If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (21 page)

After the pre-meeting meeting she spoke to Groombridge, who appeared infuriatingly unfazed by Stark’s mutiny – Stark had requested and been granted time off for important personal reasons, by her; he had every right to take it while Fran had no evidence to back up her suspicion – and, as it turned out, the super had postponed till midday.

Fran looked at her watch, a devious thought forming. She made up an excuse and slipped out, driving faster than she should to Stark’s flat. He’d mentioned yesterday that his mystery appointment was at nine thirty. At eight thirty she sat watching his door through binoculars from her car. By eight fifty-five she was thinking she’d missed him and her anger was rising again. Then a florist’s van pulled up outside. The driver climbed out, retrieved a white box and buzzed the intercom. Minutes later the door opened and Fran could just make out Stark’s profile as he signed for the box and retreated back inside.

Intrigued, she weighed up the pros and cons of ringing his buzzer and demanding an explanation, but that would let the obstinate bastard
know he was getting to her and, besides, it was always preferable to know the truth before the interrogation began.

A cab pulled up next. Stark stepped into the street in gleaming shoes, crisp grey trousers, black blazer with polished brass buttons, white shirt and a tie of blue-and-yellow diagonal stripes. He was carrying the white box of flowers. What the hell was he up to? If he’d pissed her about just to go courting, she’d have him suspended.

She had little option but to follow the cab. She even had to shave a red light to avoid losing them at one point. It’d been a while since she’d done anything so laughably clandestine but her anger took all the fun out of it. They headed west, then turned right at the old Shooters Hill nick, all boarded up. Rumour had it the pretty old Victorian building was being sold for conversion to trendy flats – another triumph for the forces of progress.

The cab turned right into what looked like a park, a promising destination for a romantic assignation. Perhaps the mysterious Kelly lived nearby. But then it passed through some gates. Fran pulled up and read the sign with a sinking heart.

She ditched the car out of sight and followed on foot. The cab driver sat with the door open, cigarette in mouth, reading a tabloid. He looked up as she passed, nodding as if she were to be commiserated. Beyond she could see Stark continuing uphill on foot, limping slightly as he did when he forgot not to or thought no one was looking.

Fran followed at a distance. On the far slope she saw a striking semi-circular war memorial set against a broad westward view of London, but Stark passed it with barely a glance. In the furthest, least fashionable corner of Greenwich Cemetery a simple casket sat on a trestle beside an open grave. The vicar and sexton stood by. Stark pulled a khaki beret from his pocket and set it on his head with practised precision. Its bronze badge had a square ribbon backing the same blue and yellow as his tie.

He stood to ramrod attention throughout the brief service. When it was over he removed a red wreath from the box and placed it on the coffin, stood back and saluted. Fran’s anger had long dissipated. She watched from the shadow of distant trees, refusing to give in to an absurd prickling in the corners of her eyes.

Alfred Ladd. Seventy-eight years old, homeless, friendless, no living relatives to give a shit about him, kicked to death by a bunch of kids for a laugh. Teenagers. When he was a teenager he’d been called up to National Service and was fighting in the jungles in the ‘Malayan Emergency’, whatever bullshit war that was. Fran decided to look it up. Alf to his comrades, friends, family, probably. And here he was being lowered into the ground, watched over by a man he’d never met, an insolent tit with an over-developed sense of something. She should’ve guessed.

Stark shook hands with the vicar and sexton and walked slowly down the path. Fran didn’t follow. She walked up and watched the sexton filling in the hole with an absurdly small digger. It was a double plot. The adjacent headstone read ‘Nancy Beryl Ladd 1935–1972, Beloved Wife’. Had Stark found this? A fresh headstone leant against the trestle, ready to be put in place: ‘Alfred William Ladd 1931–2009, Beloved Husband’.

The scarlet circle of fresh poppies sat on the trestle to one side. At its centre was a Union Flag, beneath it a small black card with words picked out in silver: ‘Lest we forget’.

Fran turned and stalked away.

‘See what you wanted to see?’ asked Groombridge.

Fran considered denying it. ‘He went to Alfred Ladd’s funeral.’

He nodded. ‘Figured as much.’

