If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  ‘Anyone else in there?’ Fran asked the officer. He wandered over to ask his senior, who looked their way and shook his head.

  ‘Bugger!’ said Fran.

  The grizzled sergeant came over to them. ‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted evening. Looks like someone with an axe to grind used you. This bloke’s known as a bit of a wannabe in the dealing world round here. Either he stepped on someone’s toes or he was getting too big for his boots. Nice result for my lot, though, thanks.’

  ‘Anytime,’ replied Fran.

  To Stark’s mild surprise, she sounded like she meant it. He supposed it had been a result for the good guys. Even so, he’d been standing in increasing pain for nearly four hours, having missed out on a Thai meal and his first proper date in what felt like a lifetime.

  ‘Don’t sulk,’ said Fran, to his silence. ‘She was light years out of your league anyway.’

  It got worse, of course. A report had to be written. Fran broke the news over a bag of chips as they leant against her car back in Greenwich. A perfect opportunity for anyone trying to build up their PDP experience. So Stark spent his Saturday morning conferring with officers in Bromley to make sure he did his bit well enough to withstand any criticism Fran might later cook up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Groombridge, looking in. Stark explained. ‘But you were off duty.’ His boss frowned.

  ‘I thought you knew about all this, Guv.’

  ‘She used my name to get you on board, didn’t she?’

  Stark closed his eyes.

  Groombridge chuckled. ‘Pulled the old “volunteer” ruse, did she?’

  ‘It’s not important, Guv.’ Stark wasn’t about to turn informant.

  ‘Fair enough. You’ve got to admit, she’s got you back. Finish up that report, then clear off, I don’t want to see you till Monday.’ He was still chuckling as he left.

  Stark swore quietly, finished the report, left a copy on Fran’s desk and limped outside, wincing at the midday sun. He’d taken painkillers and whisky for a decent night’s sleep but while the dreams had kept their distance his hip had woken him early again. Knackered now, he considered going back inside and trying to round up a ride but he’d already hobbled all the way here so he might as well hobble into town and make something of the day, starting with a decent lunch.

  He chose a little Italian place, with tables and chairs spilling out on to the street, and called Kelly.

  ‘Did you catch your wrongdoers?’ she asked, by way of greeting.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ he asked.

  ‘You tell me, super-detective.’

  Stark’s eyes narrowed. ‘I gave your receptionist my new number.’

  ‘Elementary!’

  ‘Why do I feel like a hunted man?’

  ‘Because your lack of chivalry forces a lady to take matters into her own hands. So how did it go last night?’ Stark told her. ‘Hope your Spandex didn’t chafe.’

  ‘The armed-response unit insisted their Kevlar was more stain-resistant.’

  ‘Ah, so you let them have a play instead, sweet of you.’

  ‘They enjoyed themselves, that’s the important thing,’ agreed Stark. ‘So, in the spirit of chivalry, when can I make up for last night’s calamity?’

  ‘Monday, after your session.’

  ‘No sooner?’ he asked, disappointed.

  ‘I have plans.’

  ‘Plans can be rearranged.’

  ‘Why should I change them? You’re the one who still owes me a first date.’

  ‘Last night didn’t count, then?’

  ‘You must be joking, especially if you’re thinking your nice-boy first-date rule is out of the way. Besides, I don’t need to hunt you any more.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, last night may not count as a date, but it was enough to get you well and truly hooked. See you Monday!’ And with that she hung up.

  Stark laughed. Monday night now seemed a long way off.

  That night he was sorely tempted to repeat his success with the sleeping-pill/whisky combination. Unfortunately he was expecting a visit from Captain Pierson in the morning. She was still army and Sunday morning didn’t mean around lunchtime with bed-hair and pillow creases on your face. He tried the painkillers alone but, as with previous nights, he woke in the small hours and couldn’t settle again even after the new pills went to work.

  When his intercom buzzed at eight sharp, he was showered, shaved, fed, dressed and half dead.

  He buzzed her up and opened the front door with trepidation.

