A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘That’s a bit unfair,’ said Warren. ‘I couldn’t have known that he was going to spend it on drugs.’

  ‘It was a bloody good bet,’ snapped Grayson.

  ‘When he was found, most of the money was unspent. He didn’t buy enough heroin to kill himself,’ countered Warren, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

  ‘According to his dealer,’ said Grayson, ‘who has something of a vested interest in claiming that she wasn’t responsible.’

  ‘We believe that he was injected a second time …’

  ‘By some mysterious northern bloke, that we still don’t have evidence even exists,’ interrupted Grayson.

  ‘There was only one, single-use needle found with the body, and only one plastic bag …’

  ‘He’d been lying next to the river for God only knows how long. The bag could have blown away or he could have thrown the needle into the river.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Sir. It was pissing down with rain that night. He’d missed the last chance to get some food and had nowhere to sleep. He didn’t even have a sleeping bag, after we dismantled his shelter. It was the least I could do. You can’t tell me you haven’t given money to homeless people in need.’

  ‘Not in the sodding reception area of the police station,’ said Grayson.

  Warren sighed. He wasn’t going to win the argument. It wasn’t the first time he’d butted heads with Grayson, and he doubted it would be the last. He decided to take the reprimand on the chin and get on with his day.

  ‘Yeah, OK. I probably shouldn’t have done. And I feel bad that he used some of that money to feed his habit. I’ll try and be more careful in future.’

  Grayson picked a golf ball off the decorative stand at the edge of his desk. He contemplated it carefully, before placing it back where it belonged. Warren steeled himself.

  ‘It’s not about the drugs,’ Grayson said quietly, ‘as tragic as that was. It’s about you giving money to a key witness in your investigation.’

  ‘Oh, come on …’

  ‘Warren!’ snapped Grayson. ‘Let’s suppose this mysterious northern gent does exist. His defence team will have a bloody field day with this. You’ll be accused of bribing a witness.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous; you know I’d never do that.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s about appearances. You’ve potentially scuppered that whole lead.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ said Warren. ‘We have McGhee describing what he saw on video before I gave him any money.’ Warren swallowed. ‘And now he’s dead, he’s not going to be cross-examined by the defence anyway.’

  Warren felt dirty even saying it. He’d made an error of judgement, he knew that, and he’d been beating himself up about it ever since. But whilst he would have to live with the tragic outcome of his decision, he could see no way that the defence would ever be able to use the decision against him.

  ‘Unfortunately, Professional Standards don’t see it that way.’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’ asked Warren, incredulously.

  ‘There’s a video.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The security camera in the reception area picked up the whole exchange. Unfortunately, there’s no sound, and we can’t see your lips, but the two of you are clearly having a conversation, and the footage of you taking money out of your wallet is as clear as day.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘They received an anonymous tip-off yesterday, and they seized the footage this morning.’

  Grayson paused. ‘It doesn’t look good, Warren.’

  Warren felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. His knees felt weak.

  ‘Warren, you’ve been under a lot of strain lately …’

  ‘That’s not fair …’

  ‘You were right next to Gary Hastings when he died. Then there’s the health worries about your grandfather, and Tony Sutton. And now the baby …’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with how I do my job.’

  ‘I think it does. I also saw you taking your wastepaper bin down to the gents toilets minutes after receiving a call from Professor Jordan.’

  ‘What, are you bugging my calls now?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly. Janice stopped me in the corridor and asked if I’d seen you. When did you last see your counsellor?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ snapped Warren.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ countered Grayson. ‘According to Occupational Health, you haven’t been to see them for weeks.’

  ‘I haven’t needed to,’ said Warren. ‘I saw them weekly after Gary died, and then after the murders at the abbey. They told me to come back if I felt I needed their support again. I’ve been fine.’

  It was a lie, and both men knew it.

  ‘Warren,’ started Grayson, his voice quiet, almost kind, ‘I’m telling you this as your boss and as your friend. You are not fine. You’re on the edge. You haven’t had a proper day off for weeks, and you’re living off coffee. You look like death warmed over and I think your judgement is impaired. After the incident with the baby in the woods, I should never have let you continue on the case.’

  ‘That was my decision,’ said Warren.

  ‘And it was the wrong one.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Warren could hear the note of desperation in his voice, but he didn’t care. Grayson was right. Perhaps he had been working too hard, and with all the stress over Granddad Jack, and the babies, he had been feeling a bit overwhelmed. And he knew that he – and the team – were still grieving the loss of Gary Hastings. But he wasn’t letting it impact upon his work. He was too experienced for that, wasn’t he?

  ‘I’m sending you home.’

  ‘You’re suspending me?’ Warren felt light-headed.

  ‘No, I’m sending you home until your head’s straight.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I can and I am. You are not to set foot inside here until Monday, after you have been to Occupational Health, and they are satisfied that you are fit to return to work. I will take their views into account when deciding if you should continue on this investigation or move to another case.’

  Warren reached out to steady himself on the doorframe. ‘You can’t demand that, you don’t have the right. I’ll speak to Human Resources about it.’

