If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  Inside were three medals.

  Stark recognized two as campaign medals: the General Service Medal, with a Northern Ireland clasp on its purple and green ribbon, and the South Atlantic Medal, with its beautiful sea-green, white and empire blue ribbon embellished with a little silver rosette, indicating that Maggs had muddied his boots. Stark had two: the Iraq Medal and the Operational Services Medal (Afghanistan clasp), both ribbons bordered in sand brown. They were in their little boxes in a drawer at his mum’s. She pretended she wanted never to see them again, part of his ongoing penance, but he knew she took them whenever she visited his dad’s grave. He wished he didn’t know that.

  So Maggs had done his bit. Like most servicemen Stark was slightly in awe of Falklands veterans. They’d fought and won far from home in shitty conditions, outnumbered, under-resourced, ill-equipped and undermined by years of politically motivated cutbacks. Northern Ireland was no stroll in the park either.

  The third medal sparked a memory. Stark’s drill sergeant at Chilwell had worn one like it at Stark’s passing out, he was sure, but the drill sergeant was not a man to invite enquiry. It had a red, white and blue striped ribbon and the Queen’s profile, and the wording on the reverse side read ‘FOR BRAVERY IN THE FIELD’. This was no campaign medal.

  As soon as they’d finished he rushed upstairs and searched online. The answer came quickly. The Military Medal, awarded for ‘acts of gallantry and devotion to duty under fire’. He’d not recognized it because it had been discontinued in 1993 when they finally stopped differentiating between bravery in officers and bravery in the ranks. Since that time all ranks had been eligible for the Military Cross, previously for officers only.

  Stark stared at the screen for several seconds, picturing the Maggs he’d met. More research revealed only thirty-three awarded for the Falklands conflict, ten naval, twenty-three army. Oddly though, no H. Maggs was listed, only a Corporal A. Maggs, 2 Para. Either Harry wasn’t his real name or the medal belonged to a relative. The former seemed more likely.

  He tried to tell Fran when she bustled in but she cut him off. ‘Where the hell have you been, the meeting starts in two minutes – and what’s that smell?’

  Stark explained.

  ‘Who sent you down there?’

  Stark opened his mouth to reply but stopped. DS Harper had sent him, relaying, he said, DCI Groombridge’s orders. Sniggering broke out across the office and Stark closed his eyes. Cataloguing property was a legitimate task, for a uniformed constable; he simply hadn’t questioned it.

  Fran smirked. ‘Did they tell you to drop by Supplies for some left-handed handcuffs too?’

  ‘Bastards,’ said Stark, firmly, smiling wryly.

  Sniggering became outright laughter. Harper was doubled over, almost crying.

  ‘Children.’ Fran rolled her eyes and slapped a sheet of paper on Stark’s desk. ‘Preliminary pathologist’s report. I persuaded my contact to email me an advance copy.’

  Stark wondered if ‘persuaded’ was how Marcus would describe it.

  ‘The autopsy leaves cause of death open to some interpretation. It says the knife in Kyle’s back certainly contributed, but the blow to his windpipe might have killed him too. They won’t know till they’ve completed all the tests.’ She looked at Stark for some kind of reaction but he didn’t know what she wanted him to say. ‘Still looking like a murder charge, I reckon.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You suppose nothing of the kind,’ said Groombridge, entering the room. Stark was beginning to suspect the man of deliberately hovering in doorways. ‘We’ve got some corners of the jigsaw, but we’re a long way from a picture.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Chin up, Trainee Investigator. You collared your first killer last night.’ Harper smirked. ‘We’ll get the arrest sheet framed – you can give it to your mum.’

  ‘Right.’ Groombridge clapped his hands together. ‘DS Millhaven’s illicitly gained pathology update has narrowed the time of death to between one and four a.m. We’ve got nothing on the phone-location traces as per usual. The graveyard shift scanned through CCTV … We have the gang leaving the pub at eleven twenty and heading up towards the park. Parks CCTV shows figures climbing in via St Mary’s Gate, just like before, and just like before we’ve nothing showing them leaving or travelling home. I’ve got …’ he checked his watch ‘… six hours or so until I should start letting our guests go home. We’ll take another crack at them, see if we can persuade one of the delightful little sods to turn on the others, but our main hope of shedding any light on Kyle Gibbs’s unfortunate demise is Harry Maggs. Minor surgery to repair his insides, awake and unhappy with his care, apparently. Docs say he should be fit to interview today. What do we know about him?’

