If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  ‘No sign of it. Gary squirrelled it away somewhere, we guessed, but it never surfaced.’

  ‘And Gary was definitely the ringleader?’ Stark persisted.

  Groombridge seemed unsure. ‘We thought so. He was the real deal, nasty piece of work. I had Dawson down as muscle to begin with but the longer it went on … And after what you’ve just told me … I don’t know. One thing’s for sure.’ He placed the mugshot on his in-tray and stared at Stark and Fran. ‘I’d very much like another crack at locking him up.’

  Fran said nothing to him for the rest of the day that wasn’t an order or a rebuke. Stark weathered the storm: a warmer sunset beckoned.

  Hours later, Kelly slipped into the opposite seat with a smile. Stark felt certain this couldn’t be standard procedure. He glanced at the receptionist and caught her looking away with a barely suppressed grin.

  ‘You’re less limp today,’ said Kelly. ‘Can I expect improved performance?’

  Stark couldn’t pass that up. ‘I’m sorry about last week.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s never happened to me before.’

  ‘I’ll try not to think less of you,’ she teased. ‘After all, you were quite satisfactory first time round.’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s nothing to lose on the first date, is there? It’s after that the nerves kick in.’

  ‘If that’s your idea of a first date it’s no wonder your nerves aren’t up to much. Come on, let’s see how well you stand up tonight.’

  Stark felt better rested, fresher. Nevertheless he wasn’t far into the routine before his hip began to impede him, even with the water taking most of his weight. The painkillers he’d swallowed saw him through without it showing too much, but it was gruelling. He finished rather deflated.

  ‘So much for improved performance.’ Kelly’s smile held a question. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be going backwards.’

  So much for not showing, thought Stark, not sure what to say.

  ‘Is it still work? I thought the killers had been caught.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop there.’

  ‘Perhaps you should reconsider letting me talk to your GP.’

  ‘Thank you, really, but I’ve just come back from nine months off. The last thing I need is more.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be one or the other. Perhaps you could scale down your hours.’

  ‘I’m a trainee. I’m already taking all the liberties I can comfortably ask for.’

  ‘Are you comfortable right now?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘I’m sure this is just temporary.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘But if you keep getting worse, we’ll soon reach a point where hydrotherapy won’t be any use.’

  Stark felt like a schoolboy. The oft-repeated ‘It’s your own time you’re wasting’ floated up from memory, though he also remembered feeling that it was more often his time they were wasting.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Kelly, smiling brightly. ‘I had no idea you’d miss me that much! Still need a lift home?’

  ‘More than ever,’ replied Stark.

  ‘Okay, then. Wait in the lobby and I’ll be out in five.’

  Ten minutes later she appeared, denim jacket over the top half of her uniform. ‘Come on, then.’ She grinned.

  A parting glance at the receptionist showed she was grinning too.

  Kelly drove a small blue VW Polo. Stark noticed quite a bit of clutter stuffed behind the seats as if the front had been rudimentarily tidied at the expense of the back. She drove confidently, chatting away, telling him about growing up in Bromley, escaping to Edinburgh University, her three younger sisters. She asked him about his family, skilfully avoiding his father, whose premature death would have been noted in Stark’s medical history. She asked about the army, whether he’d liked it, but not about his experiences abroad. She asked about the police, whether people treated him awkwardly when they heard what he’d done, whether he liked it, but not about the details. It was a master class in small-talk with only a hint of checking out. She was easy company. She asked what he thought of Greenwich. She liked the town, its pocket-size cosmopolitan scale set against the endless sprawl of Greater London or the hemmed-in stonework of Edinburgh. She liked the gentler pace, the freedom and views of the park, the liberal friends she’d made. Stark asked about the borough; she was indifferent – London boroughs were too big for individual identity, their borders too arbitrary, she said. London worked street by street.

  When they finally pulled up outside his flat Stark was amazed that time and distance had passed so fast. For a second or two an awkward silence crept in.

  ‘Which one is you?’ she asked, peering up at his building.

  If that was a prompt to invite her in, Stark couldn’t tell. It seemed a bit premature to pop the coffee question. ‘Top floor.’

