Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  22

  Fran’s was not the only hangover in evidence, but she was certain it was the worst.

  Her pact with Stark had accelerated after Harper collared him on one of his trips to the bar, forcing Fran to join them and endure Harper harping on; regaling them all against their will with tales – some old, some new, few credible and all of crushing disinterest to Fran. A miracle she’d held her tongue. If she had. Most of the evening was now a blur. Little wonder the man’s wife drank.

  He was on a call when she’d crawled into the office; someone important from his body language. He liked to keep the blinds open but the door closed. So far, he’d maintained the act – start over, work together, best of bloody friends. Fran wasn’t fooled for a second. When he eventually emerged he peered around the office. ‘Where’s Stark?’ he demanded, over-loudly.

  ‘Getting the coffees,’ replied Fran, hiding a wince.

  Harper looked displeased, his own headache showing, maybe. He announced that he wanted to re-conduct the interviews. He’d had the pleasure of Clive Tilly and Carlton Savage, but not Mark White. He wanted all three in. He handed her a copy of the work roster – complete with alterations. DI prerogative, but a treading on Fran’s toes that felt deliberate. A new broom had a brush on one end, but a stick at the other.

  Perhaps she hadn’t held her tongue last night.

  She broke the news to Stark when he returned with the caffeine. He’d been down for Sunday off.

  ‘Plans?’ she asked at his faint frown. Only she knew that he used any free Sunday morning to visit his pal in prison. Boys’-only war stories and medal-polishing club. He didn’t know she knew.

  ‘Nothing urgent.’

  She could offer to cover for him but if he insisted on secrets … Any decent person would just lie. ‘You could say you’ve got church.’

  He huffed the tiniest laugh. ‘Or confession.’

  ‘Talking of penance,’ she said, nodding to the fresh stack of files on his desk. Harper’s other roster tweak and evidence, were it required, that underneath the ‘Mr Nice DI’ act he was still the same petty shit he’d always been. ‘You get the Longshits.’

  Otherwise known as the Longshots – the tedious cross-referencing of modus operandi and forensics with the database, looking for any links with known killers, burglars, armed robbers and general low-lifes. The list had to be collated and sorted by match indices, geography, age, psychological profile, et cetera. It had all been done, but in light of Dixon’s slip, Harper wanted it redone and had been at pains to point out Stark’s prowess in that sort of thing. The job was usually divvied up to prevent anyone jumping from the roof. Perhaps Stark hadn’t held his tongue last night either.

  Williams and Dixon were dispatched to fetch the lucky contestants in Harper’s I’m On Secondment, But Try Getting Me Out Of Here show.

  Clive Tilly, Carlton Savage and Mark White were all found at work, so at least it wasn’t just coppers working weekends, Williams pointed out with his usual glass-half-full. Nevertheless, it took all day and persuasion-bordering-on-threat to get them in and interviewed.

  Clive Tilly’s ex-wife had been tracked down, but had nothing of interest to say, on the divorce or anything else they could use to trip Tilly. Records showed his phone hadn’t been used in the time window, and so failed to place him conveniently at the scene. They had nothing new on the others either, but Harper wanted his go on the merry-go-round.

  He gave all three a grilling, spending most time on Mark White, shortly thereafter promoting him to favourite for having no alibi whatever and lying to conceal his relationship with the victims outside work. Fran found his style heavy-handed and predictable compared to Groombridge, but White left suitably rattled and maybe that was worth something.

  Harper had certainly enjoyed himself.

  The DCs had been invited to observe, but Stark had stuck at his menial task. His backwards brand of defiance.

  Both Williams and Dixon offered to stay and help Stark that evening, but he declined with thanks. He was schooled in the army way. Good officers would turn a blind eye to short cuts if you gave them a good enough excuse, because they knew you probably had a better way of getting things done than the way they’d told you, particularly with TA soldiers who usually arrived with a more worldly pragmatism. Harper was the other kind of officer, and fretting wouldn’t alter that.

  Stark was sure he saw Harper glance back with a satisfied smirk, but he knew how to frustrate this kind of officer. He kept at it past midnight and placed his bulletproof report front-and-centre on Harper’s desk before leaving.

  No doubt the DI would find him something equally tedious to do the next morning, but if there was one thing an infantryman didn’t mind, it was boredom. If it became a battle of wills, Stark could out-stubborn a mule like Harper.

  Unfortunately, the following morning he walked straight into every infantryman’s nightmare, an improvised explosion.

  23

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ demanded Harper, storming in waving the News of the World, Britain’s favourite sensationalist Sunday red-top. On the front page was a picture of Mary Chase at her most angelic beneath the headline, SLAIN WOMAN PREGNANT!

  Beneath were three long-lens photos – Tilly, Savage and White. And underneath … POLICE INTERVIEW SUSPECTS. All three stills were of the men climbing in or out of police cars in the rear yard to the station the day before.

