‘Smarter than the average Rat,’ observed Groombridge.
‘Bet he’s glad he got slapped with it, after all,’ commented Fran.
‘I doubt he’s glad of anything much right now,’ said Marcus.
Fran picked Stark up early. Naveen was alive and awake. The hospital had reluctantly agreed to let them see him.
The teenager was barely recognizable. Stark recalled an Afghan man, beaten by the people of his neighbouring village who believed him guilty of raping a young girl. He had looked this bad – and he had died, his guilt or otherwise untried. The doctors assured them Naveen would live. His lucky day. A nurse was helping him drink his breakfast through a straw tucked into one cheek. They’d wired his broken jaw shut. His face was one huge bruise, nose badly broken, right eye closed, with stitches above and below. His wrist had been broken too, along with four ribs and the bones in one hand. When he saw them he flinched.
His mother sat up, bristling. ‘And where were you when that thug did this to my boy? Where were you? You were supposed to be keeping watch!’
The woman’s understanding of police bail and ankle bracelets was faulty, but Fran granted her some licence under the circumstances. ‘Do you know who did this?’
‘That monster Dawson!’ she spat. Behind her Naveen groaned and squirmed. ‘He won’t tell me but I know it’s true.’ The mother ignored his pleading. ‘Who else would do such a thing?’
Who else indeed? thought Fran, with all the other Rats on remand. This was their fault, hers and the guv’nor’s. They had tipped Dawson off that tongues were wagging. He’d put two and two together. ‘Is it true?’ she asked Naveen. The boy shook his head, his open eye panicked. ‘We can protect you –’
Naveen’s despairing laughter cut her off, but quickly became strangled sobs. The nurse and his mother tried to calm him, lest he choke.
‘If you tell us it was him …’ tried Fran, but Naveen shook his head again, eye closed.
‘Go away!’ said his mother. ‘Leave him alone!’
They did just that. He wasn’t going anywhere, but she called for uniform to send a babysitter all the same. You never knew, Dawson might not be finished.
‘Where were you last night at nine?’ asked Groombridge.
Dawson’s lawyer answered for him: ‘My client was at work. We can provide you with corroborating statements.’
‘And these statements would all come from employees of Mister Dawson?’
The lawyer smiled. ‘Indeed.’
Groombridge leant back, staring at Dawson, who returned his gaze dispassionately. ‘May I see your hands?’
‘Is that necessary?’ demanded the lawyer.
‘Unless your client has something to hide.’
The lawyer nodded to Dawson, who placed his huge calloused hands on the desk. The knuckles on both were bruised, the left worst. Naveen’s nose and eye suggested that the blow had come from a left-handed assailant, most of the rest from the boot. ‘My client sustained that bruising from training with the heavy bag, a boxing –’
‘I know what a heavy bag is,’ interrupted Groombridge. Dawson allowed himself a thin smile.
‘You would also know that my client has one in his garage along with his other fitness equipment – if you had grounds for a warrant.’ The lawyer was not court-appointed. Dawson had brought his own.
The man might just be doing his job, but Stark watched through the mirror with growing dislike as he diligently shot down one question after another. Dawson said not one word. Stark could almost hear Fran’s teeth grinding. As the big man was led out by his lawyer he saw Stark and smirked.
The previous day’s euphoria had been premature, they had all known that, but the super didn’t put his plastic behind the bar often. At Groombridge’s insistence the rest of the team had stayed in Rosie’s to make sure the credit card took a respectable hammering. The best you could say of them that day was that their hangover was uniform. Stark felt little better. The pills had not settled his hip as they should. But there was work to be done.
Dawson’s alibi, four identical signed statements, had arrived by courier from his lawyer. Williams was ordered to check them out, but the four men would have been rehearsed already. A statement from Naveen was the only thing that could contradict them and that didn’t seem to be on the cards. Unless something else came up Dawson was untouchable for the assault. A canny lawyer didn’t bode well for the investigation into his business illegalities either.
