At least it corresponded with Marcus’s preliminary time of death estimated from body temperature. Suicide, accident or foul play, at around midnight the previous night, while officers of the law revelled or slept, one of their suspects, their best potential witness, had met her end.
‘How’d the mother take it?’ Williams asked Fran.
‘Not well. It’s a shame we couldn’t tell her in the afternoon when she’d be drunk. Stacey was right. Her mother is not at her best sober.’
Informing Stacey’s mother: Stark was heartily glad to have escaped that particular duty during his on-the-job training. He stared up at the tower, wondering which window hid the grief-stricken woman.
‘Did we get her killed?’ asked Dixon.
Stark noticed Fran glance his way. She was wondering the same thing. And bringing Stacey in had been his idea.
Groombridge finished a phone call and waved them over. ‘OK. Stacey’s mobile phone was found smashed a few feet from her body. The memory chip survived. She sent a text at six minutes past twelve last night – “Goodbye Nav I’m sorry”. That’s it. Not much of a suicide note. Let’s go see what Naveen Hussein has to add.’
‘What about the rest of them, Guv? Shall we round them up?’ asked Fran.
Groombridge shook his head. ‘I can’t face another round of their bullshit posturing yet. Not until we know more. Harper, you and the others knock on doors and get the occupants’ whereabouts last night. Let me know who you think is lying.’
‘I can tell you now, Guv,’ muttered Harper. ‘They all are.’
Fran glanced at Stark as they trudged up the concrete stairs and traversed the open balcony corridor to Naveen’s front door, wondering why she’d dragged him along. She had resolved overnight to confess to the DCI that it had been Stark who had suggested speaking to Stacey again, not her. Now, of course, it would look like she was trying to shift blame. If Stacey had been killed as a result, it was Fran’s fault, not Stark’s. She had brought it to the DCI. Christ, she had even said it might rattle the others. Either they’d driven the stupid girl to suicide or made someone kill her.
‘It’s not our fault,’ said Groombridge, out of the blue. His knack for guessing her thoughts was as disconcerting as it was maddening. ‘We deal with people on the edge, but we don’t put them there.’
‘And sometimes they fall,’ said Fran.
Groombridge glanced at her but said nothing more as he knocked firmly on the door. A plump-faced Asian woman wearing a black hijab answered. ‘What’s he done now?’
They were shown into the living room, a space barely large enough for the faux-leather three-piece, over-large television, cluttered keepsakes and photographs. They declined the offer of tea and were told Naveen would be through soon. It was impossible not to overhear the hissed tirade she unloaded on the teenager from the hallway, though for the most part it was delivered in her first language. At one point Stark chuckled quietly.
‘Something funny?’ demanded Fran.
‘My Pashto is sketchy,’ said Stark, wincing at the next broadside. ‘But I think she blames the father.’
Fran rolled her eyes.
Moments later the mother shooed Naveen in, clearly stirred unwillingly from his bed and worried to find three police sitting in his living room. ‘Well! Go on, then!’ prompted his mother, in accented gunshot English. ‘Tell them where you were last night.’
‘Here,’ said Naveen, sullenly.
‘And for once it’s true!’ cried the mother. ‘Good-for-nothing layabout. Does nothing but sleep, muck about on that computer with the door locked or he’s out and about with that cheap little harlot from block seven!’
‘Mum!’ protested Naveen.
‘Her mother is a drunk! What does that girl know? I ask you! Fifteen years old and her mother lets boys stay all night long!’
Never mind that it’s your boy she’s letting sleep over, thought Fran.
‘And now there’s girls being murdered right outside our windows!’ railed the woman, breathlessly. ‘Where are their mothers? I ask you!’
Fran held up a hand. ‘Mrs Hussein! Forgive me, but are you confirming Naveen was here all night?’
‘Yes! Tapping away on that computer. Playing games or masturbating to pornography –’
‘Mum!’ cried Naveen, desperately.
Fran held up her hand again. ‘Naveen, can we see your phone?’
‘No!’ He was automatically defensive. ‘Why?’
‘Did you receive a text message just after midnight?’
