Groombridge stared back at the accusation. ‘What do you think I’m doing all day long?’
I wish I knew, she stopped herself saying, but the sentiment must have been clear on her face.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Look … I’ve recommended a solution, but I’m struggling to get it ratified.’
‘By Cox?’
‘Higher.’
‘And will I like it?’ she asked, sensing not.
‘More than the alternatives.’ A typical Groombridge answer.
‘And in the meantime …’
‘Keep calm and carry on.’
She stared at him, incredulous, all her fears confirmed. No one was doing anything! ‘Why aren’t you taking this seriously?’
‘I am –’
‘No, you’re not,’ she interrupted hotly, her mouth winning out as usual. ‘If you were, you’d have sorted this months ago!’
Now he bristled. ‘You think you can do better?’
‘It’s not my job,’ she railed. ‘And it’s not yours.’
‘The super is doing all he can.’
‘And we can expect new staff any day now?’ she scoffed. His pained silence was all the answer she expected. ‘Something has to happen.’
Groombridge held up a hand. ‘I agree. But there is a delicate balance to be struck here.’
‘Balance?’ she spat angrily. ‘Can you even hear yourself? You sound more brass than copper every day!’
Groombridge’s face flushed with anger. Jaw clenched, he glared at her for several seconds as if searching for words, then snatched up his coat and stalked out.
Fran had crossed the line with him many times, but never so far. Scowling at his departing back, her pang of regret only stoked her resentment. Maybe he hadn’t deserved that, but something had to be done!
It had become common practice of late to avoid Fran’s eyes when she emerged from Groombridge’s office. Their conversations were held more and more often behind a closed door, the blinds on the glass wall closed.
Unfortunately Stark arrived back just too late to pick up the vibe and just in time to see that door open to eject Groombridge past him like a fast-moving thunderhead, followed by Fran looking around as if daring anyone to speak and spotting Stark marooned mid-office like an idiot. ‘What are you gawping at?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing, Sarge.’
‘Arrest anyone yet?’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘Then get your bloody coat off and get to work!’ she snapped, storming off in Groombridge’s wake, though probably not in the same direction.
Stark looked around. ‘That about Hammed? Any more news?’
Dixon looked anxious. Williams just puffed out his cheeks and shrugged. ‘Only what I texted you. Fingers crossed, I guess.’
Neither of them had come up with much in his absence. So far, ex-employees with hard feelings had hard alibis to match. So before the end of the day Stark moved on to the business itself, cross-checking the list of creditors Tilly had given them.
The picture that emerged was less benign than Clive Tilly’s shrugs had suggested. Behind the scenes, Chase Security had been nothing short of ruthless with cash flow management. Aggressive invoicing, delayed payments. Several cases settled through the Small Claims Court, a few others never paid out with a wad of shitty letters filed with the invoice.
‘Quicker to chase money than pay it,’ Williams commented wryly, when Stark showed him.
‘Doesn’t quite sit with their reputation for charitable giving,’ mused Stark.
‘You can only give if you’ve got,’ said Fran, materializing in the doorway, a habit of Groombridge’s which she was adopting more and more of late. She looked over his results. ‘And you don’t get rich being nice. Get this lot over to Economic Crimes, see if there’s any proper dirt. Dixon, you’re on late duty. The rest of you clear off home. The victims aren’t getting any deader.’
She looked at Stark, no doubt expecting him to protest or volunteer, but he didn’t. They’d all been running on fumes lately and she had to rotate her team as she thought best. A non-com’s duty was to see the men and horses sheltered and fed. Dogged endurance gave diminishing returns without kip and rations.
He could feel her eyes on his back as he left; an all too common sensation of late. She was worried about him. Probably with good reason, but any effort to deflect her concern or curiosity only ever made matters worse.