  ‘Sweet FA, Guv,’ replied Fran. ‘I’ve checked. No Harry Maggs on the crime register, the MoD deny all knowledge and, according to Google, he’s either an octogenarian silver surfer from California or a student in Bath.’

  Stark smothered a laugh.

  ‘Something amusing about that, Stark?’ asked Groombridge.

  ‘Harry probably isn’t his real name, Guv. Army nickname more likely – Dirty Harry, Dirty Maggs as in porn magazines. It would be something around the word Grot now, but back in the eighties …’ Conscious all eyes were on him, Stark explained about the medal and the initial A. ‘Given his antipathy to the world around him, it’s not that surprising he’d lie.’

  ‘And when did you discover this?’ asked Fran, tersely.

  ‘This morning.’ He wasn’t in the right forum to add that he’d tried to tell her already: he was getting enough sideways looks without that. Harper muttered something about Miss Marple.

  ‘Very amusing, DS Harper,’ said Groombridge. ‘Why don’t you get on the radio to whoever is preventing our comedian doing a bunk and get me a real name? I’d like to know who I’m interviewing at the very least.’

  Stark and others spent the morning on phones, trying to corroborate or undermine the string of alibis and denials that had emerged from the previous day’s exchanges. They weren’t getting far. The mothers, fathers, stepfathers or mothers’ boyfriends were proving elusive and uncooperative. The ones Stark spoke to either didn’t care or freely admitted giving up. Some became abusive. Stark quickly became despondent. Days of punishment had left his hip throbbing into the night. The morning dragged and he had to fight it off with coffee and a bacon roll.

  ‘Do you ever stop eating?’ demanded Fran.

  ‘Have you ever considered decaf?’

  ‘Touché.’ She sipped from her steaming mug. ‘Thought you’d like to know that your arrestee is ready for questioning. I’m heading up there with the guv’nor now.’

  ‘Did uniform come back with a name?’

  ‘Several. All of them derogatory.’

  The bacon roll only got him so far. Lunch could not come quickly enough but, first, the unwelcome break. Another day, another hospital: the Queen Elizabeth, and the interminable Dr Hazel McDonald.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said.

  ‘I may have mentioned that once or twice before myself,’ replied Stark.

  ‘More tired, then. Has something happened?’

  ‘Nothing I can discuss in detail,’ said Stark.

  She raised an eyebrow, probably thinking her professional code should excuse some relaxation in his. It was a grey area. ‘I heard something on the news. More killings?’

  ‘Two.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘You might have thought my past would’ve inured me to new horrors.’

  ‘The first, the old vagrant, made you angry, you said. These new ones?’

  Stark looked away. ‘A teenage girl. Made me sick and guilty and …’

  ‘And?’

  Stark thought of telling her about the flashback and barely keeping a lid on his reaction in the mortuary, and about Stacey’s mother, but she would seize on it, let it distract her. The thought of her jack-hammering was too awful to contemplate. Perhaps when he wasn’t so t
ired.

  ‘Why guilty, then?’ she asked.

  ‘I put the spotlight on her. She might’ve been killed for it.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not inflating your responsibility?’

  Again, she meant. She didn’t understand guilt. She thought it was something to be negotiated, compartmentalized and moved beyond. She didn’t understand its value. Remorse should be held close as both recompense and warning. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And the third?’

  ‘Teenage boy. Some might say he had it coming.’

  ‘What would you say?’

  ‘He was a casualty of his own war.’

  ‘You feel indifferent?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘Then what did you mean?’

  ‘Look, Doc, with all due respect, could we just focus on the actual problem?’

  ‘Which is?’