  ‘Damn it, Warren, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is. I’m doing this for your own good and the good of the investigation. Get yourself home and get some sleep. Arrange some counselling and for Christ’s sake, spend some time with your wife and your family.’

  Thursday 19 November

  Chapter 52

  Grayson’s order to get some sleep was easier said than done. Warren had hardly slept a wink. He’d arrived home angry and upset. The case was coming to a close, he could feel it, and to be taken away from it at such short notice …

  Susan had already been home, settling in for another night alone in front of the TV.

  Despite his fury at being treated like a child, it was the sight of his wife in her dressing gown, her face puffy from crying, that finally calmed him.

  Maybe Grayson was right. After all they’d been through, what was he thinking? He should have been here for her. Susan had decided to go back to work, and Warren supported her decision, but still, she shouldn’t be on her own at night, watching crappy television, wondering what time her husband would finally show up.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she’d said after hearing Warren’s account.

  He hadn’t intended to share with her the story of the baby in the woods, but she’d seen the evening news and immediately pieced together what must have happened.

  ‘Maybe John is right: you are too close to this. After everything you’ve … we’ve been through, you need time to get your head straight.’

  Warren winced as she parroted Grayson’s words.

  ‘Take the time off. Go and see Tony tomorrow – you haven’t seen him for weeks. Then we can go
to Coventry at the weekend and tell Mum and Dad, and Granddad Jack about the babies.’

  Warren had nodded, unable to disagree. The loss of the babies was like an open wound. Intellectually, Warren knew that they couldn’t start to heal properly until they told their family what had happened. For the past week he’d flinched every time the phone went, or he came home to find post on the kitchen table – who knew how many people had been told the couple’s good news? The card from Granddad Jack had been like a knife twist, and he’d buried it at the bottom of the waste bin before Susan even saw it.

  Bernice, Dennis and Jack would be heartbroken, and he didn’t have the emotional energy to tell them that they were no longer going to be grandparents again. But he couldn’t put it off forever. They had to tell them, and it wouldn’t be right to share that news over the phone.

  ‘And why not go to Occupational Health? You know what they said last time you went. If you start having bad dreams again, you should go back for more counselling. It really helped after Gary’s death, and the murders at the abbey last spring.’

  Susan, as ever, was right.

  ‘Grayson said he would arrange for an emergency appointment. I haven’t checked my emails.’

  ‘Then clearly he wants you back as soon as you’re fit. You’re his best officer, Warren. And he cares for you.’

  Again, he couldn’t fault his wife’s logic. Nevertheless, neither of them had slept properly, and it had taken all of Warren’s willpower to avoid checking his email until Susan had left for work that morning.

  It was clear from the size of his inbox that Grayson hadn’t told the team why he was absent that day, and he spent an hour forwarding messages to others to action whilst he was out of the office, his sense of frustration growing. Occupational Health responded at nine a.m. with the offer of an appointment first thing Monday. Grayson had obviously pulled some strings – over the past few years, the counselling service had borne the brunt of the government’s sweeping cuts to the policing budget. He and his colleagues been asked to do more and more, with fewer and fewer resources, and a significant decrease in personnel. Front-line services were stretched beyond breaking point, taking an inevitable toll on officers’ health and mental wellbeing. Waiting lists for counselling appointments were at an all-time high.

  Warren still felt annoyed that Grayson had forced his hand, but the sooner OH gave him a clean bill of health, the sooner he could be back at his desk. In the meantime, he vowed to try and enjoy his enforced rest. Walking into the living room, with a cup of tea and a handful of custard creams, he perused the couple’s ‘to be read’ bookcase, groaning with books that he hadn’t had time to even look at. Deciding on the latest Lee Child, he settled into the comfy leather armchair. Some days he envied Jack Reacher. No attachments, and few worries beyond what motel to check into that night – the lifestyle of Child’s nomadic character seemed almost idyllic, and he looked forward to escaping into that world for a few hours.

  By lunchtime, Warren was going stir-crazy. For the first time he could remember, he’d been unable to focus on Lee Child’s sparse, yet descriptive prose, finally giving up barely thirty pages in. Reacher hadn’t even punched anyone yet.

  A flick through the TV channels had revealed nothing more diverting than some middle-aged people getting overly excited about bidding at an auction for some junk found in an attic, and some deeply unpleasant individuals being goaded into fighting over the results of a paternity test by an even more unpleasant studio audience. After another cup of tea, and a cheese sandwich, Warren gave up. Grabbing his coat, he headed out into the chilly autumnal air.

  ‘Warren! What a lovely surprise.’ Marie Sutton greeted Warren with a warm hug. ‘Tony, Warren’s here,’ she called back over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything am I?’ Warren’s hadn’t thought to call ahead and he’d no idea if Sutton was busy.

  ‘Of course not.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s going mad stuck in doors all day. He’ll be delighted to see you.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘And you’ll be doing me a favour. He’s as grumpy as sin.’

  ‘I heard that,’ came Sutton’s voice, as the living room door opened.

