Fran made a point of peering at the wall clock when Stark reappeared well after lunchtime, but said nothing. He didn’t apologize; if this was how long his appointments were going to take, better she got used to it now. It wasn’t as if she’d given him anything else to do. Ptolemy and Peters had offered to show him more that afternoon and evening and, with apparently no plan for him, Fran waved her consent wordlessly as she took a call.
This tour covered more of the borough, all the way out to Abbey Wood and Thamesmead, with its iconic riverside Flat Block Marina, immortalized by the film A Clockwork Orange, returning to Greenwich town by the evening. Around pub closing a call came over the radio requesting response to trouble brewing at the Meridian pub.
Ptolemy picked up the handset. ‘Control. Car Eleven responding, ETA two minutes.’
The Meridian turned out to be one of those chain McPubs popping up in every town like aggressive weeds, strangling traditional pubs. Trouble had already brewed, boiled and spilt over. Outside, two groups were posturing and yelling abuse at each other.
Both sides fell back at the arrival of the blue lights. Ptolemy and Peters leapt out and strode into the gap. The shouting and posturing barely diminished as they tried to make themselves heard and establish coherence if not order. Out of uniform Stark hung back by the car, ready to assist if required.
Perhaps it was situation normal at this establishment. A big doorman peeped out to observe the blue lights and ducked back inside, content to have pushed his mess out for someone else to clear up.
The more aggressive group was led by a gobby chavette, hair scraped back in a council face-lift, big hooped gold earrings, mauve velour tracksuit and the latest must-have accessory: a gold clown on a gold chain. She was incensed about something. Her eyes were wild and there was saliva on her lips as she spat startling vitriol. It was only when she paused for breath that he recognized her. The infamous Nikki Cockcroft from the assault files. Others too. Stark couldn’t recall names but this was them, including Kyle Gibbs, hovering near the back. Stark’s eyes rested on Gibbs. It took a second to work out why but then he had it – Gibbs had one hand in a pocket.
There was only one reason someone on the brink of a fight would keep one hand in his or her pocket. Gibbs watched the police nervously, backing away slightly. Stark began moving cautiously to flank him. Suddenly, among all the commotion, Gibbs glanced his way. That was just how it went some days, the army taught you – be as sneaky as you like, but sometimes the enemy just looked your way.
There was a slow-motion dawning of realization. The hand withdrew from the pocket but it was too late, too obvious, and Kyle knew it. They stared at each other for a moment. Anger flared in the boy’s eyes. Stark took a step towards him but he turned and fled, like a scalded cat, across the main road into a narrow lane. Stark gave chase but the boy had ten years and one good leg on him. The lane turned almost immediately right but Stark arrived at the corner only in time to see the boy leap up a metal gate and disappear into darkness beyond. The gate was six feet high and spiked but Stark made the attempt. He pulled himself up but couldn’t gain any purchase with his bad leg and dropped down with a curse, kicking the gate in frustration. The darkness inside looked like a small park, suggesting other exits, one of which Kyle was surely scaling at that moment. Stark cursed his weakness for the thousandth time and returned to the fracas.
Improbable order was emerging. Ptolemy had Nikki and her side corralled into the narrow pedestrianized passage, dampened down, perhaps, by the unexpected disappearance of their leader. Peters had the quieter ones lined up meekly around the corner. It was amusing to hear both officers trotting out the same tried-and-tested phrases, the same deadpan measured tone dripping with unspoken sarcasm. More cars arrived. Names and addresses were taken and the opposing sides sent packing in opposite directions under orders to calm down, piss off home and sleep it off.
‘What was it about?’ asked Stark.
‘Sweet little Nikki decided a girl from another table had looked at her,’ replied Ptolemy. ‘What was that all about?’ He nodded in the direction Kyle had fled.
Stark told him.
‘Kyle Gibbs? Knife probably. Not sure any of the Rats have moved up to guns yet. I’ll see if Control can put someone outside his block for a stop ’n’ search. Anyway, it’s not him you should worry about,’ Ptolemy added. He pointed after Nikki Cockcroft. ‘That’s the source of the vile, right there. Been pulling her claws out of people since she was thirteen.’
