Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1)

by Ian Mayfield

  ‘Maybe,’ Nina lied. ‘Have you charged him?’

  The sergeant seemed to take this as an affront to the way she ran things. She frowned and said, ‘He wouldn’t be sitting there if I had.’

  ‘I s’pose not.’

  ‘He’s got no previous so I gave him a mild ticking off, whereupon he promptly fell asleep.’

  ‘Great,’ Nina sighed. ‘What d’you want me to do with him?’

  ‘There’s a Mr Lynott waiting out front to take him home,’ the sergeant said. ‘What say you go find him?’

  Between them they managed to get Luke mobile, but he was barely conscious. His friend stood up in alarm as they emerged into the front office, but said nothing until he’d relieved the custody sergeant of her burden. Grimacing, she wiped dribble off her shoulder with a hankie and disappeared back into the bowels of the station.

  ‘Mr Lynott?’

  ‘Nick,’ the friend said, peering at Luke for some sign of recognition. ‘What’s happening?’

  Nina told him about it and identified herself. ‘We haven’t met, but I am involved with the investigation. Luke’s staying with your folks, is that right?’ Nick nodded. ‘First thing, we’d better get him home. Have you got transport?’

  ‘No way.’ Nick shook his head emphatically. ‘I’ve had four lagers. Wasn’t gonna risk it.’

  With a twinge of guilt, Nina said, ‘All right, sit him down here for a sec. I’ll bring my car round.’

  A few minutes later they were heading for Thornton Heath. Getting Luke’s rag doll body into the back seat of the Mini had proved an impossible task. Nina had finally decided to let him go in the front, and run the risk of him chucking up on her cardigan.

  Over her shoulder she asked Nick, ‘Any idea how he got like this?’

  ‘He’s been moping around the hospital all week,’ Nick said, ‘and when he ain’t been moping around there he’s been sitting in his room. Me and a couple of mates decided to take him out for the evening, try and get his mind off his troubles.’

  ‘How much did he have to drink?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Sev’n pints ‘n’ two double Scotches,’ Luke slurred proudly, and went back to sleep.

  ‘Thanks,’ Nina said without blinking. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Said he was going for a piss,’ Nick said. ‘When he didn’t come back and we couldn’t find him, we assumed he’d gone home.’

  ‘But when you got back he wasn’t there?’

  ‘My parents were in bed. The door to the spare room was shut so I thought he must be and all. Then half an hour later the police rang. Said he’d been running round the hospital, shouting and causing a disturbance.’

  ‘The officers who picked him up said something about him yelling he had information for my guv’nor - Mrs Beadle,’ Nina said. ‘Any idea what that might’ve been about?’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’

  ‘They’re back out on patrol. I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet.’

  Nick said, ‘Luke mentioned a phone call; it’d answer a lot of questions or something, he said. Nearest he got to talking about the fire. We were trying to keep him off the subject.’

  ‘He didn’t say who the call was from?’

  ‘Not in my hearing.’ She could see Nick’s reflection glaring at her in the rear view mirror. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  Sunday

  The endurance of even the hardiest coppers starts to flag, faced at two in the morning by a nightclub filled for the most part with the energetic gyrations of people who seem barely out of the cradle; by a layer of noise from the sound system as thick now as the alcoholic fog that now filled several of the team’s skulls. Jeff Wetherby had to crane across the table to Anne to make himself heard.

  ‘As somebody once said,’ he yelled, ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Sandra, omnipresent tonight, stuck her head in between them. ‘All in your mind. Look at me.’

  ‘Aye, we all know you’ll stay till the bitter end.’

  ‘And us,’ Anne backed her up, linking her arm in with Zoltan’s.

  ‘Wimp,’ Sandra said.

  ‘It’s not just me.’

  ‘Well,’ Sandra leered, ‘can only be one other reason you’d want to slope off.’

  He paled at the inference and reflexively started to look behind him for Jasmin. ‘I only said soon.’

  ‘Long as you’re up,’ Sandra said, pointing, ‘d’you want to do something about that?’

