If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (14 page)

He smiled, tossed back his malt and slapped the empty glass on the table. ‘Right, same again?’

‘Christ, you look how I feel,’ said Fran.

She looked OK. Stark felt dreadful. Another demonstration of his new infirmity. ‘Rule number one, no effing sympathy,’ replied Stark, artificially bright.

‘Heartless bastard! What kind of stupid rule is that anyway?’

‘Page one of the bloke handbook.’

‘Bollocks, men don’t read instruction manuals. The rest of the pages are probably blank.’

‘We only need one page, not requiring hundreds more for sub-clauses, caveats and impenetrable small print.’

Fran made a face. ‘Make sure you sit at the back in the team meeting so Groombridge doesn’t see the state of you.’

‘I never knew you cared, Sarge.’

‘Piss off, lightweight. Go and get me a coffee.’

Ice was broken, it seemed. If this signalled the start of a beautiful friendship, Stark wondered whether to fear more for his privacy or his liver. He limped down the corridor and opened the door, hearing Groombridge’s voice in the stairwell below.

‘… simple enough question. Stark remembered to take photos with him, a trainee investigator. Why didn’t Bryden? You’re his supervisor, it’s your job to check these things.’

Stark froze.

‘It’s not that simple, Guv.’

Harper’s voice? They were between Stark and Fran’s coffee but he didn’t fancy walking in on a dressing-down.

‘What’s not simple? You send a man to check for fight injuries in A-and-E, he checks names and faces.’

‘I didn’t send him, Guv.’

‘What?’

‘We were busy organizing the round-up, Guv. I told Bryden to phone instead, save time.’

‘He never went? For Christ’s sake, Owen! Look, I know you’re having a hard time at home –’

‘That’s not station business,’ hissed Harper, urgently.

‘No,’ said Groombridge, despite being interrupted. ‘And I’ve done what I can to respect that, but if your distractions begin to affect your judgement at work then it becomes my business …’

Neither man spoke for a moment. ‘How is Jane?’ asked Groombridge.

‘She’s fine.’ Even muffled by the stairwell echo, Stark could hear the lie in Harper’s words. ‘We’re fine.’

‘
Stark!
’ Fran’s voice boomed down the corridor. ‘
Stop loitering and get my bloody coffee!
’

Stark winced, hesitated, then started down the stairs.

He was grateful to find Harper gone. Groombridge stopped him, checking to see if anyone else was lurking. ‘You tread quietly, Trainee Investigator.’

‘Force of habit, Guv.’

Groombridge nodded; they understood each other. ‘A man’s privacy may seem to him all he has left that is his. You know this, I believe.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Good. Tell DS Millhaven she can get her own coffee, after she and you get back from the Queen Elizabeth. Don’t forget the mugshots,’ he added humourlessly.

Fran made light work of gaining access to patient information. She scanned down the list of admissions. ‘The usual depressing list of drink-related injury and brawls … What’s this? Arrived same time, one with broken arm, one with broken nose – Tyrone Smith and Callum Moss? Fast forward to three fifteen.’

The security man did as he was told. Stark leant in to watch the screen. His face betrayed nothing today, cracks sealed or plastered over, who could tell?

‘Stop! Back up … There!’ He pointed at two figures walking into shot, one holding a bloody T-shirt to his face, the other cradling an arm. Both had their caps on and hoods up and it took a moment to glimpse faces.

‘That’s Colin
Messenger
!’ said Fran, peering at the youth with the
bloodied face. ‘His mother-of-the-year swore blind he was away at his gran’s house
and
the old cow confirmed. And that’s … 
Tyler Wantage
! There’s been no answer at his flat since yesterday. Damn it, we should’ve had these two in! Wait a minute.’ She flipped back down the list. ‘Broken arm … Tyler was admitted. The little shit’s still here!’

Tyler was sitting up, watching his TV on its articulated arm, headphones on. His face when he saw Fran hold up her warrant card was a picture. She moved the TV away, dragging the headphones off his head with it.

‘Oi!’