  ‘What the hell?’ She grimaced. ‘You look like you’ve come off a five-nighter on Brecon.’ She was referring to training exercises on the Brecon Beacons in Wales. ‘Out of the way, then.’ She marched past him into the flat.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ muttered Stark.

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, sitting down on his sofa and pulling out reams of paperwork from her tan leather satchel, ‘we’ve a mountain to climb and not long to do it. Put a brew on, Corporal, no sugar.’

  Stark made two mugs and set one before her. She gave no thanks but picked up the nearest of the piles she had laid out on his table in neat regiments. ‘I haven’t time to repeat myself so listen carefully, don’t interrupt, and I’ll try to use small words.’

  It was a long and tedious morning. She went through his actions on that day in minute detail, bombarded him with things to remember, quizzed him relentlessly and rehearsed him mercilessly. ‘Well, you’d better make a better fist of it on the day or we’re sunk,’ she said, packing away her papers. ‘This is my reputation on the line now, not just yours.’ She closed her satchel with a snap. ‘Right, let’s see your uniform.’

  Stark brought it out to show her.

  ‘On, you twit, let’s see it on!’

  Stark went away and changed, pausing to study his reflection. He’d spent all Saturday afternoon preparing. His No. 2 dress uniform was immaculate, crisp khaki, buttons burnished, brilliant white belt with regimental belt plate gleaming, boots polished to mirror shine. His peaked cap was a thing of beauty, but the face peering out beneath it was all wrong. He couldn’t put face and uniform together: they wanted to jump apart like negative magnets, just as they had when he’d put on his police uniform for his first day back.

  ‘Jump to it, Corporal, I don’t have all day!’

  Stark muttered under his breath and stepped back into the living room.

  Pierson stood and inspected him coolly. ‘Corporal Stark, if you think you’re wearing that to court you’ve another think coming!’

  Stark was dismayed. He glanced at the tall mirror by the front door. Maybe the tunic and trousers were a bit loose in places now but –

  ‘You’re a disgrace!’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’ He knew the cause was already lost. She had that parade-ground company-sergeant-major look in her eye.

  ‘Not that bad? I can’t help thinking you’ve not grasped the gravity of your situation, soldier. There’ll be no second chances here. If this goes badly for you, it goes badly for the army. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’ she bristled.

  This was going too far. She could call him ‘Corporal’ and ‘soldier’ till she was blue in the face but … ‘If you’re waiting for a “sir” and a salute you’d better not hold your breath.’ He held up a hand before she boiled over. ‘I fully understand the seriousness. Colonel Mattherson made it painfully clear. But I no longer take the Queen’s shilling. Her Majesty’s Armed Forces have listed me “medically unfit” and my formal discharge is due any day. If some adjutant had done their bloody job on time I’d have it already and I’d be standing here in a blue uniform, not green. I’m playing along, Captain, but don’t push your luck.’

  She looked fit to explode. So much for winning her round, he thought dismally. The pity of it was that he was starting to like her. She fitted the pattern: forthright, clever, a little spiky, pretty in an understate
d way. In another universe entirely, one without uniforms, he might have gone for a woman like her. Unfortunately, the flip-side of the pattern was that attractive, forthright, clever, spiky women brought out his stubborn streak. ‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ he said, softening. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. We both want the same thing here, for me to acquit myself well. I’m just as anxious as you are, believe me.’

  This appeared to mollify her a little. ‘Quite! Well, if I can’t hope for you to behave like a soldier I can at least make you look like one. I’ll have my regimental tailor sent round so we can at least stand you to attention in something presentable and dispose of this disreputable sack. A pity we can’t do the same for your disreputable character,’ she added. If they’d been six, she’d probably have kicked him in the shins.

  Stark let that go. The futility of lamenting hours of meticulous preparation tossed aside on the capricious whim of one’s betters was a lesson every soldier learnt quickly in the first weeks of intensive training. During one inspection his CSM had chucked all his beautified kit out of a window into the rain and mud because Stark had failed sufficiently to tighten the lid of his boot polish. The next day he’d done the same because the lid was too tight. It was all a game, right or wrong. He thought of Maggs, scrubbed, shaved and pressed into a suit for his ten minutes in court. There had been something of the same humiliation, which he hadn’t considered until now. Perhaps in another universe entirely, one without uniforms, a man might be judged for himself, impressions be damned.

