If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (19 page)

‘You can’t arrest me for having a drink.’

‘You’re not under arrest, Mr Phillips. No one is accusing you of anything. We’re asking for your help, that’s all.’

Phillips shifted in his seat. He had a little form. Helping the police wasn’t the usual relationship. ‘Six, seven pints, so what?’

‘Not all that much, then,’ said Groombridge, offering a twisted olive branch.

‘Right.’

‘So, you can easily recall what you saw in the park.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘Did you happen to pass the bandstand?’

Suddenly Phillips looked cagey again. ‘Yeah. Why?’

‘You did? By my reckoning it was slightly out of your way.’

‘I saw someone smoking, I needed a light.’

‘You weren’t worried it was Parks Police?’

‘Been walking through there for years, never seen your lot after dark.’ He looked worried again. ‘You said I wasn’t in trouble.’

‘We’re not interested in trespassing. We just want to know what you saw.’

‘It was just a dosser. Who cares? I heard about that bloke getting killed. It wasn’t me.’

‘No one is saying it was. But the dosser, he might’ve seen something. Can you describe him?’

‘You lot ’aven’t got a clue, ’ave ya?’ He chuckled.

‘About what?’ asked Groombridge, evenly.

‘It wasn’t a him,’ scoffed Phillips.

‘What?’

‘The dosser wasn’t a bloke. It was a bird.’

Hammed and Stark stood watching through the glass in shock. No expression passed over Groombridge’s face. The only sign that he shared their surprise was that he took a few moments before he asked, ‘At the bandstand? Are you sure?’

‘You saying I can’t tell the difference? Fucking waste, good lookin’ once, makes me sick. If you can afford all that hair dye an’ tattoos an’ shiny studs through everyfin’ then you don’t need my spare fuckin’ change. I hate those pretend dossers, new-age wasters. Probably lives in a better flat than me, claiming off the dole and sitting on her arse! Get a fucking job!’ This glaring hypocrisy hung unchallenged in the air for several seconds.

‘What colour dye?’

‘Pink. Though she had one of those hats on too, you know, one of those new-age knitted things, with the flappy ear bits, all zigzags and colours.’

Neither Fran nor Groombridge made any outward acknowledgement of the coincidence. ‘Age?’

Phillips shrugged. ‘How can you tell these days? Fifteen, twenty, I don’t know.’

‘Think.’

‘Look, you said I wasn’t in trouble. I don’t like being told what to do.’

‘I appreciate that, but I also note you’ve been arrested twice for solicitation, both times with girls barely over the age of consent. Was that why you approached this girl?’

‘No!’ cried Phillips, defensively.

‘I hope not.’

Fran had been rifling through the file and now slid the CCTV still of Pinky on to the desk. ‘That’s her!’ Phillips was suddenly eager to appear helpful. ‘Tattoo on her hand, all those piercings, not my type.’

After Phillips had been thanked and sent on his way, Groombridge frowned. ‘Puts a curious spin on things.’

‘I think I might’ve seen someone with a hat like that on the parks CCTV, Guv,’ admitted Stark. ‘Coming in St Mary’s Gate not long after Maggs.’

‘Maggs never mentioned the girl,’ said Fran.

‘Might not’ve seen her, Guv,’ said Stark. ‘She might’ve moved on after Phillips disturbed her.’

Groombridge looked thoughtful. ‘Narrow escape or witness to a second killing in days? The sooner we talk to her the better. How long till Nikki Cockcroft gets here?’

Fran made a face. ‘Not till tomorrow afternoon, Guv. She’s up before Orpington magistrates first thing in the morning.’

‘Right, then. Get on to Maggs’s doctors and arrange an interview for tomorrow morning. I want to hear what
he
has to say about this.’

19
 

No longer in a gown, Maggs was wearing jeans and a mid-blue sweatshirt. Print on both marked them out as prison issue. Something about that struck Stark as wrong, but he supposed if Maggs wasn’t here he’d be in Belmarsh. He looked less yellow, less slumped, fitter, and there was a sharper intelligence in his eyes. Fewer pain meds, thought Stark. He gazed at each of them in turn, perhaps longest at Stark. ‘What do you want?’

