If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  Hurrying out, Stark spotted a shadow figure disappearing around the nearest corner, but by the time he reached it no one was there.

  The fine upstanding youth of today made their usual depressing spectacle, a tedious display of sullen silence interspersed with childish outbursts. Undismayed, Groombridge’s performance was a master class, always the right side of the legals, nothing that could be used to argue duress, just clever, patient police work. Even the use of the word ‘bitch’, not technically a swear word but fantastically provocative. With alibis unravelling and each other’s slips played against them, their stone wall finally showed itself a house of cards. By the end he’d tripped Bowes, Collier and Thompson into implicating themselves. Add them to Tyler Wantage and Colin Messenger and, with more work, one might be persuaded to name the others. So far none of the gang had done so, but it was a good day’s work nonetheless.

  The sour note was the absence of Nikki Cockcroft. Operation Poop-scoop, as Harper had dubbed the round-up, had arrived at her door to find her gone. Her mother had just said, ‘Gone’, nothing more, even after being escorted to the station. She was threatened with an obstruction charge, should she be proved to have lied, but uttered not a peep more. A search of usual haunts and hideaways failed to find the daughter. Several uniforms would miss their dinner going door to door. Stark thanked his stars he wasn’t among them. The interviews had taken all day and, even as a humble spectator, he was hanging.

  The other missing piece was Pinky, as the team had labelled the homeless girl.

  Stark stared at her Photofit on the wall. White, mid to late teens, pretty, little more than five foot tall, a tattoo on the back of her right hand, studs through her eyebrows, nose and tongue, dyed hair in a shoulder-length bob. The composite was as alien and unreal as they always were. What had she seen, and where was she? It was out with the media now, and uniform were showing it locally. Fingers-crossed time.

  ‘Earth calling Stark,’ shouted Fran, pulling on her jacket. ‘Come on, it’s your round.’

  ‘Not tonight, Sarge. I need an early night.’

  She looked at him, perhaps wrong-footed by his honesty. ‘You do look like shit. Get some beauty sleep, then, Princess. Tomorrow is another bright Monday morning in the force that never sleeps.’

  16

  Fran took one look at him and her face hardened. So much for beauty sleep. She probably thought he’d been on the whisky again. Fair enough. That he hadn’t, that he’d resisted, was little compensation for the sleep delayed by soreness, then exploded by dreams.

  ‘Look at the state of you!’ she hissed. ‘Don’t let the DCI see you like that. Piss off home and sleep it off.’

  ‘It’s not a hangover.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  For a second it was tempting to share: the shuddering awake and forcing your body to breathe, to remember that your lung wasn’t shot through and filling with blood. Through the swirling stars he’d seen again the Taliban insurgent at the window. Had those bullets passed in mid-air? The 7.62mm calibre arching down to him, 5.56mm streaking up? Had he hit him too, killed him? With all his heart Stark hoped he had. There was a vicious, brutal truth for Doc Hazel to ruminate upon.

  He recalled the line in one of Wilfred Owen’s letters to his mother, not strictly standard army reading – ‘I lost all my earthly faculties, and fought like an angel.’ It spoke to Stark of crossing the line, the decision of a moment to become what you must, though it meant abandoning for ever the man you were, to take life. Some might call it the abandonment of humanity, but Stark still believed that depended on one’s motivation. And one’s recognition of the consequences.

  He had killed. Not dropped, slotted or brassed-up: killed. With knowledge and forethought. And, reaching deep inside himself, feeling for regret, he found none. Not for the enemy, not even a little. What does that say about a man? Was there even a man left after that?

  Then he’d thought of the woman and her boy, and there it was, the tight ball of heat twisting in the cold vacuum of his heart, proof of life, of a sort. Alone in the cool dark of his room, Stark had clung to it. Even as it burnt, he clung to it.

  He could share, but how could Fran understand? She was staring at him, waiting for an apology, an excuse or quip, not the truth. She tsked and dumped an evidence box full of individually bagged mobile phones on the table. ‘The gang’s. Forensics are done with them. They’ve all changed SIMs since last time. We have to assume Nikki Cockcroft has too. See if there’s a new number for her on one of those and cross-reference the rest. I assume they taught you that much in detective school. Consider it penance.’

