If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (25 page)

It felt as if Groombridge was seeing into the very heart of him and Stark had to look away. The moral certainty that let you pull the trigger was a vital but perilous thing; from good versus evil and all the way down to kill or be killed. It could lead to triumphs or tragic mistakes and, like most certainties, might crumble with time or the effort of holding it together. He wondered sometimes whether his own lack of remorse for most of what he’d done was real, merely a legacy of training or, worse, a psychotic construct of his own that might fall to dust once probed.

‘Look at me.’ Groombridge’s voice was soft now, but Stark looked up into a gaze still alight with unnerving penetration. ‘You’re a copper now, Joseph, there’s no going back. Whatever demons and furies pursue us cannot be vented. They must be seized upon and channelled to drive us forward as
we
choose. The other path leads to bent coppers, or ex-servicemen with blood on their hands.’

‘Point taken, Guv.’

‘Good. So let’s find her, shall we?’

Naveen didn’t crack. Regardless of what Groombridge had suggested, it seemed he remained too scared of Nikki to be nudged back the other way. Munroe was arrested and charged but kept up his silence throughout.

The forensic investigation into the phone found little else. The full report told them that no other videos or images of interest were present, though the log files showed many more had been made. Correlating the dates and times, it appeared that footage had been shot around the time of every one of the assaults on the homeless, but all had been downloaded and deleted and subsequent files had wiped further trace.

Later in the day Groombridge was summoned to Superintendent Cox’s office. He returned with a broad smile. ‘Gather round, everyone. Earlier today, using what they’d gleaned from the Trojan on Naveen Hussein’s laptop, the National Internet Crime Unit raided offices in Manchester. They made several arrests and seized numerous computer servers. In total over thirty illegal websites were shut down. As it was we who first drew their attention to some of these websites, they had a root around and found, on a site called SlappinUK.net,
five files uploaded from Naveen Hussein’s IP address. Each file was uploaded within twenty-four hours of one of our assaults. All the victims and perpetrators’ faces were blurred out before upload but not uniformly well. NICU say that …’ he consulted his notepad ‘… the high amount of individual movement means that faces frequently appear momentarily from behind the block of blur layer placed to hide them. They suggest that at least three individual assailants can be clearly identified, possibly more, and two victims. Copies are being emailed to me now. I want you in twos ready to scan through each video with a fine-tooth comb. Have the relevant photos in front of you. This is our big break, people!’

Within minutes the videos were arriving.

Because they’d been to the scene soon after, Fran and Stark took the one dated just after the attack on Alfred Ladd. The location was instantly recognizable, the attack almost unwatchable. Poor Alf’s face was always blurred but his anguished cries were not.

‘There!’ said Fran, pointing to part of the screen. ‘Rewind!’

Stark backed it up and paused the image. Poking out from the side of a rectangle of blur was half a face. Tyler Wantage.

Elsewhere around the office cries of excitement and anger mingled. Within half an hour they had clear identification of three perps: Tyler Wantage, Colin Messenger and Stacey Appleton, plus glimpses of Tim Bowes and Harrison Collier that ought to be enough. Only two victims had been identified but all of the locations could be matched to crime-scene photos.

‘Naveen was careful enough to cover his own face consistently,’ commented someone.

‘But not his clothes,’ said Fran. ‘We could get them all from the clothes alone.’

‘Add the locations, the upload timings and the interview slips and we’ve got them bang to rights,’ said Groombridge. ‘The magistrate will remand them all for sure now.’

‘Still not Nikki Cockcroft, though, Guv,’ Fran pointed out. ‘It’s her phone. It’s always her filming.’

Groombridge didn’t seem about to let that spoil his evident satisfaction. He returned from relaying the good news to the super with a spring in his step and clapped his hands together for attention.
‘Despite my best efforts to take all the credit, the super seems determined to reward you lot as well. Tonight the drinks are on him.’ He raised his voice over the ensuing hubbub. ‘Attendance is mandatory, no excuses accepted! Anyone not hung-over in the morning will be back in uniform by ten.’ The cheering redoubled.

Stark allowed himself to be caught up in the prevailing good mood. It was only a while later that he remembered his hydro appointment. There was no way he’d be allowed to duck the party. With regret he called the Carter and made his apologies.