Fran smiled. ‘Morning, Tyler, remember me?’

‘Er …’

‘Detective Sergeant Millhaven. I have some new questions for you.’

‘You can’t harass me here. You’re duressin’ me.’

‘Thankfully, your doctor says you’re well enough to leave.’

‘I’m a minor, you can’t take me nowhere.’

‘You mean “juvenile”. And your mother has agreed to meet us down the station.’

Now he looked really frightened. ‘What did she say?’

‘Only how eager she was to help us with our enquiries.’

Eager she may have been, but Tyler’s mother proved far from helpful. Naveen’s mother was the very model of matriarchal restraint by comparison. She could not be deflected from haranguing her son, and Groombridge was forced to exclude her. The local-authority youth offending team had no appropriate adult available to stand in at short notice so Tyler was sent home under orders to reappear the next morning at nine prompt. His mother continued her verbal barrage all the way out of the building.

To make matters worse, Maggs had developed a minor infection and his doctors wouldn’t allow him to be interviewed with the mugshots.

That afternoon Colin Messenger, his mother and grandmother were brought in. It wouldn’t have been possible to decide which of them was more of a handful, according to Fran; they had to be interviewed separately. Colin was eighteen and free to answer questions. He wasn’t a very good liar. Even after Groombridge had contradicted his alibi with the hospital admission sheet he continued to deny setting
foot there. Even after Groombridge pointed out that hospital A&E departments have very good CCTV systems to protect their staff, he wouldn’t admit it. So Groombridge showed him stills of himself and Tyler, plus footage of him climbing into the park where the arrested man was claiming self-defence from an identical number of attackers. Still Colin was too stubborn or too stupid to confess. He claimed the broken nose and black eyes came from a fall at his gran’s house, that he’d been there for days. It was here that he came fully unstuck.

‘“I don’t know nuffin’ about what ’appened to Kyle. I wasn’t there. You should be stressin’ the dosser, not me. I never done nuffin’!”’ Fran quoted him afterwards. ‘Not the sharpest pencil in the case. The guv picked him to bits. It was almost painful to witness.’ Fran appeared anything but sympathetic. ‘Left him in tears. My heart bleeds for the little prick.’

‘With his granny alibi round his ankles, his arse is bare on all his other lies,’ added Harper, darkly.

‘Hmm.’ Groombridge was visibly less triumphant. ‘All right, what about Naveen Hussein?’

‘No answer at the flat, Guv,’ said Williams. ‘I’ve asked uniform to keep an eye out.’

Groombridge nodded thoughtfully.

‘You thinking he might’ve scarpered?’ said Fran.

Groombridge looked uncertain. ‘I didn’t have him pegged. But I’ve been wrong on rare occasions.’

Stark returned to his desk, thinking about Maggs, ‘the dosser’, as Colin and his ilk saw him. A decorated veteran sleeping rough in a park. It shouldn’t be possible, yet it was sadly all too common. On a whim he called the MoD underling. He was greeted warmly, though not in a good way. Nevertheless, the man knew better than to avoid Stark’s questions again. Stark scribbled a name and number on his pad and thanked the man, who swore and hung up.

He dialled again, spoke to an adjutant and left a message with little hope of a speedy response. Five minutes later he answered the phone to one Brigadier Thomas Graveney, who was as cheerful, helpful and pleasant an officer as Stark had ever encountered. ‘Bisto’ to his men, he freely admitted. In 1982 Second Lieutenant Graveney, as he was then, of 2 Para had commanded Maggs and remembered him well.
Maggs had been popular up to a point, but his comrades took the mickey out of his ill-concealed intellect: he had scored higher in IQ tests than his officer. Bisto laughed. Too high, really. Maggs saw through his officers too easily.

They talked for a good while. Stark thanked the brigadier profusely and relayed everything he’d learnt to Fran, who didn’t bother concealing her lack of interest. ‘Bollocks to all that. Come on, I’m gasping!’

‘You’ve
got
to be joking.’

