If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (18 page)

‘They’re charging her with affray and resisting arrest. We let her stew overnight.’

‘The accomplice?’

‘No sign.’ The way Fran cut through the traffic she should really have been under blues and twos, but beneath her evident impatience she seemed in finer spirits today, grimly pleased. ‘How’s your aqua-yoga going?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Dandy.’ Kelly’s half-smile popped unbidden into Stark’s mind.

‘You’re smiling,’ said Fran, glancing at him. ‘Why?’

‘Watch the road, please, Sarge.’

Instead she pulled over and stopped, much to the consternation of the drivers left to manoeuvre past her, judging by the glances cast. Fran was too busy scrutinizing Stark’s blank expression to notice. ‘You met someone.’ It was a fishing statement, but something in his face gave him away. ‘You did! You met someone! Come on, let’s hear it.’

‘Back on inquisitorial terms, are we, Sarge?’

‘Stop avoiding questions and we’ll see about wiping away some of the black marks against your name.’

Stark didn’t think that much of a bargain. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing some actual police work?’ Denial was probably futile now, but the determined gossip deserves to be kept waiting.

‘Bollocks. I’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you fear. All I have to do is tell Maggie and she’ll get the whole station picking away at you. Hot babe, was she? I assume it’s a she?’

‘Too hot for the likes of me. As far as gossip’s concerned, this story isn’t worth the bother.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Name?’

‘Kelly.’

‘Kelly can be a boy’s name too.’

‘Not in this case.’

That seemed to satisfy her for now and she pulled out into the
traffic again with the minimum of warning, waving cheerfully at the driver furiously flashing his lights at her. ‘So, tell me all about her.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. We met, she hurt me, I left. Same old, same old.’

‘Wait … She’s your aqua-yoga instructor!’ Stark cursed himself, but couldn’t deny it. ‘How delicious! So, come on, on a scale of one to ten?’

Maybe Hammed had been correct, thought Stark. Either he’d served his penance or the emergence of some juicy gossip had eased the chill. ‘You’ve spent far too much time in male company, Sarge.’

‘I’m also a single thirty-six-year-old woman with no social life and a short temper. Salacious gossip is all that keeps me from the chardonnay bottle of despair.’

‘You should give Marcus Turner a call.’ The car swerved momentarily. ‘It’s obvious you like each other.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I think you’d make a sweet couple.’ It was a cheap diversion and probably wouldn’t work, but he’d been saving it up and he was going to enjoy it.

Fran spluttered. ‘He’s
married
, you arse!’

‘He’s divorced.’

‘How do you know that?’ It was obvious she’d known too.

‘The same way you do, quietly asking around.’

‘Your head injuries are catching up with you!’

‘I’m only saying –’

‘And don’t change the subject.
I
’m the inquisitor here. Come on, marks out of ten.’

Oh, well, it had been good while it lasted. ‘A meaningless, subjective poll. Who’s to say where a five in my eyes would score in your understanding?’

‘She’s a five? Bollocks, you’re positively salivating. I’ll factor in your obvious low frame of reference. How many?’

‘Ten.’

‘Shit, seriously?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘You’re screwed.’

‘Indeed. So can we drop it?’

‘Absolutely not! A twinkle in your eye like that could keep the whole sorry station going for months. So, blonde?’

‘Tell you what, get me to my Queen Elizabeth appointment by one and I’ll give you a full suspect description.’

‘Done.’

They checked it was Nikki first, peering in through her cell spy-hole, which seemingly offended her, if the barrage of abuse was anything to go by. The custody sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘Charming piece of work, that one.’

‘Shame you’re besotted with Aqua-bunny, Stark.’ Fran grinned. ‘You and Nikki seem made for each other.’

‘Maybe you can get me her number, Sarge,’ he replied evenly.

Fran laughed. ‘Better still, I could arrange you some time alone in our cells. Mick shares my romantic sentimentality.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘Probably right, I hate to think of the mess she’d make of your soft arse.’ Fran mimed a nasty taste in her mouth. ‘Honestly, I can’t understand what boys see in the nasty little skank.’

