If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (17 page)

‘Don’t play smart, Constable.’

‘Okay.’

The clock ticked through several seconds. Fran rubbed her nose to mask a smile.

‘Well?’ The lawyer let his impatience show. Controlled. Calculated to intimidate. Laughable, really, thought Stark. Perhaps he should play nice, particularly as he was about to beg a colossal liberty, but sometimes you just had to choose funny. And you never knew with these
faux
-prickly types: sometimes they saw the funny side too.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Stark suggested, ‘why don’t you try asking me an actual question and we’ll see where that takes us?’

Now Fran was definitely trying not to smile. The lawyer pursed his lips, hopefully hiding his own. ‘All right, how about this one? What is the nature of your trouble with the Ministry of Defence?’

‘Personal.’ Stark kept any hint of cheek from the reply but Fran gave up any pretence and sat back, smirking.

The lawyer just stared at him. ‘All right, what impact will this “personal” trouble have on my case?’

‘None.’

‘I don’t believe you’re qualified to make that assessment.’

‘Then why ask me?’

‘Constable Stark, are you going to tell me why the switchboard in this station was bombarded with increasingly impatient demands from MoD officials for you to contact them urgently? Why, indeed, an army officer in uniform turned up unannounced demanding to see you? Why Superintendent Cox was called by a high-ranking army officer but refused to discuss the nature of that call with the CPS? Are you going to tell me what kind of shit you’re in and whether it’s going to balls-up my case?’

‘If you insist,’ said Stark. ‘But only after you’ve given me your assurance that what I tell you will not leave this room and asked Detective Sergeant Millhaven to step outside.’

‘What?’ Fran exploded. ‘Now hang on!’

‘Constable, you’re in no position to demand any such thing,’ said the lawyer, sharply.

‘And you’re in no position to demand details of a matter personal to me following my insistence that it has no bearing. If you feel you must know more I’m willing to tell you. But
only
you.’

‘
Stark!
’ barked Fran. Stark winced, but ignored her.

The lawyer steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. Stark was torn between anxiety and amusement. He tried to remain poker-faced but the man opposite read faces for a living. That was the thing about lawyers, they knew faces – including when to change their own. The man smiled, then grinned broadly. ‘Well played,’ he conceded. ‘Detective Sergeant, would you mind?’

‘Yes, I bloody would!’

‘Even so,’ said the lawyer, pleasantly.

Fran glared at them both for several seconds, stood and left with an emphatically closed door.

‘Now,’ said the lawyer, a glint of shark grinning through, ‘you have my assurance that, barring any disclosure of criminality, gross misconduct or bearing on my current case, your big secret stays with me. Just as you have my assurance that if you withhold something that later fucks up your credibility and damages my case I’ll have you disembowelled and hanged from the city walls as a lesson to other would-be time-wasting ingrates. So,’ he cocked his head, ‘what the fuck did you do?’

‘Right!’ spat Fran. She marched Stark in silence to Rosie’s, ordered, left him to pay and took her regular table.

She maintained her silence, like a smoking volcano, while she drank her wine, then pushed the empty glass towards Stark, who dutifully went to the bar for another. She was halfway through the second before she took a deep breath and finally spoke without looking at him.

‘Funny, I’ll admit. I’m not sure I’ve witnessed that level of cheek in my life. Kudos to you.’ She took another breath. ‘If you live out the day you may look back and smile. If I choke you with a bag of peanuts in the next few minutes you may even achieve cult following, like some rock star cut down in their prime.’ She still didn’t look at him. ‘Which path Destiny has in mind for you will depend entirely on whether you tell me now, in a manner of contrite honesty, everything you told that lawyer.’ Finally she turned to him, deadly serious. All he could do was look apologetic. ‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘It’s between me and the MoD.’

‘Bollocks!’ She glared at him. ‘Tell me
now
!’

Stark rubbed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, wishing this were another dream from which he might wake. This, however, was a nightmare of his own making. He met her glare levelly. ‘No.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’ A perfect imitation of Groombridge’s best look.

‘No, Sarge.’ Stark could see he’d pushed her too far. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s MoD business and that’s all I’m permitted to say. I told the guv’nor the same thing.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘Ask him.’ What else could he say?

Some of the others came in but, perhaps seeing Fran’s face, made for the bar without greeting. Fran finished her second drink, clearly livid, scowled at Stark and left without another word.

‘Lovers’ tiff?’ called Harper. It was the first thing he’d said directly to Stark since the incident on the stairs and Stark wasn’t sure how to take it. ‘Don’t worry, Lover-boy, moody as a sack of stolen cats, that one.’

Stark forced a smile in acknowledgement of the witticism, and reluctantly joined them. Hammed smiled and told him not to worry: DS Millhaven’s moods blew over quickly.

