If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (20 page)

‘Add the old boy’s killing on top, Nikki, and you’re looking at life.’

‘Inspector!’ the lawyer protested.

‘I didn’t murder him!’ spat Nikki. ‘I never touched him!’

‘No, you just stood at the back and pointed. You let Tyler and Colin and Kyle do your dirty work!’ Groombridge’s voice was raised. ‘Like a little girl, like a little yapping puppy! Does that make them your bitch or you theirs?’

‘I ain’t no bitch!’

‘They got stuck in while you cowered at the back, yapping like a little bitch!’ scoffed Groombridge. ‘Yapping away until you got Kyle killed.’

‘
That was his fault, not mine!
’ hissed Nikki. The lawyer placed a desperate hand on her shoulder but recoiled at her fury. ‘
Stupid wanker! That was his fault! HIM AND THAT PINK-HAIRED BITCH!
’

Bingo
, thought Stark, racing in to help again. Groombridge hadn’t mentioned the colour pink. Nikki had just implicated herself. She had to be restrained quite forcefully, so incandescent with rage that she could hardly speak, a blessing, given the words that did escape as she was dragged off, kicking and screaming, by Mick and two WPCs.

Her legal counsel sighed and packed his paperwork into his battered briefcase. ‘Pleasure doing business as ever, Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘Likewise, Martin. Give my best to Joan.’

‘Will do. See you for round two.’

‘You’re an inspiration, Guv.’ Fran grinned.

Groombridge cleared his throat. ‘Know anything about Greek mythology, Stark?’

‘A little, Guv.’

‘They’re like the Hydra, noisome little shits like that. Lop off one head and two grow back.’

‘Not if you cauterize the stumps,’ replied Stark, without thinking. ‘And sooner or later you cut off the one head that kills it.’ Groombridge stared at him. ‘Heracles and his nephew Iolaus, Guv,’ Stark explained lamely. Fran rolled her eyes.

‘I was being rhetorical, lad,’ said Groombridge.

Stark resisted pointing out the word had two modern interpretations, and Fran ushered him away. ‘For a smartarse you don’t learn all that quickly.’

‘I’m learning all the time, Sarge.’

‘Will you be gracing us with your presence down the pub this evening?’ asked Fran, as they handed over to the night shift. ‘Or is DS Harper right about you?’

‘Harper?’

‘He reckons you’re frightened of me.’

‘He also reckons we’re having a lovers’ tiff.’ Stark chuckled.

‘Perhaps he’s jealous.’ She laughed. ‘So?’

‘White flag.’

‘Coward.’

Stark considered confessing to the doubling of his hydrotherapy sessions but decided her amusement would be too excruciating. As he waited out front for his cab, Peters and Ptolemy stopped to ask after Nikki. There was a buzz of contentment circulating on the lower floors that she might finally be due some comeuppance. Just as they were leaving, a question occurred to Stark. ‘Who did you pull her claws out of?’

‘Huh?’ Ptolemy frowned.

‘When she was thirteen? You said …’

‘Some poor homeless sod who’d wandered into the estate. She gave him a right going over. Took two of us to get her off him.’

‘It’s not in her juvenile record.’

‘He wouldn’t press charges and no one would say how it started. Even at that age Nikki had the whole estate in fear of her.’

‘I heard it was her dad,’ said Peters.

‘Her dad?’ said Stark.

‘Yeah, kicked out by the mum years earlier. Turned up one day looking for reconciliation or money. Or both. Nikki went ballistic.’

‘Where’d you hear that?’ asked Ptolemy.

‘Sergeant Clark told me. Not sure who had it first. Nikki wouldn’t have anyone talking about it, but the gossip got around eventually. All before my time.’

‘I never heard it,’ said Ptolemy. Peters shrugged.

The implications reverberated in Stark’s ears as his taxi jinked through the rush-hour traffic. Could this whole thing, all the violence and death, be traced back to that one sorry homecoming? What a desperate, corrosive, futile motivation. How old had she been when he left? For a moment Stark felt sorry for Nikki. No, he
did
feel sorry for her, for the fatherless child – he knew something of that – but not for the vengeful teenager. He sighed and stared out at the busy world rushing past the window. All that life, all those stories, all that love and laughter, all that fear and loathing. He felt drained. The last week had really taken it out of him. It’d been exciting, excruciating, exhausting in every sense. He’d hoped to put on a better show this evening but the last two days had ground that hope into dust. Why did he care, though? The answer was as obvious as it was ridiculous.

Rather than a better show, the session was his worst in months. The ache in his hip allied itself with others to mount a revolution. Kelly could not fully mask her concern. Her frown said it all. ‘Have you been on your feet a lot, with work?’ she asked afterwards, without looking up from writing her notes.

‘A bit.’

‘Is there any way you might be able to take it easy for a few days?’

Stark didn’t like where this was going. ‘I’m not master of my time right now.’

‘Because of the killings?’ She looked up now and smiled at his surprise. ‘Two and two.’

‘Not just a pretty face.’ The words were out of his mouth before his brain caught up again, an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation. It seemed a different part of his anatomy altogether was staging its own coup.

