If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (30 page)

Stark groaned inside, concentrating just to get through the preliminaries.

Maggs watched him impassively. ‘You look fit for triage, Weekender.’

‘No-duff,’ replied Stark, meaning genuine casualty, not an exercise.

‘They use those posh tags now. What colour would they hang on you?’ Triage tags used a traffic-light system. Red for life-threatening
injury, yellow for non-life-threatening, green for minor. There was also black – pain treatment only, until death.

‘We found her, Maggs,’ said Stark, bluntly. ‘And she’s confessed to stabbing Kyle Gibbs.’

Maggs closed his eyes for a moment, then stared at him, like he was dirt. ‘Well, bully for you, Blue Top.’

‘I think, in time, she’ll be ready to testify on your behalf.’

‘No.’

‘What?’

Maggs stared impassively. ‘It’s a simple enough word.’

‘We have her confession, Maggs. Her testimony in court would help you.’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ said Maggs.

‘Of course I bloody do,’ said Stark, suddenly angry.

‘Constable,’ warned Groombridge.

Stark bit down on his anger, turning it in on himself, furious at his own lack of control. ‘She can’t be shielded from what’s already happened,’ he continued, outwardly calm. ‘She’s been through what she’s been through and she’s done what she’s done. She’ll come to terms with that or she won’t.’

‘She’s got a better chance left be,’ growled Maggs.

‘That’s not for you to decide.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Maggs. ‘Justice must be done? Where’s the justice in standing her in the dock, making her relive it, then letting some shyster say she asked for it, call her a delinquent, a drug-addled slut. How’s that gonna help her? And what good would it do? It’s not like she can help lock him up.’

‘She’d help make sure you’re not. The CPS still have a coroner’s report saying your punch to Gibbs’s throat might have killed him, even if he hadn’t been stabbed. You need the jury on your side.’

‘No jury’s gonna give a shit about me and I don’t give a shit what they think. But what’s gonna happen to her, eh? I’ll bet your precious Crown Prosecution Service will have a shot at her too, don’t deny it.’

‘I won’t. But both of you have mitigating factors.’

Maggs sneered. ‘Will a conviction help her “get over it”?’

‘It might. You know about atonement, “don’t deny it”.’

‘Fuck you. You should lose her confession and let her go.’

‘Why? So you can atone for her too?’ Stark felt his anger rising again. ‘The knife was in his back, Maggs. A judge will look kinder on a sexual-assault victim for that than they will a soldier. They’ll look at your training and punish you.’

‘What they gonna do? Hang me?’ Maggs met Stark’s eyes with a twisted smile. ‘Fuck it, I’m fucked already.’

‘Poor you.’

Maggs waved his hand around the room. ‘Twenty to life, three meals a day with hot and cold running water, a bed and a roof? You know I’m better for this than her.’

‘You’d sell your freedom that cheap?’

‘Do you know how much this country spends per prisoner? Look it up some time. Then look up MoD pensions or veteran welfare.’

‘What – so this would be your way of getting your dues?’

Maggs ignored the question. ‘Did you know that, on average, a male veteran suffering PTSD symptoms will not seek help for
fourteen years
? So instead of appearing on military statistics they get chalked up later as mental-health issues, domestic violence, alcohol and drug abuse, unemployment, homelessness, suicide. Two hundred and fifty-six British soldiers died in the Falklands conflict, but more than that have committed suicide since. Gulf War One we lost twenty-four. Since then nearly
two hundred
have opted out. It’s different in America. They look after their veterans. We treat ours like shit on our shoes and the public look the other way because, after all, war’s just a video game now – “Hardly anyone gets hurt any more, do they?” It’s just a segment on the news between political sleaze and celebrity divorce.’

Stark was in no mood for setting the world to wrongs. ‘People still care,’ he insisted.

‘When they stop to think about it,’ said Maggs, bitterly. ‘That uncomfortable twinge of guilt. Take two mock talent shows washed down with a celebrity humiliation show and get a blame-free night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

Stark rubbed his eyes wearily, suddenly exhausted again. There was altogether too much suddenly this and suddenly that going on in him. Not a good symptom. He tried to cling to the anger but it slipped away, unstoppable as an ebbing tide. ‘For a tramp you know a lot about pop culture.’

‘Newspapers ain’t just for sleepin’ in.’

‘So this is your fifteen minutes of fame, is it?’ asked Stark. ‘It’s not about shielding the girl, it’s about getting a bigger soapbox.’

Maggs ignored the accusation. ‘Someone has to keep shouting. When the last voice falls silent, life has fled.’

‘All in the hope of change?’