‘I thought soldiers had stamina.’

‘I’m just a poor weak civilian now.’

‘Come on, hair of the dog.’

‘Its bite was rabid. I’m going home to die,’ said Stark, firmly.

She shook her head mournfully. ‘Just as I was starting to dislike you less.’

‘The perfect epitaph.’

‘Last chance. I’m sure I must owe you a drink.’

Now she really was digging deep. Why? She was a strange one. ‘In my next life.’

She huffed her disapproval and left. By the time Stark had hobbled into town, settled into a pizza-place corner seat, ordered the biggest, meatiest pizza on the menu and washed down two pills with a cold beer, his tiny twinge of guilt had faded. He hadn’t the heart or the head for more of Fran’s questions.

The other tables gradually filled with noisy families, noisier unsupervised teenagers and couples perhaps wishing they’d chosen somewhere more intimate. No doubt Stark looked out of place, a right Norman No Mates, but he liked the background din, the privacy it afforded, the vivid life surrounding his personal bubble. He demolished his pizza and sat nursing a third beer until the unsubtle hovering of the waitress told him they wanted their table back.

He hobbled home, where he stood contemplating the stairs with little enthusiasm. The physiotherapists said stairs were good for him but the lift tempted him daily. He took the stairs, cursing every step. His answerphone light was blinking but he ignored it; he’d sweated through his shirt, keeping a lid on the pain as it had steadily increased during the day, so he stripped, showered and fell into bed.

Half an hour later he sat up, swore and limped into the living room.
The little red light mocked him. Stark sighed, sat down and hit play. Three salutations of joy: his mother worrying, his sister reminding him his mother was worrying and what she thought of his not calling back, and, of course, Captain Pierson. The world was not pleased with Joe Stark tonight. He considered going back to bed but it was still early enough to call and his conscience would only take so much ignoring, so he poured himself a double and dialled. An hour of familial torture later, all self-esteem buried beneath a steaming slagheap of guilt, he looked at the last scribbled number on his pad. Pierson. The clock said ten forty-five. His conscience would just have to live with one more night.

‘Wanker!’

‘Morning, Sarge,’ replied Stark. Today obviously meant to start where yesterday had left off.

‘Don’t “Sarge” me. You put all those bloody drinks on my tab!’ Fran looked suitably peeved.

‘Only your rounds, to be fair,’ said Stark, unable to prevent a smile getting through. He was sorry he’d missed seeing the look on her face, though her expression now was still priceless.

‘I already told you no one likes a smartarse. I looked a right tit. You had to tell everyone first, did you?’

‘I didn’t tell a soul, I swear.’ He tried to be sincere, but chuckling didn’t help. ‘Seriously.’

She appeared to accept this. ‘Must’ve been Harvey. Ungrateful sod. The amount of drinks I’ve had in that dump.’

‘How many have you paid for?’ asked Stark, deadpan.

‘Ha-bloody-ha!’ She looked at him accusingly. ‘I thought you were going home to die.’

‘Medicinal euthanasia became necessary.’ The pills and booze had done the trick, but there was sleep and there was sleep.

‘From the look of you it almost worked.’

‘It definitely worked. I just haven’t stopped moving yet.’

‘Like a chicken, you mean.’

He let her have the parting shot, hoping she’d tire of the topic. Sooner or later he had to run out of ways of pissing people off.

‘Right,’ said Groombridge, striding in. ‘Tell me we’ve got an appropriate adult lined up and Tyler
sans
harridan.’

‘Social worker plus legal already downstairs with him, Guv,’ said Fran. ‘And I’ve got the transcript of Colin Messenger’s statement. We’ll see if it doesn’t jog Tyler’s memory.’

‘Give me five minutes.’

While Groombridge went to report to the super, Stark slipped into
the quiet room where CCTV imagery was reviewed. He pulled out the crumpled paper, took a deep breath and dialled.

‘Yes?’ An instantly recognizable tone.

‘Captain Pierson?’ he asked anyway.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘Joseph Stark.’

