‘JOE!’ The room shook with it, the boom of it. Every window and door, faces crowded in, death faces, calling his name. Stark laughed, trapped in a George A. Romero movie. But he wasn’t laughing, he was screaming, screaming himself hoarse, screaming without sound, drowned out by the booming call, ‘PLEASE, JOE!’
Stark jumped out of his skin. His eyes burned open in horror, icy hands grasping at him in the darkness.
‘Joe! It’s all right, it’s just a dream. It’s all right! It was just a dream!’
Kelly? Her eyes running with tears, brimming with fear, stroking his face, soothing his brow. ‘It’s all right, Joe. It’s me. You’re okay. It was just a dream.’
Stark’s body was still clamped with horror, cold with sweat. He swallowed hard, trying to shake it off. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand over his thudding heart. ‘Shhh …’ she whispered. ‘It’s all gone now, Joe.’ He could hear the pain in her voice, the desperate sorrow. He raised his hand to stroke her hair, but it passed through as though she was naught but midnight mist.
Stark shuddered awake.
Cold pre-dawn light filled the room corner to corner, crystal clear and pitiless. There was no mist, no Kelly, no groping dead.
He was alone.
7
‘Right,’ Groombridge said with theatrical purpose, ‘let’s make this quick so I can update the super before the tap dance begins.’ He tapped the incident board, as yet with little on it but before-and-after photos of the deceased and rudimentary timelines from former to latter. ‘Thomas and Mary Chase were model citizens; happily married, entrepreneurial go-getters, job creators, tax contributors, pillars of the community; they had it all and someone took it away. So what have we got?’
Six-a.m. faces blinked back in the fluorescent glare. Out there in the dark, press hounds were salivating for a statement for their early news cycle.
Stark went first. ‘Thomas spent every Saturday morning coaching kids’ football on Blackheath. Chase Security sponsors the team, and the mini-league. He spent the afternoon in the office and evening in Birmingham, schmoozing a prospective client. But the client was called away and dinner abandoned. He cancelled the hotel room and returned home early.’
‘To find a killer descending the stairs,’ said Groombridge.
‘He had a regular Sunday morning golf round,’ added Stark. ‘Hated to miss it, according to his club.’
‘Mary spent the morning at home,’ said Hammed. ‘Lunch with friends, shopping in Knightsbridge, then the gym, masseuse and home around seven.’
‘I spoke with the pathologist last night,’ said Fran. ‘The Chases died within an hour of each other sometime between eleven and one, making the neighbour’s suggestion of shots fired around midnight more likely. He agreed to rush autopsies overnight.’
Groombridge smiled. ‘Your charm lessons are paying off.’ Marcus Turner would always give an extra inch, and Fran would always take a mile.
‘And hot off the press …’ She waved some paper, ignoring him. ‘Preliminary forensics. Numerous different fingerprints to check …’ she read, ‘blah, blah, bl … oh … no fibre evidence from the point of entry? Squeezing in? Bit odd …’ She glanced at Stark. ‘Ah, here’s the headline … point thirty-eight calibre two-hundred-grain bullet … bullets in this calibre no longer made … most commonly used World War Two … UK military use until 1969. Bullet markings don’t match anything on the National Ballistics Intelligence Service database. No sign of the weapon at the scene or surrounding area so far.’
‘We’ve checked back with Thomas’s mum,’ added DC Williams. ‘She doesn’t remember a gun in the family, but she doesn’t remember much at all to be fair.’
‘So,’ said Groombridge, ‘we have old bullets and a clean gun, possibly the victim’s grandfather’s. What else? Possible motorbike?’
‘Nothing so far on nearby cameras, Guv,’ said Hammed. ‘Nothing useful from the neighbourhood canvass or incident number.’
Fran looked at Williams. ‘Victim background checks?’
‘No form,’ he said. ‘The usual parking tickets and speeding points. Both left previous marriages to be together.’
‘Jealous ex-spouses?’
