If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (15 page)

Williams nodded. ‘Yeah. So?’

So Stark’s training had included not just anti-terrorism and counter-insurgency but also insurgency, escape and evasion, and the easiest way to obtain a false passport was to use that of someone who looked like you. And for a teenager whose passport photo might be years out of date … ‘Probably nothing.’ He made a note of the names and a few quiet calls. You never knew.

‘What was that?’ asked Fran, as he hung up.

‘Probably nothing, Sarge.’

She sized him up for a second but let it drop. She glanced at the clock. ‘Right, come on, you horrible lot, I’m gasping!’ She looked again at Stark. ‘You too, chicken.’

‘Thought I was
persona non grata
.’

‘Time to re-ingratiate yourself,’ she said, pulling on her jacket.

‘I’ll have to pass on that. I’m dead on my feet, if you recall?’

‘Whose fault is that, Mr Medicinal?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘What are you gonna do? Sit home alone drinking whisky in front of the TV?’

‘Nothing beats a good weepy chick-flick.’

‘Stop pissing about. It’s Friday, and I refuse to be blown out two nights running.’

There wasn’t much Stark could say to that. He joined her and the rest at Rosie’s with the intention of slipping away as he had before.
Unfortunately it seemed Fran was wise to this now, and caught his departure with a disapproving look.

Her disapproving look was still there the next morning as the search for Naveen picked up where it had left off. More than one member of the team was wishing it wasn’t Saturday morning and wondering why they hadn’t opted for a regular job with regular hours and other perks, like weekends.

Later Groombridge came out of his office. ‘Stark. The doctors say your pal Maggs has perked up. Get up there with the perp books.’

‘On his own, Guv?’ asked Fran, just shy of protest.

‘You up to it, Constable?’ asked Groombridge.

‘Guv.’ Stark knew a rock and a hard place when they loomed at either side of him.

Fran darted a glare his way. ‘But, Guv –’

‘I want every available body looking for Naveen Hussein, Detective Sergeant. Unless you feel you can’t spare one trainee investigator?’

‘No, Guv.’ Fran smiled, teeth gritted.

‘Please confirm your full name?’

‘Not this again,’ said Maggs, tersely.

‘For the record, if you wouldn’t mind.’ Stark smiled.

Maggs shook his head, amused now. ‘Alan Thomas Maggs, no fixed abode,’ he said ironically.

‘Thank you. I’m here to show you some mugshots to see if you recognize anyone from the group you claim attacked you. There’s quite a few to go through, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Stark got out the books, two thick ring-binders, one female, one male, known to the station as the Perp Books, or the Usual Suspects, or the Shitheads, depending on who was talking and who was listening.

‘You still look like crap,’ said Maggs, ignoring them.

‘You look better,’ replied Stark. ‘I’m glad.’

‘Civilized society.’ Maggs waved a hand around. ‘We like our murderers fit for the gallows.’

‘We don’t hang people any more.’

‘No. Too squeamish.’

‘That, plus it allows for the possibility of rehabilitation.’

‘Or miscarriage of justice,’ suggested Maggs.

Stark stared at him. ‘Is that what’s happening here?’

‘No,’ said Maggs, ruefully. He opened his hands to indicate himself. ‘Only guilty man in Shawshank.’

‘Good movie.’ Stark couldn’t help looking surprised.

‘I haven’t spent all of my years on the street, Constable Weekender.’

‘How long
has
it been?’

‘Let’s just call it intermittent,’ replied Maggs. ‘Those rings under your eyes tell a tale,’ he continued seamlessly. ‘Still laying awake wondering what you might’ve done different?’ Stark tried to keep reaction
from his face but Maggs nodded anyway. ‘Never stops, you know,’ he said. ‘Nearly thirty years on, round and round.’ He considered Stark, his expression unreadable. ‘Course you’ll have worked out there was any number of ways you could’ve stopped ’em dying, any number of arbitrary decisions. And maybe you’ll have realized it’s futile wondering. Change one thing, affect another. Save that man, doom another. Reconciled yourself to the fact that none of it was your fault particularly. Still – round and round.’

