If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (26 page)

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ came the shouted reply.

‘Off duty,’ replied Stark.

‘Not any more. We’ve got a shout on Pinky.’

‘Great. Good luck with that.’

‘Shut up and tell me where you are.’

‘Those are contradictory instructions.’

‘Don’t piss me about. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m always serious. What’s the matter? You on a hot date with Hydro-babe?’

Stark slapped his hand over the speaker though he didn’t think Kelly had overheard. ‘Excuse me.’ He smiled, turned away and spoke as calmly as he could. ‘You know how unlikely
that
would be, Sarge.’

‘Okay, so where are you?’

‘Surely you don’t need me for this.’

‘I can’t think of anyone more deserving. Come on, this could be a defining moment.’

I hope not, thought Stark. ‘Don’t make me beg, Sarge.’

‘Don’t make me pull rank, Constable. Besides, I already told Groombridge you volunteered. Now,
where are you
?’

Stark closed his eyes and swore inwardly. ‘Blackheath. Princess of Wales pub.’

‘Drink up. I’ll be outside in three minutes.’

Stark turned to Kelly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I …’

‘Duty calls?’ The pained look on his face probably said it all. She tilted her head to one side and smiled. ‘Is it important?’

‘It could be.’

‘I quite like that you’re needed at a moment’s notice to dash off and fight crime.’

‘Now all I need is my Spandex, cape and a phone box to change in.’

‘Now
that
I’d like to see.’ She giggled.

‘There can’t be much left to your imagination after you and Lucy made me parade around in those skimpy shorts.’

Kelly threw her head back and gave a deep-throated belly laugh.

Half the occupants of the pub must be looking her way with desire and the other half with jealous hatred, thought Stark, admiringly.

‘Lucy bet me ten quid I wouldn’t get you to wear them,’ she said.

Stark closed his eyes. ‘I
knew
something was up.’

Through the window he saw Fran’s car approaching. ‘That’s my sergeant. I’m sorry, I’ll make this up to you.’

Kelly took his drink, knocked it back in one gulp, with a flourish,
and tossed her hair with a flick of her head. ‘Yes, you will.’ She grinned wickedly.

Fran skidded to a halt outside and tooted the horn. Stark peered out and saw her beckoning impatiently. The horn tooted again.

As he climbed into the car Fran craned her neck. ‘If that’s
her, you’re in much bigger trouble than I thought.’

Stark kicked himself for not getting outside before she arrived. ‘You have no idea, Sarge.’

The shout was a flat in Bromley. An anonymous caller had sworn blind Pinky was inside. He’d seen her face on the news; it was definitely her. The local force had sent three uniforms led by a grizzled sergeant, who greeted them with a warm handshake and a dubious look. ‘Your missing girl on the game, then?’

Fran frowned. ‘Not that we know of. Why?’

The sergeant jerked his thumb up the road. ‘Looks more like a home than a squat, that’s all. Leastways, no one’s complained about one on this street. Still, I suppose we’d better have a look.’

It was a first-floor flat, accessed from the back, and there was only one way in. Nevertheless two constables took up rabbit position on the street out front in case anyone thought a fifteen-foot drop from window to paving slabs was more appealing than a talk with the police.

Fran banged on the door. ‘Police, open up!’

‘No one home?’ suggested the sergeant.

Fran peered in through the letterbox. ‘I saw someone move. POLICE, OPEN UP!’

The sergeant’s radio crackled into life: ‘Step away, Sarge. Bloke just took a look out the front window with a pistol in one hand.’

The sergeant hastily ushered them all to a safe distance. ‘You sure, Tom?’

‘Positive. Tried to hide it when he saw us but I got a good look. Silver automatic.’

The sergeant radioed for armed response. There was no further sign of movement from inside.

When CO19 arrived they made no attempt at stealth, busily ensuring surrounding buildings were empty or evacuated, cordoning off the streets front and back.

‘Why didn’t you try out for this lot instead of joining the weekend army?’ asked Fran, sipping on the coffee she’d sent one of the local constables to fetch for her.

‘I wanted to broaden my world, not narrow it further,’ replied Stark.

‘Say that louder, I dare you.’

It became a tedious evening. A standoff, with the CO19 negotiator on the phone every now and then to the man in the flat, who wouldn’t say if he was alone and refused to come out. To pass the time Stark formulated strategies, with and without luxuries like C4, flash-bangs and CS grenades, to breach the perimeter and eliminate the threat, indulging in idle euphemism. Of course, his training for this stuff had been less squeamish about lethal force. These specialist firearms officers had to walk a more delicate line. Even so, Stark couldn’t believe the man wouldn’t surrender while he had the chance. Unless he was prepared to shoot it out, what was the point? It escalated achingly slowly until eventually the decision was made to go in.