‘I don’t know, why?’
‘Could you check?’
He stomped out of the room, glaring at his mother, and returned with his mobile. He thumbed through some content, then frowned. ‘“Goodbye …”?’
‘From Stacey Appleton?’ asked Groombridge. Naveen’s frown deepened, but he stared at the message in silence. ‘We know that text was sent from her phone to yours last night. And I’m sorry to have to tell you that we found Stacey dead this morning.’
Naveen looked up sharply, clearly shocked to the core. ‘Bullshit!’
‘Naveen!’ barked his mother.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Groombridge. ‘At this stage we think she died in a fall. Had she been depressed, or worried about anything?’
Naveen glared back. ‘Only about you lot! Pest’in’ us when we done nothin’! But this ain’t right, man, this ain’t right! Stace didn’t do this.’ He waved the phone angrily. ‘This is bullshit!’
That was too much for the mother. Launching into another incomprehensible barrage, she scolded her errant son from the room.
‘Some of them seemed, or acted, surprised,’ reported Harper. ‘Kyle Gibbs wasn’t around but his mum said he was at home all night. Nikki Cockcroft acted like she didn’t give a shit. Her mum said she was at home.’
‘So they all claim they were at home,’ said Groombridge, not that he’d expected anything else.
‘And they’re all lying,’ said Harper.
‘Hard to prove until we get forensics. Find out if any of the pay-as-you-go numbers they coughed up last week are still active, or even real. I’ll get on to HQ about warrants for call-location traces. Check with uniform whether any of the gang were seen out and about. Talk to any residents we missed this morning and any we’ve spoken to who looked frightened or edgy.’
‘All of them again.’ Harper chuckled to himself.
It proved an unproductive day. Stark was glad he got to spend it sitting at his desk instead of traipsing around the estate. His hip had been looking forward to a day off, but his mind was restless to know what had happened.
‘Stark?’ Groombridge was peering at him from his office door.
‘Guv?’
‘Seen many post-mortems?’
‘None, Guv,’ replied Stark, with a sinking feeling about the rest of his so-called weekend.
‘Then tomorrow’s your unlucky day.’
Groombridge picked Stark up early and drove to the mortuary. His intention was to get a feel for Stark on the way but something in the young man’s silence made it curiously hard to strike up conversation, and when he did, the responses he received were appropriate, friendly, and so concise they often brought the topic to a close. Groombridge smiled, imagining the effect this might be having on Fran. But that hadn’t been the reason for her mood yesterday, or that of the whole team.
‘It really isn’t our fault,’ said Groombridge. ‘People make their own decisions. All we can do is ask the questions we’re duty bound to ask.’
‘Guv.’
A monosyllabic ambiguity. Groombridge gave up for now. It hadn’t been their fault; it was his. As DCI it had been his call to press Stacey, to drive a wedge into her weakness and expose that weakness to her tribe. He’d not expected this result, but that was his fault too.
Stacey lay on the mortuary slab, naked, blue-black and broken, the huge Y-shaped incision in her torso closed with oversized stitches. It seemed wrong to find her alon
e like that. An irrational sentiment. Groombridge watched Stark for any discomfort but saw no more than he had the previous day. The first time he himself had been in this situation he’d thrown up.
Groombridge remembered his first corpse all too clearly. An accidental drowning: the body had been in the water for several days. How many had he seen since? He might list them if he sat down to it but he doubted he’d remember them all. But not to remember your first? It was easier to believe Stark was just repaying a thoughtless question. Easier, not necessarily true.
‘I had a feeling you’d be hovering,’ said Marcus Turner, wandering in, drying his hands on disposable blue paper. ‘Our concerns appear justified, I’m afraid.’
‘Murder, then.’ Groombridge raised his eyebrows, unsure what he’d been hoping to hear.
‘A fall from height masks much, Chief Inspector, but in this case not enough. Look, the cut on the temple I showed you. It was fresh. It had only minutes to bruise ante mortem. I found the victim’s blood on what’s left of her mobile phone and the shape is consistent.’
‘She was hit with her own phone?’ asked Groombridge.