  Stark didn’t get off to a great start. None of the phones had a listing for Nikki. In fact, apart from the ubiquitous Mum or Gran, half the contacts were acronyms or initials. Tags, thought Stark, recalling the graffiti plastered over the Ferrier Estate. Colin Messenger’s number was saved on the others as MESS. Naveen Hussein was NAV or Nerdi. Kyle Gibbs was K-RAZY. Kyle’s phone had a listing for N’Zone, which others had as G and Tyler had as N. The phone with that number wasn’t present. Nikki? It seemed likely. If Tyler had been communicating with her behind Kyle’s back it might make sense for him to have her saved as an initial. But why G? It wasn’t unknown for kids to use the initial to indicate their dealer, as in someone who could sort them out with gear. Stark went in search of Ptolemy and was directed to the uniform locker rooms.

  ‘You said Nikki was “the source of the vile”. It’s clear she’s at the centre of the violence. What else might she be the centre of?’

  Ptolemy look at him shrewdly. ‘What makes you ask?’

  Stark explained.

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘She’s the go-to girl in the Ferrier Estate for anything in the personal-consumption range. We think she uses one or more of the empty flats as her stash-house but we’ve not the manpower for surveillance.’

  ‘Who’s supplying her?’

  ‘That we don’t know. My inspector is hoping to get on it next time Brass gets a bee in its bonnet. Let me know if you find out.’

  ‘So this is Nikki Cockcroft’s latest number?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Seems likely.’ Stark nodded.

  She huffed, unimpressed. ‘All right, that’s your Hail Marys. Here’s your Lord’s Prayer.’ She handed him a disk. ‘CCTV from Royal Parks. You should be nice and familiar. Maggs can’t have climbed in with his trolley. I want his time and point of entry before the team meeting at midday. Stay out of sight till then.’

  Hidden in the CCTV suite, Stark started with the main St Mary’s Gate near town closing at 21.30, and wound backwards. It was a sound guess and he soon spotted the shambling shopper that was Maggs and his trolley: 20.07. He checked all the gates from that time to confirm that Maggs did not leave. Forbidden to show his face in the office he tried an experiment – whether it was possible to identify potential witnesses by tracking people who came in soon after Maggs to see whether they left by one of the gates that might have taken them past the bandstand. He started with an androgynous figure in one of those multi-coloured woollen earflap ski hats, with dangling chin-braids, thinking they would be easiest to track, but when he couldn’t spot even this obvious target leaving he gave up. Their best hope was someone responding to the TV appeals and the fatal-incident signs set up in the park.

  He started fast-forwarding to when Gibbs, Cockcroft and the others would make their trespass but stopped as a figure in dark clothes appeared from the side-street and climbed the gate. It was over so quickly that Stark had to rewind to be sure. A man, fairly certain, face shrouded in shadow by a bloody hood, of course. Stark carefully scanned all the other gates to see if he could find the man leaving. Ten minutes later he climbed out over the main Blackheath Gate, adjacent to the Parks Police station. Talk about blatant. But that path did not take him past the bandstand. Not a likely witness, but someone who might have passed within two hundred yards of the scene. There was no chance of tracking the figure across the heath to his destination, so Stark began
laboriously cross-referencing with footage from other cameras and traced the figure backwards into town. In the high street the figure suddenly detoured to one side for a few minutes, out of sight. Stark stared at the big wall map. Cash machine, he thought, his finger hovering on a bank. And cash machines often had cameras. By now he was sorely square-eyed. He took two tablets, not for hip or shoulder but his head.

  It was nearly midday so he went to find Fran. She was busy on the phone, took his notes and waved him away. When the meeting formed she shooed him to the back and sat him down with a warning glare.

