If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (10 page)

Dixon nodded. ‘Yeah – all their previous victims were old.’

‘Careful with that word “old”,’ chided Groombridge, closest in age to the victim profile.

‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘More importantly, who are they looking for and why?’ said Stark.

Groombridge looked at Fran. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a word with the local authority and charities when the rest of the world wakes up, see if anyone knows about a girl with pink hair.’

She was still vaguely blaming Stark for this addition to her workload
when they sat down to a canteen breakfast a couple of hours later. She gazed at Stark’s traditional English plateful. The boy had hollow legs. It was hard not to think of him as a boy – twenty-five seemed a lifetime ago. Yet at the same time he came across as so serious. He’d seen things, she supposed. Sometimes you glimpsed it in his eyes, like the moment they’d pulled the tarp from Stacey’s corpse.

She was pondering this, taking her time over her coffee and Danish, when Maggie hurried in. The control-room matriarch rarely left her fiefdom for less than hot scandal or breaking news. Spotting them, she pulled up a chair. ‘Am I right in assuming you’ll be wanting another chat with Kyle Gibbs at some point soon?’ she asked, pinching a sausage from Stark’s plate and taking a semi-suggestive bite.

‘Why do I think I’m not going to like this?’ wondered Fran.

‘Because you’re a classic glass-half-empty personality. Rather than being relieved that our streets might be rid of one nasty little oik, you’re more inclined to be peeved at the death of your prime suspect.’

Fran put down her half-empty coffee mug. ‘He’s dead?’

‘As the proverbial doornail,’ confirmed Maggie, with unseemly pleasure. ‘Assuming Sergeant Clark knows a stiff when he sees one. Manager at the Pavilion teahouse spotted the body behind the bandstand about twenty minutes ago. Clark recognized him, of course. SOCO are already on the way. DCI Groombridge took the news stoically but I thought you’d like to know before he comes in here with that dark look of his. Nice sausage, sweetie.’ She winked at Stark and sashayed off.

Groombridge’s look was indeed dark. They took the stairs rather than wait for the lift, and the speed of his gait and the way he thrust the doors aside gave further evidence of his frustration. As they crossed the lobby a heated exchange was taking place between the desk officer and a dishevelled drunk with a thick, greying beard, old army boots and a burgundy bobble hat. It seemed to revolve around whether or not he should be allowed to bring the shopping trolley containing his worldly possessions into the lobby or leave it outside.

‘There’s no need for bad language, sir. I’ll be happy to listen to you, but we can’t have that in –’ The desk officer was trying to guide the man out without touching him.

‘Do you wanna ’ear about this or not?’ slurred the man, angrily.

‘Sir, your belongings will be perfectly safe outside.’

The tramp saw Stark staring. ‘Oi! You a blue top? I wanna report a crime.’

‘Sir!’ persisted the desk officer.

‘I’m a wanted man. I’m ’ere to turn m’self in!’ He held out his hands, wrists together to be cuffed. ‘Oi, come back!’

St Mary’s Gate was just a few hundred metres away so they left on foot, Stark struggling to keep up and silently cursing. For some reason he looked back in time to see the tramp being ejected into the street. The man sighed visibly, shoulders slumped. Maybe it was the lack of
ranting and gesticulation, the resignation, that caught Stark’s eye or perhaps it was something else: the man just didn’t behave quite like your average street drunk.

‘Keep up, Constable,’ called Fran.

‘Can I catch you up, Sarge? I just want to see what this is about.’ There was something familiar.

‘Take your time,’ meaning ‘Don’t’.

Stark stared towards the station as the man pushed his trolley back down the ramp. An articulated lorry trundled thunderously past and a nearby car tooted its horn. A knot of kids shrieked and yelled. The sun broke through the clouds and reflected dazzlingly off a half-open window. Something about these overlapping sensory inputs narrowed Stark’s focus. Not a flashback, more a merging of worlds. He could smell the sharp tang of age-old desiccation. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

‘
Stark!
’ Fran. Impatient. The moment slipped from Stark’s grasp, like a cheated memory. Shaking his head, he hurried after his masters.

It was a climb to the upper plateau of Greenwich Park, past the Royal Observatory, to where the bandstand stood, a short distance off one of the main paths. Sergeant Clark and the same young constable stood guard over the outer cordon, tape flapping loosely between trees and traffic cones. SOCOs were busy inside. The sergeant’s face was grim as he stared at the corpse on the small strip of tarmac at the back of the bandstand. Kyle Gibbs stared back through lifeless eyes.

Groombridge sighed. ‘Nice boots, Tony.’

Clark looked down at the blue wellingtons. ‘They’ll have to let me keep them if this carries on. I’m down to my third best shoes now.’

‘The price of being the legendary Sergeant Clark, the first man they call when they find a body. What have you got for us today, then?’