‘
Hope?
’ Maggs was incredulous. ‘Wake the fuck up, Dorothy. There’s no such place! Hope is for sheep, opiate of the masses, the pill they pop to help them sleepwalk through life. The definition of stupidity is repeating the same mistake
hoping
for a different result. What good is hope when the bullet comes your way? What good did it do our mates or the fellas we killed, gasping their pitiful last? What good is hope when you’re betrayed by your state, cast aside, left to rot?
What fucking good is hope to me?
’

Stark sat silent, too tired to argue and not sure what he’d say if he could.

‘No,’ said Maggs, calming down without an adversary. ‘She’s got more use for hope than me.’

‘Very noble.’

‘
Kiss my arse
.’

‘We won’t let you take the blame for the stabbing. You’re innocent.’

‘Am I?’ Maggs’s piercing blue eyes bored into him. ‘Are you?’

Stark closed his eyes for a second. ‘We did what we had to, because someone had to.’ The stock answer: truthful, awful, incomplete.

Maggs chuckled darkly. ‘Doesn’t help you sleep at night, though, does it?’

Stark sighed. ‘You can’t tell me you’ve no hope. Otherwise why bother banging the drum?’

Anger flared in Maggs’s eyes. ‘Duty, you feeble-minded tit!’ he spat, his voice rising. ‘You remember – to the
truth
! Lest we forget!
Lest we fucking forget!
’

‘
Fuck you, Maggs!
’ Stark’s anger flooded back. How
dare
Maggs fling those words at him? Groombridge had hold of his arm but Stark wrenched it free. ‘I’m not here to help you flush yourself, you self-righteous shit!’

‘Constable Stark, sit down now!’ bellowed Groombridge, his voice booming around the small, hard room.

Stark looked around. The prison guard was hovering by his side. Fran had hold of his arm. He was standing, fists planted on the table; his chair lay on its side by the far wall. Fran tugged him towards it, stood it up and sat him firmly down.

‘I apologize for my subordinate, Mr Maggs,’ said Groombridge. He cast a warning glance at Stark to stay sitting and silent, or else. ‘But Constable Stark is quite right. We won’t aid you in some personal crusade. Justice isn’t what
we
say it is, any more than it’s what
you
say it is. You can instruct your barrister not to call the girl, if you wish, but you won’t take the blame for the stabbing. You saved that girl from a terrible fate. Whether you like it or not, the rest is up to her.’

Fran sat Stark in his chair and followed Groombridge into his office. She made herself close the door quietly instead of slamming it, but then could contain herself no longer. ‘I told you not to take him! What did
any of that
achieve?’

‘I am not beholden to explain myself to
you
, Detective Sergeant!’ Groombridge rarely let his anger show and it was plain she’d overstepped the mark. ‘I’ve had enough of this from DS Harper. Now sit down and keep that sharp tongue behind your teeth.’

Shocked, Fran took a seat, angry with herself, Stark and now Harper too. Harper’s ridiculous resentment of Stark was thinly veiled at best but surely he wasn’t rash enough to repeat his petty mutterings to Groombridge. It was a slip made in anger and Groombridge clearly wished he’d not said it, so Fran had to swallow the question for now, but Stark was
her
trainee – if anyone was going to give him hell it was her, not bloody Harper! She took several deep breaths and tried to simmer down.

‘Right,’ said her boss, his glare softening, if only slightly. ‘Now, listen and learn. You’ll wear pips on your shoulders one day, but only if you shake that chip off first.
Two
things were achieved. First, Maggs was brought to see the futility of further lies. If he can shake the chip off
his
shoulder in time, he may get justice, not just punishment. Second, and you might like this one better, Constable Stark was brought to see that he is wholly unfit for duty. If
he
can shake the chip off his shoulder, he might now engage the help he really needs in time to prevent us losing a promising copper. Now, have I satisfied you that I’m not a complete bloody fool?’

‘Yes, Guv.’ Fran felt about as small as she’d ever felt. She wanted to blame Stark for bringing her to this but saw herself for a second as Groombridge must now and kept the blame to herself.

‘Good! Now, the man Stark hospitalized last night is making noises about police brutality
and
saying the knife was planted. You’re a witness.
Tell me again that we’re squeaky on this. It would be a shame if we had to toss Stark to the wolves just when we’re all so enamoured of him.’

Fran was relieved at the change of subject. ‘We’re squeaky, Guv. As well as my statement, Forensics confirmed this morning that Stark’s prints are on the knife but so are the perp’s. They can demonstrate Stark held the weapon second. As for brutality, the paramedic will attest that Stark was lucky the perp didn’t gut him. He incapacitated and disarmed a man who attacked and wounded him with a knife. The force used seemed reasonable to me.’

‘Incapacitated.’ Groombridge ruminated on the word, the very word she’d used in her written statement. ‘Broken nose and jaw, dislocated shoulder?’ Groombridge subjected her to his most penetrating gaze.

‘Even so.’

‘The IPCC might not like us using the he-got-what-he-deserved defence, especially when the officer involved is ex-military, trained to respond instinctively with anything up to and including lethal force.’