Stark said nothing.

‘I expect the shrinks told you not to blame yourself, how death in battle is random chance on both sides. Nothing personal. You did what you had to. Necessary force, necessary sacrifice. Survivor’s guilt, perfectly natural, perfectly understandable. Your life a tribute to their sacrifice?’

‘Something like that,’ admitted Stark.

‘Bit of pressure that, isn’t it? Who we living for now then, eh, them or us?’ A rhetorical question. Maggs’s diamond stare gave no hint of sympathy, no condescending consolation. Rule number one in action. ‘I didn’t much like half the shifty fucks,’ said Maggs. Some recognition in Stark’s face elicited a sad smile and a nod. ‘Have a beer, have a laugh, take a bullet for them till the day you die, but it’s not like you chose ’em.’

‘I was TA, just making up the numbers. They weren’t even my regiment,’ said Stark, not sure why.

‘Christ, how the hell do you get a shrink’s head round that?’

‘Is that why you gave up on them?’ asked Stark, keen to shift the focus from himself.

‘Wasn’t much to give up on. Didn’t coddle their vets like they do now. Made of sterner stuff back then, not like you soft toddlers playing in the sand.’

‘Yeah, you coped just fine.’

Maggs laughed wryly. ‘Still see their faces, the dusties you dropped?’

Dropped
. Nowadays squaddies used
slotted
, like excited kids in some
Bravo Two Zero
video game, originating from the slot in the rear gunsight, or
brassing the enemy up
, from the brass shell casings. Such cosmetic euphemisms set Stark’s teeth on edge. If you were willing to
kill, you should own it. ‘They were too far away,’ he replied. ‘Or I was too busy.’

Maggs shook his head. ‘Most of mine were in the dark. No faces, just shapes on the ground as you pass. No real telling who dropped who. And then it’s dawn and you pass one – glass eyes, shocked, lifeless.’

‘That one gives them all a face.’ Stark nodded.

Maggs raised his eyebrows. ‘Most of the time it’s blood from a stone and then, bang, the brutal truth. You sure you weren’t a Rupert?’ He stared hard at Stark. ‘Never fancied a proper cap?’

Stark shrugged. That was too long a story, and too personal.

Maggs changed the subject. ‘Got a smoke?’

Stark tilted his head at the No Smoking sign.

‘Oh, yeah, filthy habit,’ agreed Maggs.

‘Want me to get you some?’

‘I just gave up. Talk to Bisto, did you?’ Maggs asked.

Stark was starting to expect the deliberate swerves. ‘Said you were the most dangerous man in the army, the enlisted man with a Mensa card.’

‘He never was the sharpest tool in the box,’ said Maggs. ‘Decent enough, though, for a silver-spoon. Not surprised they put you on to him. Can’t be many still in but he was always gonna be one of ’em. What is he now, colonel?’

‘Brigadier.’

Maggs snorted. ‘God help us, he’ll make fucking general. If you talk to him again, tell him we never did like him.’

‘He also told me about your Military Medal,’ said Stark, ‘awarded for –’

‘Failing to duck,’ interrupted Maggs.

‘“Conspicuous imbecility” were the words he used.’ Stark considered pressing. He had questions but there was a line. Brigadier Graveney had told him Maggs earned the citation at Goose Green, dragging a wounded officer to cover under withering fire in broad daylight. Maggs would make light of it, no doubt, dismiss it as one of those momentary acts of poor judgement you later can’t quite forgive yourself for. The then Second Lieutenant ‘Bisto’ Graveney had not – he’d been the wounded officer in question. Two weeks later an Argentine bullet had finished Maggs’s war. ‘Still have it?’

‘Flogged it for booze years ago,’ lied Maggs.

‘Pity,’ said Stark. ‘Should’ve waited. Those discontinued baubles are getting quite valuable now, I heard.’ He nearly added a quip about buying new socks but stopped himself.

Maggs met Stark’s gaze coolly. ‘Figured you for a bauble of your own. You seem imbecilic enough.’