Stark observed with interest as officers armed with Heckler & Koch MP5s and all the gear sidled up to the door behind the lead man holding a large bullet shield. The second man swung a heavy ram and the door burst in, followed by the rest of the team. There was a volley of shouting but no shots. Then silence.

The radio announced the all-clear, weapon confiscated and made safe. A man was led out, his hands bound with a long white cable-tie. A tall, skinny white streak of a bloke with his jeans yanked down round his ankles, making him waddle. He was freely insulting his captors now any chance of an actual fight was over.

‘Anyone else in there?’ Fran asked the officer. He wandered over to ask his senior, who looked their way and shook his head.

‘Bugger!’ said Fran.

The grizzled sergeant came over to them. ‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted evening. Looks like someone with an axe to grind used you. This bloke’s known as a bit of a wannabe in the dealing world round here. Either he stepped on someone’s toes or he was getting too big for his boots. Nice result for my lot, though, thanks.’

‘Anytime,’ replied Fran.

To Stark’s mild surprise, she sounded like she meant it. He supposed it had been a result for the good guys. Even so, he’d been standing in increasing pain for nearly four hours, having missed out on a Thai meal and his first proper date in what felt like a lifetime.

‘Don’t sulk,’ said Fran, to his silence. ‘She was light years out of your league anyway.’

It got worse, of course. A report had to be written. Fran broke the news over a bag of chips as they leant against her car back in Greenwich. A perfect opportunity for anyone trying to build up their PDP experience. So Stark spent his Saturday morning conferring with officers in Bromley to make sure he did his bit well enough to withstand any criticism Fran might later cook up.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Groombridge, looking in. Stark explained. ‘But you were off duty.’ His boss frowned.

‘I thought you knew about all this, Guv.’

‘She used my name to get you on board, didn’t she?’

Stark closed his eyes.

Groombridge chuckled. ‘Pulled the old “volunteer” ruse, did she?’

‘It’s not important, Guv.’ Stark wasn’t about to turn informant.

‘Fair enough. You’ve got to admit, she’s got you back. Finish up that report, then clear off, I don’t want to see you till Monday.’ He was still chuckling as he left.

Stark swore quietly, finished the report, left a copy on Fran’s desk and limped outside, wincing at the midday sun. He’d taken painkillers and whisky for a decent night’s sleep but while the dreams had kept their distance his hip had woken him early again. Knackered now, he considered going back inside and trying to round up a ride but he’d already hobbled all the way here so he might as well hobble into town and make something of the day, starting with a decent lunch.

He chose a little Italian place, with tables and chairs spilling out on to the street, and called Kelly.

‘Did you catch your wrongdoers?’ she asked, by way of greeting.

‘How did you know it was me?’ he asked.

‘You tell me, super-detective.’

Stark’s eyes narrowed. ‘I gave your receptionist my new number.’

‘Elementary!’

‘Why do I feel like a hunted man?’

‘Because your lack of chivalry forces a lady to take matters into her own hands. So how did it go last night?’ Stark told her. ‘Hope your Spandex didn’t chafe.’

‘The armed-response unit insisted their Kevlar was more stain-resistant.’

‘Ah, so you let them have a play instead, sweet of you.’

‘They enjoyed themselves, that’s the important thing,’ agreed Stark. ‘So, in the spirit of chivalry, when can I make up for last night’s calamity?’

‘Monday, after your session.’

‘No sooner?’ he asked, disappointed.

‘I have plans.’

‘Plans can be rearranged.’

‘Why should I change them? You’re the one who still owes me a first date.’

‘Last night didn’t count, then?’

‘You must be joking, especially if you’re thinking your nice-boy first-date rule is out of the way. Besides, I don’t need to hunt you any more.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, last night may not count as a date, but it was enough to get you well and truly hooked. See you Monday!’ And with that she hung up.

Stark laughed. Monday night now seemed a long way off.

That night he was sorely tempted to repeat his success with the sleeping-pill/whisky combination. Unfortunately he was expecting a visit from Captain Pierson in the morning. She was still army and Sunday morning didn’t mean around lunchtime with bed-hair and pillow creases on your face. He tried the painkillers alone but, as with previous nights, he woke in the small hours and couldn’t settle again even after the new pills went to work.

When his intercom buzzed at eight sharp, he was showered, shaved, fed, dressed and half dead.

