‘It’s complicated, Guv, but nothing to trouble you or the CPS.’ What else could he say?
‘I’m not big on secrets. I’ll get to the truth.’
‘It’s just the usual military-level misunderstanding. It’ll be sorted soon.’
‘So you’re not in trouble?’
‘Only officers get into trouble. Enlisted men just do what they’re told.’
Groombridge didn’t smile at the joke. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
Stark cursed inwardly. Cornered, he made himself meet Groombridge’s eyes. What he was about to say was not the kind of thing anyone should have to tell their boss, especially two weeks into a new job. ‘I’m sorry, Guv, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it.’
Groombridge stared fiercely at him for several seconds. ‘Then I suppose I cannot ask you to.’ He was plainly vexed. Stark’s profound relief proved short-lived. ‘But,’ added Groombridge, ‘the CPS will, make no mistake. They’ll want to interview you, in detail.’ He paused, perhaps to see if Stark might spontaneously confess. ‘Well, we’ll put that aside for now.’ He picked up the printout again.
That, it seemed, was that … for now. Stark’s mouth was dry.
Groombridge tapped the page. ‘This Military Medal. Big one, is it?’
‘Big enough, Guv.’
‘Hmm. Right. Let’s go and see what he’s got to say for himself. Maybe we can put your irreverent mood to good use.’
Groombridge made no allowance for Stark’s limp, marching into the hospital at his usual brisk pace, which Fran matched with ease and Stark did not. On an average day Stark might applaud, but not today. When they arrived at the police rooms he felt sick. Fran took up station by the monitor, assessing him, catlike, coolly amused. Groombridge opened the door.
Maggs, still in dressing-gown and wheelchair, looked up as they entered. ‘And I thought I was in bad shape.’ He smirked at Stark.
Groombridge switched on the camera and ran through the spiel, then placed his plastic folder on the table, opened it and scanned it slowly. ‘Alan Thomas Maggs, born June the thirteenth 1961,’ he read aloud.
‘Done your homework, then,’ said Maggs, unimpressed.
‘No fixed abode.’
‘That what we’re calling it, is it?’
‘You prefer homeless?’
‘What about street-person? Or down-and-out? Itinerant? Vagrant, vagabond, hobo, tramp, bum, dosser, drunk?’
‘We’ll put that down as a yes, then,’ said Groombridge, evenly. ‘You continue to decline legal counsel at this time?’
‘What would be the point?’
‘Another yes, then.’ Groombridge smiled. Maggs affected not to care. ‘Corporal, 2 Para. Wounded in the battle for Wireless Ridge, June the thirteenth 1982, not the happiest twenty-first birthday,’ observed Groombridge, without irony.
‘Made a man of me,’ replied Maggs, coldly.
‘Honourable discharge, September 1982.’ Maggs said nothing. ‘Fallen on hard times, Corporal?’
Maggs’s stare darkened. ‘Mister to you.’
‘Mental scars, were there? To match the physical ones?’
‘Ask the army docs.’
‘We will.’
Maggs huffed. ‘Good luck with that.’
Groombridge looked at Stark and gave a barely perceptible nod. Stark still wasn’t too happy about this, but if the button had to be pressed, better it was by him. ‘Worse day for some of your mates, was it?’ he said, observing Maggs closely.
Maggs returned his stare and lifted his head a little. ‘Know something about that, would you?’
Stark didn’t deny it. Groombridge leant into the mike. ‘For the record, Constable Stark is recently Corporal Stark of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.’
‘Jack? Figured you for a Rupert,’ said Maggs. ‘Infantry?’
‘Princess of Wales’s Royals, 3rd Battalion.’
‘Tigers, eh? 3rd Battalion?’
‘Territorial.’ Stark braced for the inevitable.
Maggs laughed sarcastically, ‘Fucking STAB?’ He shook his head. ‘What’s the matter, Weekender? Regular Crap Hats not good enough for you?’
STAB. Not exactly a term of endearment, it was an old name the regulars used to show how much they appreciated their part-time counterpart. It stood for Stupid TA Bastards. Weekender was another. Both were in less common use since the 1999 Strategic Defence Review ushered the TA into regular deployment, and into shape. Crap Hats was what elite units, like Maggs’s Parachute Regiment, with their natty burgundy berets, called ordinary infantry with their standard khaki ones. Maggs was asking why he hadn’t gone full time in the regulars. ‘I considered it,’ Stark replied.