  He followed her finger. Lucky had had two or three more rums, and it showed. She’d laid her head on her folded arms on the table, and appeared to be talking volubly about something. Paul was trying to get her to sit up, but from the look on his face she was giving him a hard time.

  ‘Before they try and chuck her out again,’ Jeff sighed. ‘OK. See if I can find Juliet.’

  It took a while, but eventually he prised her away from a young man who seemed to think he was a stag in the rutting season. Passing mention of a nice warm cell got it through to him that Jeff was a copper, and that squaring up wouldn’t be a good idea.

  ‘Lucky’s a bit the worse for wear,’ Jeff explained, as they made their way back to the booth.

  ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘Nothing terrible, yet. She’s had about six rum and blacks, but other than that - ‘

  ‘Six? Oh, great.’

  ‘Can’t hold her drink?’

  ‘Depends.’ Juliet quickened her pace. ‘I didn’t realise she’d... I only saw her have two.’

  Paul moved along to make space for her as she clambered over people’s legs. ‘There you are.’ Lucky lifted her head and let it drop again. ‘Missed all the fun.’

  ‘I heard,’ Juliet said, anxious not to let her embarrass Paul with a full-volume report on Nina’s dramatic exit.

  ‘See, what he realises,’ Lucky persisted, ‘is he can get away with treating us like shit, ‘cause we give off all the wrong signals. Women, I mean. Men treat us like shit, and we just go round with our chins on our chests putting up with it, hoping they’ll take it as a signal we’re unhappy.’

  ‘Larissa,’ Juliet said, ‘you’re pissed.’

  ‘I’ve never done that. Always had self-respect. Always. Never let anybody treat me like shit. And now I don’t know what’s happening.’

  She turned her head away and buried her face in her arms.

  ‘Loads of people get drunk,’ Marie Kirtland called across. ‘I get drunk on occasion. Doesn’t make me an alkie.’ Lucky didn’t move. Marie frowned. ‘I think I misunderstood.’

  ‘I’m going to have to take her home,’ Juliet said, looking up.

  ‘D’you need a lift?’ Neil said.

  ‘We can get a cab.’

  ‘Have to wait hours, this time of night,’ Sandra said. ‘Somebody can take you.’

  ‘Anyone going New Addington way?’ Juliet asked, none too hopefully.

  Kim said, ‘I can make a detour.’

  Juliet looked remorseful. ‘Don’t want to spoil the party.’

  ‘That’s all right. I was about ready to call it a night anyway.’

  ‘Told you,’ Jeff said pointedly to Sandra.

  Nina left Nick Lynott to put Luke to bed and aimed the car homewards. Passing through the town centre, on an impulse she took the underpass towards South Croydon instead of the left turn into George Street and Addiscombe Road.

  In the twilight before dawn 84 Chapel View looked almost rustic, with little hint of the inferno that had left Doreen Benton dead and little Robin in intensive care, dangling from a fraying thread of life. She parked and stared unedifyingly at it for a few minutes, then drove on, as if summoned, to the Clarkes’ house in Ballards Way. She understood what Kim had meant about the Polaroid and why it had been driving her crazy; there was something here as well, something that in her distressed state of mind she’d allowed to escape into her subconscious.

  Careful, at this still hour, not to make too much noise
with engine or handbrake, she pulled up at the observation point she’d used before. She was surprised to see light shining from a chink in the Clarkes’ downstairs curtains. Someone was still up. Everything else seemed as usual: windows closed, burglar alarm on, both cars in the drive.

  Then she saw something that hadn’t been there. Parked outside the house was a dark blue Vauxhall Astra. Nina had been driving since she was seventeen, and knew about unvarying suburban habits, residents and commuters who parked in the same spot day after day. She’d never seen an Astra there before, and besides, almost all the houses in Ballards Way had garages or driveways.

  On a whim, she reached for her phone and dialled the CAD room. The musical Swansea accent of Derek Simons answered her and she smiled. She liked Derek. Unaware of her married status, he’d once asked her out. She felt almost reckless enough to encourage him to try again, but not right now.

  ‘It’s Nina Tyminski,’ she said. ‘Sorry to use the direct line, only I haven’t got a PR. I’m on my mobile.’