‘Karen Chase, formerly Karen Baker, forty-six, winters at her villa in Spain, been there since last week. Family Liaison say she’s been contacted. Not planning to fly back. Mary started life as Ms Stubbs; did a six-year stint as Mrs Murphy, before becoming Mrs Chase. Her ex, Colin Murphy, moved back to Ireland after the divorce. Hasn’t been in the UK in two years. Border agency confirmed.’
‘Solid alibis all round then,’ said Groombridge.
‘Especially if you’ve ordered a hit,’ replied Fran.
Groombridge ignored her. ‘No children from either marriage. Who’s looking at the Chinese adoption?’
‘Nothing yet, Guv,’ answered Williams. ‘Hopefully we’ll find something on their emails.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Uniform were called to a disturbance six months ago,’ added Hammed. ‘Row between Thomas Chase and his neighbour over leylandii trees blocking out the sun. Got quite heated.’
‘Have you looked at the neighbour?’
‘He’s eighty-two, Guv, and not too steady on his feet according to the report. Still had some choice words to say about the Chases.’
Groombridge nodded. ‘All right, keep digging. I’ll request warrants for the accounts, computers, emails and phone data. We’ll reconvene this afternoon.’
Fran’s phone beeped and she opened an email. ‘Autopsies are done …’ She scanned the content. ‘Cause of deaths confirmed as lead poisoning; no anomalies. Mary Chase had been struck hard in the face before her death, a punch, Marcus thinks. Two points of interest … She had engaged in sex some hours earlier. Semen residue recovered. Pubic hair too.’ She looked to Groombridge. ‘DNA?’
Pressure to limit expensive forensic testing was higher than ever, and there was nothing to suggest the husband hadn’t popped home for a quickie before heading off to Birmingham. He shook his head. ‘And the second …?’
Fran sighed, gravely. ‘Mary was pregnant. Approximately ten weeks.’
Groombridge winced. He wasn’t the only one. Stark could see the same angry questions in everyone’s eyes. Had the killer known when he pulled the trigger? Had Mary pleaded for the life of her unborn child? ‘Let’s keep that away from the media while we can,’ said the DCI.
No argument from Fran on that one.
As the meeting broke up, Williams, the team’s only parent, was first in expressing sentiments they all felt.
Stark kept his own bound tight. In the eyes of the law this remained a double homicide, but a third life had been robbed of its future. The most innocent of all. His first child case after all.
He tried to concentrate, but the darkness crowded in. Memories. Fearful, suspicious eyes of the young ones as you passed on patrol, Satan among them, come to kill and defile. Blank eyes of hunger, abandonment, bereavement; of childhoods lost. Tears, and terror. He could still barely bring himself to enter Greenwich’s famous covered market. All it took was a child’s laugh to set him back in the marketplace in Basra, bustling one moment, car-bombed the next. The little hand in the rubble …
Standing quietly, he left the room.
He only just made it to the toilets in time to be sick, retching over and over until there was nothing left but eye-watering convulsions and vertigo.
‘You okay?’ asked a voice over the cubicle door.
‘Will be,’ managed Stark. ‘Something I ate.’
‘Canteen’s a death-trap,’ muttered the voice, leaving.
Stark sat in the stall, eyes closed, head in hands, until the coast was clear. Until his heart slowed, and his hands stopped shaking.
8
‘Nasty business, this,’ said Cox, packing papers into his briefcase. ‘Bound to draw attention.’
‘Sir.’ Groombridge had known Cox long enough to spot an opening gambit
.
‘The residents’ group are making a fuss. Thomas Chase was chairman of their Neighbourhood Watch. Want to know what we’re doing to protect them.’
Live on TV, no less, outside the Chases’ home; speculating wildly about whether this was the start of a new scourge of deadly home invasions. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘They ran a charity, did you know? Aid to the Maldives, apparently. Something to do with football. Visited every year.’
‘Pillars of the community, sir,’ agreed Groombridge, still wondering where this was heading.
‘Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stevens called to make sure we were giving it our full attention,’ continued Cox, innocently. ‘Thomas Chase was an acquaintance.’
So that was it. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Like brothers, were they?’
Cox gave him a dry look. ‘I know you don’t approve.’
