Parking up, Mariner checked in first with a young man called Zac, on duty at reception. ‘Sorry, it’s been a while,’ Mariner said, slightly embarrassed.
‘No worries,’ Zac was cool. ‘You’re here. It means that Jamie sees you more often than a lot of our clients see their families.’ Mariner hadn’t encountered Zac before and for a second he considered explaining the irony of that remark, but decided that it wasn’t really important. It had taken other staff at Manor Park a while to get their heads round the fact that Mariner and Jamie were entirely unrelated, and that what had left Mariner with his legal guardianship was simply a series of unfortunate occurrences. The first and most significant of these was the murder of Jamie’s older brother, Eddie, which had left Anna, their sister, Jamie’s reluctant carer, and brought DI Tom Mariner into their lives. In the course of the homicide investigation Mariner had got to know Anna, and when the perpetrator was caught it was almost inevitable that he would go on seeing her. Their affair had foundered a couple of years down the line, and shortly afterwards life had delivered one of those devastating sideways swipes that defies anticipation, when Anna’s life was cut cruelly short. So, by a quirk of timing and legal process, Mariner suddenly found himself responsible for his former (and late) lover’s brother. Not an easy arrangement to explain to anyone. To begin with Mariner had been almost pathologically afraid of the responsibility, but as time wore on Jamie had become just another part of his life. ‘Besides …’ Zac tapped his finger on the previous page, ‘looks like Jamie had another visitor just a couple of days ago.’ Mariner saw the neat handwriting: Mercy. It only made him feel worse. Mercy had helped to care for Jamie for a while, and still visited him often, despite her age and the fact that the journey on public transport must take her all day.
‘OK, let’s go find him,’ said Zac, when Mariner had signed in. This in itself proved no easy task. They found Jamie’s room empty and untidy, though stopping off there enabled Mariner to collect Jamie’s jacket from behind the door. He and Zac then spent a further fifteen minutes walking the wide, brightly lit corridors looking for him. There seemed to be fewer staff about than usual, and, at one point, Mariner heard raised voices behind closed doors. They finally located Jamie in one of the communal lounges, where he sat in front of a TV that was playing a rugby match. That too was uncharacteristic; Jamie only ever watched TV programmes that interested him, and these were mostly pre-recorded quiz shows.
‘Hi, Jamie,’ said Mariner, taking in the stubble on his chin and the shapeless tracksuit. He was looking his age, his hair going grey at the same rate as Mariner’s, though Jamie was losing his too.
Jamie glanced in his direction for a brief second, enough time for Mariner to see the bruise on his forehead, but he remained seated, tugging at a bandage wound tightly round his forearm. ‘What’s he done there?’ Mariner asked Zac.
‘The bandage is covering a bite.’
‘An insect bite?’
‘A Jamie bite,’ said Zac. ‘And he banged his head on a door frame, while Nell was trying to get him dressed a couple of days ago. He’s become a bit less co-operative just lately, and we’re getting some challenging behaviour.’
‘Is he being medicated?’ Mariner asked.
‘Just a small dose of Ritalin,’ said Zac. ‘There wasn’t any choice.’
‘How long has this been going on?’ asked Mariner, ‘and why has nobody told me?’
‘I guess we’ve been waiting to see if things would settle down again,’ said Zac. ‘Sometimes it’s just a blip. I’m sure you’ll be contacted if it’s deemed necessary.’ He sounded casual and Mariner drew breath for a further complaint, but decided against it. All he would be doing was taking out his guilt and frustration on Zac, and it wouldn’t help. He wished Nell, Jamie’s current key person, was about, but she worked weekdays, so it was unreasonable to expect that she would be here on a Sunday too. He’d contact the management tomorrow and vent his anger.
‘Coming for a walk, Jamie?’ he said instead, holding Jamie’s coat out as a prompt and wondering from the hesitation whether Jamie actually recognised him. Certainly he hadn’t addressed Mariner with the customary ‘Spectre Man’, his best effort at ‘Inspector Mariner’. But after a moment, Jamie got to his feet and took his coat.