‘Before or after deployment?’ scoffed Maggs.
‘After.’
That shut him up. ‘Iraq?’ Maggs asked, after a pause. Stark nodded. ‘Whining bitch. Least you had it warm!’
Stark smiled. ‘You poor-me South Seas girls with your handbags. Try minus twenty at night, plus fifty in the day and then whinge about how much your Bergen weighs.’
For the first time a genuine smile touched Maggs’s lips, wrinkling his eyes above his thick beard. ‘That where you got the limp?’
He doesn’t miss much, thought Stark. ‘That was later. Afghanistan.’ Stark held his stare.
‘Bullet or bomb?’
‘Bit of both.’
‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’
Stark didn’t need to respond.
Groombridge obviously decided the ice was broken. ‘What’s a war hero like you doing like … this?’ he asked.
Maggs stiffened, smile gone. He looked at Stark. ‘What’s a “war hero” like you doing with … this?’ he sneered.
‘Let’s leave labels aside for now, shall we?’ said Stark. ‘I’ll take a guess. Wounded in the line, shipped home, patched up, tossed out on your arse. No job, no useful qualifications, no support.’
Maggs pursed his lips. ‘Tried security work. Didn’t suit. You’ve done all right though. Flash tosser. Kept a boot in both camps, though, didn’t you?’
‘Let’s talk about Kyle Gibbs,’ said Groombridge, firmly.
‘That his name, was it?’
‘Whose name?’
‘Well, Detective Chief Inspector, I assume you wanted to ask me about the lad you found dead, but if this is about your wife, then, yes, I confess, she was with me, all night … long.’
Stark managed not to guffaw. Maybe it was just his imagination but he might’ve sworn he heard Fran laugh outside.
Groombridge frowned. ‘OK. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
‘I was great, she was crap. Out of practice, apparently, said you couldn’t get it up any more, but she promised she’d try harder next time. Gotta love fat ugly women – so eager to please.’ This time Stark definitely heard a hoot outside.
‘Prior to your arrest, you claimed to Constable Stark here that you wanted to turn yourself in for the killing of Kyle Gibbs,’ said Groombridge, admirably unmoved. ‘If you’re willing to expand on that, I’d be delighted to hear it. Otherwise we can continue this tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. This isn’t a missing-persons case. I’ve got all the time in the world.’
Maggs glared at them both for several seconds. ‘I was drunk.’
‘Yes, you were. Are you now denying the killing?’
‘No.’
‘Good, because we have your fingerprints on the weapon and the victim’s blood on your hands and clothes.’
‘I’ll wager you found his prints on the weapon too, though, didn’t you?’
They had, of course, but only Maggs’s on the handle. Of course, his big hands would have obliterated earlier prints in the blood. He’d held the weapon last. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
‘He attacked me. We fought. He died.’
‘That’s your statement?’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s a little short on detail.’
‘Perhaps you shoul
d write it,’ replied Maggs. ‘Isn’t that what you people do?’
‘How many people attacked you?’
Maggs’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What makes you think there was more than one?’
‘Common sense, experience and forensic science,’ said Groombridge, levelly. ‘Care to try again?’
Maggs appeared to be considering options. ‘Can’t we keep this simple?’
‘A futile wish in my line of work. Why?’
‘Defence is a military strategy.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It’s complex. What are you defending, why and from whom? Are you defending something worth dying for, killing for – people, collateral, arms, a position, time? Or are you merely defending your life? What are your resources, armaments, numbers and position relative to the opposing force? Can you hope to be reinforced or relieved? Do you have a path of retreat? All these factors must be assessed and decided upon, sometimes in seconds.’
‘What’s your point?’ asked Groombridge.
‘You’re not qualified to assess my actions,’ said Maggs. ‘But he might be.’ He jerked his head towards Stark.
‘By all means let’s see,’ agreed Groombridge, conceding the floor to Stark.
‘Go on, then,’ said Stark, conscious of his governor’s irritation.