Groombridge did not. They had long ago agreed to disagree on the topic of Freemasonry. Maybe it was the ‘beautiful system of morality, veiled in allegory’ it claimed to be, but how were the unaffiliated supposed to judge? Any secret society was to be distrusted on principle. What was to prevent innocent fraternal networking edging into nepotism, and nepotism into collusion or coercion? Bad enough in business; much, much worse in positions of power. Without fear or favour, his dad had taught him – otherwise what was the point of being police at all? Cox was on the side of the angels, but angels could fall.
‘I used the opportunity to mention recruitment, of course,’ said Cox. ‘No go, as usual. But I do think I might swing something temporary.’
Things that sounded too good to be true … ‘DI Graham says he can spare a DC to help,’ said Groombridge, ‘probably towards the end of next week.’ Cox’s expression said it all. They both knew even that lame offer was unlikely to materialize. ‘But a body or two from elsewhere would help, sir.’
Not much, though. Any detective free to be loaned out would inevitably be that CID team’s lukewarm, their least valued member. Cox’s face said he remembered that all too well. ‘I’ll ask around again, of course, but I was actually thinking of the alternative we discussed …’
Ah … This again … ‘I don’t think it’s come to that, sir,’ Groombridge replied, keeping his voice even. ‘DS Millhaven has everything under control and I’m managing to keep a foot in both camps – as we agreed.’
‘And you’d rather advance your own plans,’ added Cox shrewdly.
Groombridge stuck with diplomacy. ‘Let’s see how the initial stages of the case unfold, sir.’
Cox nodded. ‘Very well. But keep an eye on things. The press are all over this already. We can’t afford any slip-ups with a Deputy Assistant Commissioner watching.’
‘There you are …’ Fran smiled sweetly. ‘You were out of the room so we saved the short straw for you.’ She handed him an address. ‘Mary’s sister, from yesterday. She’s agreed to ID both bodies.’
No one’s favourite job. Fran had given up sending Dixon, whose incurable squeamishness undermined the requisite tone. Hammed and Williams kept their eyes down. Stark sighed.
The Family Liaison officer met him downstairs. It should’ve been the same one as yesterday, but wasn’t. The system was stretched at every level. This one was experienced enough to pick up on Stark’s mood and cut the chatter short.
The sister, Jenny, was ready and waiting, anxious to see this through, to put it behind her. The Liaison nodded Stark to sit with her in the back. It seemed impertinent, but the man insisted with his eyes.
‘You’re him,’ she said, eyeing Stark while the Liaison drove. ‘The soldier on TV yesterday, at the Cenotaph?’
Stark nodded.
‘You were on the front page of this morning’s paper,’ she said quietly, turning her gaze to the passing traffic. ‘Mary was on page eleven.’
There wasn’t much to say to that.
Marcus Turner met them at the mortuary reception. ‘Short straw, was it?’ whispered the pathologist genially, while the Liaison talked Jenny through the procedure.
‘DS Millhaven sends her regards.’
Marcus smiled at the lie, but the banter was forced. He blew out a tired sigh, another long night of thankless endeavour weighing him down. ‘I wish I could say this got easier.’
‘What would it say about us if it did?’ replied Stark.
Marcus nodded sombrely, and slipped through the side door into the next room.
The viewing suite was not dissimilar from the police line-up suite. But instead of a row of shifty characters through the glass, there was a pair of sheet-draped cadavers. By agreement, Marcus folded the sheet from Thomas Chase’s face first.
Jenny swallowed, and nodded. ‘That’s Tom.’
Marcus moved to Mary. Jenny’s hand was already at her mouth, but a quiet gasp still escaped.
Marcus had done his best, but the cosmetic tricks of the undertaker were not available to him. Careful not to expose the ruination of the right side, there was still no escaping the wretched pallor of death on a face she’d loved in life.
Tears sprang immediately.
Jenny turned from death to clasp at life. Perhaps Stark was just nearest. Her weeping face buried in his chest, he had little choice but to hold her sobbing form. The Liaison watched helplessly. This was his job; to comfort and reassure, to provide a conduit between the bereaved and the investigation, and the necessary distance.