Jamie was a creature of immovable habit, so, whatever the weather, the two of them always went for a walk around the extensive grounds to burn off some of Jamie’s boundless energy. Today, in a strange reversal, Mariner hoped the fresh air might revive him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect, and as they set off on their regular circuit of the grounds, he had to keep stopping to allow Jamie to catch up.
Increasingly Mariner had come to realise how much he appreciated these visits to Jamie, finding that their walks gave him an opportunity to clear his head by voicing whatever might be on his mind, in the secure knowledge that he could do so in complete confidence. Although touching on forty, Jamie’s severe autism and learning difficulties meant that his conversational skills were those of a reticent two-year-old. The limited words in his repertoire were the means to the end – a way of getting what he needed – and beyond that, as far as he was concerned, talk was entirely redundant and unworthy of any kind of attention. It placed him in the role of non-judgemental confessor. Today, though, Mariner was much too preoccupied with Jamie’s demeanour to do anything other than study him for a clue about what was going on.
Halfway round they stopped beside the tributary of the River Severn that flowed on the other side of the fence and found a patch of grass to sit down. Jamie hovered expectantly, lightly flapping his hands until Mariner produced a packet of Hula Hoops, which he snatched aggressively. Normally Mariner would have made him take them more calmly, but today something told him not to. They sat while Jamie munched his way through them, cramming far too many into his mouth, and when he’d finished, instead of passing the empty packet to Mariner, as he’d learned to do, he let it fall carelessly to the ground. Mariner picked it up and got to his feet to head back. Jamie stood up too, but didn’t move. Mariner put an encouraging hand on his arm. ‘Come on then, mate,’ he said, and to his astonishment, Jamie – who shunned all physical contact – leaned in to him, resting his head on Mariner’s shoulder. With caution, Mariner put his arms around Jamie, who relaxed against him in a hug.
This had been a far from routine visit and it made Mariner uneasy. For some time now he had taken Manor Park for granted, having removed Jamie from his previous care home for what looked like neglect. After a stressful few months of trying to care for him at home, the place had come up at Manor Park, which had seemed a much better environment. But Mariner was well aware of recent, highly publicised case reviews into adult care homes, and hoped this wasn’t the first indication that all wasn’t well at Manor Park.
On their return, approaching an ancient oak tree, Jamie slowed, holding his crotch. This was purely habit; the first time it had happened Mariner hadn’t seen the harm in stepping back over the fence and allowing Jamie to pee into the river. This time, standing downstream, Mariner noticed a trail of something in the water. It took a couple of seconds for him to realise what it might be, but when he did, he snatched a tissue from his pocket and tossed it into the water where Jamie’s stream of pee hit the surface. It immediately soaked up the water but turned a definite pink colour. As soon as Jamie had finished they went back up to the building and Mariner tracked down Zac. ‘I think Jamie’s peeing blood,’ he said.
When Mariner got home that evening he remembered to text Suzy: ‘Good luck tomorrow.’
Her response pinged back immediately: ‘Thanks. How’s Jamie?’
Mariner hesitated; an economy of truth, or a long and complex text that would only worry her? In the end he had to be honest. ‘Not good,’ he texted back. His phone rang almost immediately. ‘What does that mean?’ Suzy asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mariner candidly. ‘The problem with Jamie is that if he’s feeling rough or in pain, he can’t tell an
yone.’ He’d waited around at Manor Park a further hour, plying Jamie with drinks, to confirm that he was right, after which, Zac had undertaken to contact the doctor straight away, to set in motion the relevant tests.
‘Trouble is, I don’t have much confidence that they will,’ Mariner said now, to Suzy. ‘Why didn’t they pick this up? I’ve been wondering if I should have Jamie back here to live with me again. At least I’d be able to keep an eye on him.’
There was a pause at the other end of the phone. ‘You tried that before,’ Suzy reminded him. ‘It wasn’t all plain sailing then, was it?’ She was right. He had just about managed, but only because he had ruthlessly exploited the goodwill of just about everyone he knew.