‘Campaign gongs are enough.’

‘It’s a good job we don’t dish out Purple Hearts for splinters and blisters like the Yanks. You’d be littered with them.’ He smiled. ‘Show me your holiday snaps, then, Blue Top.’

It seemed the touchy-feely stuff was over for now, thank goodness. Stark opened the book of females and Maggs began skimming through, pausing occasionally. Suddenly he stopped and tapped an image. ‘That’s the shouty cow, the one egging them all on.’

Nikki Cockcroft. ‘How certain are you?’

‘Hundred per cent. Vicious little coward, that one. I’ll never forget
her
face.’

Stark felt a grim elation as he leant into the microphone. ‘For the record, Alan Maggs has positively identified photograph F/12/4211. Okay, keep going.’

In the book of males Maggs picked out Tim Bowes and Paul Thompson. He smiled when he found Colin Messenger. ‘I expect this cocky shit’s nose isn’t so straight any more.’ The smile returned with Tyler’s picture. ‘And this one. She had him wound up good ’n’ proper too. Broken left forearm, cried like a girl.’

‘He passed right over Harrison Collier and Martin Munroe,’ Stark reported. ‘Said he had to concentrate on the ones at the front. I think we might have more luck if we stood them up in front of him.’

‘And you’ve got all this on tape?’ said Fran, for confirmation.

‘Sarge.’ Stark thought about his preliminary conversation with Maggs and hoped Fran wouldn’t double-check.

She looked at Groombridge. ‘The word of a murder suspect against the fine upstanding youth of today.’

Groombridge nodded. ‘It might not convince the CPS but it’s another hook to trip up the Rats.’

‘Usual suspects, Guv?’ asked Fran.

‘Not yet. When Maggs is well enough for an ID parade we’ll get Collier and Munroe in front of him.’

‘Guv?’ Harper knocked on the open door. ‘I’ve got him!’

‘Naveen Hussein?’

Harper grinned. ‘Birmingham airport. Tried to board a flight to Islamabad using his cousin’s passport before I confirmed he was ours.’

‘Good work, Owen!’ Groombridge allowed himself a smile, though it made his next decision a little awkward. ‘Fran, you and Stark get on up there, see what he’s got to say for himself.’

Harper’s indignation was immediate. ‘But, Guv –’

‘Sorry, Owen, I know this was your catch but these two saw Naveen’s reaction to Stacey’s death. I want them to do this.’

‘Guv,’ replied Harper, but Groombridge thought he detected the briefest of glares at Stark’s back. Something to watch for.

They took the train. Fran didn’t like trains. Indeed, she loathed all forms of public transport and made this known at regular intervals all the way to Birmingham airport. Her complaints centred on reliability, inconvenience and the fact that she spent quite enough time with the public as it was. Stark was a little surprised at the especial venom she held for the Tube, but she claimed only Central Londoners loved it, and that although her home town of Croydon had been officially swallowed up into Greater London in 1965, Central Londoners still looked down their noses at it as Surrey. Her opinion of Stark seemed on a par with that of the Tube, and indeed Central Londoners, though she withheld specific accusations. Stark would dearly have loved to close his eyes but didn’t trust her not to bellow in his ear, like a drill sergeant. He should probably be angry that Harper had claimed credit for Naveen’s detainment, but he wasn’t.

Naveen did not look happy to see them. He looked tired and scared, which was unsurprising: possession of a false identity document with improper intent usually meant time inside. His aunt might be charged too, for booking the flight. The locals had already brought in an appropriate adult and a legal.

‘Well,’ said Fran. She didn’t smile. ‘Naveen Hussein. I’m sorry for
your loss.’ Naveen looked confused. ‘Death in the family? That was the excuse your mother gave to her employer for your sudden disappearance.’

Naveen gulped and tried to avoid their eyes. In the early interviews he had stonewalled with the best of them. Now he looked one nudge from rubble. ‘I never killed Stacey, if that’s what you think,’ he blurted out defensively.