‘OK, Weekender. You’re alone, behind enemy lines, surrounded, outnumbered eight to one, cold, hungry. The enemy has shown themselves merciless. Surrender will certainly be met without quarter. They attack. What do you do?’
‘Counter-attack.’
‘Give the man a medal. Sometimes offence is the best form of defence.’
‘Are you claiming Kyle Gibbs attacked you?’ asked Groombridge.
Maggs rolled his eyes but Stark interceded: ‘It’s tedious, I know, but we have to spell these things out for the record – for your good as well as ours. Please answer the questions as clearly as possible.’
Maggs leant in. ‘For the record, Kyle Gibbs attacked me.’
‘And you stabbed him in self-defence?’
‘Defence. Yes.’
‘How do you explain stabbing him in the back?’ asked Groombridge.
‘I couldn’t reach his front at the time.’
‘You think this is amusing?’
‘Do I look like a cold-blooded killer, Detective Inspector?’ retorted Maggs.
‘It isn’t my job to make that assessment.’
‘Meaning you’re not qualified again. How about you, Constable Weekender?’
‘My opinion is irrelevant,’ said Stark, warily.
‘Is it? Then what are you doing here?’
‘You asked for me. Now, are you going to tell us what happened or are we going to have to ask you again tomorrow? This is an interview, not an interrogation, and this isn’t wartime. We’re policemen, we can’t make you say anything. You can make your report or shut up. It’s your call.’
‘For the record,’ said Maggs, sarcasm tingeing his gruff voice.
‘For the record,’ agreed Stark.
Maggs’s eyes flitted back and forth between Stark and Groombridge, distrustful. Eventually he leant in again. ‘All right. It was a warmish night so I was sleeping. When it’s cold it’s better to move about at night, sleep in the daytime. But I was sleeping. I heard ’em coming, but yelling and shouting don’t mean much to the likes of me, none of my business. Only they don’t pass by, they stop. “Oi!” they shout. “Get up”, “Lazy fucker” and the like. I ask for some change, or a drink, seems like they’ve had their share. They tell me to get up but I’m pissed and tired and I can’t be arsed.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Don’t know, late. After midnight, before dawn.’
‘You can’t narrow it down?’
‘Well, forgive me, I know I was sleeping at the very home of global timekeeping but I couldn’t see the observatory clock through the trees in the dark at three hundred yards.’
‘You don’t wear a watch?’
‘What good is a watch to me? It’s just booze you haven’t cashed in yet.’
‘What about clock bells?’ asked Stark.
Maggs looked at him, then sat back thoughtfully, nodding. ‘Yeah. Maybe. Next bell I heard might have been two. Couldn’t swear to it.’
‘OK. So then what?’
‘One kicks me. Not hard, more scared, not like he means it. So I get up. They’re young, teenagers, you know, dressed up in their stupid tracksuits and their stupid trainers and hats on under their hoods, lads and one girl.’ Maggs shook his head. ‘Wasn’t even raining. Little fuckers wouldn’t know about rain. Never sat out a night in their soft lives. Mummy keeps ’em full of fish fingers, wipes their arses and gives ’em video games instead of books. Could all do with a spell of freezing rain and sleet on a cold fucking mountain with the enemy on the high ground’ – he looked at Stark – ‘or a foot patrol through a desert town where the only difference between the civilians you’re there to protect and the shits out to kill you is the blink of an eye. Let them watch their mates bleed out and see if they think their shoot-’em-up video games are so hilarious.’
Groombridge sat back and let him continue.
‘Anyway, I try to pick up my stuff, to leave, turn the other cheek and walk away, but they shove me, call me lazy like they’re something else, something better, and all the names they know. They should spend time on a navy transport, expand their vocabulary.
‘I tell them what I am, what I was, I suppose, but they just laugh and take the piss. So I tell ’em they’re a bunch of spineless little gobshites. I know what’s coming, they don’t need the excuse, so I give it anyway. So in they come. Shy at first, eggin’ each other on, like bleating sheep. She’s the worst, the girl. She’s the one pulling their strings.