The senior arresting officer was determined Nikki be charged locally but seemed happy enough to send her over to Greenwich the next day. Stark filled in the paperwork meticulously under the impatient eye of his DS. ‘Wait,’ he said suddenly. ‘It says here she was arrested in White Hart Road. We were there yesterday, the homeless hostel …’

The officer nodded. ‘She was trying to get in. Said she needed to see a friend but refused to say who and became violent. Took three officers to get her in the van.’

Fran smiled sweetly. ‘Could we have directions?’

The hostel was a short drive and Fran made easy work of the traffic. It was indeed one they had visited the previous evening. They’d missed Nikki by just a few hours.

‘I’m sorry,’ insisted the manager. ‘As I told you last night, it’s against policy to divulge information on our guests. We require their trust if we’re to do our work.’

‘But unlike last night I now have reason to believe you’re withholding information pertinent to my investigation.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really must ask that you respect what we’re trying to do here.’

‘I do. And I hope you will respect my authority to arrest you for obstruction,’ smiled Fran.

Stark wasn’t sure on the law in this area but neither was the manager, who all of a sudden recognized the Photofit. The girl was new, he said. She’d first stayed there the night after the attack in Greenwich Park and only three nights, at random, since. He remembered her because she’d clearly taken a recent beating, not uncommon, of course, but noteworthy. Very few belongings, another common indicator. She’d signed in a few minutes before the trouble at the front desk, and left not long after.

Stark tapped Fran on the shoulder and pointed to the discreet CCTV camera above the desk.

‘Bloody do-gooders!’ cursed Fran, in the car. ‘I’ve a good mind to charge the self-righteous tit. We could’ve had Pinky in an interview room by now.’

Stark stared at the CCTV printout still in his hand. Pinky. An androgynous waif in baggy new-age chic with very pink hair. She had given no name, but now they had her face. They travelled in silence for a while, Stark mulling over a thorny decision. Fran’s sudden thaw had presented an opportunity. He’d anticipated needing to bypass her and ask Groombridge; it was still tempting. Of course, she might freeze again so he had to take advantage now. ‘Any chance you could keep me off the roster for Saturday morning?’ he asked cautiously, as they pulled into the hospital.

‘Why?’

‘It’s personal.’ A phrase she almost certainly didn’t want to hear from him.

‘Asking while you’re in my good books, is it?’

Meaning he wasn’t necessarily. Stark didn’t bait her. ‘It’s important.’ How important depended on one’s point of view and he hoped she wouldn’t delve.

She subjected him to a long, appraising stare. ‘Tell me which department you’re visiting today and you’re on.’

Stark could have lied but this
was
important. Besides, she wasn’t
stupid: she clearly suspected and would find out eventually. ‘Psychotherapy.’

To give Fran her due, she kept all but the faintest triumph from her face. ‘And Aqua-babe?’

Stark described Kelly in dry police terminology, studiously avoiding undertone. Even so, Fran whistled. ‘You’re so screwed.’ She grinned.

Stark could only shrug wryly.

‘Okay, go on.’ Fran jerked her head at the door. ‘I’ll see you back at the fort.’

There never seemed to be time to buy food before his allotted appointment, making it all the more irritating that Doc Hazel summoned him in fifty-four minutes late – a personal best, though Stark was sure she had the right stuff to break the hour barrier.

She began with the usual pleasantries, jotted a few notes and got started. ‘When you wake up from these dreams, how do you feel?’ She gave it that lilting tone, the artificial saccharine – there’s no judgement here, honest. It was necessary to engage, he knew that, but he wasn’t at all convinced she was worth the effort. At least she was hovering somewhere over the topic for once. He considered toying with her but decided it was easier just to throw her a bone. ‘Are you asking if I feel remorse?’

‘Is that what you feel?’ She was probably congratulating herself.

‘About some of it, yes,’ he replied honestly.

‘About the boy and his mother?’

Ouch. This was the first time she’d asked about it directly. ‘Of course.’

‘About the enemy soldiers?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ She seemed curious, non-judgemental. Next she’d make a note.

‘No.’

She scribbled a note on her pad. Would she ask the next question? Stark wondered.

‘Why is that, do you think?’ Bingo – the million-dollar question, a golden opportunity to flood her notepad with bullshit of the highest order. But that wouldn’t be fair. He’d led her here, after all.