‘You loved her.’ He wasn’t expecting that. He looked down, stone-faced, but didn’t deny it. ‘Love is a common motive for murder,’ continued Fran. ‘Jealousy too. It can’t have been easy watching Stacey being passed around. What was it Tyler called her?’ she asked Stark, though she remembered well enough.

‘Dutchie, Sarge.’

‘Oh, yes. Pass the Dutchie ’pon the lef’ hand side. Only she was never passed to you, Naveen. Was that their choice or hers?’

Naveen looked down, anguished. ‘I never killed her.’

‘But here you are,’ Fran indicated their surroundings, ‘on the run. What are we supposed to think?’

‘I ain’t runnin’ from you,’ said Naveen, desperately.

‘Then who?’

Naveen shook his head and looked down again.

‘If you won’t answer my questions here, you’ll answer them back in Greenwich.’

His head jerked up. ‘I ain’t goin’ back there.’

‘The officers here will charge you. Your mother and aunt too, most likely. Then you’ll be released on bail pending trial and told to return to your homes.’

The boy was shaking his head, eyes widening with every word. ‘I ain’t going back.’

‘You have no choice. You have no other relatives we could trust you with. If you abscond you’ll be remanded into custody.’

Naveen was beginning to panic. ‘I can’t go back! You don’t understand! I can’t go back!’

‘Why?’

‘They’ll kill me, like they killed Stace!’

‘Who?’

‘They knew. Soon as I said I wouldn’t go looking for that girl the
next night, they knew. They’ll think I was running, they’ll think I was snitching, like Stace.’

‘What girl?’

‘Nikki said it was her, a girl sometimes hangs around the estate, with pink hair, dossin’ in one of the empty flats, dunno which one. Nikki said she done it, killed Stace, but that was bullshit. They were going looking for her but I wouldn’t go. I knew it was bullshit! I knew it was them done it!’

‘Who?’

‘Kyle and Nikki!’ spat Naveen, then looked appalled that he’d said it aloud.

‘They killed Stacey? Can you prove that?’

Naveen shook his head bitterly. ‘They told us all to stay home that night, said something was up, needed sorting. But I knew, soon as I saw that text next day! That weren’t from Stace!’

‘How do you know?’

‘She always signed off with “SXO”, always, no matter what!’

‘“SXO”?’

‘Stacey, kiss, hug,’ translated Stark.

Naveen nodded, tears welling. ‘She never wanted to be in the Rats. Me neither. But you don’t get a choice. They beat on you or worse …’ Now the tears fell. ‘Poor Stace,’ he blubbed. ‘Things they made her do! Poor Stace!’

Fran waited as Naveen got himself under control, angrily wiping away his tears. ‘They can’t hurt her any more,’ she said, with surprising compassion. ‘And Kyle can’t hurt you either. He’s dead – stabbed to death when he and your friends finally attacked someone who could fight back. It’s safe for you to go home now.’

Naveen was shaking his head slowly. But when he looked up it wasn’t in relief. ‘You haven’t got a clue. You think it’s Kyle we’re all afraid of.’

‘He wouldn’t say any more. And it might be days before he’s bailed and delivered home,’ Fran reported to Groombridge, when they finally got back. A two-hour delay had nicely made her point regarding all things public transport.

‘You believe him?’

Fran shrugged. ‘I think so. At least, it’s easier to believe Kyle and Nikki shoved Stacey off a building. Though I’m not sure how much sympathy I have for Naveen, even if he was forced to join up – not after everything they’ve done.’

‘But this girl with the pink hair again? A witness?’

‘Explains a few things. The girl sees Kyle and Nikki off Stacey. They tell the others it was her and wind them up to go looking for her.’

‘So why attack Maggs?’

‘Pathology said Kyle’s body contained high levels of cocaethylene, Guv,’ said Stark, as if that explained everything. Fran’s face suggested otherwise. ‘It forms in the body from alcohol and cocaine,’ he explained. ‘One’s a cultural disinhibitor, the other inflames self-confidence, both elevate dopamine and serotonin, reducing impulse control. Mixed in the bodies of a gang of thugs out looking for someone to hurt …’