He buzzed her up and opened the front door with trepidation.

‘What the hell?’ She grimaced. ‘You look like you’ve come off a five-nighter on Brecon.’ She was referring to training exercises on the Brecon Beacons in Wales. ‘Out of the way, then.’ She marched past him into the flat.

‘Make yourself at home,’ muttered Stark.

‘Well, then,’ she said, sitting down on his sofa and pulling out reams of paperwork from her tan leather satchel, ‘we’ve a mountain to climb and not long to do it. Put a brew on, Corporal, no sugar.’

Stark made two mugs and set one before her. She gave no thanks but picked up the nearest of the piles she had laid out on his table in neat regiments. ‘I haven’t time to repeat myself so listen carefully, don’t interrupt, and I’ll try to use small words.’

It was a long and tedious morning. She went through his actions on that day in minute detail, bombarded him with things to remember, quizzed him relentlessly and rehearsed him mercilessly. ‘Well, you’d better make a better fist of it on the day or we’re sunk,’ she said, packing away her papers. ‘This is my reputation on the line now, not just yours.’ She closed her satchel with a snap. ‘Right, let’s see your uniform.’

Stark brought it out to show her.

‘
On
, you twit, let’s see it
on
!’

Stark went away and changed, pausing to study his reflection. He’d spent all Saturday afternoon preparing. His No. 2 dress uniform was immaculate, crisp khaki, buttons burnished, brilliant white belt with regimental belt plate gleaming, boots polished to mirror shine. His peaked cap was a thing of beauty, but the face peering out beneath it was all wrong. He couldn’t put face and uniform together: they wanted to jump apart like negative magnets, just as they had when he’d put on his police uniform for his first day back.

‘Jump to it, Corporal, I don’t have all day!’

Stark muttered under his breath and stepped back into the living room.

Pierson stood and inspected him coolly. ‘Corporal Stark, if you think you’re wearing
that
to court you’ve another think coming!’

Stark was dismayed. He glanced at the tall mirror by the front door. Maybe the tunic and trousers were a bit loose in places now but –

‘You’re a disgrace!’

‘It’s not that bad.’ He knew the cause was already lost. She had that parade-ground company-sergeant-major look in her eye.

‘
Not that bad?
I can’t help thinking you’ve not grasped the gravity
of your situation, soldier. There’ll be no second chances here. If this goes badly for you, it goes badly for the army. Is that what you want?’

‘No.’

‘No
what
?’ she bristled.

This was going too far. She could call him ‘Corporal’ and ‘soldier’ till she was blue in the face but … ‘If you’re waiting for a “sir” and a salute you’d better not hold your breath.’ He held up a hand before she boiled over. ‘I fully understand the seriousness. Colonel Mattherson made it painfully clear. But I no longer take the Queen’s shilling. Her Majesty’s Armed Forces have listed me “medically unfit” and my formal discharge is due any day. If some adjutant had done their bloody job on time I’d have it already and I’d be standing here in a blue uniform, not green. I’m playing along,
Captain
, but don’t push your luck.’

She looked fit to explode. So much for winning her round, he thought dismally. The pity of it was that he was starting to like her. She fitted the pattern: forthright, clever, a little spiky, pretty in an understated way. In another universe entirely, one without uniforms, he might have gone for a woman like her. Unfortunately, the flip-side of the pattern was that attractive, forthright, clever, spiky women brought out his stubborn streak. ‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ he said, softening. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. We both want the same thing here, for me to acquit myself well. I’m just as anxious as you are, believe me.’

This appeared to mollify her a little. ‘Quite! Well, if I can’t hope for you to
behave
like a soldier I can at least make you look like one. I’ll have my regimental tailor sent round so we can at least stand you to attention in something presentable and dispose of this disreputable sack. A pity we can’t do the same for your disreputable character,’ she added. If they’d been six, she’d probably have kicked him in the shins.

Stark let that go. The futility of lamenting hours of meticulous preparation tossed aside on the capricious whim of one’s betters was a lesson every soldier learnt quickly in the first weeks of intensive training. During one inspection his CSM had chucked all his beautified kit out of a window into the rain and mud because Stark had
failed sufficiently to tighten the lid of his boot polish. The next day he’d done the same because the lid was too tight. It was all a game, right or wrong. He thought of Maggs, scrubbed, shaved and pressed into a suit for his ten minutes in court. There had been something of the same humiliation, which he hadn’t considered until now. Perhaps in another universe entirely, one without uniforms, a man might be judged for himself, impressions be damned.