Maggs was sweating now and pale. The doctor checked his pulse. Groombridge had to be quick. ‘So, self-defence,’ he said. ‘Will our other witnesses tell a different tale?’
‘Witnesses? Is that what you’re calling them? So you haven’t charged them yet? It’s my word against theirs, is that it, Detective Chief Inspector Groombridge? The word of a drunk of “no fixed abode” against the fine upstanding youth of today?’ The story had stoked Maggs’s anger visibly.
‘That remains to be seen. I have some mugshot folders here. Perhaps you can pick out the upstanding youths in question.’
‘That will have to wait,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t allow this to continue. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
Groombridge sighed but there was no point in arguing. ‘OK. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Maggs. This can’t have been easy. Thank you, gentlemen.’
Maggs was wheeled away.
‘Convincing.’ There was a hint of query in Fran’s tone.
‘Perhaps,’ said Groombridge, thoughtfully. ‘It’s the only statement on the table.’
‘We haven’t spoken to everyone yet,’ said Stark, without really thinking. To their looks, he continued, ‘Outnumbered eight to one, he said.’
‘A figure of speech?’ suggested Fran.
Stark shook his head. ‘He counted.’
‘What makes you so certain?’ asked Groombridge. Not sarcastic, more intrigued.
‘I counted them too, on the CCTV. It’s automatic, training. If you know how many there are to start with, you know when you’ve accounted for them.’
‘Accounted for them?’ said Fran. ‘Soldier-speak is worse than copper-speak.’
‘And he said he’d “served them out”, two of them. That doesn’t mean politely asking them to go away. No one we interviewed seemed injured. But we haven’t spoken to Naveen, Tyler or Colin yet.’
‘No, but we checked A-and-E,’ said Fran. ‘You checked.’
‘Yes. I even took copies of the mugshots.’
‘Who went to the Queen Elizabeth?’ asked Groombridge.
Fran pursed her lips. ‘DS Harper said they got nothing.’
‘And the QE is nearer to the Ferrier so they were more likely to go there. Maggs can’t have hurt them that badly,’ said Groombridge to Stark. ‘I guess we’ll have to ask him tomorrow. Anyway, until he’s picked out photos I want to hold off questioning the others.’
‘Just so you know, Guv … Forensics called while you were in there.’ Fran smiled archly. ‘The blood on Maggs’s knife … duck, pigeon and squirrel.’
Stark couldn’t prevent a laugh escaping. No wonder Maggs had been amused. Groombridge glowered at him. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘You can get the first round.’
‘You said one drink.’ Stark stifled a yawn.
‘To start with. We’re celebrating your first murder arrest.’
‘Over a quiet drink. As in one.’
‘Don’t be a shandy, come on!’
Rosie’s was midweek quiet, though coppers still outnumbered the civilians. ‘Usual please, Harvey, and two packets of salt ’n’ vinegar,’ called Fran.
‘Always a pleasure, Detective Sergeant. How about your friend?’ asked the landlord.
‘Double whisky no ice, thanks.’ He could feel Fran’s eyes trying to bore into him as he paid. He should’ve taken the pills in his pocket before they left; she’d notice now. They took the same tiny table by the door she habitually occupied with Groombridge.
‘You’re sweating,’ she said casually, as he slipped off his jacket. ‘And limping.’ She took a long slug of her large dry white wine and pulled open a packet of crisps. Stark went to pick up the other and she slapped his wrist. ‘This is my dinner, get your own.’
He sipped his whisky instead. It was better than the cheap crap he had at home – marginally.
‘Neat spirits? Your usual?’
‘It’s quicker.’
‘For what?’
‘Dulling the pain.’
She met his eyes. ‘That’s either the first real thing you’ve told me or another fob-off.’