‘Anyway, I’m not fighting back so they get braver. The main lad, not the biggest but the sharpest, he starts gettin’ serious. She’s shouting at him, telling him what to do, baying for blood. I’m only offering limbs and muscle, nothing soft. I’ve taken worse beatings in Basic. But she’s screaming at him now and he’s really goin’ for it. Sooner or later he’s gonna hurt me, so when a couple of the others try their luck I serve ’em out. Main lad keeps his distance after, sees things have changed, sharper than the average sheep. But she’s still shrieking and he doesn’t want to look scared so he pulls a knife. He shouldn’t have done it but he doesn’t know better. Doesn’t know the rules.’
‘Rules?’ Groombridge frowned.
‘The rules. As the man without the knife, you know you’re gonna get cut, no question. As the man pulling the knife, you should know that you’ve just upped the ante, and if you lose, and you still might, you might now get cut.’
‘Or dead?’ suggested Groombridge.
‘Or dead. That’s the rules. Live by the sword, you gotta be prepared to die by it.’
Stark saw Groombridge roll his eyes. Maggs saw it too. ‘You think I’m just some macho thin-dick sounding off.’ He shook his head. ‘Your STAB here knows better. The key to violence is the readiness to act without hesitation or restraint. A knife fight ain’t Marquess of Queensberry Rules, it’s war. The boy should’ve known that, but kids, these days, they think a shiny blade gives you balls when it’s what’s in here,’ Maggs tapped the centre of his forehead, ‘that counts.’
‘You had a knife too, though, didn’t you? We found blood on it,’ said Groombridge. Maggs smiled, amused. ‘Do you think this is funny?’
‘Do you think I brought my own knife into a fight but stabbed him with his? Or did I stab myself afterwards with mine to make it look like he did it?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I suppose we will,’ agreed Maggs. ‘Until then, would you like to hear the rest of my current confession?’
Groombridge gestured invitation.
‘OK, then. At first he comes at me half-hearted, like he doesn’t really want to. I’m telling him what I am again, that this ain’t a game any more, but she’s still winding him
up and he’s getting more dangerous by the second. So he has a decent go and I break his nose as a warning. Now she goes mental. Starts into him, calling him all the things a girl can to rile a lad, and now he’s coming at me proper. Maybe it was the video games, maybe he thought you get three lives, but he’s too stupid, too scared, too weak to stop. And he’s stronger than me, younger, quicker. I block some but he nicks my arm. I punch him in the throat but it’s not good enough to stop him – he’s too quick. I give him an opening to get him in close but I’m too slow and he gets me one in the guts before I get the knife off him. Like I said, you’re gonna get cut.’
‘So you get cut, but now you have the knife. How did he get dead?’
‘There wasn’t any time between the two. Most of me didn’t want to hurt him, I’d given him enough chances, but part of me did. You know which part.’ He nodded at Stark. ‘The part that takes over, thinks quicker than the rest of you, does what needs doing.’
‘What needs doing?’ Groombridge’s voice was cold.
‘To survive. There wasn’t time to stop and consider the niceties – I had the rest of ’em to worry about. He should’ve known that. I tried to warn him.’
‘So the part of you that thinks quicker than the rest did what needed doing.’
‘That’s right. There’s no sugar-coating fighting wars or sleeping rough.’
‘Still, hardly the warmest words to put before the jury.’
‘I’m not wagging my tail for a pat on the head.’ Maggs’s face said he meant it. The part of him that thought slower, the considered, non-instinctive part that held sway the rest of the time, was long past caring. Stark felt a rising sadness in that.
Groombridge pursed his lips. ‘What happened next?’
‘So there he is, face down with the handle sticking out. And for the first time the bitch doesn’t have a word to say. It takes ’em all a few seconds to work out what’s happened. Then she turns and runs and they all follow. I check to see if he’s breathing but he’s not, so I get my old field-kit out and stop myself following him. I think about trying to find someone, a blue top maybe, but I figure you lot are all tucked up nice and warm and I need some anaesthetic, so I have a medicinal and do likewise. I wake up, I go to the cop-shop, but your lot don’t want to know, and you barely looked at me.’ He pointed at them both with a thick finger, nail cracked, dirt ingrained despite a wash. ‘Anyway, I figure you’ll find me once you’ve worked it out. But you don’t. So I decide it’s my civic duty to try again and here I am, coddled in the warm embrace of your hospitality.’
If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) Page 13