‘Ah … Corporal Stark,’ she said, predictably lacking magnanimity in victory. ‘Come to your senses at last.’

‘If you say so.’

‘About time. One more day and I’d have been back with those MPs.’

‘What – no firing squad?’

‘That, Corporal, remains a distinct possibility.’

Stark sighed inwardly. Today really was continuing yesterday’s theme. He considered correcting ‘Corporal’ again. It would piss her off further but how much worse could he make it? Much, much worse, probably. He returned to his desk some time later, dejected.

‘There you are, Tosspot!’ Fran greeted him with little more civility than before. ‘Come on, the guv thinks this will be good for your education.’

Stark watched through the glass as Groombridge began with Tyler Wantage. A tall, muscular kid with a stubble goatee and hair pleated in tight lines against his scalp, culminating in a rat-tail. He looked older than his sixteen years. Only the way he slouched, hunched in his hoodie, marked him out as the teenager he was.

‘Why is you pest’in’ me?’ he complained. ‘I ain’t done nuffin’ wrong.’

‘Indeed.’ Groombridge sighed, rubbing fingers and thumb over his temples as if soothing a headache. ‘Few, if any, people have done
nothing
wrong.
You
, I would be willing to bet, have done
many
things wrong. Let’s begin with the night of Sunday the tenth, around one in the morning.’

‘That’s Monday morning,’ sneered Tyler.

‘Well done. Where were you?’ Tyler shrugged. ‘If it helps jog your memory, that was the morning seventy-eight-year-old Alfred Ladd was fatally assaulted as he slept, minding his own business, in St Alfege Park.’

The teenager shrugged again. ‘Home, in bed.’

Groombridge shook his head. ‘Your mother says otherwise. So where were you?’

‘Out.’

‘Where?’

‘Just out.’

‘Where?’

‘Greenwich.’

‘With whom?’

‘Mates.’

‘Which mates?’ Tyler didn’t answer. ‘The only bar open that late on a Sunday is Reds. Were you in there?’ asked Groombridge.

The legal went to caution his charge against response but it was too late. ‘That’s right. It was mashin’, a right laugh.’

‘So when we review their door CCTV we’ll see you and your mates, will we?’ Tyler froze. ‘Because they introduced a no-cap-or-hoodie policy last year, so we’ll have no problem seeing your face.’

Silence. Groombridge let it drag out, allowing Tyler’s uncertainty to fill it. Stark’s respect for his boss was growing. He wasn’t sure he’d have the patience to sit on his temper so carefully.

‘Neat idea washing your clothes afterwards. Which of you came up with that one?’

There was no mistaking Tyler’s faint smile.

Groombridge saw it too. ‘Did you do it after every attack, or just the one on Alfred Ladd?’ Nothing. ‘Of course, it did help confirm exactly which articles you were keen for us not to inspect. Your mother was kind enough to confirm they were what you wore that night and who you were out with. And I have a building full of officers with nothing better to do than compare all your outfits to the hours of CCTV footage from the nights of the various attacks. I’m confident we’ll soon spot you and your mates at various key locations and times, loitering with intent.’

‘You’ve no grounds for “intent”, Inspector,’ the legal piped up.

‘A helpless old man was killed. Kicked and beaten to death. And we can already identify you within yards of it, within minutes. And then there’s the physical evidence –’

‘That’s circumstantial at best,’ pointed out the legal. ‘My client has explained that he was in that location the night before.’

Groombridge continued to direct his words at Tyler. ‘Circumstantial evidence soon adds up. Who’s a jury going to believe? A sullen little scrote like you?’

The legal gave him a warning look and the social worker stiffened on her seat. Groombridge switched tack. ‘Where were you on Friday the fifteenth at around midnight? That’s the night Stacey Appleton was pushed off a fifth-storey balcony,’ he added helpfully.

‘Playin’ Xbox wiv Colin.’

The single mothers of both had confirmed this and, given Tyler’s mother’s propensity to forthrightness, Groombridge was inclined to believe her. ‘Have you anything else to add?’ Nothing. ‘How well did you know Stacey? Were you close?’