13
Stark arrived at the gym later than usual. A hard workout had become a dependable antidote to his darker moods, more so since the split with Kelly. Pain, endorphins and hard, fast music were just what he needed. Tonight, though, an additional distraction materialized when a gorgeous, petite, raven-haired girl with dark eyes and olive skin got on the cross trainer next to his.
They puffed along side by side, facing the wall mirror, raising a healthy sheen of sweat free in the rhythm of their iPods. Stark inevitably pushed himself a little harder than normal, the way chaps do in the presence of the fairer sex, making sure he trained faster and longer than she did. Their paths crossed a number of times around the resistance machines and free weights and they exchanged eye contact and a smile before she left, which Stark chalked up as solid groundwork.
When he’d finished stretching down he sauntered up to Andy, the Aussie personal trainer who in the early days had helped translate Stark’s physio regime into a training programme that addressed his limitations. He’d just finished showing a cute redhead around the gym for the membership team and clocked Stark’s appreciative glance at her departing form. ‘Out of your league, I reckon.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ replied Stark.
‘So’s the other one you’ve been eyeing up for the last hour.’
Stark smiled sheepishly. ‘That obvious?’
‘Like you didn’t want it to be,’ commented Andy dryly. ‘Attends one of my spinning classes if you want me to put in a word? Selena. Spanish.’
‘I’m not treading on your toes?’
Andy laughed. ‘Nah, mate. Not my type.’
Stark frowned for a second, before catching on. A macho, sporty, thorough-going Aussie bloke, Andy fitted a different stereotype. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘I don’t need to advertise.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Besides,’ chuckled Andy. ‘No point coming on to the straightest fella I ever met.’
Stark smiled. ‘My sergeant used to think I might bat for your side.’
Andy gave a wry smile. ‘Nah, you play your cards close to your chest, mate, but not that close. So what about it, want me to put in a word?’
Stark declined with thanks. He did, though, ask the time of the spinning class.
He stepped out into the cold wind feeling positively refreshed, but as he unlocked his bike a different chill made him glance around, like the night before, certain he was being watched. But there were no guns trained on him, no hate-filled enemy; just the cute redhead, done with her gym tour, texting on her phone.
More tricks.
He shook it off and cycled home.
‘The police are keeping us in the dark,’ insisted the man to camera on the evening news. ‘While we lock our doors at night not knowing if we’ll be murdered in our beds!’ Fran recognized him – an overbearing oaf who’d made his presence felt outside the Chases’ home on the morning after. President of the neighbourhood committee, self-anointed king of his little enclave of private wealth. He’d had his face in a camera then too; spouting the ever-helpful theory that there was a psychopathic burglar about to embark on a house-to-house killing spree.
Fran half wished he was right. Theft left a trail, and thieves didn’t stop thieving. Whereas a deliberate murder was more likely a one-off. One set of clues, one chance to piece them together. Every chance you’d be left staring at a jigsaw puzzle with nothing but edge pieces.
The TV cut to DCI Groombridge, who calmly countered rabid hyper-bile with anodyne bullshit.
Oh good, t
hought Fran, so we’re ‘collecting evidence, conducting a detailed investigation, keeping an open mind and asking for witnesses to come forward’ … that’s nice. No doubt we’ll soon be ‘following multiple leads and vigorously pursuing several lines of enquiry’ too. With half a team and no chief half the bloody time!
She loathed this stage of an investigation; heads down, reviewing, cross-checking, summarizing, fumbling in the dark … getting nowhere slow. And with Groombridge consistently busy elsewhere, an irritation that soured everything. She had left her old nick in Bromley to escape the dictatorship of one toxic DI. By comparison Groombridge had seemed golden, the atmosphere here a breath of fresh air. What she wouldn’t give now for a touch of dictatorship.
She clicked the TV off and rubbed her eyes.
A text vibrated her phone on the table next to the wine. She allowed herself a smile, but it wasn’t who she’d hoped. It was Groombridge.
My office, 7 a.m. sharp.
Curt. One might even say dictatorial, thought Fran with a sigh.