‘Yes,’ replied Stark. He still couldn’t tell whether she liked him all that much but he was starting to enjoy her relentless directness. It was refreshing after months of medical platitude and familial sympathy. She had a touch of the army about her but without the restraint. She didn’t seem to understand or care where the line lay between privacy and prying. He could live with that. It didn’t matter so much in Civvy Street. Here you could choose your comrades, choose who to like, interact with little fear of watching them get blown to bits. No soldier expects to catch it, but the guy next to you? You kept something back, you all did, and stuck to the bullshit and banter.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened in Afghanistan?’ she asked suddenly.
I take it back, he thought. ‘To me personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because all the hero crap is bollocks. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?’
‘Aha, touchy subject,’ she crowed. ‘Not to worry, I’ve got time on my side.’ She necked her wine and rattled the empty glass on the table. ‘Same again, thank you, Trainee Investigator Stark.’
Trainee Investigator. There were three steps to putting a D before your C. Phase one of the Initial Crime Investigators’ Development Programme (ICIDP) was the eighty-question National Investigators’ Examination, which Stark had aced. He considered he’d been at an unfair advantage, given the spare time he’d had to study, convalescing. Phase two was the six-week full-time course, which had been problematic for the same reason. Now embarked on phase three, he must build up his Professional Development Portfolio, an exercise in logging practical experience to demonstrate competency in core areas, ensuring he ‘met a set of occupational standards within the workplace’, in other words ticked a load of boxes and got it countersigned. This normally took up to or more than a year. Only upon completion would he join the illustrious ranks of the Criminal Investigations Department as Detective Constable Stark. His rehabilitation would inevitably handicap him but he was in no particular hurry. The last nine months of his life had been an impatient drive to recover, to get back his physical ability, to beat the odds. Now he was here and this was it. Either it would work out or it wouldn’t.
He got stiffly to his feet, stifling a grimace. While he was at the bar he took two tablets and washed them down with the last of his whisky. Guessing she had a tab he put the round, including two packets of crisps for himself, on it without telling her and returned to his seat with an inward smile.
Sipping his whisky and looking around the pub, at Fran tucking into her crisps, at the knots of coppers at the bar, the dartboard, the pool table, Stark reflected on the strange dichotomy of human existence that allows us to subsume our pains, to ride on a wave of contentment in the moment, forgetting for a time the darker current beneath. He could feel it there, the chilling deep tugging at him, but it seemed powerless against the buoyancy of this room, these people, this moment. Perhaps he’d found his place, laid a new foundation. Perhaps this room of strangers would become family to him, this city home to him, this job purpose for him. He’d led a lackadaisical existence, following paths of least resistance, major decisions making themselves, life always working out for the best; an apathetic optimist, cheerfully coasting along. Iraq, Afghanistan and the months of recovery since had clouded that thoughtless, peaceful clarity in ways he perhaps hadn’t fully acknowledged.
He smiled, tossed back his malt and slapped the empty glass on the table. ‘Right, same again?’
Part Two
13
‘Christ, you look how I feel,’ said Fran.
She looked OK. Stark felt dreadful. Another demonstration of his new infirmity. ‘Rule number one, no effing sympathy,’ replied Stark, artificially bright.
‘Heartless bastard! What kind of stupid rule is that anywa
y?’
‘Page one of the bloke handbook.’
‘Bollocks, men don’t read instruction manuals. The rest of the pages are probably blank.’
‘We only need one page, not requiring hundreds more for sub-clauses, caveats and impenetrable small print.’
Fran made a face. ‘Make sure you sit at the back in the team meeting so Groombridge doesn’t see the state of you.’
‘I never knew you cared, Sarge.’
‘Piss off, lightweight. Go and get me a coffee.’
Ice was broken, it seemed. If this signalled the start of a beautiful friendship, Stark wondered whether to fear more for his privacy or his liver. He limped down the corridor and opened the door, hearing Groombridge’s voice in the stairwell below.
‘… simple enough question. Stark remembered to take photos with him, a trainee investigator. Why didn’t Bryden? You’re his supervisor, it’s your job to check these things.’
Stark froze.
‘It’s not that simple, Guv.’
Harper’s voice? They were between Stark and Fran’s coffee but he didn’t fancy walking in on a dressing-down.