‘Face battered and bruised, knife poking out his back, sir. An ugly end to an ugly life.’

‘Poetic injustice,’ suggested Groombridge. ‘Jones again?’ He jerked his head towards the blue-booted rookie.

‘Not his lucky week,’ muttered Clark. ‘To his credit, he wasn’t sick this time.’

Groombridge glanced at Stark, who pretended not to notice. ‘All
right, Clark, take Jones for a cuppa in the Pavilion, and get a statement from the manager.’

‘Got a preliminary statement here, sir.’

‘Tea plus cake for you both, then, on me.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Clark took the proffered tenner, winked at Stark and beckoned to the unfortunate PC Jones.

Marcus Turner was already passing through transition and took his time looking over the body with the CSM. When he was done he wandered over, his face grave. ‘Ah, DCI Groombridge. Which should sadden us more – young life truncated or Lady Justice cheated?’

‘Marcus.’ Groombridge nodded.

‘DS Millhaven. And young Stark. Three murders to investigate now, in at the dirty end.’

‘Darkness dogs our steps indeed,’ said Groombridge. ‘First impressions?’

‘Preliminary, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘At this stage suppositions are few. There’s a wallet in his inside jacket pocket, suggesting this wasn’t a mugging, unless the killer spooked and abandoned their spoils, and the grass around appears scuffed as if by multiple persons. The only blood appears to be the pool beneath the body but I’ll let you know. Body position suggests it hasn’t been moved. Cause of death probably stabbing but marks to the face and throat suggest at least the possibility of other fatal trauma. Body temperature places time of death between one and five but I’ll narrow that down. I’ll remove the knife during autopsy but from the handle it’s clearly a modern flick-knife, one of those with the index-finger hole for better grip. If I had to guess I’d say multiple persons left the scene diagonally across the grass there towards the Flower Garden. I’ll wander that way with the CSM for a look-see.’

‘Look out for lager cans – Tennent’s Super,’ said Stark, earning a look from Fran – speak when spoken to.

Turner smiled, polite enough to be told how to suck eggs by a fool. ‘All too common a poison, I fear.’

Fran watched him go. ‘Internal gang squabble?’

‘Or inter-gang,’ mused Groombridge.

‘We stopped a fight between them and another group when I was
patrolling with uniform in my first week,’ said Stark, and described the incident. ‘Names were taken.’

‘Really?’ Groombridge pursed his lips. ‘And you think Gibbs was carrying a knife?’

‘Just a hunch, Guv. I didn’t see one.’

‘There’s only one knife at the scene,’ said Fran. ‘So far,’ she added, gesturing at Turner’s receding form.

‘Too many possibilities as usual.’ Groombridge looked at Stark and forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry, it always starts like this, flapping in the wind. Don’t let yourself get used to it. Frustration is the detective’s sustenance.’

‘Shall we round up the usuals, Guv?’ asked Fran.

‘I suppose.’ Groombridge didn’t sound enthusiastic. ‘What’s left of them. Get Harper on to it.’

‘Maybe one or all of the faithless little shits will finger Kyle for everything now,’ she offered cheerily, ‘while continuing to deny involvement themselves.’

‘If only …’ Groombridge responded. ‘Stark, get one of the DCs and go to Lewisham A-and-E. Ask about admissions or treatment for knife wounds or fights, and tell Harper to send someone to the Queen Elizabeth. Fran, wait and see if Marcus can give us anything else.’

‘What about you, Guv?’

Groombridge stared at the body. ‘Get someone from Family Liaison to pick me up here. I’d better break the news to his mother.’

Dixon volunteered to go with Stark and they got chatting on the way. ‘Why does the guv’nor keep giving Sergeant Clark money?’

Dixon laughed. ‘They go way back, started as constables the same day. The way I’ve heard it the guv’nor wanted to go career uniform like his dad, but Clark reckoned CID would find a way to poach him.’

‘And they bet on it.’ Stark grinned.

‘It’s been their tradition ever since. Last one to the body buys tea and cake. It’s for the rookies, really.’

The A&E receptionist was as unhelpful as she was casually uncaring to the walking wounded queuing before her throne. ‘Wait over there.’

‘This is an urgent police matter,’ insisted Dixon.

‘Someone will help you as soon as they’re free.’

And that was that: her attention was gone. Stark was feeling the effects of an early start, interrupted breakfast and too much walking, and had already met all the self-anointed hospital deities he could stomach. ‘Excuse me,’ he called politely to the amassed host looking busy behind the goddess. ‘Would one of you mind taking over from your colleague here? She’s about to be arrested for obstructing a murder investigation.’

A little shockwave of silence expanded from him. Dixon froze. The goddess looked indignant, then slowly her faith buckled. ‘How can I help you?’

‘By telling us who was sitting in your chair between one and five this morning.’

‘That would have been me,’ said a woman, coming out of a side door pulling on her coat.