  The meeting focused largely on Nikki Cockcroft, or lack thereof. There had been reports of a girl matching her description harassing homeless people in various locations, in broad daylight this time. There had even been a call-out to one violent altercation but by the time the uniforms had arrived it was over, and there was some doubt as to whether this had been Nikki: the perpetrator had arrived and fled in a BMW car and the description was vague. Dixon was following it up anyway. Since then, nothing. HQ had ratified Groombridge’s request for a ping on the N-ZONE mobile but the phone company couldn’t triangulate its location – switched off or in a black spot, they said. They’d let HQ know if and when it reappeared. Nikki’s photo and name had been on the news all morning as a potential witness police would like to talk to in relation to, et cetera, and the team were to spend time talking to police in surrounding boroughs or places where she had past connections.

  Various people chimed in, but when Fran started to move on, Stark raised his hand. She ignored it but he raised it higher. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Not now, Trainee Investigator.’

  ‘This might be important.’

  ‘What is it, Stark?’ Groombridge peered at him, a flicker of displeasure at what he saw.

  Stark explained about the potential witness.

  ‘When did you find this?’ Groombridge looked between Stark and Fran. Her glare might have immolated Stark in his chair. She clearly hadn’t read his notes past the time of Maggs’s entry.

  ‘I just finished, Guv. I should’ve told DS Millhaven.’

  ‘Yes, you should.’ Fran was still glaring.

  Groombridge was unreadable. ‘Okay. DC Dixon, go with Stark to the bank. I want a face and name on my desk. Right. What else is happening on my good streets?’

  There was a brief round-up of other cases but Stark wasn’t totally listening. Something had occurred to him. He considered raising his hand again but thought better of it. He waited till the meeting broke up, then spoke to Dixon. ‘Does Nikki Cockcroft have form for car theft?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Did anyone get the BMW’s plate?’

  ‘Only a partial. You think it was her?’

  ‘Who knows? I was just wondering if we might track it using the licence-plate recognition cameras. Did you run the partial?’

  ‘Not yet. Want to try it now?’

  Stark glanced at Fran. ‘Better get to the bank first.’

  ‘You all right?’ asked Dixon, as they drove.

  Stark stifled another yawn. ‘Just tired. Sometimes I don’t sleep well,’ he said, in a tone he hoped would close the topic without offence.

  ‘You know when I said not to worry about DS Millhaven?’ said Dixon. ‘I think maybe you took me too literally.’

  Stark laughed. ‘I’m sure she’ll get used to me eventually.’

  Stark and Dixon reappeared with a facial shot and a name. Fran thanked Dixon. Stark was below notice for now. His good call made up a little for appearing at work in such a state, but only a very little. Being smart wasn’t enough. He seemed determined to infuriate her. Groombridge hadn’t said a word about Stark’s condition, even privately afterwards. More special bloody treatment! Fran was ready to raise it herself but Groombridge closeted himself with CPS lawyers to go over the evidence and interviews. With no witness ID or confessional slip, they’d have to let Martin Munroe walk for now. The rest would be charged. A decent barrister might argue away their interview slip-ups and the magistrate might grant bail, but for now the DCI emerged in a good mood and Fran was loath to spoil it. She’d gone off the boil anyway. She was just peeved that Stark had cried off drinking with her just to get pissed elsewhere again. She wasn’t jealous: she wasn’t interested in him that way – too cold for her liking, too young, too many things. But it was rude.

  She looked up and found Dixon hovering.

  Five minutes later she sat in Groombridge’s office while he scanned the paper she’d passed him. Nikki Cockcroft had form in her juvenile record, two cases of taking without consent, driving without a licence or insurance, at least two more stolen and burnt-out cars attributed to her or those around her. Dixon had run the partial plate and got a hit, not against a stolen BMW but against plates stolen from a Ford in Rochester on Saturday night. But the BMW description matched one stolen nearby. Dixon had contacted HQ with the stolen plates and they’d been traced on the plate-recognition cameras as far as the A20 Sidcup Bypass. ‘It’s more her style to ditch and burn, but you never know.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Groombridge mused. ‘Dixon came up with this?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ admitted Fran, reluctantly.

  ‘Stark?’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Okay. Get on to the Highways Agency and see if we can get a face off any traffic cams.’ He picked up the other printout. ‘Our witness from the cashpoint?’

  ‘David Phillips, Guv. I sent uniform round for him but his landlord said he’d skipped with the rent in arrears. Said Phillips worked as a security guard at Lidl so I guess that’s my next stop.’