‘What’s not simple? You send a man to check for fight injuries in A-and-E, he checks names and faces.’
‘I didn’t send him, Guv.’
‘What?’
‘We were busy organizing the round-up, Guv. I told Bryden to phone instead, save time.’
‘He never went? For Christ’s sake, Owen! Look, I know you’re having a hard time at home –’
‘That’s not station business,’ hissed Harper, urgently.
‘No,’ said Groombridge, despite being interrupted. ‘And I’ve done what I can to respect that, but if your distractions begin to affect your judgement at work then it becomes my business …’
Neither man spoke for a moment. ‘How is Jane?’ asked Groombridge.
‘She’s fine.’ Even muffled by the stairwell echo, Stark could hear the lie in Harper’s words. ‘We’re fine.’
‘Stark!’ Fran’s voice boomed down the corridor. ‘Stop loitering and get my bloody coffee!’
Stark winced, hesitated, then started down the stairs.
He was grateful to find Harper gone. Groombridge stopped him, checking to see if anyone else was lurking. ‘You tread quietly, Trainee Investigator.’
‘Force of habit, Guv.’
Groombridge nodded; they understood each other. ‘A man’s privacy may seem to him all he has left that is his. You know this, I believe.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Good. Tell DS Millhaven she can get her own coffee, after she and you get back from the Queen Elizabeth. Don’t forget the mugshots,’ he added humourlessly.
Fran made light work of gaining access to patient information. She scanned down the list of admissions. ‘The usual depressing list of drink-related injury and brawls … What’s this? Arrived same time, one with broken arm, one with broken nose – Tyrone Smith and Callum Moss? Fast forward to three fifteen.’
The security man did as he was told. Stark leant in to watch the screen. His face betrayed nothing today, cracks sealed or plastered over, who could tell?
‘Stop! Back up … There!’ He pointed at two figures walking into shot, one holding a bloody T-shirt to his face, the other cradling an arm. Both had their caps on and hoods up and it took a moment to glimpse faces.
‘That’s Colin Messenger!’ said Fran, peering at the youth with the bloodied face. ‘His mother-of-the-year swore blind he was away at his gran’s house and the old cow confirmed. And that’s … Tyler Wantage! There’s been no answer at his flat since yesterday. Damn it, we should’ve had these two in! Wait a minute.’ She flipped back down the list. ‘Broken arm … Tyler was admitted. The little shit’s still here!’
Tyler was sitting up, watching his TV on its articulated arm, headphones on. His face when he saw Fran hold up her warrant card was a picture. She moved the TV away, dragging the headphones off his head with it.
‘Oi!’
Fran smiled. ‘Morning, Tyler, remember me?’
‘Er …’
‘Detective Sergeant Millhaven. I have some new questions for you.’
‘You can’t harass me here. You’re duressin’ me.’
‘Thankfully, your doctor says you’re well enough to leave.’
‘I’m a minor, you can’t take me nowhere.’
‘You mean “juvenile”. And your mother has agreed to meet us down the station.’
Now he looked really frightened. ‘What did she say?’
‘Only how eager she was to help us with our enquiries.’
Eager she may have been, but Tyler’s mother proved far from helpful. Naveen’s mother was the very model of matriarchal restraint by comparison. She could not be deflected from haranguing her son, and Groombridge was forced to exclude her. The local-authority youth offending team had no appropriate adult available to stand in at short notice so Tyler was sent home under orders to reappear the next morning at nine prompt. His mother continued her verbal barrage all the way out of the building.
To make matters worse, Maggs had developed a minor infection and his doctors wouldn’t allow him to be interviewed with the mugshots.