‘How? How could you
possibly
know?’ she demanded.

‘Old-school instincts, Detective Sergeant.’ Groombridge tapped the side of his nose, laying on the sage wisdom. ‘Plus I overheard him on the phone to the funeral parlour.’

‘What?’

‘Never underestimate the value of pausing outside an open door, Detective Sergeant,’ said Groombridge, pleasantly.

‘But … why did you let me fly off the
sodding
handle?’

‘I thought maybe you should see for yourself.’

Fran bit down a retort. ‘Funeral parlour? He made the arrangements?’

‘And paid for it all, I should imagine.’

Fran shook her head. ‘He should’ve
told
me.’

‘Why?’ Groombridge tilted his head. ‘What business was it of yours?’ He waited while she searched for a good reason and found none. ‘I can see how his preferential treatment might irk you, Fran, it would me. But the lad didn’t get here on handouts.’

Fran was intrigued: Groombridge didn’t say things he didn’t mean. But she wasn’t willing to abandon perfectly good indignation quite yet. ‘Are you going to elaborate or be just as inscrutable as
him
?’

Groombridge leant back in his chair for several seconds, thoughtful, and then, seemingly coming to a decision, waved for her to sit. ‘Has he ever explained to you how the Territorial Army actually works?’

Fran shook her head. That would require Stark
actually
talking.

‘While regular soldiers are deployed with their units, a TA soldier must volunteer if they wish to serve overseas. And apart from medical units they typically serve as individuals, slotting into units of the
regular army. They may have mates with them, they may not. Stark had actually finished his tour, could’ve been on the plane home, but volunteered to stay out for a few weeks to help another post. He was alone, replacing a dead man in an unfamiliar regiment, when he was hurt.’

Fran shrugged. ‘He’s never mentioned any of this.’

‘No. It puts an interesting spin on it all, though, don’t you agree?’

‘I suppose.’

Groombridge frowned at her. ‘It was his
third
tour, did you know?’

Now Fran frowned. ‘I thought it was his second. He said he’d been in Iraq before.’

‘True. He served as a lance corporal in Basra in 2006, then as full corporal in Helmand in 2007. Saw action in both tours. After that he undertook Special Forces Selection for the SAS … You’re rolling your eyes.’

‘Sorry.’

‘He should’ve passed, I’m told. Made it all the way to the final phase, resistance to interrogation, but something happened.’ Groombridge obviously saw the question in Fran’s eyes and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. His CO stonewalled me, saying only that Stark was “returned to unit” and ordered to reapply.’

‘Yet more fog,’ complained Fran.

‘Indeed.’ The DCI disliked mystery as much as she did. ‘According to his old super, Stark spent a brief spell in hospital afterwards before returning to work, but that’s all he knew. In any case Stark did reapply, but he also volunteered again and a second Helmand posting came up first.’

‘And the rest is history.’ The guv’nor had a point to make but Fran was losing patience.

Her tone didn’t go unmarked. ‘But how much of that history do you actually
know
, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Sod all. Not for the want of asking.’

‘Well, then … They patched him up but told him he’d never pass fit for front-line service again. They offered him a choice between a staff job, a training post or medical discharge. He chose the last. Then the police told him he’d never pass fit for front-line there either. Picture it. Incapacitated in your prime, both your vocations in tatters. But then his old super visited him in hospital and they got talking
about CID. The super thought it was a good idea and looked into it. Stark was told he could take his time, he’d remain on full pay, he could get himself fit, then come back to work and begin the Initial Crime Investigators Development Programme … I see you rolling your eyes again. You think he was handed it all on a plate. But he didn’t wait. He enrolled from his hospital bed, unassisted, studied for the NIE, between hellish rehab and further surgeries, and passed with flying colours.’

‘He really does have a talent for pissing people off,’ Fran commented.

Groombridge didn’t laugh. ‘He pressed to get himself discharged early to attend the next available phase-two course, six weeks of which put him straight back in the hospital, which didn’t stop him applying for any TI vacancy that came up. He could’ve waited, his old super wanted him back, but he didn’t. He was passed over on medical grounds by
seven
stations before Cox gave him the nod.’

