

‘I’m not big on secrets. I’ll get to the truth.’

‘It’s just the usual military-level misunderstanding. It’ll be sorted soon.’

‘So you’re not in trouble?’

‘Only officers get into trouble. Enlisted men just do what they’re told.’

Groombridge didn’t smile at the joke. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

Stark cursed inwardly. Cornered, he made himself meet Groombridge’s eyes. What he was about to say was not the kind of thing anyone should have to tell their boss, especially two weeks into a new job. ‘I’m sorry, Guv, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it.’

Groombridge stared fiercely at him for several seconds. ‘Then I suppose I cannot ask you to.’ He was plainly vexed. Stark’s profound relief proved short-lived. ‘But,’ added Groombridge, ‘the CPS
will
, make no mistake. They’ll want to interview you, in detail.’ He paused, perhaps to see if Stark might spontaneously confess. ‘Well, we’ll put that aside for now.’ He picked up the printout again.

That, it seemed, was that … for now. Stark’s mouth was dry.

Groombridge tapped the page. ‘This Military Medal. Big one, is it?’

‘Big enough, Guv.’

‘Hmm. Right. Let’s go and see what he’s got to say for himself. Maybe we can put your irreverent mood to good use.’

Groombridge made no allowance for Stark’s limp, marching into the hospital at his usual brisk pace, which Fran matched with ease and Stark did not. On an average day Stark might applaud, but not today. When they arrived at the police rooms he felt sick. Fran took up station by the monitor, assessing him, catlike, coolly amused. Groombridge opened the door.

Maggs, still in dressing-gown and wheelchair, looked up as they entered. ‘And I thought
I
was in bad shape.’ He smirked at Stark.

Groombridge switched on the camera and ran through the spiel, then placed his plastic folder on the table, opened it and scanned it slowly. ‘Alan Thomas Maggs, born June the thirteenth 1961,’ he read aloud.

‘Done your homework, then,’ said Maggs, unimpressed.

‘No fixed abode.’

‘That what we’re calling it, is it?’

‘You prefer homeless?’

‘What about street-person? Or down-and-out? Itinerant? Vagrant, vagabond, hobo, tramp, bum, dosser, drunk?’

‘We’ll put that down as a yes, then,’ said Groombridge, evenly. ‘You continue to decline legal counsel at this time?’

‘What would be the point?’

‘Another yes, then.’ Groombridge smiled. Maggs affected not to care. ‘Corporal, 2 Para. Wounded in the battle for Wireless Ridge, June the thirteenth 1982, not the happiest twenty-first birthday,’ observed Groombridge, without irony.

‘Made a man of me,’ replied Maggs, coldly.

‘Honourable discharge, September 1982.’ Maggs said nothing. ‘Fallen on hard times, Corporal?’

Maggs’s stare darkened. ‘Mister to you.’

‘Mental scars, were there? To match the physical ones?’

‘Ask the army docs.’

‘We will.’

Maggs huffed. ‘Good luck with that.’

Groombridge looked at Stark and gave a barely perceptible nod. Stark still wasn’t too happy about this, but if the button had to be pressed, better it was by him. ‘Worse day for some of your mates, was it?’ he said, observing Maggs closely.

Maggs returned his stare and lifted his head a little. ‘Know something about that, would you?’

Stark didn’t deny it. Groombridge leant into the mike. ‘For the record, Constable Stark is recently Corporal Stark of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.’

‘Jack? Figured you for a Rupert,’ said Maggs. ‘Infantry?’

‘Princess of Wales’s Royals, 3rd Battalion.’

‘Tigers, eh? 3rd Battalion?’

‘Territorial.’ Stark braced for the inevitable.

Maggs laughed sarcastically, ‘Fucking STAB?’ He shook his head. ‘What’s the matter,
Weekender
? Regular Crap Hats not good enough for you?’

STAB. Not exactly a term of endearment, it was an old name the regulars used to show how much they appreciated their part-time counterpart. It stood for Stupid TA Bastards. Weekender was another.
Both were in less common use since the 1999 Strategic Defence Review ushered the TA into regular deployment, and into shape. Crap Hats was what elite units, like Maggs’s Parachute Regiment, with their natty burgundy berets, called ordinary infantry with their standard khaki ones. Maggs was asking why he hadn’t gone full time in the regulars. ‘I considered it,’ Stark replied.

‘Before or after deployment?’ scoffed Maggs.

‘After.’

That shut him up. ‘Iraq?’ Maggs asked, after a pause. Stark nodded. ‘Whining bitch. Least you had it warm!’

Stark smiled. ‘You poor-me South Seas girls with your handbags. Try minus twenty at night, plus fifty in the day and then whinge about how much your Bergen weighs.’

For the first time a genuine smile touched Maggs’s lips, wrinkling his eyes above his thick beard. ‘That where you got the limp?’