  ‘No problem. It’s quiet tonight. What can I do you for, then?’

  ‘I wonder if you can PNC a vehicle for me?’

  ‘Have to ask you for your warrant number,’ Derek said.

  She gave him her mobile number as well, and the Astra’s colour and registration, cut the connection and waited. It took him only moments.

  ‘Tyminski.’

  ‘Dark blue Astra,’ Derek said, reading back the index number. ‘Tax and MOT expired. Registered to a Michael Philip Quaife, 33 Carmen Street, SW8. Good one, this, ‘cause - ’

  ‘I know about his previous,’ Nina said. ‘Thanks a lot, Derek. I owe you.’

  She cut him off in mid-polite disclaimer and sat, heartbeat racing, trying to decide on a course of action. She knew now, thanks to Luke’s drunken ramblings, where the attention of the enquiry should be directed; just as clearly as she now recalled what it was about that night in the Clarkes’ living room that had so troubled her.

  ‘Only I thought since she’s off anyway,’ Jeff said, ‘you’d be going with Kim.’

  ‘She has enough on her plate right now, don’t you think?’ Jasmin smiled and pointed to the booth, where Lucky had finally been coaxed to her feet.

  ‘You could be right.’ He took a deep breath that did nothing to quell the butterflies. ‘OK, then, shall we go?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Nearby, further departures were being prepared. Juliet’s efforts to persuade Lucky to accept a lift having finally paid off, Kim Oliver found Anne with Zoltan on the dancefloor and exchanged goodbyes that, from both women’s points of view, were unexpectedly emotional.

  ‘I feel sorry for you it’s been a bit, like, eventful.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Anne sniffed and wiped away a tiny tear. ‘It could have been boring, and then I wouldn’t’ve missed you all.’

  ‘After all,’ Zoltan put in, employing one of his most sardonic grins, ‘what would a Special Crime piss-up be without a healthy serving of drama?’

  ‘Quite right,’ Anne said, kissing him firmly on the lips. ‘I’m having a fantastic time.’

  ‘Probably see you around, then,’ Kim said.

  ‘Probably.’ Anne broke away from Zoltan and embraced her again. ‘Bye... sarge.’

  ‘Sarge yourself,’ she grinned. ‘Good luck making movies.’

  ‘At a guess,’ Jeff said, ‘bad news from home.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Oh,’ he muttered. ‘Strike one.’

  They drove on in silence for a while, watching the sky lighten to violet.

  ‘Not from home.’

  He started. ‘You don’t have to...’

  ‘I promised I would,’ she said. ‘I went to Scotland Yard yesterday.’

  ‘What, your exchange review thing?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Didn’t go OK?’

  ‘Sure, great,’ she said bitterly. ‘I’m doing real well. Also the Met cop over in Amsterdam. So now they extend the exchange for six months.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jeff said, suppressing his own selfish joy and relief with a pang of guilt.

  ‘I was looking forward to be home for Christmas,’ Jasmin said sadly.

  ‘You still can,’ he said. ‘Take time off.’

  ‘It’s not the same. I must come back.’

  A traffic light glared red. Jeff stopped the car. ‘So where’s that leave you? In practical terms?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean like a place to stay. Still in that Arctic room of yours, aren’t you?’

  A sour expression crossed her face, like a reminder of an unpaid bill. ‘Ja. It’s getting a little warmer; I was thinking maybe I can stick it out until December...’ She tailed off.

  ‘But now you don’t know?’

  Jasmin shook her head.

  ‘Have you told Kim?’

  ‘She will just offer me a bunk down at her place, but I don’t want to impose. If I tell her, she will insist.’

  ‘Kim’s place is very nice.’

  ‘I know. But she is all the way to Penge and I don’t have my own car. Also I need my space.’

  He pondered. ‘Furnished flats,’ he suggested. The lights changed and he put his foot down. ‘Self-contained. Look on Craigslist, the Gumtree. Might still have to share a bathroom, but basically you’re your own boss.’ He smiled. ‘I could help you look.’