Perhaps not this one, thought Stark, surreptitiously swallowing two more pills. Standing at the bar made his hip hurt but he stayed to finish his drink before making his excuses. Harper scoffed theatrically, but another sideways glance as Stark left suggested he was probably still wondering how much Stark had actually overheard.

Stark noticed little of the taxi journey. The perceptive cabbie did not attempt conversation. But by the time Stark had settled into one of the Carter’s comfortable reception chairs the trials of the day had been replaced by a lighter problem. Other than Lucy’s bombshell about his backside, he had little to go on as far as hopes were concerned. If hope he did. It had been a while since he’d allowed romantic, or even ignoble, thoughts much room in his head. His thoughts about Kelly definitely leant to the latter, but not exclusively. He wasn’t at all sure he was ready for … something, but there was
something
about her that made him wish he was. Maybe it was her matter-of-factness. Certainly there were other noteworthy features. The fact remained, though: he was damaged goods and Kelly could do better.

‘What’s her name?’ asked Kelly, startling him as she slid into the opposite seat.

‘Whose?’ he managed.

‘With such a dreamy look on your face it had to be a girl you were thinking about.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Should I be?’ she replied.

‘No.’ He wondered if she’d interpret that correctly, and wondered what had possessed him to ask.

She tilted her head, smile slipping. ‘You look tired.’

‘Work,’ replied Stark.

She accepted this without comment. ‘Been doing your exercises?’

‘Religiously,’ he lied.

‘Hmm. Well, come on, then, let’s see how you’re getting on.’

At least this time she allowed him his own swimming shorts. In every other way the session was a disaster. The sight of Kelly in her swimsuit not only failed to help but actively exacerbated his discomfort: a worrying indicator.

If Kelly was equally disappointed or impatient she masked it perfectly, remaining positive and encouraging throughout. ‘Moving up to two appointments. You can do Thursdays, same time?’ she asked. Stark nodded. ‘Give your regular exercises a rest till then. We don’t want to overdo things.’ She smiled reassuringly, but Stark knew medical code for ‘You look like crap.’ So much for hope.

He was ready to put the whole day behind him. He just wanted to eat and sleep. The stairs in his block looked like Everest and the lift finally won out. To his rising dismay, though, no amount of button-jabbing would summon it. He rested his head against the cold metal doors and swore quietly.

His sluggish re-entry into the waking world came naturally, woozily, what dreams there may have been dissipating like so much mist; none of the sharp focus of the ones that chased you awake and kept chasing. In comparison this felt like artificial sleep, time deleted. Perhaps it was – Scotch and painkillers were hardly Mother Nature’s lullaby. At least he felt partially rested, particularly after a shower and a hearty breakfast. Better than yesterday at least.

He arrived at work with little hope of welcome from Fran. She wasn’t at her desk. With little to do he stood staring at the big map, picking out the locations of the various happy-slappings, the deaths and the route of the foot search. A nebulous doubt nagged but he couldn’t give it form.

‘Good to see you fit to stand at least,’ sneered Fran, as she swept in. ‘And what gems of inspiration will you shower upon us today?’

Stark ignored her, deep in thought. ‘There
is
something, Sarge, about the foot search, I think, but I can’t pin it down.’ Using the map he traced the route and timeline from the attack on Alfred Ladd to the Ferrier Estate. Then the search area and the reasons for its choice. Finally it clicked. They’d searched Kyle Gibbs’s home, the route there and nearby likely spots. But he probably wouldn’t have dumped his shoes on the way home or into town the next day. ‘We searched the estate bins, right?’

‘Yes, but if you want to go back and do them again, you’re more than welcome.’

‘The bins and the areas behind the shops too?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, is this your glittering insight?’

‘No, it’s something Constable Ptolemy said. Uniform believe Nikki Cockcroft uses one of the empty flats as her stash-house, but they don’t have the budget to search them. The whole estate is littered with derelict flats. What would stop Gibbs just dumping his shoes in one if he knew we’d search the bins?’

She looked dismissive. ‘Budget isn’t the only barrier. Christ knows how we’d establish ownership, let alone organize warrants.’

‘What if we had probable cause?’

Fran stared at him. ‘Forced entry?’

‘Just start with any with damaged locks or windows. You never know, we might find Pinky’s refuge while we’re at it. Two birds with one stone.’

She said nothing for a moment and Stark couldn’t tell if he was about to receive a dressing-down for being obvious. ‘Hammed,’ she said suddenly. ‘Get Maggie to help you round up some bodies while I go and see the DCI. And you,’ she said to Stark, ‘get me some coffee.’

Two hours later they were in the estate, directing uniforms through any door or window with signs of forced entry. There were four in Gibbs’s block alone but nothing was found in them other than the usual flotsam and jetsam of eviction, broken glass, drug paraphernalia and the ubiquitous stench of piss. They found no squatters. Perhaps Kyle and Nikki’s reign of terror had scared them off, or perhaps they just had higher standards.