Fran made a face. She was just about angry enough with Stark right now to regret this, but the truth was the truth. ‘With all due respect, Guv, the Independent Police Complaints Commission can kiss my beautiful behind. I’ve signed my statement.’

Groombridge pursed his lips, then nodded. ‘Okay. The other witness, Constable Davis, corroborates. So we stand by Stark. Now take the arrogant, insolent, ungrateful gobshite home and put him to bed. Hit him over the head if you have to. I don’t want to see him for a full week! Understood?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

She let herself out. Stark looked up at her. She hoped he hadn’t been listening at the door, as she would have done, but the glassiness of his eyes suggested not. ‘On your feet, Constable Weekender, you’re done. You’re not to set foot near this station for a week.’

Stark stood but said nothing.

‘Oh dear, Golden-boy, losing your shine?’ chuckled Harper, over his partition. ‘The missus has you right under her thumb.’

‘That’s rich coming from you,’ said Fran. The look on Harper’s face was almost worth it.

She took Stark by the arm and hustled him into the lift as fast as his dicky hip would allow, before too many people saw the state of him. He let himself be handled, childlike, as he had the previous night. Maybe it was a military thing: once injured, you let the medic take over completely, or maybe it was still shock.

As they emerged from the lift Fran stopped to answer her phone. ‘Hello?’ She listened, frowning, visibly irritated. ‘What,
now
? He only just sent me … Yeah, okay, I’m on my way.’ She hung up, rolling her eyes. ‘Bryden says the guv’nor wants another word. Wait here and don’t speak to anyone.’

Stark did as he was told. A minute later when he heard someone coming down the stairs he turned away, waiting for whoever it was to pass.

Instead a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Harper had his right fist drawn back ready, his left gripping Stark’s right shoulder. Stark grasped the nearest hand with his left and rolled it inwards, pressing the elbow over and down with his right. Instead of launching the intended punch, Harper found himself on one knee, pinned in a classic submission hold, his war cry dying in a strangled gasp. In
jujutsu
this wrist control would have begun with a counter-strike to the face or throat but Stark used the simpler
aikido
version, though not out of mercy – he was simply too tired right now for the repercussions of breaking a superior’s nose.

In too much pain to cry out or plead, let alone attempt escape, Harper groaned. Stark stared down pitilessly. ‘I told you what would happen,’ he said coldly. ‘This is still me being nice. I won’t warn you again.’ He gradually let the pressure build until he saw panic and tears well in Harper’s eyes, then let go.

The big DS collapsed on to both knees, gasping for breath. After a minute he climbed awkwardly to his feet, cradling his arm and avoiding eye contact.

‘You should put ice on that,’ said Stark.

Slowly the big man straightened and met his eyes, face pale and unreadable. If his intention was to make it clear that he blamed Stark for Fran’s comment he had succeeded, but in that alone.

Before either could speak Fran stepped from the lift. ‘Harper? What are you doing down here? Bryden said you told him –’

Harper barged wordlessly past her into the lift and jabbed the buttons furiously. Fran watched the doors close, then turned to Stark with a suspicious look. ‘Should I ask?’

‘Probably not.’

Fran hustled him into the car and away before anything else could go wrong. There was little doubt about what had just occurred. If Harper’s foolishness overcame his wounded pride, he might press a complaint.

‘Am I suspended?’ asked Stark, as if the thought had just occurred to him, but with no discernible concern.

‘Be thankful you’re not,’ replied Fran. ‘We’ll chalk it up as time-in-lieu of overtime, save you having a sick note on file.’

‘Okay.’

Not ‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant Millhaven’, just ‘OK’. He stared out of the window the rest of the way. Part of her wished to know what he was thinking; the rest of her definitely did not. She took his keys from his jacket and let him in. He was limping slowly now. She stood before the lift doors and read the sign. How long had it been like that?

‘Come on, stairs it is.’ She took his arm to help and he didn’t object. He grunted quietly with each step but Fran was aware that he wasn’t letting her take much weight. The stubborn streak inside him hadn’t let go yet.

They reached the first-floor landing and paused for a moment to rest. Only three more to go, thought Fran, wondering whether Stark would make it. The lift doors mocked them with another sign – OUT OF ORDER.

Stark pulled his arm free of her and punched the notice with all his might, leaving a deep dent in the metal doors, the deafening bang echoing dully in the shaft behind. He stepped back and slid down the opposite wall to sit, cradling his fist, head bowed, eyes closed tight.

Fran overcame her shock, crouched down and prised his hand out. The knuckles were split and bleeding. He didn’t wince as she felt for breaks but, the state he was in, that might not mean much. It was the
first time she’d looked closely at where his little finger finished at the first knuckle. She’d got used to it, she supposed. She touched the smooth skin there. Stark silently pulled his hand back and tucked it away.

‘I think you’re done, soldier,’ said Fran, quietly, took out her phone and called for an ambulance.