  ‘Nice views?’

  ‘Defunct lift.’

  ‘Bugger. Take your time on the stairs, then.’

  A prompt to go. ‘Will do. Thanks for the lift. See you Thursday.’ He opened the door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me out, then?’

  Stark froze, gob-smacked. ‘Aren’t there rules against going out with patients?’ he asked, playing for time.

  ‘Bollocks to the rules. Anyway, I’m not licensed to prescribe to you. Lucy is very disappointed that her unsubtle hint hasn’t galvanized you into action. She has half the hospital debating when you’re finally going to pull your finger out.’

  Stark was part amused, part horrified. ‘And what is the consensus?’

  ‘Tonight.’ She grinned. In the half-light it seemed to Stark she was perhaps masking shyness with bravado. ‘But if you make me work any harder they’ll accuse me of cheating!’

  ‘Would you like to go out with me some time?’ he asked, echoes of schooldays ringing in his ears again.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’d like to go out with you on Friday night. I’ll book a table at my favourite Thai place for nine and you can meet me in the Princess of Wales for drinks and lively chat at eight.’

  ‘That’s what I like, spontaneity. No prior planning, just go with the flow.’

  ‘Careful – I’ve still got Thursday to punish you before then.’ She leant over and kissed his cheek, a gentle brush of warmth and perfume.

  ‘I can live with that kind of punishment.’ He touched the spot. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she asked, as he turned away. He turned back, confused. ‘God, you’re rubbish at this. You’re supposed to get my number! Here.’ She handed him a slip of paper from her pocket; she’d come with a plan. ‘Okay, you can go now.’

  ‘Don’t you want mine?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Girls don’t chase boys!’

  ‘You could’ve fooled me,’ joked Stark.

  ‘Get out!’ she cried, laughing.

  23

  The search for Pinky had produced no substantial leads and the morning meeting was short. Stark was glad to retreat to his desk and take more pills. His dreams the night before had begun pleasantly with Kelly, but then taken a more disturbing turn. Kelly became the woman cradling the child, but still with Kelly’s face. And the boy had her face too. Then Collins, shouting in warning. And then that desperate run across open ground and the RPG knocking him sideways, like a charging bull out of nowhere, and the bullet spinning into him, twisting in slowly, like a corkscrew, and the medics in the field hospital all talking in a language he couldn’t fathom while he pleaded for news of Collins in a voice he didn’t recognize, Margaret Collins crying with Kelly’s face and finally Collins, life leaching out of him into the dirt.

  He’d woken with a shudder, rushed to the toilet and thrown up violently, retching and dry-retching until the images were driven from his mind by spinning stars. He’d lain on the bathroom floor in the dark for an age, letting the night seep in bone-deep, and woken stiff and aching in cold dawn light.

  ‘Ready?’ Fran stood over him impatiently.

  They drove to El
tham to speak with the owner of a nightclub who employed Dawson Security Staff to run his door. Silent admonition continued to roll off her, like fog from a glacier.

  The nightclub door absorbed some of her ire as she banged on it with her palm. A man peered out questioningly. Fran slapped her warrant card against the glass. ‘James Yates? Open up.’

  Yates reluctantly led them through the club. With the lights up, the place looked sadly absurd, dated and shabby, all the wear and tear, cigarette burns and drink stains, normally hidden in darkness, cruelly evident. A couple of cleaners glanced at them as they passed. Yates made sure his office door was fully closed before he uttered one syllable. ‘Look, I know why you’re here and I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘As I said on the phone, Dawson Security provide a reliable service. I have nothing else to add. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.’

  They’d had a similar reaction from the other clubs they’d phoned but Fran had thought this guy sounded the least intransigent. Talking with uniform in Eltham, as well as in Kidbrooke, Charlton, Woolwich and others, had revealed a common thread: rumours that Dawson Security provided more than door staff.