‘You’re limping.’ Fran frowned, the following morning.
‘I’m fine, thanks, Sarge,’ replied Stark, though there’d been no concern in her statement.
He explained his antics the previous evening, and Fran made a mental note not to rely on his assistance in any kind of chase. ‘Did uniform pick Gibbs up?’
‘No. They put a car in the estate but …’
‘It’s a Rat warren.’ She nodded. ‘Well, never mind that. Here …’ She scooped up the stack of paperwork she had ready on her desk and slapped it into his hands. ‘You’ll need to keep a log of your daily activities, so read this lot and fill in the PDP forms for signature. Don’t let it build up. I won’t sign anything half-arsed or fictitious. No one likes having their time wasted.’
‘Sarge.’
Fran studied him a moment, trying to discern sarcasm in the flat monosyllable. It was her job to supervise him and she meant to do it, but he was hard to read. ‘Okay then, get a good feel for the dull end. Nothing much happening up the sharp end anyway.’
At the end of that week Fran bumped into Superintendent Cox on the stairs. ‘Good afternoon, Fran!’ He’d greeted her in his usual effusive manner. DCI Groombridge seemed to have a lot of time for the man but he grated on Fran. ‘How’s our new boy getting on? Living up to all our expectations, I trust?’
‘Too early to tell yet, sir,’ she replied.
‘Ah … uncompromising as ever, eh? Fair enough. But you might want to grant him a little grace, special circumstance and all that. The lad’s done his bit, after all.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, good. Carry on.’
There was more than a little of the clichéd moustache-puffing army officer about Cox. Perhaps he harboured fantasies in that direction. Maybe he idolized Stark in some infantile manner.
It shouldn’t irritate her so much, she was sure, but it did. Cotton bloody wool, whatever Cox said to the contrary. It wasn’t that she’d had a particularly hard time of it. She hadn’t, really. It was just a matter of principle. You didn’t ask for favour and you didn’t give it. Policing wasn’t about compromise. And there was something in Stark’s manner that niggled, a self-contained imperviousness. She was sure it was just a front, and fronts bothered her. Something was going on under there, something serious. Whatever it was, if it interfered with his work or, worse, hers, he’d regret it.
Perhaps she should’ve given him more time in his first week but she was busy helping CPS with an old case that was finally coming to court so she’d lent him to Dixon to go through some closed-case files, preparing them for shipping out to a data-input company so that they could be scanned into the digital world. If she was arse-deep in paperwork he might as well be too – on-the-job training and all that.
At five thirty on the dot she slipped on her jacket. ‘Right, I’m gasping. Come on, you miserable lot. You too, Williams, it’s your round.’
The Compass Rose was a dingy little pub with ceiling beams older than time and lower than comfortable, considering half of its clientele came from a profession where it used to be compulsory to be six foot tall. Friday night was Rosie’s, no excuses. If you weren’t on duty, you had a drink. More and more officers opted for something soft, these days, but that wasn’t the point.
Williams bought the first round with good grace and gradually the place filled with bodies and noise. Stark sipped at something short, she noticed, whisky by the colour. At least he wasn’t on orange juice. In every other way he see
med buttoned up and out of place. It wasn’t long, though, before he seemed to relax and join in. Dixon and Hammed, both of whom she noted were in some kind of awe of him, visibly relaxed too. There was conversation and laughter. When she next looked he was playing doubles pool, partnering Dixon against a couple of uniforms, the ones Maggie had sent him out with earlier in the week. She watched him interact with ease. She was always suspicious of good-looking lads with their effortless charm.
Groombridge slid into the seat opposite and put a fresh glass in front of her. ‘What do you think of him, our anointed one?’
‘I’m not one for messiahs, Guv.’
‘Me neither, but all that nonsense is hardly his fault. You’ve been watching him. What’s your opinion so far?’
‘Impenetrable, non-compliant, haughty.’