  It had been a month since Warren had last checked in with Tony Sutton. Technically, Warren shouldn’t be performing line manager visits with his sick colleague, since he himself was signed off also, but he’d been friends with Sutton too long to worry about such formalities. If anyone asked, he was visiting a mate.

  The mini-stroke that had felled his friend six months previously had left no permanent damage, thankfully, but the heart condition that it had uncovered had left its mark.

  ‘You look well,’ said Warren.

  ‘Bollocks, I look like shit.’

  Since his collapse, Sutton had been in and out of hospital. In the past months, he’d lost a significant amount of weight, and his pallor had improved. But Warren noticed that he was still out of breath, as he led the two of them into the living room.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Marie, as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘Decaf only,’ Sutton apologized. ‘You get used to the taste, but I miss the kick.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ said Warren. ‘At least Rachel Pymm will be pleased.’

  Sutton grunted. ‘She won’t be happy until we’re all pouring hot water over the contents of the garden waste bin. What’s she drinking these days?’

  ‘I assume it’s mint tea, either that or she’s boiling mouthwash.’

  ‘Hah.’

  The two men sat down.

  ‘So how is everyone?’

  ‘Fine. Busy and overworked as usual, but they’re ploughing on. Moray’s training for a triathlon and stressing about his wedding; he and Alex are trying to agree on whether they should both wear the same style suit or do their own thing. The problem is, there’s almost a foot difference in height, and five stones weight between them. I’m glad I didn’t have to worry about that when Susan and I got married.

  ‘Rachel is doing well. She’s recovered from her last relapse. I just have to make sure she doesn’t overdo it again.’

  ‘Good luck with that. What about Hutch?’

  ‘He’s bought himself a new motorbike.’

  ‘Mid-life crisis?’

  ‘That’s what everyone reckons.’

  ‘And Mags? Is she still running?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s doing parkruns with Moray most Sundays. She’s hoping to get a place in the London Marathon, raising money for the NSPCC.’

  ‘That’s a good cause,’ said Sutton. Warren agreed. Since the appalling events of the Middlesbury Abbey case, earlier that year, the team had been raising money for children’s charities. That investigation had really got under everyone’s skin.

  ‘How’s Susan?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Warren quickly, ‘but what about you?’

  Sutton made a so-so gesture with his hand. ‘Good days and bad days.’

  ‘What do the doctors say?’

  Sutton let out a puff of air. ‘I’m permanently in arrhythmia; my pulse rate is all over the place.’

  ‘Have they still got you on those beta-blockers?’

  ‘No, thank God. They really disagreed with me. I was huffing like an old man. They’ve put me on some new ones, and they’re going to try another cardioversion, to see if they can shock me back into a normal rhythm.’

  ‘And if they can’t?’

  Sutton sighed. ‘Different tablets and the possibility of an ablation, to kill off the piece of heart tissue that is causing the abnormal rhythm.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ said Sutton. ‘They go in through a blood vessel; it’s not like open-heart surgery.’

  The door opened, and Marie appeared, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. ‘Sorry, Warren, decaf only.’

  ‘At least Marie lets me have the decent biscuits when we have guests,’ said Sutton.

  ‘Ignore h
im,’ ordered Marie. ‘You’d think I had him living on gruel and warm water.’

  ‘So, any idea when you’ll be back?’ asked Warren, after she’d left.

  ‘I take it the Brownnose Brothers aren’t living up to expectations?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Warren.

  Sutton grunted, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘They’re … different,’ Warren allowed.

  ‘So I’ve heard.’ Sutton paused. ‘Their reputation precedes them. Word on the grapevine is they’re ambitious.’

  ‘They’re certainly that,’ said Warren diplomatically. Despite his years of friendship with Sutton, he was uncomfortable bad-mouthing other members of the team. Grimshaw and Martinez certainly had their faults – Grimshaw in particular – but slagging them off was unprofessional. Warren had spoken to Grimshaw on more than one occasion about his choice of language when discussing victims or suspects in their cases. He also had a habit of making crude jokes that were more suited to the pub with like-minded friends, than an office environment. Everyone on the CID team was a grown-up, and dark and often adult humour was a common way of dealing with what they saw each day. Nevertheless, there was a line between what was appropriate and what was too much, and Grimshaw didn’t seem to know – or care – about that line. If the man ever wanted to make it as an Inspector, he would have to work on that.

  By contrast, Martinez was the polar opposite. Rachel Pymm had once described him as ‘smooth, like an estate agent’. Given the difficulties she and her husband had been having trying to sell their house, that wasn’t a compliment. Warren didn’t really know much about him, other than his love of football, and the fact that he apparently came from a wealthy background.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Warren, ‘you didn’t answer the question. When do you think you’ll be back?’

  ‘Is this an official question?’ asked Sutton.

  Warren was shocked. ‘Of course not. You know that’s not how it works.’

  Sutton waved a hand in apology. ‘Sorry, ignore me. I’m just sick and tired of sitting around doing nothing.’ He looked towards the closed living room door.