The evening was in full swing when two uniform officers entered Rosie’s. Their serious manner said they weren’t here to take advantage of the super’s generosity. Stark watched them accost the nearest copper, who turned and pointed. They jostled their way through the crowded pub to Fran and Groombridge. Stark was already making his way over as both stood, faces grave, drinks forgotten. ‘What is it?’ he asked, over the noise.

Fran sighed. ‘Naveen Hussein.’

Crossing the police tape was rapidly losing its thrill. Bloody dressings showed where the paramedics had worked on the boy before rushing him to A&E. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, apparently.

‘A taste of his own medicine,’ suggested one constable, earning a quiet rebuke from his sergeant.

A trail of blood led back along the landing to the door of the flat. Not dragged, thought Stark, crouching to inspect the markings. ‘He crawled out, Guv.’

Fran rolled her eyes. ‘Here we go … Are you going to tell us what he ate for supper next?’

‘Lamb curry, if the ready-meal packaging in the kitchen is anything to go by,’ announced Marcus Turner, from the hallway.

‘Marcus,’ Groombridge greeted him.

‘Detectives.’

‘Nothing better to do with yourself of an evening?’ asked Fran.

‘Ah, well, sometimes the little orphans’ clinic has to take a back seat to serious police matters,’ he said, unruffled. He, at least, hadn’t come from the pub. ‘SOCO asked me to assist.’

‘All right,’ said Groombridge, pointedly. ‘Let’s take a look, then.’

Marcus led them through his initial thoughts. Blood splatter in the hallway suggested the initial attack had taken place right by the front door. A deep mark in the wall from the door handle was either long-term carelessness or a sign that the attacker had forced their way in once the door was open. Door spy-holes had had no place in sixties urban Utopian idealism and the Husseins had not followed the trend for putting one in. Someone had fitted a chain. Naveen had used it. It hung now, screws torn from the doorframe.

The rest of the beating had taken place in the boy’s bedroom. Probably he’d fled there, hoping to lock himself in. Stark pointed to the smashed mobile phone and computer modem. Marcus nodded.
‘Found and smashed all the landlines too. Shows a rather considered ruthlessness, don’t you think?’

‘He underestimated his victim, though,’ said Stark. ‘The boy crawled outside to set off the ankle bracelet.’

‘Yes. He even knew to keep going along the landing as far as he could to make sure it had triggered before he passed out.’

‘Smarter than the average Rat,’ observed Groombridge.

‘Bet he’s glad he got slapped with it, after all,’ commented Fran.

‘I doubt he’s glad of anything much right now,’ said Marcus.

Fran picked Stark up early. Naveen was alive and awake. The hospital had reluctantly agreed to let them see him.

The teenager was barely recognizable. Stark recalled an Afghan man, beaten by the people of his neighbouring village who believed him guilty of raping a young girl. He had looked this bad – and he had died, his guilt or otherwise untried. The doctors assured them Naveen would live. His lucky day. A nurse was helping him drink his breakfast through a straw tucked into one cheek. They’d wired his broken jaw shut. His face was one huge bruise, nose badly broken, right eye closed, with stitches above and below. His wrist had been broken too, along with four ribs and the bones in one hand. When he saw them he flinched.

His mother sat up, bristling. ‘And where were you when that thug did this to my boy? Where were you? You were supposed to be keeping watch!’

The woman’s understanding of police bail and ankle bracelets was faulty, but Fran granted her some licence under the circumstances. ‘Do you know who did this?’

‘That monster Dawson!’ she spat. Behind her Naveen groaned and squirmed. ‘He won’t tell me but I know it’s true.’ The mother ignored his pleading. ‘Who else would do such a thing?’

Who else indeed? thought Fran, with all the other Rats on remand. This was their fault, hers and the guv’nor’s. They had tipped Dawson off that tongues were wagging. He’d put two and two together. ‘Is it true?’ she asked Naveen. The boy shook his head, his open eye panicked. ‘We can protect you –’

Naveen’s despairing laughter cut her off, but quickly became strangled sobs. The nurse and his mother tried to calm him, lest he choke.

‘If you tell us it was him …’ tried Fran, but Naveen shook his head again, eye closed.

‘Go away!’ said his mother. ‘Leave him alone!’

They did just that. He wasn’t going anywhere, but she called for uniform to send a babysitter all the same. You never knew, Dawson might not be finished.

‘Where were you last night at nine?’ asked Groombridge.

Dawson’s lawyer answered for him: ‘My client was at work. We can provide you with corroborating statements.’

‘And these statements would all come from employees of Mister Dawson?’