14
Groombridge rubbed his eyes. He’d been up half the night reading divisional reports, and had little to look forward to but a day spent shadowing Cox in meetings and another dance for the TV cameras. And before that …
‘Thanks for coming in so early …’ He waited for Fran to close the door and waved her to the opposite chair.
She waited, stiffly, for him to go first; for the bollocking she had coming. He was still angry, but mostly with himself. A team without trust between its sergeant and inspector was diseased. The cancer had to be excised, and quickly. But right now neither of them knew how to apologize or felt it was they who should, which wouldn’t make the following conversation any easier. The only way out of this was to press ahead with his plan, if he could; and before Cox gave overdue credence to the ‘alternative’. DAC Stevens had been on the phone again last night, apparently, with Hammed’s absence adding further pressure. It was now or never. ‘Tell me about Stark.’
Fran answered warily. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It hasn’t escaped my attention that he’s lost his usual sparkle. What’s going on?’
Fran looked taken aback, and justly so; it was inappropriate to put her on the spot like this. She would draw his attention to anything affecting performance, but otherwise you stood by your own. ‘He’s okay.’
‘He’s sound?’
‘As he ever was.’
Dark humour was in poor taste, in his view. Fran had learned to respect Stark’s privacy regarding his physical and emotional injuries, grudgingly, but she kept watch. Groombridge no longer had time to do likewise. ‘I need to know.’
‘He’s just a little lovesick, Guv,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘Kelly? They broke up?’
Fran nodded, clearly uncomfortable.
‘I didn’t know.’ He rubbed his eyes again. Fran watched him carefully. She kept watch on him too, of course, and God knew she had reason of late.
‘Tell me this isn’t about “reorientation”,’ she said. The rumour mill was aware of Cox’s pet word for their predicament, then. Groombridge hesitated, and Fran’s face betrayed alarm. ‘For Christ’s sake, we can’t take any more cuts! Bidden was a good copper. Even Harper knew which end of a truncheon to hold. And now Hammed’s off. How are we supposed to go on like this? You can’t be thinking about losing anyone else!’
Groombridge had blundered, again. ‘I never said that, Fran. I just need to know who I can rely on.’
Her eyes bulged with indignation. ‘Me! You can rely on me, and every member of my team until I say otherwise! We need more staff, not less!’
He held up his palms. ‘Nothing’s been decided –’
‘But things are being discussed,’ she interrupted hotly, ‘above my pay grade. Meanwhile I’m rotating DCs through midnight shifts despite the sodding overtime cap. I’m warning you … Unless this team gets help, somebody is going to end up on the news spouting grovelling apologies or tap-dancing in front of a select committee, and it won’t be me. You need to do something!’
‘There is no quick fix for this, Fran. At least none you would like.’
‘What does that mean?’ she cried. ‘What could possibly be worse? This team is falling apart. If you won’t tell Cox, I will!’
Groombridge bristled. ‘Don’t push me on this, Fran.’
‘Or what? Are you threatening me now? I’m sure Cox would be delighted to see the back of me.’
‘Superintendent Cox is on our side, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Superintendent Cox is kissing arse for promotion and standing on your shoulders to do it. But if he thinks this station needs to lose even more weight, tell him I suggested decapitation!’ She stood and stormed out.
Groombridge let her go, speechless at his own ineptitude.
At least she didn’t slam the door.
Fran was forced to abort a good door-slamming by the sight of Stark sitting at his desk.
‘What time do you call this?’ she demanded, ignoring the fact that he was almost as stupidly early as she was. A selective conscience was essential when indulging in good old-fashioned cathartic nastiness.
‘Sarge,’ he replied with dull indifference. Not even a sigh – killjoy. Probably keeping his head down after overhearing raised voices. Anathema as it was to her, she could be fairly certain he’d resisted listening at the door; but what would he say if he had? Probably retreat even further into his shell, saying nothing to defend himself.