‘Persistent is just another word for stubborn, Guv,’ said Fran, but her heart wasn’t in it any more.

‘Maybe, but here he is, still not fully fit, perhaps, but through phases one and two and getting stuck into phase three.’

‘Well, maybe he’s worked at it,’ conceded Fran, ‘but if he thinks he’s taking any shortcuts with his PDP he’s got another think coming.’ She was responsible for signing off his sheets, and her own mentor had been a stickler.

‘Quite right, Detective Sergeant Millhaven.’ Groombridge smiled ambiguously. ‘Quite right.’

Stark was changed and in the office on the stroke of eleven. He was beginning to regret not telling Fran about the funeral, but the time and attitude of her call had crashed up against his hangover. He’d never responded well to threats. He’d let irritation and perversity get the better of him and there would be consequences. Fifty laps of the parade ground might be the least of it. Nevertheless, he was convinced she wouldn’t have understood. It wasn’t just his default privacy, or even stubbornness, not entirely anyway. His old life lay in ruins and he must deal with that, in physio, in psych and elsewhere. He’d been laid open, laid bare, prodded, poked and discussed, exposed to excruciating
scrutiny, and it wasn’t over. He needed control. He needed to crack on. This new life – career, location, people – it could be his. Alfred Ladd had earned the right to have his passing marked, to be buried alongside his wife instead of tipped out in some corner of a crematorium garden, the modern equivalent of a pauper’s grave. But that was part of Stark’s old life. As far as possible he needed to keep the two apart. As far as possible, for as long as possible.

Fran would hardly look at him.

‘Stark.’ DCI Groombridge summoned him into his office with a perfunctory jerk of the head. ‘Close the door.’

Stark was not invited to sit. He stood braced for the inevitable dressing-down.

‘Paid your respects, did you?’

Stark blinked. ‘Yes, Guv. How did you …?’

‘Old-school instincts, Constable Stark.’ Groombridge tapped the side of his nose. ‘You might pull the wool over Detective Sergeant Millhaven’s eyes temporarily, but not mine.’

That or you’re an even more accomplished eavesdropper than I suspected, thought Stark. ‘I’m afraid I may be back in her bad books, Guv.’

‘All too easily done, I fear. I’m sure you’ll make it up to her. You could help yourself with a little less stubborn privacy.’ There was a slight barb in that. ‘Though I have to say your little stunt with CPS did make me chuckle.’

Stark hoped the lawyer had kept his word. This couldn’t stay under wraps for ever, but the longer he kept it out of the station the better. He didn’t wish to give them even more reason to restrict his involvement in the case.

‘You get to keep your secrets for now.’ Groombridge’s gaze was penetrating. ‘But don’t expect DS Millhaven to accept that with my laudable magnanimity. I’ve seen her reduce hardened criminals to blabbing like teenage girls.’

‘Hopefully I’ve sent her and the rest of the station sniffing down a different track.’

‘Have you now.’ Groombridge didn’t need to put the question mark after these three words.

‘Romance trumps intrigue, Guv.’

‘Hmm. Don’t underestimate Fran. The rest of the station may run on idle gossip but she needs the truth.’

Stark said nothing.

‘But, of course, you’re not at liberty to discuss it.’

‘Guv.’

Groombridge looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Why did you let DS Harper take the credit for Naveen Hussein’s arrest?’

Blindsided, Stark said nothing.

Groombridge tapped a folder on his desk. ‘The airport arrest sheet says his cousin’s name was added to the list of flagged passports … by you.’

‘It was just a hunch, Guv.’

‘You’re adept at avoiding questions, Constable Stark, but I’ve been asking them longer than you’ve been wiping your own arse.’

‘I saw no need to correct the misunderstanding, Guv.’ If you can’t avoid answering, keep it short and ambiguous. There was a well-understood but hard-to-implement approach to surviving SAS selection: be the Grey Man; don’t stand out, don’t get noticed, don’t come first, don’t come last. Strength was picked on with as much venom as weakness. Roughly two hundred began, roughly twenty might pass. Drawing attention was a bad thing. It had suited Stark – until the end, of course. But he had no way to explain it to his DCI.