  It was a neat little racket. Bouncers can make or break a club, add glamour, evoke fear. Control the door and you controlled the club – protection money neatly invoiced for services rendered. Muscle your way into several and you can play them off for price too. Not forgetting the potential perks – kickbacks from suppliers and cabbies and the three pillars of the underworld, illegal drugs, illicit booze and prostitution, with Dawson sitting atop his little pyramid of people either incentivized or terrorized into silence, or both. And that was the problem, finding the loose stone.

  Fran slid Dawson’s mugshot on to the desk. ‘Look. We understand your hesitation. But Dawson has form. We’re looking at him now, for this and other crimes. We’re going to nail him. All it takes is for one person to speak out and more will follow. You’ll be free of him.’

  Yates considered this, his face giving little away. ‘Four years. That’s how long he’s been … providing his services. Where have you lot been?’

  ‘Not looking where we should,’ admitted Fran, frankly. ‘Help us change that.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything. If you arrest him, charge him, if I know he’s going down, I’ll testify to help you bury him. Others would too. A few of us have talked, compared notes. I could sound them out, see who’d stand up with me. But you won’t get anyone to go first. Not until they believe he’s history.’

  Yates was right. They spoke to two others, the only two who would even let them through the door, and got a similar answer. No one would go first.

  ‘Classic protection psychology,’ said Groombridge, when they met up. He looked across the road at the offices of Dawson Security Ltd. A small rented unit with a yard containing three liveried vans and a gleaming black Mercedes, de-badged with a private plate – Delta Four Whisky Sierra Zero November: D4WS0N. Money doesn’t buy taste, thought Stark.

  There was no reception, no secretary, just a pair of burly guys in shiny black bomber jackets unloading boxes from the back of a tatty old Transit. They gave the three coppers their blankest stares as they passed. More boxes were stacked inside, a few open. One contained black boots, another bomber jackets.

  ‘Detective Inspector Groombridge?’ drawled a voice. Dawson stood in the door to the only office, bigger than his photo suggested, overweight but gym-bunny hard. ‘To what do I owe the displeasure?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ said Groombridge.

  Dawson chuckled. ‘Good old Met, still promoting failure. Who’re your pets?’

  ‘This is DS Millhaven and Constable Stark,’ said Groombridge.

  ‘Constable?’ Dawson smiled unpleasantly at Stark. ‘A wannabe detective? Drew the short straw – your mentor here couldn’t catch a cold. Where’s Darlington? Pushing up daisies?’

  ‘Enjoying retirement.’

  ‘Put out to pasture,’ said Dawson. ‘Not before time. I must send him a card. Better still, I’ll drop round with some flowers for his wife, poor woman. Must be a burden having the shuffling old flat-foot under hers. How she must long for the day he shuffles off for good. They still live in that poky mid-terrace in Lime Road?’

  Stark’s fists clenched involuntarily. Dawson caught the movement and grinned. ‘Oh … the pup has teeth? Down, Sparky, you’re not ready to play with the big dogs.’ Stark’s failure to be intimidated drew a second glance from Dawson. The big man sized up threat for a living. He stared at the scars, perhaps reassessing. ‘Won’t you come in and take a seat, Officers? I’d offer you a cuppa but I don’t like you.’

  There were only two visitor chairs, the cheap plastic stacking variety. Stark remained standing.

  ‘So, how can I be of assistance?’ asked Dawson.

  ‘Where were you on Monday, May the twenty-fifth, at six twenty p.m.?’

  Dawson’s big black leather office chair creaked as he leant his considerable frame back. ‘You tell me, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘You were driving Nikki Cockcroft to Orpington in a stolen BMW.’

  Dawson was amused. ‘If you could prove that we’d be having this conversation in Royal Hill.’

  ‘Why were you helping her?’ Dawson didn’t answer. ‘You’ve been seen together on the Ferrier.’

  ‘She’s a mate’s little sister. I promised I’d keep an eye on her.’

  ‘You and Gary still close, then? Prison records show you’ve never visited.’

  ‘We’re not the Christmas-card type, Inspector. I’ll be there when he gets out.’

  ‘Long time to wait for your cut.’

  ‘Why, Inspector,’ Dawson drawled, with exaggerated coyness, ‘whatever can you mean?’