Groombridge ran through the usual spiel, then invited Maggs to tell them again what had happened that night in the park, which he did, virtually verbatim with his previous statement. When he’d finished Fran silently slipped Pinky’s photo on to the table. ‘What can you tell me about this girl?’ asked Groombridge.

Maggs pondered it, expressionless. ‘Jailbait. Bit boyish too. More your type than mine, I’d say.’

Groombridge ignored the gibe. ‘Look again.’

‘Why?’

‘We have a witness placing her at the bandstand shortly before midnight.’ Groombridge tapped the photo again. ‘She was there, Maggs.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You didn’t see her?’

‘It’s a big park.’

Groombridge waited, but Maggs just shrugged.

‘Do you know this girl?’ asked Fran.

‘It’s not a community,’ growled Maggs. ‘Some of the young ones and part-timers mingle, but the old hands like me … There ain’t much mileage begging in the same spot as someone else now, is there?’

‘What about sleeping?’ said Groombridge. ‘Safety in numbers, warmth, even?’

‘Reckon I’m an attractive prospect for cosying up to, DCI Groombridge? Maybe I was right about you.’ He looked at the photo again.
‘Not sure she’d think so. Besides, you know I prefer fat, ugly women. How’s the missus?’

Groombridge didn’t rise to this any more than he had last time. Stark realized he had no idea if the guv was even married. He wore no ring. ‘You’ve heard your rights. “It may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.” Last chance, Maggs.’

Maggs remained impassive. ‘Are we done?’

Groombridge stared hard at him for several seconds. ‘For now.’

‘Think he’s lying?’ asked Fran, outside.

‘I can’t tell either,’ admitted Groombridge.

‘He was,’ said Stark.

They both turned to him. ‘Care to elaborate, Trainee Investigator?’

Stark hesitated, wondering if he could. It was the eyes, he thought. Combined with Maggs’s shaggy, greying hair and beard, they’d lent him a wolf-like caginess. ‘It’s just a feeling, Guv.’

‘Well,’ said Groombridge. ‘Let’s see if little Nikki has any
feelings
on the matter.’

Nikki Cockcroft arrived that afternoon, having been remanded into custody by the magistrate in Orpington. She did not look happy.

‘Affray and resisting arrest, Nikki,’ tutted Groombridge. ‘The latest in a long career of criminality.’

‘Inspector.’ The court-appointed legal counsel sounded a warning tone. On a hiding to nothing he might be, but he would do his job diligently. Nikki just sat sideways in her chair, arms tightly folded, a deep scowl of phoney disinterest.

‘Quite right. That’s all on your juvenile record and can’t be put before the jury.’

‘Inspector, my client intends to plead guilty to the charges before her and as such will not face a jury.’

‘The car, too?’ asked Groombridge. ‘I suppose we should all be happy she didn’t burn it like the others.’


Inspector
.’

‘You’re still banned from driving, isn’t that right, Nikki? Banned before you were even old enough to drive, in fact. Time was that might’ve been considered quite a feat. Not now.’ He sighed. ‘Now, I
suppose, it’s common.’ This elicited a response, however fleeting. ‘Not that I approve of the practice but it was rather stupid of you not to burn it, Nikki. We have your fingerprints inside. Still using it, I guess. I expect you thought swapping its plates would throw us poor dumb coppers off the scent, as far as you were thinking at all. But us poor dumb coppers have put rather a lot of work into alerting the public to the dangers of ID theft, including vehicle ID. People – that is, decent, law-abiding people, not stupid petty criminals – know to report stolen licence plates, these days. Of course, you’re not a juvenile any more and the penalties for being that
common
are more serious. Stealing a car, driving without a licence and insurance while banned, not a slapped wrist now. No, that’s time inside. Unless, of course, you weren’t driving …’ Still nothing from Nikki. He slid the traffic photo on to the desk. ‘Who is this?’ he asked, tapping the driver.

The legal interjected and the officers were made to turn off the tape and leave the room while he consulted with Nikki. After the brief hiatus, he spoke for her. ‘My client was in the car. She accepted a lift from an acquaintance but did not know the car was stolen.’

Fran huffed derisively.

‘Who?’ demanded Groombridge.

‘My client is not willing to divulge.’

‘Then I’ll be adding obstruction to the charge sheet.’

‘Even so.’

‘Then, of course, we have assault with intent. You can get at least five for that now.’