That afternoon Colin Messenger, his mother and grandmother were brought in. It wouldn’t have been possible to decide which of them was more of a handful, according to Fran; they had to be interviewed separately. Colin was eighteen and free to answer questions. He wasn’t a very good liar. Even after Groombridge had contradicted his alibi with the hospital admission sheet he continued to deny setting foot there. Even after Groombridge pointed out that hospital A&E departments have very good CCTV systems to protect their staff, he wouldn’t admit it. So Groombridge showed him stills of himself and Tyler, plus footage of him climbing into the park where the arrested man was claiming self-defence from an identical number of attackers. Still Colin was too stubborn or too stupid to confess. He claimed the broken nose and black eyes came from a fall at his gran’s house, that he’d been there for days. It was here that he came fully unstuck.
‘“I don’t know nuffin’ about what ’appened to Kyle. I wasn’t there. You should be stressin’ the dosser, not me. I never done nuffin’!”’ Fran quoted him afterwards. ‘Not the sharpest pencil in the case. The guv picked him to bits. It was almost painful to witness.’ Fran appeared anything but sympathetic. ‘Left him in tears. My heart bleeds for the little prick.’
‘With his granny alibi round his ankles, his arse is bare on all his other lies,’ added Harper, darkly.
‘Hmm.’ Groombridge was visibly less triumphant. ‘All right, what about Naveen Hussein?’
‘No answer at the flat, Guv,’ said Williams. ‘I’ve asked uniform to keep an eye out.’
Groombridge nodded thoughtfully.
‘You thinking he might’ve scarpered?’ said Fran.
Groombridge looked uncertain. ‘I didn’t have him pegged. But I’ve been wrong on rare occasions.’
Stark returned to his desk, thinking about Maggs, ‘the dosser’, as Colin and his ilk saw him. A decorated veteran sleeping rough in a park. It shouldn’t be possible, yet it was sadly all too common. On a whim he called the MoD underling. He was greeted warmly, though not in a good way. Nevertheless, the man knew better than to avoid Stark’s questions again. Stark scribbled a name and number on his pad and thanked the man, who swore and hung up.
He dialled again, spoke to an adjutant and left a message with little hope of a speedy response. Five minutes later he answered the phone to one Brigadier Thomas Graveney, who was as cheerful, helpful and pleasant an officer as Stark had ever encountered. ‘Bisto’ to his men, he freely admitted. In 1982 Second Lieutenant Graveney, as he was then, of 2 Para had commanded Maggs and remembered him well. Maggs had been popular up to a point, but his comrades took the mickey out of his ill-concealed intellect: he had scored higher in IQ tests than his officer. Bisto laughed. Too high, really. Maggs saw through his officers too easily.
; They talked for a good while. Stark thanked the brigadier profusely and relayed everything he’d learnt to Fran, who didn’t bother concealing her lack of interest. ‘Bollocks to all that. Come on, I’m gasping!’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘I thought soldiers had stamina.’
‘I’m just a poor weak civilian now.’
‘Come on, hair of the dog.’
‘Its bite was rabid. I’m going home to die,’ said Stark, firmly.
She shook her head mournfully. ‘Just as I was starting to dislike you less.’
‘The perfect epitaph.’
‘Last chance. I’m sure I must owe you a drink.’
Now she really was digging deep. Why? She was a strange one. ‘In my next life.’
She huffed her disapproval and left. By the time Stark had hobbled into town, settled into a pizza-place corner seat, ordered the biggest, meatiest pizza on the menu and washed down two pills with a cold beer, his tiny twinge of guilt had faded. He hadn’t the heart or the head for more of Fran’s questions.
The other tables gradually filled with noisy families, noisier unsupervised teenagers and couples perhaps wishing they’d chosen somewhere more intimate. No doubt Stark looked out of place, a right Norman No Mates, but he liked the background din, the privacy it afforded, the vivid life surrounding his personal bubble. He demolished his pizza and sat nursing a third beer until the unsubtle hovering of the waitress told him they wanted their table back.
He hobbled home, where he stood contemplating the stairs with little enthusiasm. The physiotherapists said stairs were good for him but the lift tempted him daily. He took the stairs, cursing every step. His answerphone light was blinking but he ignored it; he’d sweated through his shirt, keeping a lid on the pain as it had steadily increased during the day, so he stripped, showered and fell into bed.
If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) Page 14