This elicited a faint smirk. Groombridge waited. ‘Please answer the question.’

‘I knew her, ya get me. Proper.’

Groombridge frowned. ‘You were sleeping with her?’ A definite smirk now. ‘I thought she was Naveen Hussein’s girlfriend.’

‘Paki wanker. Proper in love with little Stacey, must’ve been the only one who never ’ad a go. Virgin loser!’

‘Stacey slept with more than one of you?’

Now Tyler laughed. ‘I don’t give a fuck where she
slept
, but she fucked us all. Except poor little Nav. I reckon he was the only one she actually liked. Pafettic saddos.’

‘So why?’

‘She was the Dutchie,’ scoffed Tyler. Seeing their blank looks he added, ‘Kouchie? Blunt? Pass ’pon the lef’ hand side, ya get me? She weren’t all that neither!’

Dutchie. A Caribbean cooking pot in the original song, a communal joint in the cover version and now gang slang for a sex slave – to be passed around, whether through initiation, subjugation or for mere entertainment. And Naveen loved her, the poor sod. Stark shook his head in dismay. Groombridge sat back in his chair and placed his hands palm down on the table. Stark recognized anger management when he saw it. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘Where were you on Monday night, between one and three?’

‘Home, in bed.’

‘Your mother says otherwise.’

‘Lyin’ bitch.’

‘I have footage of you entering Accident and Emergency with Colin Messenger at three fifteen that morning.’ Tyler rolled his eyes. ‘Your poor mother was telling me how worried you make her. She’s at her wit’s end. Poor thing, she hasn’t even had time to wash the clothes you were wearing that night.’

Tyler looked up sharply, then anxiously at his legal, who gave a minute shake of the head.

Groombridge raised his eyebrows. ‘Still got nothing to say? No? How did you break your arm?’

‘Fell.’

‘Did you fall on Colin’s nose?’ Groombridge smiled. ‘It’s funny, this falling,’ he continued evenly. ‘Contagious, perhaps. Colin claimed he fell too.’ He paused, letting Tyler try to guess what he might ask next. Stark observed intently. Groombridge silently placed the still of the pair at A&E together. ‘Of course, that was before his confession to the assault that night on a vagrant that ended in the death of your ringleader Kyle Gibbs.’

Tyler jerked visibly. Groombridge held the transcript of Messenger’s confession. The legal held out his hand for it and began to read, as Groombridge pressed on: ‘That’s what Kyle was, wasn’t he, your leader, your superior? Bigger, better, faster, cleverer. Does that make you his bitch?’

Tyler looked angry now. His legal placed a cautionary hand on his shoulder but the teenager shrugged it off. ‘Not while I was bangin’ ’is bitch be’ind ’is back,’ he snarled.

Groombridge raised an eyebrow. ‘You and Nikki Cockcroft?’ Tyler looked pleased with himself again. ‘Was she a Dutchie too?’

The boy huffed. ‘No way, man. Not Nikki.’

‘Then I guess that makes you and Kyle
her
bitches,’ concluded Groombridge.

‘I ain’t no bitch!’

Now it was the DCI’s turn to scoff. ‘She yanked his leash just like she yanked yours. Weak little bitches, the both of you, whining and yapping, doing what little Nikki tells you.’

‘Fuck off, wanker! I ain’t no bitch! I mess you up!’

‘Just like you did those dossers?’

‘Inspector, this transcript does not name my client in relation to that –’

‘You’re Nikki’s little bitch! She kept her hands clean and told you to do it!’

‘I ain’t her bitch!’

‘I think you are.’

‘She’s the one yappin’. I’m the one whackin’!’

‘Oh, yeah, you’re fine at “whacking” when it’s some poor seventy-eight-year-old zipped in his sleeping-bag behind a public piss-house at night, but when you accidentally pick on an ex-soldier your bite isn’t as big as your bark is it, little doggie.’

‘Inspector –’ the legal tried again.