She looked dog tired but amused, and listened intently. ‘Yes, we had some last night, we almost always do. I’ll get the list but that injury-type give false names as often as not.’

‘I have some photos,’ said Stark, pulling out photocopies he’d made.

Nothing matched. They scanned reception CCTV but Stark didn’t recognize any faces from the Meridian pub altercation.

‘I’m not sure we’re allowed to threaten people like that,’ said Dixon, on the way back to the station.

Stark smiled. ‘Ignorance is bliss.’

Harper came up blank too, but didn’t let that smother his glee at having most of the gang back in the cells. ‘Couldn’t find Tyler Wantage. Colin Messenger is at his granny’s house in Dartford according to his mum, and there’s no answer at Naveen Hussein’s flat. I’m trying to track down his mum.’

‘Did you tell them why they’re here?’ asked Groombridge.

Harper grinned. ‘Saved that for you, Guv.’

Groombridge puffed out his cheeks and blew. His lack of enthusiasm proved justified. The interviews progressed at the usual monotonous pace. Ordered to sit in once more, Stark was in awe of the guv’nor’s patience.

‘Once we got past the usual monosyllabic posturing and whining about police harassment they all stuck to their earlier statements regarding the assault on Alfred Ladd and the killing of Stacey Appleton,’ Groombridge reported to the team. ‘And they all have parent-clad alibis for last night – they went drinking in Greenwich, supped up at eleven, went straight home and were all tucked up asleep by midnight, like good little girls and boys. When I asked about Kyle they all said he’d got separated somewhere.’

‘Nikki again?’ suggested Fran. ‘She’s had all night to put the frighteners on them.’

Groombridge was clearly already thinking this. ‘She never shed a tear for her boyfriend. The rest maintained some semblance of shock when confronted with the news of Kyle’s death but she just lapsed into indifference.’

‘She’s a cold little bitch,’ agreed Fran. Others nodded.

Groombridge clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘I should’ve had them all locked in the cells days ago. We’d still be looking at
one
death instead of
four
.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up, Guv,’ said Harper. ‘You couldn’t have known.’ Stark couldn’t decide if the man was being sycophantic or merely stating the obvious. Groombridge just grunted. ‘No one’s going to give much of a shit about this lot, Guv,’ added Harper. ‘They obviously don’t even give a shit about each other.’

‘Naveen seemed to,’ said Stark, ‘about Stacey.’

‘Crocodile tears,’ said Harper, who’d not been there.

Groombridge stood and looked at his watch. ‘Well, maybe a night in the cells will shake their resolve. Owen, nip down the Meridian and talk to the landlady, see if they really were in there,’ he said to Harper. ‘Then come and find us in Rosie’s.’

There were groans from those left to man the graveyard shift. Stark suppressed his own, knowing he couldn’t excuse himself a second time. Even the walk up the hill to the Compass Rose made him grit his teeth. Christ, was this what he’d come to?

Harper swaggered in while they were still being served at the bar. ‘The landlady of the Meridian confirmed that the Ferrier Rats were in, Guv, or some of them, but she wasn’t sure when or for how long.’

Groombridge didn’t look all that surprised.

‘We could try phone traces again,’ suggested Harper.

Groombridge nodded disconsolately. He and Fran soon retreated to their regular table, deep in conversation. Harper propped up the bar with DC Bryden and a handful of cronies, while Stark and the remaining DCs waited to play doubles pool. People made the effort to put a dark day behind them, but it
was
an effort, you could tell. Stark managed to nab a bar stool but he was struggling. When faces began slipping away early, he quietly did the same.

His route took him back downhill past the station. On the far side of the street a tramp limped in the opposite direction, pushing his trolley and muttering drunkenly. It’d been such a long day that Stark almost failed to associate the shuffling, rattling shape with the ranting madman in the station that morning. Poor old sod, he thought, wondering where the man was going, where he would be sleeping tonight. He stopped, fished in his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note, plus change. It would have to do. He saw the old man bump the trolley up the kerb outside the station and push it determinedly up the ramp – looking for a quiet night sleeping it off in the cells, Stark thought, and Mick seemed just the kind of custody sergeant to offer shelter. Then he frowned: the tramp was struggling, favouring one side …

The cheated memory from earlier crashed back into his consciousness, mocking his stupidity. The cash dropped from his hand as he began to run, sprinting across the road, holding out one palm to the car that screeched to a halt, the shocked driver thumping his horn furiously, and across the station’s small front car park. The tramp had stopped near the top of the ramp, grasping the railing with one hand. Stark charged at the point where the ramp dog-legged halfway up and vaulted the railings unthinkingly, landing on his left leg and driving a jarring jolt of pain through his bad hip, which sent him tumbling. The tramp turned and looked down at him, perplexed. Stark rolled upright with a grunt just in time to catch the old man as he fell, guiding his weight safely to the ground.