Piecing together the fragments, he reckoned he’d targeted and shot no fewer than nine Taliban in the last minutes of that firefight, probably more. Kinetic contact, they called it. Bloody shootout was nearer the mark. Most, if not all, would have died of their wounds. More would have died as a direct result of his actions. And they weren’t the first. How many times had he returned fire, called in artillery or air support? It was a hard truth, not to know how many lives you’d taken. All were sons, brothers, fathers. Somewhere right now people still mourned them, and for that he felt remorse, genuine and painful. But for the men themselves?

Each had been actively trying to kill him, kill his comrades. That was enough for some. And this wasn’t like traditional wars. Those men hadn’t been luckless conscripts yanked from their lives by the idiocy of their leaders – you, but for the grace of God. They had been volunteers. Maybe most had been just the latest generation of ill-informed angry young men sick of poverty and too open to suggestion, defending their lands against a perceived aggressor. Maybe. But you are who you stand up with. Whatever the rights and wrongs of Western foreign policy, NATO was there to make things better and then go home. If you allied yourself with the fanatics, who wanted to kill the infidel and were willing to blow up civilians, behead charity workers live online, murder foreign doctors there to help, or execute teachers in front of their pupils simply for daring to educate girls, then you were stained by association.

And don’t get him started on the sectarian madness, not after the Basra market bombing. There were so many ways to waste a life but to embrace bitterness, to choose corrupted theistic bigotry, to inflict that selfish hatred on others, was surely the very worst. He summarized the rest as best he could, badly probably, and with little hope of making himself understood. Hazel made notes and looked benignly interested as usual. ‘Thank you,’ she said finally.

He glanced at the clock. ‘We’ve overrun,’ he said, surprised. This was unprecedented.

‘Yes.’ She closed her pad and clicked her pen shut. ‘See you next week.’

Stark closed the door behind him without the righteous anger he’d enjoyed after previous sessions and unsure how he felt about that.
Drained, he drifted to the canteen, more to get his head straight than to feed the appetite long fled. More importantly, he was able to renew his OxyContin prescription at the hospital pharmacy.

Fran didn’t question his late return. Much as he appreciated this, he hoped it didn’t mark a switch to some excruciating tiptoeing around his mental health.

In a quiet moment he asked DC Williams whether he knew of a decent florist but, with unfortunate timing, Fran returned just as the question was put to the room. No doubt she’d assume the worst about his important personal need for time off. She did not look pleased, but maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to let her imagination run away on this one.

The local hospitals had no records matching Pinky’s description. Harper and Bryden were sent with a photo to double-check.

Dixon returned from tracking down the victim of the town altercation. ‘Doesn’t look like mistaken identity, Guv,’ he reported. ‘She said Nikki laid into her, screaming to know where the girl with pink hair was. Looks like Nikki struck gold. Rumour was already spreading about the latest attack. Apparently Pinky had texted someone that she was scared, that she was on the bus to Orpington where she knew someone. That’s all.’

‘And she told Nikki this?’ asked Groombridge. ‘She didn’t mention it before?’

‘I had to press her quite hard to admit it, Guv. I don’t think she was proud of herself.’

‘Thank you, DC Dixon.’ Groombridge stared thoughtfully at the image of Pinky.

A little later Fran took a call from DC Hammed. ‘Good. Politely insist he come down the station to help us with our enquiries.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘David Phillips,’ she explained, to the faces turned her way. Given they already knew his name and that he was the kind of man prone to running away from his obligations, Groombridge had opted not to put Phillips’s image on TV. Instead they’d simply contacted the dole office for his next appointment and sent Hammed down to wait.

Twenty minutes later Phillips was in interview room one, with Groombridge questioning him about the night of Kyle Gibbs’s death. He was clearly aware that he’d walked through the park shortly before a serious crime was perpetrated and not come forward.

‘So this was about what time?’ asked Groombridge.

‘Dunno, about quarter to eleven, I s’pose. I’d run out of cash, so I left before closing time.’

‘You visited the cashpoint on the corner of Greenwich Church Street.’

‘Right. How d’you know that?’

Groombridge smiled, ignoring the question. ‘How much had you had to drink?’