The other fly in the ointment remained Nikki Cockcroft. All the video evidence put the other Ferrier Rats in the frame, but unless one of them flipped on Nikki she might still slide on the assaults. They still needed Pinky. Her picture on the wall served as a solemn reminder that they had yet to uncover her name, let alone her whereabouts. By late afternoon the camaraderie of the shared hangover was fraying at the edges and the CID floor was looking thin on warm bodies.
‘Man, is this party over!’ said Fran, in the doorway.
‘Looks like Friday-night drinks didn’t survive Thursday night,’ agreed Stark.
‘Come on, lightweight, I’ll drop you home.’
Stark accepted gratefully. At home he fixed himself a snack and then tried to steal a nap before his date, but even with painkillers his damn hip wouldn’t let him settle.
On the dot of eight he entered the Princess of Wales, Blackheath. It had been Kelly’s recommendation, though nothing in her voice suggested she realized the significance to him as a soldier of the Princess of Wales’s Royal Regiment. A pretty, gentrified town pub with a proud rugby history. Its website and memorabilia testified to its continuing association with Blackheath Rugby Club, the world’s oldest, and its service as the changing room for the first ever international between England and Wales, played on the heath in 1881.
He fully expected to wait, yet Kelly was perched on a bar stool like she owned it. She waved him to another, which she appeared to have protected from the other denizens on a busy Friday evening with little more than her denim jacket. Then again, there couldn’t be many blokes present who’d argue the point with her. Free of its usual ponytail, her dark brown hair hung loose over her shoulders in glossy waves. She wore faded jeans and a bright red T-shirt with ‘Love-Life’ in white, parodying the Coca-Cola logo; impossible to read without enjoying the shape it fitted so snugly. He’d seen her in a swimsuit and a clinical uniform, but this simple outfit made Stark swallow.
‘Ready with your lively chat?’ She grinned.
He would’ve been happy to sit and stare. No, that wasn’t true, to be blunt. But very little of what he’d be happiest doing right now required lively chat. And in the long tradition of men before the object of their basest desire he was in sorry danger of getting tongue-tied or blurting out some mind-numbing inanity. Time to concentrate. ‘I was hoping you’d be providing that.’
‘Oh, no. You got my potted history in the car. I let you off once but now I intend to get to the bottom of you.’
‘On the first date? What kind of boy do you take me for?’
‘Well, maybe you can hold back some hidden depths for next time.’
‘I’m afraid all you might find are hidden shallows.’
‘Jagged rocks below the surface, perilous to shipping!’ Kelly shivered theatrically.
‘Perhaps just one large, dull sandbank. Been here long?’ he asked, nodding to her half-consumed pint of Guinness.
‘This is my local. My flat’s just round the corner.’
Stark raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘I told you, I’m not that kind of boy.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. What’ll you have?’
‘Double whisky, no ice.’
‘Interesting. I took you for a beer man.’
‘I have my moments.’
‘I’ll bet. Katy,’ she called, over the hubbub. The nearest barmaid looked over and smiled. Then she noticed Stark and smile became grin. ‘Double whisky, no ice, when you get a second, the best you have, my tab.’ Stark thanked her.
‘You can get the next one. I intend to loosen your tongue.’
‘Many have tried.’
‘Have they now?’
‘I’m trained in counter-interrogation.’
Kelly beckoned him closer and leant in. Her hair ran across his neck like silk, her warm breath tingled and her perfume was intoxicating. He thought she wanted to whisper something but she just paused for several seconds, every exhalation building the electric charge. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she breathed finally, in his ear, sending a jolt right through him. He shivered. Kelly sat back and gave him probably the most dangerous smile he’d ever seen. The worst thing about it was that it gave every impression of being a purely genuine smile; it simply achieved nine-point-nine on the sultry scale as an after-shock. Stark shivered again and rubbed his neck. ‘That is cheating.’
‘All’s fair.’
‘Is this love or war?’
‘Too early to tell.’ She smiled.
