If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It would have to be a point of honour,’ mused Stark, aloud.

  ‘Where’s this bollocks coming from?’

  ‘The more I see of you, the less I can reconcile myself with the idea of you stabbing an unarmed teenager in the back.’

  ‘He wasn’t unarmed –’

  ‘He was, once you had his knife.’

  ‘The little shit stabbed me, twice.’

  ‘And attack is the best form of defence?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Bollocks. You know as well as I do that once you had the best of Gibbs the rest would fade away. And if Gibbs was still coming at you his wound would be in front.’

  ‘Not if I grabbed him and turned him in a neck-lock. Hand over the mouth, knife up under the ribs through a kidney into the diaphragm, nice and quiet. You remember, I’m sure, Corporal Stark.’

  ‘I remember. But that wasn’t the pattern of the wound. Besides, this wasn’t national defence. I think if you’d got him in a neck-hold, simple threats would have been enough. And you know it too.’

  ‘I was drunk.’

  ‘So you claim, but adrenalin can have a very sobering effect.’

  ‘Your sleep deprivation is dulling your wits!’

  Stark shook his head, impressed. ‘And you’re defending by attacking again. Tell me about the girl with pink hair.’

  Maggs was riled now. ‘I’ve told you everything!’

  ‘I don’t think you have.’

  ‘Then ask her yourself, if you ever find her.’

  ‘We already did.’ Stark paused just long enough to see alarm in Maggs’s eyes. ‘In a manner of speaking. We found the phone, Maggs. Robust little thing. Smashed against a parking meter, immersed in drain water for days, but still holding on to its precious recollections.’

  Fran slipped a series of stills from the attempted rape on to the table one by one, culminating in a blur of olive drab.

  ‘Not just stills, Maggs. Video and audio too. Nice war cry, by the way.’

  ‘You heartless shits!’ hissed Maggs. He picked up the image of Pinky, half naked, pinned beneath Gibbs and waved it at Groombridge. ‘Is this what you wanted, you sick fuck? I bet you can’t wait to see it on the front page!’

  ‘This isn’t just about that, though, is it, Maggs?’ said Stark, as evenly as he could.

  Maggs glared at Stark. Then, just for a second, there was pleading in his eyes. Stark groaned inside. He was right, and Maggs saw it. ‘Don’t,’ said Maggs, quietly. ‘Please.’

  Stark sighed. ‘He didn’t do it, Guv. He didn’t stab Kyle Gibbs. It was Pinky.’

  Maggs shook his head sadly. ‘Which of us is doing the right thing, Weekender?’ he asked. ‘What will your reflection tell you?’

  ‘Maybe we both are, Maggs,’ replied Stark.

  ‘Ow!’ Stark rubbed his arm where Fran had punched him. A passer-by looked disapproving.

  ‘That’s for showing me up in front of the whole of bloody CID!’

  ‘I must remember it’s not nice to ridicule people before their peers,’ replied Stark, pointedly.

  ‘Now, now, children.’ Groombridge played father. ‘Play nicely or I won’t let you listen in when I call CPS and tell them their killer is still at large. Don’t look like that, lad. If she comes clean she might even walk. This has diminished responsibility, or at least provocation, written all over it.’ He must’ve seen Stark’s thoughts in his face, something Stark was determined to learn to prevent.

  ‘We have to find her first,’ said Fran. She punched Stark again. ‘That’s for bollocksing our stats.’

  ‘At least you can hand that lame pony straight back,’ said Groombridge. ‘Come on. We’re about to get busy again.’

  CPS took the news without much rancour, candidly admitting the murder charge was always a long shot, brought to help secure a lesser conviction. And even if the new theory could be corroborated, there was still the blow to the windpipe. The coroner’s report was inconclusive on whether it might’ve proved fatal, had Gibbs not then been stabbed. Maggs wasn’t going anywhere.

  According to Groombridge, Superintendent Cox took the news stoically enough too. Those who didn’t were DI Graham and his team, as Groombridge’s gleefully handed back all the lame ponies they’d accepted just hours earlier. A new TV appeal, slanted towards Pinky as a victim of violent assault rather than possible witness, or indeed suspect, was organized, and the process of keeping her uppermost in the minds of the regional police forces redoubled.