The following morning the post arrived just as Mariner was leaving for work. Amongst the letters was one from Manor Park. It was from the facility’s medical officer, detailing almost everything about Jamie’s behaviour that Mariner had seen the previous day. Referrals have been made for a number of tests, he wrote. I will notify you when these are likely to take place. The letter was dated from the previous Thursday, thus assuaging Mariner’s immediate fears. Now they just needed to get Jamie back to his normal self.
FIVE
Detective Sergeant Vicky Jesson was facing her own medical crisis.
‘I don’t feel well,’ her younger daughter, Maisie, was whining. Vicky checked her forehead yet again. It wasn’t that warm and, apart from the sad face, the eight-year-old looked perfectly fine. But her throat was red and there were those light pink spots. What if—? Any other circumstances and Vicky could have called mum to come over and take Maisie to the doctor’s, but today was Doris’ morning in the charity shop and dad would be out playing golf, making the most of the sunshine. Vicky knew too that part of her hesitation was simply about bad timing. What she couldn’t afford to do just at the moment was to miss any of the morning briefings and task allocations.
Since coming to work at Granville Road station, Vicky had worked hard with Tom Mariner; hard enough to have proved herself capable and reliable. But just lately she seemed to be marking time in terms of responsibility. Charlie Glover had been one of Mariner’s sergeants for years, so it was understandable that they often seemed to be boys together. It wasn’t that they ever actively excluded her, and she was always invited along if they went for an after work drink, but there were times when they seemed to forget that she had family commitments. She didn’t dislike Glover – Charlie was lovely – but easy for him to put the job first when he had his wife at home keeping things going. It was a different story when you were a lone parent to three kids. Thanks to mum and dad, Vicky managed to hold it together most of the time and make sure that family didn’t get in the way. The kids pulled their weight too, so she had no complaints there. Although only fourteen, Aaron was pretty good about taking care of his sisters, even though Vicky suspected he took a bit of stick from his mates over it. But Vicky was starting to resent the growing feeling that Charlie Glover’s ever-available presence was holding her down in the pecking order at a time when she needed to establish herself. She’d even thought about approaching Superintendent Sharp, but knew deep down that bleating to the management wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t even as if Sharp would necessarily understand; hers was very much the main breadwinner role in her all-female relationship, so not that different from Charlie in that respect.
Now, though, with Charlie away, Vicky was presented with an opportunity to be indispensable, and she didn’t want to screw it up. And she only had a limited window; she felt sure DC Millie Khatoon would be returning from maternity leave very soon, and she and Mariner also had a long-standing partnership. The fire at Wellington Road was bound to be at the top of the agenda this morning. With Charlie away it would make sense for Mariner to appoint Vicky as Senior Investigating Officer; although it would be new to her, she was easily capable of liaising with Fire Investigation. But she couldn’t agree to do it if she wasn’t there. It wasn’t often that Vicky mourned Brian’s passing; her late husband had been a bully and not at all the man people thought he was. But just now and again, like this morning, him getting himself shot dead really pissed her off. She reached for the phone and dialled the doctor’s surgery.
Vicky had more time than she thought. At the time she was deliberating all this, Mariner was standing outside 104 Wellington Road with Gerry Docherty, as the fire investigator geared up to go into the building. Tech Rescue had finally given the all-clear, having shored up the dodgy walls, and Docherty was all kitted out in his forensic suit and poised to begin his job. But right now he was waiting again, this time because the Forensic Scene Investigator and SOCO, including a photographer, had gone ahead of him into the house to examine the scene and photograph, collect and bag any immediately available evidence. ‘Before I plonk my size elevens all over it,’ said Docherty cheerfully. Docherty himself might not start work for another hour or two; all this on top of yesterday’s delays.
‘You need a lot of patience for your job,’ Mariner remarked.
‘What, more than you?’ said Docherty, eyebrows raised.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Mariner, once again superfluous.
‘Sure,’ said Docherty. ‘I’ll email through anything we find of interest, and call you if it’s urgent.’