Groombridge was right in one thing. Stark had been more withdrawn than reserved of late, but this went deeper.
She’d studied him for a year and a half, determined to peek beneath his hard shell, caustic retorts, sly sarcasm and the occasional blunt truths he dropped to trip her. But when she did catch the occasional glimpse of his workings it was like looking into the blurred gears and springs of a well-oiled, complex machine of unfathomable purpose – no place for curious fingers. Groombridge had always understood Stark better than she did, a truth that irked her beyond reason.
It was easier to form a lazy opinion. Goldenboy, DS Harper had labelled him from the start: a bit too clever, a bit too righteous and a bit too prone to piping up with insights, oblivious to who he made look foolish in the process – something a fool like Harper took to heart. Stark had trained himself to suppress the instinct but Fran kept an eye out for that tell-tale tic in meetings. She’d learned Stark’s value, which Groombridge had known all along. He wasn’t a natural copper but he was, she would admit under torture, a natural detective.
Watching that spark fade from his eyes was maddening.
He looked tired the last few days, too, like in the bad old days. And something had chased him from his bed. The last thing she needed was him regressing down that road. Not long after joining the station he’d confessed uncertainty as to whether police life was still for him. After the dramatic events of those first weeks he’d not mentioned it again. Over time he’d slotted in and she’d got used to him, but every now and then something in his expression caused her to wonder if his thoughts weren’t only one step ahead, but right over the horizon. Where once she would have been indifferent if he’d left, now she would feel it keenly. She was fond of Dixon, Hammed and Williams – like younger brothers. It was different with Stark. Perhaps because he’d been harder to like, perhaps because he’d come to her broken and in her small way she’d helped put him back together. Perhaps because he didn’t expect anything from her, or fear her disapproval – he just was – and there was something oddly comforting in that. She felt no closer to understanding him, but closer to him all the same. Losing him would be the last straw.
She sat in her chair and stewed. Her threat to bypass Groombridge and speak with Cox directly had been empty frustration. It would be the grossest violation of trust. But Groombridge wasn’t making himself heard, and she so wanted to shout!
There was a courier envelope on her desk. Fran ripped it open, scanned the contents
, and dumped it on Stark’s desk, but with none of the ill-concealed delight she would normally have revelled in.
The last bloody straw. She stomped off to the canteen.
15
Dixon and Williams entered as Fran left, spun briefly in her wake and took their seats, perturbed.
Williams caught Stark’s eye, gesturing to Groombridge’s closed door. ‘Trouble at t’mill?’
Stark didn’t deny it.
Williams nodded, resigned. ‘They’ve been at each other a lot lately.’
Too true. Stark nodded but added nothing.
‘Reorientation?’ asked Dixon.
Stark shrugged. ‘Impossible to tell.’ He wished he could offer something to alleviate the anxiety in Dixon’s eyes, but speculation was useless. Fran and Groombridge enjoyed a certain level of friction, but things had been different for a while now. Cuts, break-up or merger aside, the worst threat the team could face would be a breakdown in trust between its DS and DCI. And right now he wasn’t much in the mood for positivity.
The nightmares had kept away, but pain of a physical nature had curtailed sleep instead. He might have left the gym feeling like a new man, but he was still the old one; a sore hip and aching muscles, penance for his apish chest-beating.
He picked up Fran’s parting gift. The ping on the Chases’ missing phones had provided no activity or location – switched off. Now the service provider had sent over a DVD with all the previous activity data. Both Mary and Thomas had backed up their contacts in case of handset loss, so they had names to go with numbers.
The last call Mary had made was to her husband just after seven p.m. Triangulation placed her phone at home, his at the hotel in Birmingham. The last call he had made was from his car to his golf club just before nine thirty p.m., no doubt to notify them he’d play in the morning after all. Stark worked his way back in time, searching for a needle in the haystack, that might not even be there. The morning meeting should have come as a relief, but Groombridge emerged from his office with a scowl.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 6