  Stark bit down on his retort. ‘Sleep. I just want to sleep. If you can’t help with that, then what are we doing here?’

  Hazel tilted her head in her calculated manner, thoughtful, reassuring, depressing. ‘You have a prescription for Zopiclone. Do you use it?’

  ‘Dire need only, doctor’s orders.’ Headley Court cautioned against prolonged use. Among the potential side effects were dependency and depression, two dangers Headley patients faced already.

  ‘Define dire need.’

  Stark glanced at the clock but the ponderous second hand offered no quarter.

  He had just got back and was heading to the canteen for a late lunch when Dixon intercepted him. ‘Guv’s on the line for you, not in a patient mood.’

  Stark stared mournfully at him and took the phone.

  ‘Stark, get your arse up here in the next twenty minutes or you’ll be back in uniform till hell freezes over!’

  ‘Of course, Guv. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes, there is a chuffing problem! Not only will this bearded git still not tell me his real name but he also insists he will only speak to you. I’m choosing not to quote him verbatim for fear of offending your innocent sensibilities. I’m sure you have a rational explanation for this but I can’t hear what you’re saying because you’re no longer on the phone to me. You’re already on your way here at the closest thing to a dead run your dicky hip will allow.’

  Stark felt as if he was trapped in some terrible game of hospital hokey-cokey. Maggie got him a lift to Lewisham, taking the opportunity to call him ‘sweetie’ again. He might have to address that before the rest of the station joined in. His tramp round the hospital in search of the police suite put a sufficient sheen of sweat on his brow to satisfy the DCI that he had run. He thought longingly of food, and the pills he’d not taken. Fran frowned at his appearance and stepped outside to watch proceedings on the monitor. Like most, Lewisham Hospital had a dedicated police room equipped with interview-recording equipment.

  Stark settled into the chair next to Groombridge, who switched on the camera.

  ‘Interview continued with suspect calling himself Harry Maggs, twelve twenty-five, Saturday, May the sixteenth, 2009, police interview room, Lewisham University Hospital. Present, Harry Maggs, DCI Groombridge, Dr Hassife Shamir and arresting officer Constable Joseph Stark. The suspect has been read his rights in full and confirmed his understanding of same. The suspect is detained pending charge relating to the death of Kyle Gibbs. The suspect has been offered legal counsel and refused. Mr Maggs, can you please confirm your full name?’

  Maggs stirred but said nothing, glaring at Stark.

  ‘You have been officially made aware of your rights, Mr Maggs. Silence will not work in your favour. Is your name Harry Maggs, yes or no?’

  ‘Get him to ask me.’ The jerk of Maggs’s head indicated Stark.

  Groombridge made an after-you gesture at Stark, with a look of displeasure.

  ‘Dirty Harry,’ said Stark. ‘Am I right?’ Maggs stared, sizing him up. ‘Dirty Maggs, army nickname?’ Maggs’s stare continued and Stark waited. Some people couldn’t let a silence go unfilled, though he suspected Maggs probably wasn’t among them. He was about to press on when Maggs appeared to make his mind up.

  ‘Harry to my mates,’ he said gruffly. ‘Alan to the likes of you.’

  ‘Alan Maggs. Any middle names?’

  ‘Corporal. Five nine seven two six four five five three.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘Find out for yerself, Blue Top.’

  ‘We will,’ said Groombridge. ‘Interview suspended twelve twenty-nine.’ He switched off the camera.

  ‘Wait, I haven’t said what happened yet. You got me wheeled all the way over here to listen to what I have t’say!’

  ‘No. We got you wheeled all the way over here to find out who you are and what you did. And we’ll get you wheeled all the way over here again once I’m satisfied with the first half of that question. And we’ll keep getting you wheeled all the way over here till I’m satisfied you’ve answered all my questions in a truthful and co-operative manner.’

  ‘That’s enough, Inspector,’ said Dr Shamir, seeing Maggs go red with anger, gripping his side in pain.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Groombridge. ‘We’ll pick this up again later today, Mr Maggs.’ He stood and stalked out. Stark followed and outside found Groombridge casually watching the monitor with Fran. There was no sign of anger on his face. Stark realized he’d just witnessed a piece of theatrical bullying, carefully applied just after the recording equipment was turned off.