Stark tried to gauge whether her boldness was as much a front as his, but couldn’t. It was a sad fact of life that the more you liked a girl the less you could be sure whether she liked you. That was why the bastards got the girls; if you could put feelings aside, you had all the power and it became just a numbers game. Fortune favoured the brazen. Hit shamelessly on ten girls in a club and one would take you home. You didn’t have to be a soldier on twenty-four-hour liberty to see it – just look in any nightclub. Girls liked confidence. He’d played the odds in his time, too often in truth. Chalk it up to callow youth, but that didn’t make it right. At least those morning walks of shame usually carried just enough actual shame to persuade him he wasn’t quite an all-out bastard. It would be nice to think that was why he’d sent Julie packing but of course it wasn’t. Doc Hazel was right in that respect. But the walls he’d built after his injury weren’t new: they’d merely risen. Julie was just a fling, last in a long line. He couldn’t shoulder all the blame, though: he’d neither begun nor finished them all.
And here he was, back in the game, tentative, rusty, more entrenched. A fling was probably just what he needed. A practice swing. A loosener. But this didn’t feel like that and Kelly seemed far too smart for it even to be an option. He liked that. It was terrifying, but he liked it a lot. And it was pointless worrying whether or not he was good enough for her, whether or not he deserved her: that was for her to judge and for time to tell.
His drink arrived and they chinked glasses. He took half in one go and savoured it all the way down. She watched him with evident pleasure. ‘Wow,’ he said finally. ‘I must drink the good stuff more often.’
‘Careful,’ cautioned Kelly. ‘Too much of a good thing can be bad for the soul.’
Stark studied her face for a long moment. ‘Some good things,’ he said, ‘are worth the risk.’
She fanned her face theatrically with her hand. ‘Well, now look who’s cheating.’ Either she was covering a genuine blush or she was mocking him. Stark rather suspected the latter. Pity – he’d not meant it as a line. Well, not entirely.
‘Nice place,’ he said, looking around for a change of subject.
She smiled appreciatively. ‘I though you’d like the name.’
‘I’ll take all the good omens I can get.’ He didn’t mention the foot search that had passed within a few hundred metres of the door, or the vicious killers who hailed from the Ferrier Estate barely a mile away. London, as she’d said, worked street by street.
As he ruminated on this his phone rang in his pocket. He fished it out, read Fran’s name and put it away again. Kelly looked enquiringly at him.
‘They’ll leave a message,’ he said simply. Instead it rang again. Still Fran.
‘That had better not be another woman,’ warned Kelly, playfully.
‘Not in that way. It’s my sergeant.’
‘Shouldn’t you answer it?’
‘It’s Friday night, I’m in a pub with a beautiful girl and I’m off duty …’ It stopped.
Kelly blinked and glanced down into her drink. It took a second for Stark to realize that she really was blushing now, and a moment longer to understand why. So much for concentrating. Damn Fran. The ringing returned. ‘Why can’t you just leave a message?’ Stark wished aloud, before answering. ‘Sarge?’ He could make out Fran’s voice but her words were lost. ‘Sorry, Sarge, I can’t hear you …’
‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ came the shouted reply.
‘Off duty,’ replied Stark.
‘Not any more. We’ve got a shout on Pinky.’
‘Great. Good luck with that.’
‘Shut up and tell me where you are.’
‘Those are contradictory instructions.’
‘Don’t piss me about. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m always serious. What’s the matter? You on a hot date with Hydro-babe?’
Stark slapped his hand over the speaker though he didn’t think Kelly had overheard. ‘Excuse me.’ He smiled, turned away and spoke as calmly as he could. ‘You know how unlikely that would be, Sarge.’
‘Okay, so where are you?’
‘Surely you don’t need me for this.’
‘I can’t think of anyone more deserving. Come on, this could be a defining moment.’
I hope not, thought Stark. ‘Don’t make me beg, Sarge.’
‘Don’t make me pull rank, Constable. Besides, I already told Groombridge you volunteered. Now, where are you?’
Stark closed his eyes and swore inwardly. ‘Blackheath. Princess of Wales pub.’
‘Drink up. I’ll be outside in three minutes.’
Stark turned to Kelly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I …’
‘Duty calls?’ The pained look on his face probably said it all. She tilted her head to one side and smiled. ‘Is it important?’