Stark eschewed meaningless condolences, but returned the embrace until the sobbing subsided and Jenny stepped away, apologizing, avoiding his eyes. The Liaison passed the tissues.
Paperwork signed, they drove her home.
Before going in, she turned to Stark. ‘You will find them, won’t you? Whoever did this?’ Her red eyes watched his, earnest, pleading. ‘Mary … had her faults. But she didn’t deserve this.’
‘No one does.’ That was as far as Stark was willing to go. Innocents died. Killers went uncaught. Promises were empty. Jenny nodded all the same, forcing the faintest smile, and let the Liaison walk her to her door.
Stark frowned. ‘What faults?’ he called out.
‘This is hardly the time, Detective Constable.’
The Liaison was right. But Jenny lifted her chin. ‘It’s okay.’ She looked at Stark. ‘No one’s asked. What she was like. I suppose it doesn’t matter, in a burglary.’
Stark met her gaze. ‘It matters.’
‘Personally? Or professionally?’
‘Both.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to stay … detached?’ She glanced at the Liaison, meaningfully.
‘We’re not machines.’
‘No …’ She sighed quietly. ‘You lost people? In the war?’
Her eyes searched his. Not for the first time, Stark wished he’d kept his questions to himself. ‘Yes.’
‘Was this a burglary or not?’
The Liaison stiffened, but Stark knew better than to overstep. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied honestly. ‘But if there’s anything about Mary or Thomas that we should know …’
Jenny appeared to come to a decision. ‘Look … Mary was never … quite the angel people believed.’
‘In what way?’
Jenny looked around guiltily. ‘She was … never faithful. To Tom, or her first husband, or boyfriends. It wasn’t her fault really; she was always the pretty one, always got what she wanted. She never learned how not to. I loved my sister. She could be warm and generous and carefree … but she was selfish.’
Stark weighed this up. Jenny might have mentioned it yesterday but reluctance was understandable. A good ten years younger but unconfident, mousy, unmarried, Jenny might have worshipped her glamorous sister. But growing up in Mary’s shadow must have taken a toll. Jenny hid intelligence behind diffidence. For a moment Stark wondered if she were capable of murder. On the face of it, not; but wouldn’t one say that of most? ‘Mary was having an affair?’
‘She told me about it last week. With someone at work, I don’t know who. She’d usually tell m
e these things to try and shock me, get a reaction, but this time she was worried.’
‘She said that?’
‘Not consciously. It wasn’t her way. She laughed about always getting herself into trouble. But Mary always had everything under control.’
In trouble? The pregnancy? Stark glanced at the Liaison, whose job it would be to share that particular snippet of news. ‘And she didn’t give any clue who this affair was with? The smallest thing might help.’
Jenny shook her head mournfully. ‘All she would say was that she had a plan. Mary always had a plan. It was the last thing she said to me.’
9
Clive Tilly was heading out the door of Chase Security as they arrived.
‘I’ve got meetings with the solicitors and the bank,’ he explained. ‘See if we can salvage this mess.’
Fran smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, I can see you’ve enough on your plate, but we’ll need help organizing interviews with your staff.’
Tilly looked appalled. ‘Why?’
‘It’s been suggested that Mary might have been conducting an affair with one of them.’ She glanced at Stark, as if daring him to be wasting her time again.
‘One of that lot?’ Tilly scoffed. ‘You must be joking. Mary wouldn’t dirty her designer heels stepping over them.’
‘Perhaps you were less abhorrent to her?’
Tilly huffed, shaking his head. ‘Do I look her type?’ He was fit enough for a man in his fifties, but didn’t enjoy Thomas Chase’s chiselled looks.
‘Tastes vary,’ Fran replied genially.
Stark suppressed a smile at Fran’s brand of diplomacy – saying nice doggie with a steak in one hand and a rock in the other.
Tilly eyed her uncertainly. ‘Mary wasn’t above batting her eyelids or waving a bit of cleavage my way, that was her solution to everything, but she wouldn’t risk anything more.’
‘Did you wish she would?’
Tilly shook his head. ‘A shark is a beautiful creature, but only a fool jumps in the water.’
‘You didn’t like her.’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 4