  ‘Take Mr Initiative with you,’ said Groombridge. ‘Fresh air might perk him up a little.’

  Fran silently cursed him. ‘Guv.’

  She collected Stark but said nothing until they were alone in the car. ‘If you turn up for work in this condition again I’ll have you breath-tested and disciplined.’

  ‘I’m not hung-over, Sarge.’

  She had to admit there was no scent of booze sweating from him in the confines of the car. What, then? Drugs? No, it didn’t seem like that … ‘Whatever you are, you’re fuck-all use to me and lucky guesses aren’t going to wash away your sins. No one –’

  ‘Likes a smartarse,’ interrupted Stark. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  Fran nearly slammed on the brakes. ‘Don’t take a tone with me, Trainee Investigator. You’re an infinite number of PDP sheets from CID rank.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  Just ‘Sarge’. He had a way of packing the monosyllable with obstinate ambiguity. She let it drop. Either he’d toe the line or he wouldn’t, and she was starting not to care which.

  David Phillips’s supervisor made a disgusted face and told them Phillips had been sacked for turning up ‘unfit for work’ once too often. Fran made sure to stare at Stark at this point. The store records showed Phillips’s address as the one he’d skipped out on. Fran thanked the man politely, smiled, walked calmly back to the car, got in and slammed the door viciously. She took a call on the way back, casually driving one-handed with the phone pressed to her ear. God help the uniform who pulled her over.

  ‘Yeah, he’s sitting right next to me, Guv,’ she said. ‘He’ll enjoy that, I’m sure. Will do.’ She hung up and smiled. ‘There’s a CPS shark waiting to chew you up and spit you out. Time to polish up those closet skeletons, Trainee Investigator!’

  Stark looked out of the window. Worried, perhaps. Who could tell?

  The lawyer was waiting alone in one of the interview rooms. In his forties, impeccably dressed and sharp as a tack, he went through the Maggs case with a fine-tooth comb, nit-picking, adversarial, but there was nothing there to get his teeth into. Maybe it was just that the monotony hadn’t overtaken the novelty but Stark quite enjoyed typing reports. They provided an outlet for his love of language, his delight in its exactitude, which, if he’d been more skilled, might have made him more concise. He wasn’t particularly and it didn’t, but he preferred l
ong and unequivocal to short and ambiguous. Stark believed the lawyer was secretly pleased. If only it would end there. Ostensibly this was a standard interview to pick over his arrest report but it wouldn’t stay that way. Fran sat in, of course, no doubt delighted at the prospect of peeping into his business. Groombridge stayed out of it, no doubt confident of receiving a full report.

  ‘This business with the Ministry of Defence?’ asked the lawyer.

  Bingo. Stark waited several seconds. ‘Sorry, is that a question?’

  ‘Don’t play smart, Constable.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The clock ticked through several seconds. Fran rubbed her nose to mask a smile.

  ‘Well?’ The lawyer let his impatience show. Controlled. Calculated to intimidate. Laughable, really, thought Stark. Perhaps he should play nice, particularly as he was about to beg a colossal liberty, but sometimes you just had to choose funny. And you never knew with these faux-prickly types: sometimes they saw the funny side too.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Stark suggested, ‘why don’t you try asking me an actual question and we’ll see where that takes us?’

  Now Fran was definitely trying not to smile. The lawyer pursed his lips, hopefully hiding his own. ‘All right, how about this one? What is the nature of your trouble with the Ministry of Defence?’

  ‘Personal.’ Stark kept any hint of cheek from the reply but Fran gave up any pretence and sat back, smirking.

  The lawyer just stared at him. ‘All right, what impact will this “personal” trouble have on my case?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’re qualified to make that assessment.’

  ‘Then why ask me?’

  ‘Constable Stark, are you going to tell me why the switchboard in this station was bombarded with increasingly impatient demands from MoD officials for you to contact them urgently? Why, indeed, an army officer in uniform turned up unannounced demanding to see you? Why Superintendent Cox was called by a high-ranking army officer but refused to discuss the nature of that call with the CPS? Are you going to tell me what kind of shit you’re in and whether it’s going to balls-up my case?’