‘My client has not been charged with assault, Inspector.’

‘So far,’ said Groombridge, pleasantly. ‘But there’s a rather battered young lady in Orpington who might be ready to identify your client. Nice sovereign rings you have there, Nikki. Then, of course, there’s the assaults on the homeless persons here in Greenwich … James Wright, aged forty-eight; Thomas Stepney, fifty-nine; Margaret Tomlinson, forty-six; and Michael O’Leary, fifty-three. Enjoy soft targets, do you?’

‘You have no evidence linking my client with those incidents.’

‘So far.

‘Then there’s the assault on Alfred Ladd … aged seventy-eight.
Seventy-eight
, Nikki.’

‘You have no evidence linking my client with that either,’ insisted the legal.

‘Not incontrovertible perhaps. What happened to the old boy, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Dead, Guv,’ replied Fran. ‘Kidney and brain damage resulting from severe beating.’

‘That’s the official assessment now, is it?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

Groombridge shook his head, with a deep sigh. ‘That poor defenceless old man, kicked to death by thugs. I’m sure they didn’t mean to kill him, just having a laugh probably, but now they’re in well over their heads. They must be soiling themselves. I reckon you’ll get as much as twenty years for a murder like that.’

‘Inspector …’ The legal’s sense of humour was failing.

‘I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes right now,’ continued Groombridge. ‘Talking of shoes, those blue trainers with the bloodstains on them, Detective Sergeant. Who did Forensics say they belong to again?’

‘Kyle Gibbs, Guv,’ replied Fran on cue.

‘Oh, yes. Nice piece of work, that one. Whatever happened to him?’

‘Dead, Guv,’ answered Fran, deadpan.

‘Oh, yes. Dead. But I’m forgetting. He was your boyfriend, wasn’t he, Nikki? My condolences on your loss.’

Nikki said nothing. If anything, her tightly folded arms folded tighter.

‘You don’t seem that upset, if you don’t mind my saying so?’ continued Groombridge. ‘Of course, you weren’t the most loyal girlfriend, I suppose, giving it away to his mates behind his back. Bit cheap, that. Was it just Tyler or did they all get a go?’

Nikki glared at him, just for a second, then returned to glaring at the wall.

Groombridge shrugged. ‘Tell me, Detective Sergeant, have the Forensic Science Service confirmed whose blood that was yet?’

‘Just came in, Guv. DNA match for Alfred Ladd.’

‘That implicates Kyle Gibbs, Inspector, not my client.’

‘True,’ agreed Groombridge, calmly. ‘But we have CCTV footage
showing your client in the vicinity minutes before the attack in the company of Gibbs and the rest of their shared associates.’

‘Circumstantial at best. My client says she parted ways with Gibbs before the assault.’

Groombridge chuckled. ‘Colin Messenger
says
you were never with them at all, poor lad. He has a hard time remembering how to speak, let alone what he’s been told to say.’

‘Inspector …’ warned the counsel.

Groombridge kept his face blank. This was the bitter pill. None had fingered any other; none had fingered Nikki. He could lie and say they had: it always worked on TV. But lying in interview never played back well in real-life court. ‘All of them have confessed in one way or another …’

For the first time Nikki looked at him, shocked, suspicious.

‘Except Martin Munroe. I suppose this promotes him to ringleader now, last man standing, as it were. Leader of a gang of one. I shouldn’t laugh but it’s quite pitiful really. Don’t worry, Nikki, I’m sure he’ll remember you fondly.’ She shot him a death glare. Perhaps she had slept with them all. ‘Maybe he’ll boast to his new gang about you in the long years ahead. Do you think he’ll visit you in prison?’


Inspector
 …’ The legal sounded exasperated now.

‘Here’s the transcripts,’ said Groombridge, slapping them down on the table. ‘I’m sure your counsel here can read them for you – I know you missed a lot of school. Can you read, Nikki?’

She sneered in the affirmative.

‘Good for you. I also have footage of you all together shortly afterwards –’

‘From a distance, Inspector, at night.’

Groombridge ignored him, looking only at Nikki. ‘Then I have a signed statement from an eyewitness placing Tyler, Colin, Tim, Paul and you, Nikki, at the scene of the next assault in the pattern.’