  ‘OK,’ she smiled back, ‘but how do I pay for it?’

  ‘Do some more overtime.’ He regretted the suggestion at once.

  ‘Overtime is killing me.’ She didn’t need to tell him. ‘Look what happened the other day.’

  ‘How about another shared house? One where the heating works.’

  ‘Ach, always there is something with shared houses. If not the heating, then something else, like, the electric meter jams, or your housemates are crazy, or they wish six months of rent in advance, or the landlord is a pervert. I might as well move to a section house.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘You need to get away from cops sometimes,’ she smiled. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Too soon, the journey was over. He turned to her. ‘Door to door. Can’t ask for better service.’

  ‘I can too,’ she retorted. ‘What about the driver escorts his passenger in?’

  ‘What, in, in, or just to the door?’

  ‘Inside, twit,’ she said, cuffing him none too gently. Her gruff facade dropped for a moment. ‘Anyway, the room is cold and I don’t want to be alone yet.’

  Jeff killed the engine and applied the handbrake. ‘“Lead on, Macduff.”’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Oh, come on. They do have Shakespeare in Holland.’

  They got out of the car.

  ‘I don’t know this Macduff,’ Jasmin said.

  ‘The Scottish play.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  In the darkened hall she groped behind the door until she found the old bicycle lamp the inhabitants used as a torch during the frequent spates of electrical failure that affected parts, or all, of the house. By its guiding light she led the way upstairs. On the landing they stopped outside a door. ‘Hold that,’ she said, passing him the lamp. She inserted her key in the lock. The door was stuck in the jamb. She shoulder-charged it open, stepped aside and stood by for him to enter.

  He’d been in Jasmin’s room before, but never on his own. The previous occasion had been following a cinema trip with Kim and Brian Hunt. Afterwards they’d all come back here for pizza and cards. Now, without all the people, it was easy to see why she wore herself out with long hours at work. No-one in their right mind would spend time here willingly, except to sleep. Last time he’d not realised how cold, dingy and plain inhospitable the room was, despite the brave effort she’d made to brighten it up. The brown paint on the skirting boards and the window frame was cracked and peeling. Mould crept carcinogenously up the once rich cream-coloured wallpaper, which adhere
d to the damp-sodden walls in a way that suggested it only stayed there out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. It lent a pervasive musty odour to the room which Jasmin had tried to counter by deploying a couple of reed diffusers on the mantelpiece. The furniture consisted of a bed, a small, flimsy dressing table, a chair that didn’t match, and a deal wardrobe with a hinge missing. Jasmin could have fixed this herself, but where, frankly, was the motivation? Fix one thing, and there would still be another, and another. For a temporary base she spent as little time in as possible, it wasn’t worth the effort. Yet this one room, together with an equally soul-destroying, unheated bathroom and kitchen shared with three other tenants, looked like being Jasmin Winter’s home address for the next year.

  ‘Best not take off your jacket,’ she warned.

  ‘Wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Brr!’ She had on her only eveningwear, an electric blue, crushed velvet strapless dress with separate sleeves. She dashed over to the bed, grabbed the thick grey wool cardigan she used as a bedjacket and put it on. She kicked off her shoes. ‘OK, it looks weird. But I’m cold.’

  ‘Looks fine,’ he said. To him it wasn’t the clothes that mattered - although as far as bits of him were concerned, they helped. He added, ‘That dress looks grand on you.’

  She made a face. ‘What is the saying? Best of a bad job.’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her smile was the only warm thing in the house. ‘Even though I know it’s bullshit, what you say.’

  ‘It’s not bullshit.’

  Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with a hand. ‘I can offer you a hot drink.’

  ‘Have to be hot,’ he said. ‘What’s going?’

  He followed her downstairs in the dark to the kitchen diner at the back of the house. The drink was, she warned him, conditional on her fellow tenants’ practice of intermittently thieving the groceries. They had, as it turned out, been in Jasmin’s Ovaltine tin, but there was still just enough left in the bottom. She found some milk that hadn’t turned and poured it into a pan to heat.

  ‘So,’ she said, searching the cupboards for biscuits, ‘a good night out, ja?’