  All Stark cared about was making it through the day. He even considered ducking out of his evening with Kelly, but couldn’t face the defeat. He doggedly hit the phones and at the end of the day went to freshen up. He sensed someone follow him into the changing-room and turned just as Harper grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him against the lockers. Stark could have freed himself without difficulty but not without violence, so he let himself be lifted on to tiptoe by the heavier, taller man. ‘I don’t like gossips and backstabbers!’ hissed Harper, leaning in, eye to eye.

  The natural reaction in this predicament was to pull your head away from your assailant’s face, grasping at the hands gripping your lapels. Throw in a fearful expression and you have the perfect disguise for a retaliatory head-butt. Few things said fuck-you quite so eloquently as a Glasgow Kiss. Harper’s nose had been broken before and would break very nicely again. If Harper had pulled this kind of amateur theatrics away from the station Stark might not have let him get away with it. ‘And I don’t like bullies,’ he replied. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to come to your senses.’

  ‘You’ve been talking behind my back, spreading lies about me and my wife.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me!’ growled Harper. ‘You were eavesdropping on the stairs – that was a private conversation and whatever you think you heard –’

  ‘I wasn’t eavesdropping,’ interrupted Stark, ‘and what little I heard I’ve kept to myself. I’m no gossip. And you have five seconds left.’

  ‘You’re a lying snake!’

  ‘Four seconds,’ said Stark, levelly. Doubt finally flickered in Harper’s eyes. ‘Three. Two. One.’

  Harper pulled Stark forward, slammed him back and let go in one motion. He stepped back a pace, breathing heavily, thwarted and, if anything, angrier. He glanced around, for the first time checking they were alone. ‘You don’t want me as your enemy, boy!’

  Stark shook his head. ‘No, I don’t, and I’ve done nothing to make you mine. But I’ve faced enemies deadlier than you, and if you think you can intimidate me, you’re mistaken, again.’

  Harper sneered. ‘Got an answer for everything, haven’t you? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing – inveigling yourself into the guv’nor’s good books, sucking up to Millhaven and trying to make me look a bloody fool!’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘This was my case!’ barked Harper. ‘Everyone else may think the sun shines out of your arse but I’m not falling for your golden-boy act. I know what you are.’

  Stark’s eyes narrowed and cold fury crept into his voice. ‘You’re right about one thing, Detective Sergeant. I’m not what people think. Nurse your paranoid delusions if you must, but if you ever lay hands on me again you’ll get a glimpse of what I really am.’

  For the briefest moment Harper’s uncertainty flickered into fear, but then he huffed derisively, yanked open the door and left.

  Stark stared after him, still fuming, but also wondering if he might have done more to avoid it. He’d sensed resentment brewing, but this escalation … If there had been opportunities to nip this in the bud he had missed them. He let out his breath with a resigned sigh. Occasionally in life you ran up against someone with real or imagined cause to dislike you. Just knowing they thought ill of you was sickening enough but direct confrontation was worse – always unpleasant, always pointless and always sad, leaving you replaying the scene over and over, wishing you had th
ought quickly enough to explain the misunderstanding or defuse the situation.

  After their father’s death had rendered Stark and his little sister targets for playground bullying, he had learnt quickly to meet threats head on, but success in addressing the causes was never as simple. He could have told Harper that what he’d heard on those damn stairs was nothing to the whispers already circulating in the station, but that would only have made matters worse. The unfortunate sod had had every reason to suspect he was being talked about and every need to blame someone other than himself or his poor wife. He’d chosen the stranger in town, and nothing Stark could say would alter that for now.

  Crappy traffic delivered Stark to the Carter with barely a minute to spare, tired, despondent and sore.

  ‘No book today?’ asked Kelly, from the doorway.

  Stark forced a smile. ‘I just got here.’

  ‘Come on, you’ve got work to do to get back on my good side.’ Stark followed, trying not to limp. He got changed, met her by the pool and slipped off his gown.