  27

  Stark woke in discomfort around four, again. As with previous nights he topped up on painkillers and made a futile attempt at more sleep. He was deep in the cycle now, where the very urgency for sleep drives all hope away and the mind churns ceaselessly.

  ‘Fuck!’ Frustrated, he swung his legs out of bed – and gasped as a sharp stab of pain shot through his hip. There was no getting away from it: he’d have to talk to someone about this. He’d see how he got on that night in the pool and discuss it with Kelly.

  He tried his exercises, gave up in frustration and made himself a snack instead. The omelette stared back at him from the plate. He’d not felt like this in a while. Upping his OxyContin was beginning to dull his appetite, a reprise of those post-op morphine days: a depressing leap backwards. Still, food was fuel: he’d soldiered through then, so he’d soldier through now and eat every joyless scrap.

  The image of Maggs in court drifted up, his performance in front of the magistrate – unexpectedly cool and controlled, no fireworks. Given what he’d witnessed and the simmering anger that had emerged in interview, it seemed remarkable. Then again, even that anger had an aspect of control. Maggs was careful. But why was he being careful? What was his goal? He seemed determined to go to prison: why? To get it over and done with before Pinky was found and put under the spotlight? Surely he couldn’t expect that.

  There was mixed incentive on the CPS side: Pinky’s testimony might strengthen the sexual-assault charges against the gang but weaken the murder charge against Maggs – his defence counsel would wave Pinky like a flag. After which the prosecution would cross-examine her rigorously – Stark felt a pang of guilt at the prospect. It would certainly shore up the case against Nikki if Pinky could ID her, but maybe there was enough evidence already. Did they need another witness, another victim? Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to find her. Maybe she could stay hidden and get on with her life without being traumatized all over again.

  ‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Fran, the second she saw him. ‘What the hell happened to you? There’s no way you got that lucky!’

  ‘After your timely interruption on Friday?’

  ‘You should be thanking me. I saved you from dismal humiliation.’

  ‘Thank you, from the very heart of my bottom.’

  ‘So why do you look like Doctor Frankenstein couldn’t jump you a pulse?’

  ‘A pure soul never rests easy in a wicked world, Sarge.’

  ‘In this wicked world there’s no such thing. Come on, intravenous caffeine might at least get you through the meeting.’

  It was blessedly short. A fresh TV appeal had generated hundreds of calls, ranging from mistaken to misleading to wildly fanciful, but nothing solid. The news companies wouldn’t run it again. They were on their own now, and there was little more they could do. DI Graham’s territorial CID team, who’d been shouldering the rest of the workload since Alfred Ladd’s death, were instructed to divvy it out as appropriate. Fran accepted a burglary case with poor grace and generously shared her irritation during lunch.

  ‘So, one usual suspect with a whiffy alibi, nearby at the time but denying involvement, closely associated with a second in possession of items stolen claiming to have bought them from a stranger in, of all places, a pub. And they’ll both get off because we can’t disprove their bullshit. How many times have we seen this? No wonder the little sods turn recidivist.’

  ‘What about SOCO?’ asked Dixon, humouring her.

  ‘Fingerprints all proved to be family, and a boot-print cast from the flowerbed was traced to the window cleaner.’

  ‘Has anyone looked at the window cleaner?’ asked Stark, forcing down another mouthful.

  Fran gasped. ‘You mean we’re supposed to consider all the options, not just the first, most obvious one? Shit. I must’ve missed that lesson in police school. Does everyone know this? We should make an announcement! Think of all the blindingly obvious clues we might’ve missed over the years,’ she wailed. ‘God, this is awful!’

  ‘That’d be a yes, then?’ smiled Stark.