  ‘Are we not here for a statement, Guv?’ asked Fran, warily.

  ‘Change of tactic. He’s not taking this seriously. We need to gain the higher ground. Isn’t that right, Stark?’

  ‘Guv.’

  Groombridge gave him a long look.

  ‘And the Ferrier Rats?’ asked Fran, pointing to the clock.

  ‘Spring them. Let them think they’re in the clear, for now. I’m tired of being given the run-around. Let’s get Maggs’s history and come back armed. Come on then, Trainee Investigator, this is your area of expertise. Time to investigate.’

  12

  Theoretically the Ministry of Defence was as beholden as any other employer to provide the records of employees past and present. In reality their fastidious bureaucracy could drown any obligation. Knowing his two stripes wouldn’t get him far, Stark started from the position that he was calling on direct behalf of Superintendent Cox. It was entirely possible this would land him in the shit, but he had inexperience and low rank to hide behind and, technically, it was true. Even so it was painful, bouncing from one low-ranking bureaucratic clone to the next, his misery compounded by hunger. But then a breakthrough: ‘My superior will be back at fifteen hundred hours,’ was the best and final offer from the last official, but the man made the error of giving Stark his name and direct number. This blunder revisited him at 15.01, then again at 15.15, 15.30 and 15.45. At 16.00 he lost his temper and hung up, at 16.15 he demanded Stark stop calling but Stark politely reiterated the vital urgency of the matter to his commanding officer, slipping in the fraternal underling card. At 16.29 the brother-underling phoned Stark. A copy of Maggs’s service record had been emailed, now piss off, was the gist.

  Stark took the printout to Groombridge, who was on the phone but waved him in. ‘Yes, sir. In fact he’s just appeared before me. I’ll ask him now,’ he said, hanging up. Stark’s stomach growled in the ensuing silence. Groombridge raised an eyebrow. ‘That was Superintendent Cox. He’s curious to know why he received a call from a Ministry of Defence official complaining about harassment. Have you been claiming our leader’s authority in your dealings, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ When the game’s up, ’fess up.

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘That, and making a nuisance of myself, Guv.’ Stark handed over the printout.

  Groombridge scanned the front page. ‘Hmm, then the super can sleep at night, knowing he corroborated your baseless claims in a just cause.’ He gestured Stark to sit while he read on. Wh
en he’d finished he pushed it to one side, leant back in his chair and considered Stark over steepled fingers. ‘So, Trainee Investigator, are you going to tell me just what kind of shit you’re in?’

  Stark blinked. ‘Guv?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb, Constable. The super received two calls of complaint this morning, both about you, both from the Ministry of Defence, yet apparently unrelated. The other call was, if anything, angrier and delivered from higher up. You stand accused of “failing to co-operate with a matter of the utmost seriousness”.’

  Had the caller said what it was? There was no subtle way to ask. Groombridge paused, which might mean he hoped Stark would explain. Stark said nothing.

  ‘I can only imagine this relates to your avoidance of calls from one Captain Pierson, and subsequent public disagreement with her outside this very station.’

  Stark was mortified: he had hoped the incident was forgotten. Was the whole bloody station discussing this? At least it seemed Groombridge didn’t know more. Did Cox?

  ‘You may be pleased to know that the super doesn’t respond well to bullying. He told the caller to … Well, I’ll leave that to your imagination, but the essential point was that this seemed a matter between the caller and you.’

  Stark just managed not to sigh with relief.

  ‘I, however, disagree,’ added Groombridge, a menacing nuance in his tone. His eyes bored into Stark, unblinking. ‘I need to know if this affects my case. So will the CPS. We need to know if you can be put on the stand or if you’re … tainted.’ A word with broad scope and nothing but the worst connotations.

  ‘It’s just a procedural matter, Guv. The army dotting is and crossing ts.’

  Groombridge’s eyes narrowed. ‘Constable Stark, if you think I can’t spot a half-truth a half-mile off, think again.’