But then a local shown Pinky’s Photofit directed them to a derelict flat in one of the towers. There was a broken pane in the front-door window. Inside, Stark crouched beside the puffy sleeping-bag, modern but grubby, lying on an even grubbier mattress. Beside it lay a rucksack. Stark pulled on a pair of gloves.

‘Careful,’ cautioned the PC behind him. ‘Might be needles.’

Stark tipped out the contents. Clothing and the assorted belongings of a teenage girl sleeping rough. ‘Nothing personal, nothing valuable,’ said Stark. Escape and evasion, keep essentials about you in case you have to cut and run; a sensible strategy under the circumstances. A more sensible one might’ve been to find somewhere to sleep where you didn’t have to sneak around in terror of Nikki and her pals.

He felt a lump in the sleeping-bag, reached inside and found a cuddly toy rabbit, its baby pink fur long bobbled by repeated wash cycles.

Fran peered over his shoulder. ‘Right.’ She turned to the PC. ‘Round-the-clock watch, in case she comes back for this lot.’

The morning dragged on. If the embattled off-licence proprietor preferred to minimize police fraternization he would have to console himself with the bumper lunchtime rush on his limited supplies.
Starting near suspect homes was a good idea but the estate was huge. And if they didn’t find what they were looking for behind a broken lock they would have to start looking for incongruously shiny new locks, and that would require warrants.

They were halfway through Nikki’s block when there was a shout. Ptolemy came out of a flat grinning like the cat that had got the cream.

‘In a black sack stuffed in the kitchen service riser, Guv,’ said Fran. ‘Looks like he had a go at cleaning them but SOCO think there’s easily enough sample.’

‘Suede can be a bastard,’ remarked Groombridge, admiring the photo of the blue-and-yellow Adidas Gazelles stained with what looked suspiciously like blood.

‘Uniform are happy too. Pills, skunk, coke, crack, heroin – Nikki’s stash, they believe. Quite a haul.’

‘Mm,’ Groombridge mused. Had Nikki been helping Kyle, hiding his evidence, or setting him up as a patsy should her stash-house ever be discovered? ‘SOCO lift any prints?’

‘Nothing on the drugs, dozens elsewhere. They’ll let us know if anything triggers the register.’

‘Good work, Detective Sergeant.’

‘We’ve got Stark to thank mostly, Guv,’ she admitted.

‘Really? Growing on you, is he?’

‘Like a fungus.’

‘Yes. I heard about his little stunt yesterday.’

‘Do
you
know what he’s hiding?’

‘No. But CPS appear content so it seems we must be too.’

Fran shook her head in disbelief. ‘How can you accept that?’

‘I’ve no doubt our young trainee is in serious shit. We may never know what shit, in which case we’ll just have to console ourselves with the knowledge that he’s in some.’

‘Great!’

‘Be like me, Detective Sergeant. Don’t lose sleep over things you can’t alter.’

‘Guv.’

‘And, you never know, he may improve on you on your way to Orpington.’

‘Orpington?’

Groombridge laid a printout on the desk. It was a still from a traffic camera.

‘The stolen Beamer?’

‘Found in a pub car park.’ He tapped the photo, indicating she should take a closer look.

The photo showed what looked like Nikki Cockcroft in the passenger seat, and a much bigger figure behind the wheel. A man, from the size, black baseball cap obscuring most of his face. ‘Who’s that, then?’ she wondered aloud.

‘Indeed. Take Boy Wonder, head over there and round up a posse for some door-to-door. Find out if anyone’s seen our absconder and mystery accomplice. I’ll lean on Forensics, make sure they get a shuffle on with those shoes.’

‘Guv.’

The local force were expecting her but weren’t enamoured about knocking on doors: they had their own stats to achieve. A call to Groombridge would get things moving but Fran was in a ‘persuasive’ mood and didn’t resort to it. The problem with long shots like this was that nine times out of ten they wasted your time and effort. Much as that pained, you had no choice. Sometimes police work was a slog and that was that.

She and Stark did their bit, as was only right. Stark at least looked like he was taking it seriously today. He did seem fitter, more alert, but his limp was more pronounced, despite his stubborn effort to hide it. The sheen of sweat on his brow during the earlier search was back. He was in pain. She felt a twinge of guilt. She’d come in early to catch up on a few things, including watching Stark’s mugshot interview with Maggs, partly to build her own picture but also to check if Stark had missed anything. He’d done a fair job. Perhaps she should’ve expected it. What she’d not expected was the opening conversation between the two men. She’d not made much of the military coincidence until now. Groombridge had both noted and used it. Perhaps it was a bloke thing. Nevertheless, it bothered her that she’d underestimated the significance.