There might have been a hint of a smile on that pretty face but it was gone in a moment. ‘I’m serious. If work is undermining your health, that needs to be addressed. I can speak to your GP about signing you off.’

‘No! Thank you, but no. I need to be doing this right now.’ Because it’s all there is, he didn’t add. The last thing he wanted was another
sodding sick-chit. Perhaps she’d understand if he told her but he wasn’t about to make that leap.

‘How long will “right now” go on? The news said arrests had been made.’

‘I can’t discuss it.’

‘Fair enough. But, judging from your physical state, I’d say you were on the brink of exhaustion. If you don’t start looking after yourself better we’ll be wasting our time here.’

Stark was dismayed. There were quite enough women in his life queuing up to tick him off. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Just get some rest.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘How do you get here?’ she asked. She knew he didn’t drive yet.

‘Taxi.’

‘Want a lift home? I’m just in Blackheath.’

‘Actually, the taxi’s picking me up,’ he replied. He wondered what he’d have said if her question hadn’t taken him so much by surprise. The thought of half an hour in a car with her was both appealing and unsettling.

‘Oh,’ she said, no sign of disappointment.

‘Maybe on Monday?’ he suggested.

‘Okay. But only if you’re a better boy this week.’ The hint of a smile was back.

The search for Pinky continued the following day, but without development. The CPS lawyers were back. Fran pushed Stark to accompany Groombridge in her place, shamelessly quoting his need for experience and her own distaste for tedious meetings and lawyers, the last barb directed to the face of the one who’d enabled Stark’s stunt the last time they’d met.

Stark observed Groombridge throughout. The DCI might’ve forged a fine career in the forces. The case wasn’t airtight yet, but they were on track and a good mood pervaded the team. Even Fran was in better spirits as she demanded Stark attend Friday drinks, and for once he was happy to comply.

‘Get them in, then,’ she said, shrugging off her jacket and sliding into her usual chair.

‘Fine,’ replied Stark, cheerfully. He’d abstained the previous night, sticking with pills alone, and paid for it. He was hanging on his chinstrap, and he was going to sleep peacefully tonight, whatever it took. He had a busy Saturday ahead but it was Friday night now and that had to count for something. His hip hurt more than it had in a week, and other wounds throbbed too, not all physical. But another week was over. He was smack in the middle of a real investigation, too busy to brood and all the better for it. He plonked the large white wine on the table with the whisky and returned with four packets of crisps.

‘Aye aye!’ mocked Harper. His confidence had grown, it seemed, that Stark would not be spreading rumours behind his back. Stark ignored him. Fran told him to piss off.

‘Thanks.’ She held up her drink, chinked glasses and took a long pull.

‘No worries. I put the first round on your tab.’ He grinned as she spluttered and choked.

‘Smartarse,’ she managed eventually. ‘Still buttoned up like a virgin bride, I see.’

It was an odd sideways dig. He habitually kept his tie done up, his shirt’s top button fastened, his sleeves at the cuff. He didn’t really think about it any more. Trust her to challenge it. ‘The scars would draw more comment,’ he said honestly, almost eliciting more spluttering.

Fran placed her glass down carefully. ‘Do you always do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Toss out a truth grenade when cornered.’

‘Sometimes offence is the best form of defence,’ Stark said, quoting Maggs.

Fran huffed. ‘Show me.’

‘I’m pretty sure stripping down to my undies would draw the most comment of all.’

Fran smirked. ‘No scars under your pants, then?’ He paused just too long. ‘You have!’ She laughed. ‘Nothing … fundamental, I trust? Maggie would be devastated.’

‘Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let that myth spread.’

‘Be nice, she’s harmless. So, the hip, what happened?’

‘Shrapnel. Nothing special.’ He held up a hand before she could corner him with another question. ‘That’s enough truth grenades for now. How about you? What’s your story?’

She shrugged. ‘Barbadian dad came here as a boy. Mum from white middle-class Surrey family who, shall we say, took time to come around to the idea of a black son-in-law? Four elder brothers. Dad claims he was going for a five-a-side team. Guess who got stuck in goal. To be fair, he did teach me to cook. Been a detective sergeant six years now but only one here. Moved to shake off a few cobwebs, ex-fiancé, crappy boss, not the same person. Thirty-six, repeatedly single, like a drink, like a dance, dislike whisky and men who can’t give as good as they get. Right, your turn again.’ Stark let his pained expression show but Fran wouldn’t be shaken. ‘Tell you what, I’ll throw out a few guesses. Twenty-five years old – I know that from your file. Only child?’

‘Younger sister, married with two in nappies.’

‘Dad died young, making you the man of the house.’

Stark studied her. ‘I was eleven.’

‘Sorry,’ said Fran. Perceptive guess, then, rather than inside information. ‘So, why the police?’

‘I thought it might be interesting.’

She raised her eyebrows and scoffed. ‘So when it wasn’t you signed your weekends away to the army?’

‘Pretty much. I wasn’t certain police life was for me.’

Fran looked shocked. ‘And now?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Wow! Stick this man on a recruitment poster!’