  ‘Clean as a whistle apparently.’ Fran pushed the file away from her. ‘Bloody lame pony.’ A case not worth a punt, fit only for the knacker’s yard.

  ‘Can’t win ’em all,’ sneered Harper.

  Looking around to gauge what others made of the remark, Stark accidentally met Harper’s eyes and was shocked by a flash of malevolence. The man had missed his weekend shift with an unspecified ‘illness’ and returned today in caustic mood, bearing fresh physical evidence of his troubled home life. This had reignited the whisperings about his wife’s mental health and drinking. To make matters worse, Stark had noticed one idiot sympathize, quietly but in plain view. It was clear Harper had convinced himself Stark was to blame. Stark tried wearily to put that thought from his mind.

  After lunch Fran delighted in relaying Stark’s revolutionary new theory on investigative procedure to the whole office. It was only on the third retelling that it hit him.

  ‘Shit!’ he said aloud.

  ‘Don’t be a poor sport, Stark,’ said Groombridge.

  ‘No. I didn’t mean …’ Stark was still trying to grasp the squirming thought. ‘What I meant was, have we made that exact mistake?’

  ‘What mistake?’ asked Fran, still amused by her own joke.

  ‘Overlooked a possibility because we were handed a better one on a plate. What if Maggs didn’t stab Kyle Gibbs in the back?’

  ‘Of course he bloody did!’ scoffed Harper. ‘Want me to show you the photos?’

  More laughter, but Groombridge saw Stark was in earnest. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What if Maggs isn’t trying to shield Pinky from exposure but trying to shield her from a murder charge?’

  Harper gave a mocking laugh, but finding himself alone fell silent, embarrassed and displeased.

  Fran hardly looked happier. ‘Give it a rest, Stark. You just don’t want to think he did it.’

  ‘You think I’ve lost objectivity?’ he asked, keeping his voice measured.

  ‘You arrested him! We have his confession! Why would he lie?’

  ‘Because he’s a broken-down old soldier with an over-developed sense of nobility,’ Groombridge intervened. ‘I have to say, I don’t buy it. It’s plausible, I’ll give you that. I can even see it in my head. Maggs doesn’t get the knife off Gibbs but he does knock it flying. He catches Gibbs in the throat but while everyone’s watching the two of them a poor girl, traumatized half out
of her wits, picks it up and does the unthinkable. But I don’t buy it. Maybe some people out there would take a murder rap for a complete stranger, but would Maggs?’

  It was a serious question. ‘I don’t know, Guv,’ answered Stark, honestly.

  ‘CPS aren’t going to thank us for this, Guv,’ said Fran, still unhappy, as they waited for Maggs to be shown into the gloomy prison interview room.

  ‘Her Majesty’s Crown Prosecution Service are never ungrateful when justice is served, DS Millhaven. Especially when it’s served before they are publicly shown to have wrongly convicted someone – again.’ Groombridge smiled at her, then frowned at Stark. ‘You up to this, Stark? You look all in.’

  ‘Guv.’ Stark wasn’t at all sure he was.

  The door opened and Maggs took his seat opposite them.

  ‘Well,’ he said gruffly, ‘Inspector Questionable Orientation, Sergeant Hardarse and Constable Weekender, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Stark ignored him and conducted the preliminaries for the tape.

  Maggs chuckled. ‘They letting you make the running today? Is this like a practical exam, interrogation for beginners? D’you get a little sew-on badge?’

  Stark waited in silence.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Maggs, eventually, irritably.

  ‘Still wishing we weren’t too squeamish for the noose?’ asked Stark.

  Maggs indicated his surroundings. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Scope for redressing miscarriage of justice,’ replied Stark. He watched Maggs for some reaction but saw little.

  ‘I’m getting a strange déjà vu,’ said Maggs, looking at the others for some clue.

  ‘And I’m starting to wonder if you’re the only innocent man in Shawshank.’

  Maggs stared at him. ‘You calling me a liar, Constable Stark?’

  ‘I think you’d have to have had good reason. I’m wondering what reason would be good enough.’