But that wasn’t the source of her guilt. Stark had trouble sleeping.
Fran supposed that was understandable. A more palatable explanation than hangover or drug comedown, and she felt guilty about her accusations. But there was still an issue there. It might excuse blowing her out repeatedly but not repeatedly turning up unfit. Whether his problems were physical, mental or substance-related didn’t matter: he should get it together or go away until he could. You had to hand it to him, though: he didn’t complain. A man of few words. Stoic or just bloody-minded, she still wasn’t sure. He’d said precious little on the drive over, nothing not directly related to the matter in hand. If he’d explained, would she have apologized? she wondered. Not likely, after yesterday’s stunt.

SOCO arrived and began lifting prints and tape-dabbing for particle and hair evidence. In the photo the driver was wearing gloves, and a cap reduced the chance of finding his hair. There were no obvious CCTV cameras covering the pub. It was an idle chat with her opposite number that threw up the most interesting lead. There had been a few assaults on the homeless since the weekend. As a victim group, vagrants were little inclined to co-operate with the police, but rumour suggested a teenage girl as the attacker. Most had been minor assaults but one particular girl had taken quite a beating. Fran asked if she could speak with her and the DS called for the constable who’d tried to take the girl’s statement. He led them to a few nearby haunts and eventually spotted the girl begging outside the shopping centre. She had pink hair! Stark pulled out the Photofit of Pinky, but close up there was little similarity. She also had a purple black eye, split lip and curved cuts that the constable suggested had come from the attacker’s sovereign rings. But she was a local, known to share a squat nearby. This wasn’t Pinky.

The girl wasn’t much help. She didn’t want to be seen talking to them, simply regurgitating her earlier statement – a girl had come up to her two evenings ago and started screaming abuse. The cause was never clear and the victim’s confusion only worsened matters until she was laid into with fist and foot. A group of lads from a nearby pub heard the commotion and came out. The attacker screamed abuse at them too but was dragged away by a large man in black. None of the Samaritans had hung around after the police arrived.

Fran showed the girl Nikki’s mugshot. ‘Maybe, I dunno,’ was all
they got and nothing about the traffic photo of her accomplice or Pinky’s Photofit. She couldn’t get away from them fast enough.

Fran stared after her. ‘Bit of a coincidence if it’s not Nikki.’

‘What’s her beef with the homeless?’ asked the constable.

‘Over-developed sense of smell,’ offered Fran, but then explained.

The constable looked at Pinky’s Photofit. ‘Oh, yeah, saw this one up in the station. You think she’s here?’

‘Nikki thinks so,’ said Stark. ‘We should check local hangouts and shelters,’ he suggested, thinking about his search for Alfred Ladd’s identity. Fran rolled her eyes.

It was getting dark by the time they bade farewell to the constable after an extensive and fruitless tour of Orpington’s homeless nightspots. Stark did not look so perky. ‘How would she know Pinky was in Orpington? Assuming she is,’ he mused.

‘Someone must’ve told her. One of Pinky’s friends.’

‘The last sighting of Nikki before she skipped town in the BMW. DC Dixon’s report said her victim was a homeless girl, early twenties, new-age dress, piercings with dyed hair – orange and pink.’

‘Fits the pattern, mistaken identity.’

‘Or search by common trait. People who might know Pinky and where she went.’

Maybe. ‘I’ll get Dixon to talk to the victim again.’

If he’d been trying to get back on her good side he didn’t try again, remaining silent all the way home. Where Fran’s natural urge to pry had hitherto wilted, the taped conversation had sprinkled a little water. There were plenty enough cracks to pry, but she wasn’t at all sure they’d open up or that she really wanted to see inside. There was a very blokeish mess in there.

Fran dropped him home. The only change in the lift’s status was that it now wore an out-of-order sign. No apologies for the inconvenience, no suggestion that anything would be done, just – out of order. Yes, it bloody well is, thought Stark, limping slowly up the stairs.

Once inside the flat he stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and rifled through his bathroom cabinet for OxyContin. He was out.
How could he be out?
Alarmed and incensed at the thought of having to go
in search of a pharmacy he turned the flat upside-down, eventually finding some in his jeans pocket. He washed a couple down with whisky and waited until they started to work before forcing himself to shower, dress and order food. All in all, he hadn’t enjoyed his day. This mood was still with him several hours later as the cocktail of pills and booze eased him into impenetrable sleep.

The next morning, as he stood outside waiting for his lift, Fran pulled up in her unmarked blue Ford. ‘Get in.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Nikki Cockcroft was arrested last night in Orpington. I’m going to ask politely if we can borrow her for questioning.’ Her smile suggested the politeness would last only as long as it was met with total compliance.