‘It could be.’
‘I quite like that you’re needed at a moment’s notice to dash off and fight crime.’
‘Now all I need is my Spandex, cape and a phone box to change in.’
‘Now that I’d like to see.’ She giggled.
‘There can’t be much left to your imagination after you and Lucy made me parade around in those skimpy shorts.’
Kelly threw her head back and gave a deep-throated belly laugh.
Half the occupants of the pub must be looking her way with desire and the other half with jealous hatred, thought Stark, admiringly.
‘Lucy bet me ten quid I wouldn’t get you to wear them,’ she said.
Stark closed his eyes. ‘I knew something was up.’
Through the window he saw Fran’s car approaching. ‘That’s my sergeant. I’m sorry, I’ll make this up to you.’
Kelly took his drink, knocked it back in one gulp, with a flourish, and tossed her hair with a flick of her head. ‘Yes, you will.’ She grinned wickedly.
Fran skidded to a halt outside and tooted the horn. Stark peered out and saw her beckoning impatiently. The horn tooted again.
As he climbed into the car Fran craned her neck. ‘If that’s her, you’re in much bigger trouble than I thought.’
Stark kicked himself for not getting outside before she arrived. ‘You have no idea, Sarge.’
26
The shout was a flat in Bromley. An anonymous caller had sworn blind Pinky was inside. He’d seen her face on the news; it was definitely her. The local force had sent three uniforms led by a grizzled sergeant, who greeted them with a warm handshake and a dubious look. ‘Your missing girl on the game, then?’
Fran frowned. ‘Not that we know of. Why?’
The sergeant jerked his thumb up the road. ‘Looks more like a home than a squat, that’s all. Leastways, no one’s complained about one on this street. Still, I suppose we’d better have a look.’
It was a first-floor flat, accessed from the back, and there was only one way in. Nevertheless two constables took up rabbit position on the street out front in case anyone thought a fifteen
-foot drop from window to paving slabs was more appealing than a talk with the police.
Fran banged on the door. ‘Police, open up!’
‘No one home?’ suggested the sergeant.
Fran peered in through the letterbox. ‘I saw someone move. POLICE, OPEN UP!’
The sergeant’s radio crackled into life: ‘Step away, Sarge. Bloke just took a look out the front window with a pistol in one hand.’
The sergeant hastily ushered them all to a safe distance. ‘You sure, Tom?’
‘Positive. Tried to hide it when he saw us but I got a good look. Silver automatic.’
The sergeant radioed for armed response. There was no further sign of movement from inside.
When CO19 arrived they made no attempt at stealth, busily ensuring surrounding buildings were empty or evacuated, cordoning off the streets front and back.
‘Why didn’t you try out for this lot instead of joining the weekend army?’ asked Fran, sipping on the coffee she’d sent one of the local constables to fetch for her.
‘I wanted to broaden my world, not narrow it further,’ replied Stark.
‘Say that louder, I dare you.’
It became a tedious evening. A standoff, with the CO19 negotiator on the phone every now and then to the man in the flat, who wouldn’t say if he was alone and refused to come out. To pass the time Stark formulated strategies, with and without luxuries like C4, flash-bangs and CS grenades, to breach the perimeter and eliminate the threat, indulging in idle euphemism. Of course, his training for this stuff had been less squeamish about lethal force. These specialist firearms officers had to walk a more delicate line. Even so, Stark couldn’t believe the man wouldn’t surrender while he had the chance. Unless he was prepared to shoot it out, what was the point? It escalated achingly slowly until eventually the decision was made to go in.
Stark observed with interest as officers armed with Heckler & Koch MP5s and all the gear sidled up to the door behind the lead man holding a large bullet shield. The second man swung a heavy ram and the door burst in, followed by the rest of the team. There was a volley of shouting but no shots. Then silence.
The radio announced the all-clear, weapon confiscated and made safe. A man was led out, his hands bound with a long white cable-tie. A tall, skinny white streak of a bloke with his jeans yanked down round his ankles, making him waddle. He was freely insulting his captors now any chance of an actual fight was over.
If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) Page 27