  She looked him up and down, frowning. ‘You’re losing weight.’

  ‘Am I?’ He stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She was right. He hadn’t really looked at himself in a while. There’d been little fat on him a few weeks before. Now there was none.

  ‘And you look like you haven’t slept in a week,’ she added.

  ‘I’ve been pining since Friday night.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ She didn’t seem glad. ‘Ready?’

  Never less so, thought Stark, wearily, but he set about the routine with all the gusto he could summon, determined to make a good showing. The harder he tried the worse it got. His hip felt like it was full of sand.

  ‘Stop,’ said Kelly. ‘Stop!’

  Stark obeyed, shocked and frustrated in the extreme. She took hold of his left leg in the water and lifted his knee. At a certain point he winced. She moved it to one side and a sudden, sharp stab shot up through the whole left side of his body. He clenched his jaw to prevent the yelp escaping but she was watching him too carefully to miss it. ‘Okay, that’s enough pool work for tonight. Get yourself dried off.’

  As he was changing she called over the cubicle, ‘Just a towel round your lower half, please.’

  ‘Just a towel?’

  ‘Don’t be shy. I want you on the couch and I need to get at you unhindered.’

  Stark might have burst out laughing but for the lack of humour in her voice. A beautiful double-entendre gone begging.

  ‘On your back, please.’ She laid a second towel over his groin and peeled his away, preserving his modesty while leaving him naked down one side from torso to toe. ‘This was the shrapnel?’ she asked, feeling the largest scar.

  It was disconcerting having her touch him intimately in so matter-of-fact a manner. He definitely no longer thought of her as just his clinician. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fractured and punched a hole through your pelvis just above the hip joint. They considered a metal plate but needed to close the gap so they went for a bone graft from your heel and sat you still for eight weeks instead. I bet you were a model patient. Bone fragments were found in the hip joint itself, causing some cartilage damage, which had to be repaired here.’ She touched the lower keyhole scar. ‘That damage causes inflammation and discomfort if you overexert yourself, making your limp more pronounced. This hurt?’ She articulated his leg as she’d done in the pool and the jolt of pain strangled his answer. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’

  Stark recalled Fran asking him that very question about Kelly but his chuckle died as Kelly repeated the move. ‘Six or seven,’ he hissed.

  ‘This is new, I take it? It hasn’t been like this since your surgeries?’ Stark shook his head. ‘So when did it start?’

  ‘Recently, I suppose.’

  ‘You said you’d been on your feet a lot at work. Has there been a gradual worsening in line with that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which you put down to what? Wear and tear?’

  ‘I guess. I’ve tried walking it off, walking to work, but it hasn’t helped.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She tilted his leg the other way but Stark was ready and swallowed the yelp.

  ‘You’re not fooling anyone, you know,’ she said. ‘It’s possible the cartilage has deteriorated, or even that there are still tiny bone fragments rattling about. Unless you’ve fallen or twisted it sharply recently?’

  ‘I tried lifting a drain gully last week. I don’t think that helped.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it did.’ She articulated it one more time. Stark wished she wouldn’t. ‘Hmm,’ she mused. ‘This may be more tear than wear. We’ll need to monitor it. If it gets worse I’ll refer you for an X-ray.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Can I trust you to tell me if it gets worse?’ It was a serious question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ Her finger traced the big scar for a second more, then she covered him up. ‘Get yourself dressed. We’re done for now. Are you still up for tonight?’

  ‘More then ever,’ replied Stark.

  ‘Good. You could use a decent meal.’ He must’ve looked a little crestfallen. ‘Chin up, I’ve finished being severe with you.’ She smiled. ‘Wait for me in the lobby – I’ll be ten minutes writing this up.’

  It was twenty minutes before she emerged but Stark didn’t begrudge her one second. She’d changed into jeans and a scarlet top with sequins around the neckline. Hair still up, drop earrings and matching pendant on a slim silver chain, she looked elegant and relaxed at the same time. Fran had been right: this girl was light years out of his class.