‘Fran!’ laughed Groombridge. ‘Be fair.’
‘Honestly? I don’t know, Guv. I’ve not had as much time with him this week as perhaps I should. But I get the impression he’s coasting – here in body but not in mind, not in heart. I’ve tried picking at the edges but he either avoids answering questions or gives answers so simple you’re left with little or no more information than you started with.’
‘Some people are just private,’ suggested Groombridge.
Fran didn’t buy it. ‘It’s more than that. I get the impression he enjoys the avoidance, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding more than his privacy.’
‘Given what he’s been through, maybe that’s understandable.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You might try cutting him some slack.’
‘Not you too!’ cried Fran. ‘Cox bent my ear on that earlier. Frankly I think he’s getting enough slack already.’
Groombridge looked at her strangely, as if he were considering something. ‘Even so,’ was all he said, sipping his pint.
3
Technically Stark wasn’t obliged to work Saturday – he wasn’t on the unsociable hours rota yet – but he was conscious that his hospital appointments would eat into his forty hours. Dixon was down to work so Stark offered to help him finish off what they’d been doing. Once it was done they had lunch together in the canteen. The previous evening had narrowed the chasm between them somewhat. On the subject of DS Millhaven, however, Dixon wouldn’t budge. Stark had been aware of Fran glowering at him over her drink the previous evening and had had the impression that she and DCI Groombridge had been discussing him. He was still far from sure about his new career choice and his first week had done little to alleviate his doubts; the last thing he needed was the dislike of a senior officer. He didn’t relate any of this to Dixon, of course, restricting himself to a few basic questions. He recognized loyalty in Dixon’s answers so let it drop. If she was all right once she got used to you he’d either have to be patient or let down his own barriers a little.
After lunch he went home and spent the rest of the day rearranging the little flat he’d taken for twelve months, moving things from where he’d unpacked them to where they ought to be. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t occupy himself enough to avoid thinking about the next day. It had taken all his determination to phone Margaret Collins. She’d sounded happy enough to hear from him but it had to have been forced, especially when he asked to see her in person. God knew, she probably dreaded seeing him too, though she’d remained polite despite his unwillingness to explain himself. He regretted arranging the meeting now. He hadn’t had the first week he might have hoped for, his wounds ached and he would’ve liked a day free to recover at leisure. But it had to be done.
The crunch, crunch, crunch of your boots, your laboured breath, wafts of acrid black smoke from the burning Land Rover, the jangling of your kit, quiet as the regimental band, for fuck’s sake! The crack of the AK47s and the surreal whine of bullets tells you Terry Taliban’s overcome his surprise.
Jump down the low wall and stagger, nearly fall, turn and help one of the others down. Collins points at the house, if you can call it that. Set off, heart pounding, kit killing your shoulders, rubbed raw – at least Terry won’t get his hands on any of it. Not today. The whoosh of an RPG; detonates well behind. Nearly there, expecting muzzle flash from that window any second. Never comes, and you’re there, slammed against the wall, gasping for breath. Check the safety’s off for the tenth time. A nod, Collins kicks the door and you pile in, weapon raised, Collins behind you. Movement in the corner! Collins shouts. Swing, SHOOT!
Stark twitched so hard his body left the mattress, the sickening crack of shots echoing in his ears. Limbs tangling in the sheet, trapping him, panic rising, dust and cordite choking him, he fought to free himself in the dark; and all the while the mother’s eyes stared up at him as she crouched in the corner cradling her child, stared right along the barrel of his gun. He choked off a sob, kicking free of the tripping sheet as he staggered out into the living room where the orange streetlight streaming in drove her face from his mind.
He snatched up the bottle and downed long slugs of burning whisky. Gripping the bottle, he came within an inch of hurling it at the wall but fought down the frightening anger, the loathing. Instead he screwed the top back on and slammed it down on the table. Next to it sat the phone with an accusatory red blinking three. He’d been in no mood to listen to his voicemail last night. He yanked the lead out and threw it into the corner, then slumped on to the sofa, face buried in his hands, rocking forward and back.