‘Indeed. But the real smoking gun is round the back, here.’ He pointed to several skull X-rays on the illuminated viewer. ‘Here, bordering the shattered side, this edge, do you see? This semi-oval shape missing, and these surrounding pieces …’ Marcus looked at them expectantly but when neither copper was willing to speculate, he continued, ‘The skull shattered across this point, in part, because there was already a hole here.’
‘Created by?’
‘Blunt instrument. Heavy, rounded tip. Egg-shaped, perhaps.’
‘So she was hit from the front with her phone, then from behind with something else. Multiple assailants?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Nothing from the scene to say one way or the other. There’s too much post-mortem contusion pooling from the impact to find any defensive bruising on her arms, but there are bloody scrapes to the fingertips and split nails, which I fear will match samples SOCO found on the balcony of the derelict top-floor flat.’
‘Suggesting that even with her skull stove in she resisted going over,’ concluded Groombridge. The reports of the prolonged scream also suggested she was conscious all the way down. What a way to go. He shook his head to dispel the image, but it was instantly replaced with one of Stacey crumpling into tears before his questioning.
‘Was there anyone else’s skin or blood under her nails?’ asked Stark.
‘Sadly not. We’ll swab the phone and clothing, too, of course, but any foreign DNA found will likely be everyday transference from family and friends.’
‘Or so-called friends,’ said Groombridge, coldly.
‘I can confirm at this time that the deceased’s name was Stacey Appleton, fifteen years old. We would ask you to respect her mother’s wish for privacy at this difficult time,’ said Groombridge, sternly.
Fat chance, thought Stark, watching his boss on TV.
‘In light of early evidence we are treating this fatality as suspicious.’
‘Inspector! Inspector!’ A woman’s voice made itself heard above the clamour. Chief Inspector, thought Stark, crossly. If Groombridge resented the shoddy informality he did not show it, merely beckoned for the question. ‘Is it true that you think this death is linked with that of Alfred Ladd and the assaults on other homeless persons?’
Where the hell had they got that? thought Stark. On screen Groombridge blinked, twice. ‘I can confirm that both cases are being dealt with under the purview of my team. That is all I can say at this time.’
Groombridge brought the briefing to a swift conclusion and the news moved on to the next item. Stark turned it off and poured himself a double. Half a day off had not made up for sleep squeezed between tumbling thoughts of guilt and death. The flashback had rattled him. It was the first he’d experienced in many months and the first time he’d thought about the marketplace bombing in years. An earlier wound. Iraq. They’d heaved off the debris to reveal a girl, perhaps ten years old, with crush injuries and a thready pulse. Stark had tried to stop them moving her until the paramedics returned, but shouting locals shoved him aside, snatched her up and rushed her away in the back of a tatty Hyundai. He’d made enquiries later but could not discover her fate among all those wounded. A day spent bagging bodies and body-parts of men, women and children while screaming bereaved threw shoes and stones at you, like it was your doing. A day best forgotten.
And if the sight of Stacey sprawled dead on cold ground had triggered unwelcome memories, the sight of her laid out on the slab had tested his composure to its limit. Groombridge had hardly blinked. Would he, too, be drinking tonight to forget?
Monday did not like Stark. The whisky had helped him begin the night but had done little for the morning. A hot shower had barely driven the dreams from his thick head. Pills were his only hope today, for hip and head, if not heart.
Kyle Gibbs was up first, shuffling into the interview room, looking about as resentful as it might be possible for a teenager to look. He said nothing during the preliminaries, barely nodding at his name and date of birth.
‘Where were you on Friday night?’ began Groombridge.
‘Home,’ grunted Kyle. ‘My mum already told you.’
Groombridge returned Kyle’s stare for several seconds. ‘I would remind you that you are being interviewed under caution. That if you’re lying, and I pretty much take that as read when speaking with you, it will harm your defence.’
The legal leant towards the microphone. ‘Have you anything in the way of evidence, Chief Inspector? My client wishes to help and has confirmed his whereabouts.’
‘I have considerable evidence. And I’m sure Forensics will tell an interesting tale. I sometimes wonder at how easy it was for criminals to get away with things before DNA comparison. Thank goodness for technological progress.’