The lawyer smiled. ‘Indeed.’

Groombridge leant back, staring at Dawson, who returned his gaze dispassionately. ‘May I see your hands?’

‘Is that necessary?’ demanded the lawyer.

‘Unless your client has something to hide.’

The lawyer nodded to Dawson, who placed his huge calloused hands on the desk. The knuckles on both were bruised, the left worst. Naveen’s nose and eye suggested that the blow had come from a left-handed assailant, most of the rest from the boot. ‘My client sustained that bruising from training with the heavy bag, a boxing –’

‘I know what a heavy bag is,’ interrupted Groombridge. Dawson allowed himself a thin smile.

‘You would also know that my client has one in his garage along with his other fitness equipment – if you had grounds for a warrant.’ The lawyer was not court-appointed. Dawson had brought his own.

The man might just be doing his job, but Stark watched through the mirror with growing dislike as he diligently shot down one question after another. Dawson said not one word. Stark could almost hear Fran’s teeth grinding. As the big man was led out by his lawyer he saw Stark and smirked.

The previous day’s euphoria had been premature, they had all known that, but the super didn’t put his plastic behind the bar often. At
Groombridge’s insistence the rest of the team had stayed in Rosie’s to make sure the credit card took a respectable hammering. The best you could say of them that day was that their hangover was uniform. Stark felt little better. The pills had not settled his hip as they should. But there was work to be done.

Dawson’s alibi, four identical signed statements, had arrived by courier from his lawyer. Williams was ordered to check them out, but the four men would have been rehearsed already. A statement from Naveen was the only thing that could contradict them and that didn’t seem to be on the cards. Unless something else came up Dawson was untouchable for the assault. A canny lawyer didn’t bode well for the investigation into his business illegalities either.

The other fly in the ointment remained Nikki Cockcroft. All the video evidence put the other Ferrier Rats in the frame, but unless one of them flipped on Nikki she might still slide on the assaults. They still needed Pinky. Her picture on the wall served as a solemn reminder that they had yet to uncover her name, let alone her whereabouts. By late afternoon the camaraderie of the shared hangover was fraying at the edges and the CID floor was looking thin on warm bodies.

‘Man, is this party over!’ said Fran, in the doorway.

‘Looks like Friday-night drinks didn’t survive Thursday night,’ agreed Stark.

‘Come on, lightweight, I’ll drop you home.’

Stark accepted gratefully. At home he fixed himself a snack and then tried to steal a nap before his date, but even with painkillers his damn hip wouldn’t let him settle.

On the dot of eight he entered the Princess of Wales, Blackheath. It had been Kelly’s recommendation, though nothing in her voice suggested she realized the significance to him as a soldier of the Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment. A pretty, gentrified town pub with a proud rugby history. Its website and memorabilia testified to its continuing association with Blackheath Rugby Club, the world’s oldest, and its service as the changing room for the first ever international between England and Wales, played on the heath in 1881.

He fully expected to wait, yet Kelly was perched on a bar stool like she owned it. She waved him to another, which she appeared to have protected from the other denizens on a busy Friday evening with
little more than her denim jacket. Then again, there couldn’t be many blokes present who’d argue the point with her. Free of its usual ponytail, her dark brown hair hung loose over her shoulders in glossy waves. She wore faded jeans and a bright red T-shirt with ‘Love-Life’ in white, parodying the Coca-Cola logo; impossible to read without enjoying the shape it fitted so snugly. He’d seen her in a swimsuit and a clinical uniform, but this simple outfit made Stark swallow.

‘Ready with your lively chat?’ She grinned.

He would’ve been happy to sit and stare. No, that wasn’t true, to be blunt. But very little of what he’d be happiest doing right now required lively chat. And in the long tradition of men before the object of their basest desire he was in sorry danger of getting tongue-tied or blurting out some mind-numbing inanity. Time to concentrate. ‘I was hoping you’d be providing that.’

‘Oh, no. You got my potted history in the car. I let you off once but now I intend to get to the bottom of you.’

‘On the first date? What kind of boy do you take me for?’

‘Well, maybe you can hold back some hidden depths for next time.’

‘I’m afraid all you might find are hidden shallows.’

‘Jagged rocks below the surface, perilous to shipping!’ Kelly shivered theatrically.

‘Perhaps just one large, dull sandbank. Been here long?’ he asked, nodding to her half-consumed pint of Guinness.