Immediately he got into Granville Lane, Mariner went to discuss strategy with Superintendent Sharp, who’d also just arrived from a breakfast meeting at Lloyd House. She looked shattered, even though it was only early morning on the first day of the week. Her normally dark skin was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. She was beginning to look her age, Mariner thought. It was what promotion did to a person. ‘Tough one?’ he said.
‘When is it ever anything else?’ Sharp said wearily, sitting back and crossing her long legs. ‘Ten years ago we used to think the budget cuts were bad. I sometimes think now the Home Office would just prefer a bunch of unpaid civilian vigilantes.’
‘So this is a conversation you won’t want to have,’ said Mariner.
‘The weekend’s little pyrotechnic adventure, I take it,’ said Sharp. ‘I understand you were in the thick of it.’
‘You could say that,’ said Mariner, and brought her up to date.
‘So you’ll be putting in a contingency application for overtime?’ Sharp surmised.
‘Not yet, we don’t know what category this will turn out to be, so I’ll see how it pans out. But the family is Arabian. I couldn’t really tell on Saturday if we’ll need to buy in interpreters. And of course it could turn out to be sensitive.’
‘And therefore in need of the diplomatic skills of a senior officer, perhaps?’ Sharp observed, reading him perfectly.
‘Exactly,’ said Mariner. ‘It’s why I thought—’
‘Why not Vicky as SIO? She’s very competent.’
‘I agree,’ said Mariner. ‘But she’s still only a sergeant and hasn’t had experience of handling a multifaceted investigation like this one will be. It could potentially mean liaising with fire service, family, community leaders and all that. If Charlie was here I’d have no hesitation, but—’
‘—conveniently for you he’s not.’ Sharp shook her head. ‘Sometime, Tom, you are going to have to get used to the idea that DCI and delegation go together, which means occasionally sitting on your arse and doing a bit of paperwork for more than ten minutes at a stretch.’
‘What can I say?’ Mariner was all innocence. ‘I’m a slow learner. Either way, until we have more of an idea what this might be, I’d like to oversee it.’
‘And your involvement on Saturday night?’
‘It gives me some useful context, but was superficial. I’m not sure that Mrs Shah would even recognise me again, and there was nothing I could do.’
Sharp regarded him evenly. ‘You’d give Ghandi a run for his money in passive resistance,’ she said eventually. ‘But keep me in the loop, particularly if and when we get to the community liaison stage.’ She caught his expression. ‘For in
formation,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so paranoid.’
Mariner was lucky; he knew that. A lot of other superintendents would have told him to grow up, do the job he was paid to do, and let others do theirs. But Sharp was a pragmatist, plus she liked him. Mariner liked to think it was because, when they’d first met, his bare backside had made a favourable and lasting impression. But he could have been wrong about that.
‘Isn’t Millie back later this week too?’ asked Sharp, as he got up to go.
‘She is,’ Mariner confirmed. ‘But she’ll take some time to get back into the swing of things, and she’ll only be here three days a week.’
‘Just be careful with that “only”,’ Sharp warned. ‘Millie will give it one hundred percent and more while she’s here, we both know that.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t,’ said Sharp mildly. ‘But it’s what you said that matters. Part-time does not mean less commitment, especially where Millie’s concerned.’
‘Even so, we’re going to be stretched.’
‘Then ask uniform for another body,’ said Sharp. ‘Someone to help with the grunt work.’
Mariner had already considered but rejected that idea. ‘You think Stone’s likely to co-operate?’
Sharp shrugged. ‘Like you said, it’s a significant case.’
Floaters (an unfortunate term in Mariner’s opinion) were uniformed officers who drifted from one department to another picking up the slack with tasks deemed too menial for more senior ranks, frequently those who, for whatever reason, were confined to restricted duties. In Mariner’s experience they were often more trouble than they were worth, as it took far longer explaining what was required of them than it did to do the work. But his team was now so depleted that they could no longer run effectively on the staff they’d got.
A Good Death Page 4