  They set off, Kelly talking about Thai food. Stark almost felt hungry. The next thing he knew she was gently shaking him awake.

  ‘What? Whe– Shit, did I nod off?’

  ‘In the middle of my wittiest anecdote. You sure know how to flatter a girl.’

  ‘Sorry. God, I’m really sorry.’ He looked about and realized they were parked outside his flat. ‘Ah, this doesn’t look like the restaurant.’

  ‘Sizzling Crying Tiger will have to wait again.’

  ‘Really? ’Cos I’m starving …’ he lied.

  ‘If I thought you’d make it through the starters without going face down in your plate I’d consider it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, honestly. I’ll start with a coffee –’

  ‘If you think I’d settle for a first date where my opposite number needs a double espresso just to listen to a word I say without falling asleep, you’ve got the wrong girl.’ She laughed. ‘You’re not fit for company.’

  Stark could see he was losing and fell back to a secondary position. ‘Why don’t you come up instead? I’ll make us both coffee and a bite to eat.’

  ‘I’ve heard some come-up-for-coffee lines before but never from anyone less able to deliver.’ She shook her head. ‘Get yourself upstairs, make yourself something decent to eat and get to bed. Do not pass Go and do not drink any coffee.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders?’

  ‘Something like that. Now go.’ She looked a little less playful now.

  ‘Can I get a rain-check at least?’

  ‘Thursday. If you turn up in better shape.’

  ‘How about a kiss goodnight?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘But I might not make it to Thursday. I’m deteriorating fast. This could be our last chance.’

  She laughed again, that full throaty laugh, head thrown back, elegant, kissable neck exposed. Stark cursed himself.

  ‘I’ve gotta give you credit for thinking on your feet,’ she continued. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t use the broken-lift excuse to get me to help you up the stairs.’

  ‘That was my next line.’ He smiled.

  ‘Come here,’ she said softly. She placed a warm hand on his cheek, leant in, and slapped him playfully. ‘You’ll have to do better than that if you’re gonna make up for two failed first dates.’

  Stark sighed.
‘Third time lucky. Thursday, then?’

  ‘Uh-uh. It’ll still be the first date, remember. Now, goodnight.’

  Stark got out and closed the door. The window slid down.

  ‘Eat, then sleep!’ she called.

  ‘Goodnight.’ He waved good-natured defiance, closed the door, grinning a lot less than the week before, and did exactly as he’d been told.

  Stripped of distractions, though, his mind accelerated into spin cycle once more. His thoughts ranged from Harper to Maggs to Kelly’s neck to telling his mother the truth. When the phone rang at eleven it actually came as a relief. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Did I wake you?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I thought you might already be flat out. You looked like death warmed up all day.’

  ‘Your concern is always welcome, Sarge. Was that why you called?’

  ‘You wish. We’ve had a decent shout on Pinky.’

  ‘Great. Good luck with that.’

  ‘Ha-ha. Get downstairs. I’m two minutes away.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. This is the real deal. The manager of that Orpington hostel called. He’s heard Pinky’s linked with a local squat.’

  ‘Have I done something to make you hate me, Sarge?’

  ‘Put it this way, I can’t think of anyone more deserving.’

  28

  As soon as she saw Stark limp to the car and climb awkwardly in, Fran wished she hadn’t called him. He’d looked like death warmed up earlier but now he seemed corpse-cold. His eyes were sunken and his drawn face was taut, rigid. ‘Get out. I’ll call Dixon.’

  ‘I’m okay, Sarge. Let’s go.’

  ‘Bollocks. You’re no good to me like this. Go to bed, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’ve tried that. This is better,’ replied Stark.

  Fran bit off her frustration. Why did he always hit you with honesty just when you were ready to accuse him of lying? She really didn’t want to lose time calling Dixon, but she had a feeling she’d regret this. ‘Jesus, you take all the fun out of torturing you.’

  She flicked on the car’s concealed police lights and siren and passed him the hastily scribbled postcode, which he dutifully typed into the sat-nav. She kept her foot to the floor all the way there. Stark held on tight without comment. As they neared their destination she killed the lights and noise.