‘This is my local. My flat’s just round the corner.’

Stark raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘I told you, I’m not that kind of boy.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. What’ll you have?’

‘Double whisky, no ice.’

‘Interesting. I took you for a beer man.’

‘I have my moments.’

‘I’ll bet. Katy,’ she called, over the hubbub. The nearest barmaid looked over and smiled. Then she noticed Stark and smile became grin. ‘Double whisky, no ice, when you get a second, the best you have, my tab.’ Stark thanked her. ‘You can get the next one. I intend to loosen your tongue.’

‘Many have tried.’

‘Have they now?’

‘I’m trained in counter-interrogation.’

Kelly beckoned him closer and leant in. Her hair ran across his neck like silk, her warm breath tingled and her perfume was intoxicating. He thought she wanted to whisper something but she just paused for several seconds, every exhalation building the electric charge. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she breathed finally, in his ear, sending a jolt right through him. He shivered. Kelly sat back and gave him probably the most dangerous smile he’d ever seen. The worst thing about it was that it gave every impression of being a purely genuine smile; it simply achieved nine-point-nine on the sultry scale as an after-shock. Stark shivered again and rubbed his neck. ‘That is cheating.’

‘All’s fair.’

‘Is this love or war?’

‘Too early to tell.’ She smiled.

Stark tried to gauge whether her boldness was as much a front as his, but couldn’t. It was a sad fact of life that the more you liked a girl the less you could be sure whether she liked you. That was why the bastards got the girls; if you could put feelings aside, you had all the power and it became just a numbers game. Fortune favoured the brazen. Hit shamelessly on ten girls in a club and one would take you home. You didn’t have to be a soldier on twenty-four-hour liberty to see it – just look in any nightclub. Girls liked confidence. He’d played the odds in his time, too often in truth. Chalk it up to callow youth, but that didn’t make it right. At least those morning walks of shame usually carried just enough actual shame to persuade him he wasn’t quite an all-out bastard. It would be nice to think that was why he’d sent Julie packing but of course it wasn’t. Doc Hazel was right in that respect. But the walls he’d built after his injury weren’t new: they’d merely risen. Julie was just a fling, last in a long line. He couldn’t shoulder all the blame, though: he’d neither begun nor finished them all.

And here he was, back in the game, tentative, rusty, more entrenched. A fling was probably just what he needed. A practice swing. A loosener. But this didn’t feel like that and Kelly seemed far too smart for it even to be an option. He liked that. It was terrifying, but he liked it a lot. And it was pointless worrying whether or not he was good enough for her, whether or not he deserved her: that was for her to judge and for time to tell.

His drink arrived and they chinked glasses. He took half in one go and savoured it all the way down. She watched him with evident pleasure. ‘Wow,’ he said finally. ‘I must drink the good stuff more often.’

‘Careful,’ cautioned Kelly. ‘Too much of a good thing can be bad for the soul.’

Stark studied her face for a long moment. ‘Some good things,’ he said, ‘are worth the risk.’

She fanned her face theatrically with her hand. ‘Well,
now
look who’s cheating.’ Either she was covering a genuine blush or she was mocking him. Stark rather suspected the latter. Pity – he’d not meant it as a line. Well, not entirely.

‘Nice place,’ he said, looking around for a change of subject.

She smiled appreciatively. ‘I though you’d like the name.’

‘I’ll take all the good omens I can get.’ He didn’t mention the foot search that had passed within a few hundred metres of the door, or the vicious killers who hailed from the Ferrier Estate barely a mile away. London, as she’d said, worked street by street.

As he ruminated on this his phone rang in his pocket. He fished it out, read Fran’s name and put it away again. Kelly looked enquiringly at him.

‘They’ll leave a message,’ he said simply. Instead it rang again. Still Fran.

‘That had better not be another woman,’ warned Kelly, playfully.

‘Not in that way. It’s my sergeant.’

‘Shouldn’t you answer it?’

‘It’s Friday night, I’m in a pub with a beautiful girl and I’m off duty …’ It stopped.

Kelly blinked and glanced down into her drink. It took a second for Stark to realize that she really was blushing now, and a moment longer to understand why. So much for concentrating. Damn Fran. The ringing returned. ‘Why can’t you just leave a message?’ Stark wished aloud, before answering. ‘Sarge?’ He could make out Fran’s voice but her words were lost. ‘Sorry, Sarge, I can’t hear you …’