‘I could see the point, pounding the beat and all that, but,
Christ
, was it tedious. So I took up weekend soldiering for excitement and extra cash. Ironically a lot of my tour in Iraq was spent pounding beats.’

‘Not all of it, though?’

‘No.’

‘What about Afghanistan?’

‘It was different. In Basra we were mostly trying to stop them killing each other. In Helmand we were still trying to stop them killing us.’

‘Yet you volunteered to go back,’ she said, inviting him to explain.

Stark declined. ‘And the rest is history.’

‘Hardly. Tell me what happened out there.’

‘No. And it’s your turn to get the drinks. I want the change,’ he said, passing her a twenty.

She snatched it, bought the drinks and slapped his change on the table but with more irony than rancour. ‘So, how come you had so much free time at weekends? No wife, girlfriend?’

‘Nothing serious.’

‘How come so solitary?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I’m not solitary. I’m just frequently mistaken in my choice of company. What’s your excuse?’

‘I’m young.’

‘Ouch! Rude sod.’

‘Maybe I just haven’t met the right girl.’

‘Don’t let Maggie hear you say that. So … uncomfortable in a relationship, uncomfortable with family and friends, uncomfortable in the police and not fit for the army. Pretty much good for nothing, then.’

‘Ouch.’

‘You’re the original cat on a hot tin roof. Will you still be here in a year?’

‘We’ll see.’

Fran shook her head in disbelief. ‘Seriously, what good are you? You can’t live half a life. You can’t be half a copper. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to put up or shut up.’

‘Maybe,’ said Stark, keen to change the subject. Fran was career police; his doubts rang heresy in her pious ears. ‘Dixon tells me we’re all heading to a curry house later. Any good?’

‘Connoisseur, are you? I should’ve known. Better get some more drinks down you to deaden the taste-buds. So, army nicknames. What was yours?’

Stark shrugged, smiling at her shifting angle of attack. ‘I guess I wasn’t a nickname kind of guy.’ One particular officer had taken to calling him Private Sideways, in a Private Smart Alec tone, after a notable incident during a training manoeuvre, and various peers had experimented around the themes of stark raving mad and stark bollock naked. Thankfully nothing had stuck.

Fran harrumphed, unconvinced. ‘I’m sure I can think of a few.’
Indeed the theme proved depressingly popular when she introduced it in the curry house. The food was predictably mediocre but the
faux
-Indian beer masked that admirably and the crowd were soon in high spirits. It’d been a good week: a string of assaults and three killings all nicely solved with perpetrators in custody and in line to be banged up for sure. Stark, under numerous ad-libbed unflattering nicknames, was the toast of the evening; it seemed he was fitting in.

He kept his concern for Maggs to himself. That was out of his hands now. He was a copper and he’d done his job.

‘Sarge?’ Stark’s voice sounded groggy down the line. Cross too, just a hint.

‘Sorry to wake you, Princess. Heavy night?’ asked Fran, knowing it had been.

‘Not by your standards.’

‘Lightweight.’

‘Is there something I can do for you, Sarge?’

‘You can get your arse in to work. The super is gracing us with his presence at this morning’s meeting, so Groombridge would rather like the whole team present.’

‘What time?’

‘Nine.’

‘It’s six thirty, for God’s sake!’ Stark groaned.

‘Well, I know how you girls need time to prettify.’

‘And DCI Groombridge wants a pre-meeting meeting to make sure we look shiny for the super.’

‘To make sure he looks shiny at any rate,’ agreed Fran. ‘So get your arse up and polish those shoes.’

‘Can’t do it, Sarge.’

Fran was momentarily stunned. ‘This isn’t a request, Trainee Investigator.’

‘You agreed I could have this morning off.’

‘You can’t expect me to stand by what I may or may not have said three days ago!’

‘I can be in at eleven.’

‘You’ll be in at eight or sooner!’

‘No, Sarge, I won’t.’ His voice was alarmingly firm.

‘Listen, soldier boy, when the super rings the DCI’s bell he jumps. When the DCI rings mine I jump. When I ring yours you bloody well jump!’

‘Absolutely. You’ll have me at my jumpiest at eleven o’clock.’

Fran’s hangover boiled over. ‘Don’t piss me about, Stark. You get cut far too much bloody slack already for my liking. We both know this mystery appointment of yours has nothing to do with your physical or mental well-being. Whatever it is can wait, so cut the crap and get in to work!’

‘Sarge, with all due respect, I have somewhere I have to be. It’s personal, it’s important, it
can’t
wait, and if it earns me fifty laps of the parade ground and a month of guard duty, then that’s the way it has to be.’

‘Tell me right now what’s so important or I’ll make your life a misery. Stark?
Stark?
’

He’d hung up. Insolent pissant gobshite! Just when she’d begun to like him! Trading on his supposed wartime heroism, swanning round like he was above it all. Freely admitting he didn’t even want to be a copper, or wasn’t sure at least. Well, the force was better off without prima-bloody-donnas like him! Steaming, she stomped into her kitchen for another coffee.