He doesn’t miss much, thought Stark. ‘That was later. Afghanistan.’ Stark held his stare.

‘Bullet or bomb?’

‘Bit of both.’

‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’

Stark didn’t need to respond.

Groombridge obviously decided the ice was broken. ‘What’s a war hero like you doing like … this?’ he asked.

Maggs stiffened, smile gone. He looked at Stark. ‘What’s a “war hero” like you doing with … 
this
?’ he sneered.

‘Let’s leave labels aside for now, shall we?’ said Stark. ‘I’ll take a guess. Wounded in the line, shipped home, patched up, tossed out on your arse. No job, no useful qualifications, no support.’

Maggs pursed his lips. ‘Tried security work. Didn’t suit. You’ve done all right though. Flash tosser. Kept a boot in both camps, though, didn’t you?’

‘Let’s talk about Kyle Gibbs,’ said Groombridge, firmly.

‘That his name, was it?’

‘Whose name?’

‘Well, Detective Chief Inspector, I assume you wanted to ask me about the lad you found dead, but if this is about your wife, then, yes, I confess, she was with me, all night … 
long
.’

Stark managed not to guffaw. Maybe it was just his imagination but he might’ve sworn he heard Fran laugh outside.

Groombridge frowned. ‘OK. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

‘I was great, she was crap. Out of practice, apparently, said you couldn’t get it up any more, but she promised she’d try harder next time. Gotta love fat ugly women – so eager to please.’ This time Stark definitely heard a hoot outside.

‘Prior to your arrest, you claimed to Constable Stark here that you wanted to turn yourself in for the killing of Kyle Gibbs,’ said Groombridge, admirably unmoved. ‘If you’re willing to expand on that, I’d be delighted to hear it. Otherwise we can continue this tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. This isn’t a missing-persons case. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

Maggs glared at them both for several seconds. ‘I was drunk.’

‘Yes, you were. Are you now denying the killing?’

‘No.’

‘Good, because we have your fingerprints on the weapon and the victim’s blood on your hands and clothes.’

‘I’ll wager you found his prints on the weapon too, though, didn’t you?’

They had, of course, but only Maggs’s on the handle. Of course, his big hands would have obliterated earlier prints in the blood. He’d held the weapon last. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

‘He attacked me. We fought. He died.’

‘That’s your statement?’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘It’s a little short on detail.’

‘Perhaps you should write it,’ replied Maggs. ‘Isn’t that what you people do?’

‘How many people attacked you?’

Maggs’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What makes you think there was more than one?’

‘Common sense, experience and forensic science,’ said Groombridge, levelly. ‘Care to try again?’

Maggs appeared to be considering options. ‘Can’t we keep this simple?’

‘A futile wish in my line of work. Why?’

‘Defence is a military strategy.’

‘Meaning?’

‘It’s complex. What are you defending, why and from whom? Are you defending something worth dying for, killing for – people, collateral, arms, a position, time? Or are you merely defending your life? What are your resources, armaments, numbers and position relative to the opposing force? Can you hope to be reinforced or relieved? Do you have a path of retreat? All these factors must be assessed and decided upon, sometimes in seconds.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Groombridge.

‘You’re not qualified to assess my actions,’ said Maggs. ‘But he might be.’ He jerked his head towards Stark.

‘By all means let’s see,’ agreed Groombridge, conceding the floor to Stark.

‘Go on, then,’ said Stark, conscious of his governor’s irritation.

‘OK, Weekender. You’re alone, behind enemy lines, surrounded, outnumbered eight to one, cold, hungry. The enemy has shown themselves merciless. Surrender will certainly be met without quarter. They attack. What do you do?’

‘Counter-attack.’

‘Give the man a medal. Sometimes offence is the best form of defence.’

‘Are you claiming Kyle Gibbs attacked you?’ asked Groombridge.

Maggs rolled his eyes but Stark interceded: ‘It’s tedious, I know, but we have to spell these things out for the record – for your good as well as ours. Please answer the questions as clearly as possible.’

Maggs leant in. ‘For the record, Kyle Gibbs attacked me.’

‘And you stabbed him in self-defence?’

‘Defence. Yes.’

‘How do you explain stabbing him in the back?’ asked Groombridge.

‘I couldn’t reach his front at the time.’

‘You think this is amusing?’

‘Do I look like a cold-blooded killer, Detective Inspector?’ retorted Maggs.

‘It isn’t my job to make that assessment.’

‘Meaning you’re not qualified again. How about you, Constable Weekender?’

‘My opinion is irrelevant,’ said Stark, warily.

‘Is it? Then what are you doing here?’

‘You asked for me. Now, are you going to tell us what happened or are we going to have to ask you again tomorrow? This is an interview, not an interrogation, and this isn’t wartime. We’re policemen, we can’t
make
you say anything. You can make your report or shut up. It’s your call.’