Groombridge wasn’t fooled, but changed the subject. ‘You look tired. Roster says your last day off was thirteen days ago. Take the rest of the weekend.’

‘I was off this morning, Guv.’

‘Hardly.’

‘We all have to do overtime when there’s a case on,’ Stark protested.

‘It wasn’t a request.’

‘The super said no special treatment.’

‘Do you honestly think I’d have allowed any other person in this station to carry on so long in your condition?’ For the first time Stark saw real anger in his boss’s eyes. ‘I think it rather depends on your interpretation of “cotton wool”, Trainee Investigator Stark. Would you rather I’d sent you home days ago?’

‘No, Guv.’ Stark was mortified. The guv had been bending over
backwards for him and he’d thrown the super’s words in his face as thanks.

‘Well, then. The super will be here soon. Let’s get ready.’

The meeting was a good one. It had been a good week and Superintendent Cox was generous with his pleasure. The perpetrators had been charged, the CPS was looking pleased and the press were singing praises. Of course, none of this was news to the troops as several hung-over faces testified.

Stark observed Cox carefully. In appearance he was the very stereotype of the good-natured, over-promoted senior officer: bumbling, effusive, unsophisticated. Yet the way Groombridge said Cox had rebuffed both MoD complaints spoke of a different side: loyal, steely even.

It turned out that most of the team were to have the rest of the weekend off, including Fran and Stark. The search for Pinky was largely out of their hands for the moment, while Maggs was to be transferred from the hospital to the prison infirmary and Groombridge had decided to wait till Monday before confronting him again. Groombridge had known this, of course, had been testing him, and Stark had shown himself both stubborn and ungrateful. He determined never to underestimate Cox or Groombridge again. Fran wasn’t speaking to him, of course, but that could wait.

That night, determined to make the best of his R&R he rooted around in a drawer and found the box of sleeping pills he’d been prescribed but never opened.

‘Dire need only,’ he said aloud. He read the box, ignored the advice, and washed two down with whisky, beer and a mammoth Chinese takeaway.

The Zopiclone delivered him dazed into a warm, late Sunday morning, nothing chasing him from bed but bladder and belly. It felt great just to shower, pull on jeans and T-shirt and do ordinary things, like laundry and throwing away everything that had spoilt in the fridge, then shopping online for more, which at this rate might also go off before consumption.

He limped into town and settled in the shade of a café parasol,
reflecting on a mixed week. He’d pissed people off and his own stubbornness was mostly at fault, but they’d get over it. The greater concern was his physical and mental state. He’d underestimated how ground down he’d become and the effect it was having on his behaviour. He needed to do a better job of rationing his energy, perhaps even to stop being so bloody-minded. Perhaps.

The nightmares were the problem. And the ‘medicinal’ steps he’d begun using to avoid them couldn’t continue indefinitely; he was under no illusion there. They hadn’t been so bad since the early days. As far as she’d suggested
anything
particularly, Doc Hazel had linked the resurgence with his relocation and new job. She had a talent for the obvious. Nevertheless, he’d have to tackle it and she’d have to help. On a beautiful day like today, though, all that could wait.

He dipped in and out of the café’s
Sunday Times
and local paper, smiling at the faint echoes of the former in the latter’s parochial, nimbyish stance, but found himself as much engrossed in watching the world go by. The weather had brought out the town in fine mood. The covered market was buzzing, the tourists milling, the local young things heading for the park with cool-boxes, blankets and sun-cream. It soon occurred to him that he was looking out for Kelly, hoping to catch sight of her in jeans or a summer dress. The boy in him was excited to know she lived nearby. Perhaps normally he’d berate himself for such childishness but today, with warmth easing his pains, he seemed content to let it go.

He’d had his share of crushes and flings, the inevitable first-love broken heart. But he’d got all that out of the way early and moved on, settling into the comfortable rut of serial dalliance. Mixing police and army life had allowed time for little more over the last few years. Perhaps that was just an excuse, but it suited. Or had. What now?

Perhaps he should decide what he wanted, what he could offer, even, but not today. Today he could let a passing group of girls, giggling and gambolling on long slender limbs, bring a smile to his face, and imagine Kelly mocking his wandering eye with her wry smile.