‘Is this relevant?’ asked the legal.
‘Oh, I do hope so.’ Groombridge smiled.
In all likelihood, probably not, thought Stark. As Marcus had said, unless it was from blood, DNA was only really helpful in establishing a link between criminal and victim: everyday transference was all but inevitable between family and friends. Or so-called friends. Stark did not like Kyle Gibbs. This was his first time in close proximity to the young man and for once he would happily have stayed behind the glass. But for whatever reason Groombridge had had other ideas.
The call-location traces had drawn a blank too. They only worked if a phone was switched on and a call or text was made or received. The Ferrier Rats knew to turn them off when they were up to something, and to replace SIM cards on a regular basis.
Kyle did not look worried. Not on the surface, anyway. Perhaps there was something in his eyes, but he was not about to confess and at this stage that was just about all they could hope for. As if reading his thoughts, Kyle glanced at Stark and huffed, a small sneer appearing. Groombridge probed him a while longer but everyone in the room knew they were here to tick a box. The sneer returned as he left.
Nikki Cockcroft came next. A different piece of work: coiled like a spring, not wound tight with fear or guilt but with malice and a mouthful of venom. She did not keep silent through the preliminaries, but sniffed and swore at every opportunity. The questioning did not go much better.
‘Are you at least sorry?’ asked Groombridge, wearily.
‘For what?’
‘For the death of your friend, Stacey? She was the only other girl in your little gang. Was she not your friend?’
Nikki shrugged.
‘That’s it? You’ve known each other since childhood and she gets a shrug, nothing more?’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ snarled Nikki. ‘Why don’t you finish your questions and fuck off?’
Groombridge did just that. In all honesty Stark could hardly wait to get out of the room. If Kyle had made him want to lean across the table to slap him, Nikki had made his skin crawl.
‘I could use a
shower,’ said Groombridge. ‘Who’s next?’
‘Colin Messenger, Guv,’ replied Fran, who had been watching through the glass.
‘The brains of the bunch,’ observed Groombridge. ‘Remind me why we do this.’
‘Because no one else would for the pay,’ replied Fran.
‘What do you think, Stark?’ asked Groombridge. ‘Should we chuck it all in?’
‘No one else would have me, Guv.’
Now Groombridge laughed. ‘Great. We’re the only drinkers in the last-chance saloon. How long till we can go to the pub and wash the bitter taste of despair from our mouths?’
‘At least six hours, Guv,’ Fran replied despondently.
‘How about you, Stark? I’d say you’re earning a pint today.’
Stark made a pained face. ‘Busy tonight, Guv, sorry.’
‘Hot date?’ scoffed Fran.
Stark laughed. ‘Only with pain.’
‘Ah,’ she nodded knowingly, ‘the laying-on of hands. Or is it the one when they plonk red-hot stones on your back? You’ve the look of the masochist about you. Or one of those massages when they walk on your spine? I hope your masseuse is a thirty-stone hirsute Samoan called Trevor.’
Behind their amusement Stark knew they were watching for clues. Maybe half of the truth would keep them happy, for now. ‘Hydrotherapy.’
‘Hydrotherapy!’ Fran threw her head back, laughing. ‘Oh, bless! Aquarobics without the music! Tell me it’s a class of chubby old ladies in swimming caps!’
To Stark’s amazement, she resisted the chance to share this nugget gleefully with the office, but when he put a call through to her later she couldn’t resist saying, ‘Cheers, Bob.’
As she listened to the caller, all amusement fell from her face and her head dropped. ‘OK, thanks.’ When she looked up, Stark was struck by her uncharacteristic sadness. She got up wordlessly and knocked on Groombridge’s open door. ‘Guv, Stacey Appleton’s mum was just found dead.’
9
Karen Appleton lay on her back on her stained sofa, vomit on her cyanotic lips. One empty bottle of budget vodka lay on the floor nearby. Another looked to have rolled from her dangling hand, spilling some of its contents into the filthy carpet. The room stank of booze, urine and despair.
If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) Page 9