  ‘Eight million and change, stolen at gunpoint and never recovered.’

  ‘Now now, Inspector. Surely you’re not still barking up that tree.’

  Groombridge smiled. ‘Oh, you know us police hounds. We never lose the scent.’

  ‘Do I look like a man with that kind of cash?’

  ‘No. There really is no honour among thieves, even mates.’

  Now Dawson’s smile looked painted on. ‘If you’re done yapping, Inspector, I have a business to run.’

  ‘I’ve been hearing a lot of things about your business recently. You’ve moved up in the world too.’

  Dawson spread his arms expansively. ‘My little contribution to the taxman’s purse, Inspector. It’s all above board here.’

  ‘Like an iceberg is all above water. I have a witness says you supply the drugs Nikki peddles around the Ferrier.’

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘You should know better than to listen to Rat tales, Inspector.’

  ‘People are starting to talk. Your iceberg is floating south. It’s just a matter of time now, Liam. I’m going to feel your collar.’

  The polite dance was over. ‘Darlington thought that too – and all it got him was a gold watch. What is it they say about old dogs?’ He looked up at Stark and the two locked eyes. Dawson smiled malevolently. ‘Careful, Sparky. Some dogs don’t just bark.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t think he’d just cave in and confess, did you?’ said Fran, outside.

  ‘No, no. He’s not some snot-nosed kid. He’s a proper villain. I just wanted to get reacquainted.’

  ‘If Nikki was his loyal foot-soldier on the Ferrier we might use charges against her to flip her into disloyalty,’ said Stark.

  ‘Yes, I had thought of that, TI Stark,’ replied Groombridge, tartly. Stark wasn’t the only one to have let Dawson get under his skin.

  The next day’s morning meeting was lively. News of Dawson’s fledgling empire had given the team new impetus. ‘We don’t have enough for a warrant,’ explained Groombridge, ‘but I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to keep anything on the premises anyway. See what else you can find out. Who does his books? Does the business rent other property? Is Dawson listed as director of any other firms? I’ve asked Serious Crime
Directorates six and seven to take a look, see where Dawson fits into the food chain and whether they can give us any kind of steer. I want something on this bastard.

  ‘And keep banging the drum for Pinky. If she can finger Nikki Cockcroft we can really turn the heat up.’

  ‘There,’ said Fran, thrusting a box and clipboard at Stark after the meeting. ‘Your phone. Sign here in blood.’ Stark settled for ink. ‘Don’t break it, don’t lose it, don’t abuse the taxpayers’ grudging generosity, and don’t use it to beat suspects – the paperwork is a bitch.’

  Some saintly techie had already endured the pain of setting the damn thing up, probably some necessary security protocol. Stark spent the next hour adding numbers, business and personal. Tapping in Kelly’s resurrected a brief smile. It was a simple phone, robust over cutting-edge. Stark preferred that, though he supposed the camera might be useful in his new line of work. For some reason that stirred a memory of his first day, of Kyle Gibbs sneering and swaggering, alive and full of malice, and of Fran’s words: ‘The spiteful little shits like filming their exploits on their phones.’ They’d abused the technology at their fingertips to immortalize their hateful exploits. He was angered once again. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Their phones were checked? The gang? They were checked for pictures, film?’ He’d held those phones and never thought to look.

  ‘We do think of some things, Constable. There was nothing incriminating.’

  ‘Did FSS check for deleted files?’

  Fran rolled her eyes. ‘If you’re going to waste my time with ideas, can they at least be about how we can nail Liam Dawson for something?’

  ‘I read somewhere that sometimes computer files can be found even after they’ve been deleted. Ghost files. They’re still there unless their space in the memory has been reallocated.’

  Fran stared at him. ‘You do read too much.’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘Nikki’s was a new one, though,’ said Dixon.

  ‘What?’ barked Fran.

  Dixon looked up warily. ‘The one she had on her when she was arrested. It was new. Well, the SIM was. Pay-as-you-go. Registered the day after the Maggs attack. Nikki stole the handset from that girl she jumped.’