‘You got your arse kicked in that park on Monday night.’

‘You is
jokin’
!’ scoffed Tyler.

‘Alan Maggs broke your arm and whipped your arse.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector!’ protested the legal.

‘Sent you whimpering behind Kyle like a
little bitch
!’

Tyler shot angrily to his feet, clambering over the table to get at Groombridge, Fran restraining him as the legal backed away in the corner. ‘I ain’t no bitch! I’d have kicked his ass if Kyle hadn’t fucked up! That old dosser was
nuffin
’!’ Tyler yelled. ‘I kicked his ass! Fuckin’ dossers! I messed ’em up! I messed ’em
all
up! Fuckin’ bitch! I ain’t no one’s
fuckin’ bitch
!’

Stark was in the room by now but Fran didn’t need his help. Tyler was face down on the floor with his arms restrained. Mick, the custody sergeant, and two PCs manhandled the struggling teenager back down into the cell block.

The legal packed up and left. The social worker gave Groombridge a severe look.

‘Well, that was bracing,’ said Groombridge, calmly.

Fran appeared equally unflustered. ‘Two confessions, verbal at least. Three, if you count Maggs. Nice work, Guv. Time to get little Nikki back in?’

‘Let’s see if we can’t shake a few more off the tree before we go for her. Get all the rest in. Let her stew a bit.’ Groombridge frowned at
Stark as they travelled up in the lift. ‘You’re quieter than average this morning, Stark.’

Stark hesitated a moment before replying. ‘A wise person once said, if you’ve nothing useful to say, say nothing, Guv.’

Groombridge shook his head. ‘And my old granny told me that if someone has nothing to say, it’s because they know you won’t like what they’re thinking. Spit it out, Trainee Investigator.’

Stark looked at Fran but found no help there. ‘I just wonder if we should bring Nikki in now, Guv. We’ve seen what happens when she’s left to roam.’

As an enlisted soldier, and a police constable, you raised doubts with your sergeant, never your officer. But no rebuke came. Groombridge merely shrugged. ‘OK, she can stew in a cell. Next time speak up.’

Fran might not have agreed. She gave Stark a look, which he interpreted as,
I haven’t forgotten about you, sunshine
.
All he could do was shrug.

‘Right,’ Groombridge announced, as he strode into the office. ‘What about Naveen?’

Williams didn’t look happy. ‘I just got back, Guv. Still no answer at their flat. And a neighbour thinks they left Monday, bags packed.’

‘We got his mum’s employment details from the Inland Revenue, Guv,’ added Dixon. ‘Tills at Tesco. But she phoned in Monday requesting compassionate leave for a death in the family.’

‘The day after we found Stacey.’ Fran’s face said it all. ‘Maybe he wasn’t nearly as surprised or upset as he let on.’

‘Five days.’ Groombridge rubbed his eyes, the expanding implications visible in his pained expression. ‘OK, put everything on hold. Look into familial connections, see where they might’ve gone. And alert the ports. Focus on flights to Pakistan. If they’ve left the country I want to know.’

If they had, the chances of getting Naveen back were iffy, thought Stark. Pakistan had been quick enough coughing up the 7/7 bomber to their allies in the War on Terror, but their record on domestic crime was less encouraging. Had Naveen really killed Stacey? It hadn’t appeared that way. It was harder to fit Naveen into the gang’s activities
than others like Colin Messenger. He wasn’t made of the same stuff. He seemed … softer. But appearances could be deceiving. Just look at Maggs.

The rest of the day was spent on the phones. The UK Border Agency confirmed that Naveen and his mother held both UK and Pakistani passports but that neither appeared to have fled the country by conventional means. There were no travel bookings under their names. Williams managed to extract a family contact from Social Services – Mrs Hussein’s sister and her family in Birmingham – and asked local uniform to call round, but there was no answer. Stark listened with interest. He thought about talking to Fran but decided discretion was the better part of valour and approached Williams instead. ‘This aunt of Naveen’s, she has a seventeen-year-old son, right?’