‘And said “witness” is a drunk on a murder charge.’

Groombridge waved a hand. ‘Even so, I rather think a jury will decide
circumstantial
is close enough. Do you understand the difference between concurrent and consecutive custodial sentences, Nikki?’ he asked conversationally. ‘No? Well, they’re awfully long words – I’ll try to dumb it down so you can get the gist. Concurrent means the judge
feels there might be hope for you, so even though you get more than one conviction you serve all your sentences at the same time. But consecutive means the judge thinks you should rot for as long as possible and orders that you serve each sentence one after the other. It’s entirely up to the judge. What will they think of you? Quite the recidivist you’ve proven.’

‘Inspector!’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, Nikki. Recidivist means someone –’

‘Inspector, I was objecting to your unsubstantiated accusation, not asking you to elucidate.’

‘Oh dear.’ Groombridge sighed. ‘Now we have “unsubstantiated” and “elucidate”. Perhaps I should get you a dictionary, Nikki.’

Nikki said nothing.

‘It’s a type of book,’ explained Groombridge, kindly.

‘Inspector! You go too far!’ cried the lawyer, trying to mask a laugh.

‘Really? I was just trying to be helpful. You have to admit the words “concurrent” and “consecutive” could come to matter to Nikki here rather a lot. I have to say, Nikki, it may not go well for you …’

‘Really, Inspector –’

‘I’m just hypothesizing, filling in the gaps in conversation while your client plays dumb. Are you dumb, Nikki?’

Ouch, thought Stark, watching through the one-way glass. Nikki shot Groombridge another death glare.

‘Make a note of that, Detective Sergeant. “Nikki Cockcroft – dumb.”’

‘Piss off, wanker!’

‘Ah, well, would you look at that? Make a note, Detective Sergeant. “Nikki Cockcroft – not dumb, just stupid, common and cheap.”’ Nikki kicked back her chair and reached across the desk with a pointing finger, but Fran was ready and restrained her as Stark rushed in to help. They couldn’t restrain her mouth, though. It took quite a while and quite a tirade of repeated expletives before she was sitting back in her chair, steaming. ‘You’d better watch your back …’ she mumbled.

‘Really?’ Groombridge met her glare, unblinking. ‘Only your brother’s not eligible for parole for another twelve years, not that he’ll get it, and once you join him inside, just who exactly should I watch my back against?’

From the way she’d behaved so far, Stark expected more teenage denial. Instead she fixed Groombridge with a chilling, malevolent smile. ‘I’m afraid you can’t frighten me with empty threats, like you did with Naveen, Colin and the others. It won’t work for long on them either, you know. That’s the problem with stupid people, common, cheap people. If they can be scared in one direction, they can just as easily be nudged back the other way.’ Nikki’s smile widened.

What did she know that they did not? wondered Stark.

Groombridge held his composure. ‘By the time they get to court I’ll have them all rolling over like little puppies, little girls, little girl puppies. What’s a girl puppy called, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Bitch, Guv.’

‘Bitch. Rolling over like little bitches. Rolling over on you, Nikki.’

‘Yeah,
right
!’

‘You’d be surprised just how disloyal supposed friends can be, how eagerly they roll on their backs in betrayal, but then again, no, perhaps you wouldn’t.’ Nikki’s smile slipped into another glare. ‘Then there’s the girl with dyed hair …’ Groombridge let that hang.

Nikki look positively shaken, if only momentarily. Her counsel seemed nonplussed. ‘What girl?’

‘Perhaps you can ask your client about her when we’re finished. Not a drunk on a murder charge this time, Nikki. I can see how you might fancy a word with her. You have such eloquent fists.’

‘Inspector, if you have another witness perhaps you should produce her.’

‘I intend to.’ Nikki’s confidence had taken a visible jolt. Groombridge smiled. ‘So, where did we get to? Oh, yes, the car and all that … say, six months to two years? The assaults, let’s assume they don’t just add them all up but, still, six counts … That’d be ten years at least, I reckon.’

‘Inspector, so far you’ve presented no firm evidence linking my client with
any
of the recent attacks, let alone six.’

‘So far,’ echoed Groombridge. ‘And then there’s poor Stacey Appleton. Her murder will get you twenty-five years at least.’

‘You have nothing linking my client with that either.’

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