Her face came flooding in, imploring, defiant, terrified. And the child, small, maybe three, a boy, just one dark, peeping eye visible through his mother’s protecting hands. A millisecond, frozen for ever. Stark opened his eyes wide before the memory drove him mad. He could still hear Collins’s shout, echoing down through time.
Standing, he limped to the window and scanned the calm, cool urban night, the thick vegetation, the lush deciduous trees struck orange and black in the familiar sodium light. Helmand in August could have been Mars compared to this, the Taliban and Afghans some weird alien creatures, light years away. But the mother and her child, human, so very human, brought the whole thing to your doorstep. He could have been looking out on the boy, playing, laughing with the soldiers, entreating them for boiled sweets, bottled water, NATO bloody ballpoints.
Your decent movie hero would punch his ghostly reflection now, bloody knuckles a token penance. Stark grunted through his exercises instead, showered and fell asleep on the sofa.
Later, as he was pulling on his shoes to leave, he noticed the phone still lying where he’d thrown it. He plugged it back in and pressed play. His mum sounding worried and cross, then his sister sounding cross and stressed out: the standard tag-team guilt trip. Last but not least, a female captain shiny-arse, Pierson, asking if he’d received the MoD letter, and if so why he’d not responded. Another woman voicing disappointment in him. Well, it was Sunday and they could all wait.
He’d done the tourist thing the previous weekend and had been looking forward to more, before Monday’s letter. He’d always enjoyed learning; a trait inherited from his father that had just about survived the mire of mediocre comprehensive schooling. He’d left with decent A levels, but with his little sister struggling at school and his mum’s solitary wage already stretched, university was impossible. They needed income. So he’d settled for a library card and joined the police. Only the force was duller than he’d imagined. It had its moments of excitement but spread out in an eternity of lost hours. Lost walking streets, standing with his back to football matches, filling in paperwork, locking up drunks, stopping-and-searching dodgy wasters, standing outside the crime-scene tape while others went in.
Girls came and went. Mates got on with their lives. He needed something else. So, at the end of his two-year probation, he’d decided to hedge his bets.
The Territorial Army was everything he’d imagined. One night a week, one weekend a month and a two-week training course each year. Weapons, demolitions, engineering, strategy and tactics: what wasn’t to like? Mor
e than once he’d seriously considered transferring to the regulars, but staying a weekend soldier gave him the best of both worlds and breaks from both.
He was in good shape going in and kept up with the kids around him. The great thing about the TA: it wasn’t just kids around you: there were guys and girls younger and older, from different backgrounds and levels of qualification. The TA prided itself that this enabled them to learn quicker, to go from reserve to combat-ready in short order. They tried to talk him into going Red Cap, Military Police, but he’d politely declined. The best of both worlds.
That was enough for many. Others, like Stark, sought deployment. You didn’t come out of training shy of a fight. Scared or otherwise, you wanted deployment. Not to look back and say, ‘Yes, I served, but I stayed at home.’ You wanted to serve your function and, as an infantryman, that meant boots on the ground. There were plenty whose function kept them from front-line duty and were no less crucial for it. PONTIs, some called them, Persons of No Tactical Importance. The expression infuriated Stark. You put yourself in harm’s way when you enlisted, full stop; whatever role you were assigned was vital and there was no telling where you would end up or in what danger. It was all too easy to forget that when you were being shot at, but if you were hunkered down with an empty belly or no ammunition you’d soon remember. Or if you were relying on the person at the other end of the radio to correctly relay the co-ordinates of a nearby enemy position to the American aircraft about to drop a bloody great bomb, you should be hoping they were having a very comfortable, stress-free day back at base following a good night’s sleep and that their hands, as they typed, weren’t trembling like yours.
Deployment. Three weeks’ intensive training, six months in theatre. It could’ve been any number of benign places but there were only two truly hot tickets in town and Stark was both happy and apprehensive when he had drawn Iraq.
If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) Page 3