  ‘Someone tipped off the paps,’ spat the big DI as if the word were poison. He glanced at Stark, who’d been up here alone during the interviews.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Owen!’ cried Fran. ‘No one here tipped anyone off!’

  Harper rounded on her, and for a moment Stark thought he would rebuke her informality, but perhaps he knew better than to belittle her openly, or lacked the courage. Instead he waved the tabloid angrily at the whole team. ‘This isn’t the local rag. This is a national. It’ll be all over the TV as well by now.’ He eyed each of them in turn, lingering longest on Stark. ‘If I find out any of you is tipping the press, you’re finished. While I’m in charge this team will be the squeakiest it’s ever been. We stand together. Otherwise what’s the point?’

  An hour after that he was standing on the front steps of the station taking questions from the press. The team gathered round the TV to watch his performance.

  You had to hand it to him, thought Stark grudgingly, Harper looked the part. Tall, solid, handsome in a weather-beaten way, confident. He played down the significance of the three ‘suspects’, saying they were merely helping with enquiries, et cetera, et cetera. He didn’t carry it off as well as Groombridge would have, but better than Stark ever would. Harper revelled in the theatre of it; Stark had endured quite enough time in the spotlight for one life.

  ‘Think we have a leak?’ asked Cox, switching off the sound as the news anchor moved on to the next story.

  Groombridge pursed his lips. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re supposed to say no.’

  Groombridge shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘It would be the first time in this station,’ insisted Cox.

  Wishful thinking, thought Groombridge. ‘Could just be a lucky freelance photographer peddling snaps to a half-decent investigative reporter.’ More wishful thinking.

  ‘I’ve already had Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stevens on the phone, furious.’

  Groombridge kept his counsel on that news. By reputation, DAC Stevens had never been slow to make hay out of other people’s misfortune. ‘Could be the other thing.’

  ‘Phone hacking?’ Cox made a face. ‘Celebrity tittle-tattle is one thing, but a murder investigation … they wouldn’t dare.’

  Groombridge didn’t necessarily agree. Rumour of a broader investigation was being tightly controlled for obvious reasons, but if true, he had a feeling his sentiments about the tabloids might prove more justified than even he would wish. Everyone had been told never to leave case-explicit voicemails, but standards slippe
d. Phone PINs were changed regularly, but as a result they were often written down. It only took one rotten apple.

  ‘They’ll have a field day with this, though,’ Cox said bitterly. ‘Demanding to know if it’s true, how long we’ve known, why we’re not offering any progress.’

  ‘We don’t comment on investigative detail.’ Line one in the unwritten handbook.

  ‘Quite.’ Cox nodded.

  It was a losing battle either way. The press loved questions every bit as much as answers. And tomorrow’s headline was writing itself: Where Will the Baby-Slaying Blackheath Fiend Strike Next?

  ‘DI Harper handled it well, though,’ added Cox, fishing for an opinion from Groombridge.

  ‘That he did.’

  ‘One would hardly think he was freshly promoted.’

  ‘No.’ It was indeed hard to credit. But they were where they were … Groombridge would not undermine Harper now. The man deserved a chance.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be wanting to maintain some discreet oversight,’ said Cox. ‘Make sure the team is comfortable with the adjustment.’

  More fishing. Probably wondering about Fran. Groombridge bit his tongue. He’d made such a mess of this; and just when the demands on his attention were dragging him ever further away. If only he’d advanced his plans quicker. He wanted to blame Fran, but this was on him. He’d procrastinated, waiting for the opportune moment, and now his plans for the team hung by a thread.

  ‘No time for regrets, Michael,’ said Cox, perhaps mistaking his silence for wistful reminiscence.

  ‘No indeed.’

  ‘Well then.’ Cox picked up his leather document wallet. ‘Best not keep the bigwigs waiting.’

  Predictably, Stark was rewarded for the thoroughness of his Longshots report with the task of following up – checking names off the list he’d generated, one by one.

  Harper stayed out with Fran for most of the day, ‘following up on other things’ – throwing his weight around and no doubt enjoying every second of having Fran as his 2IC and Dixon and Williams as his minions.

  Stark took solace in solitude, more than happy to enjoy a silent office, interrupted only by occasional calls.

  ‘MIT. DC Stark speaking.’

  ‘Hi, this is the switchboard. I have a call for DCI Groombridge but he’s not answering. I don’t know whether you’ll want to take it either, to be honest. Says he knows the DCI but he’s quite rude and he sounds more like a heavy breather than anything else.’

  ‘Put him through, I’ll take a message.’ Stark waited for the click. ‘Hello, this is Detective Constable Stark. Can I help?’

  For several seconds the only other sound was wheezing. ‘Yes. You can put Mickey Groombridge on. I need to speak …’ Anything further was lost in a desperate coughing fit.

  Stark waited until the caller could breathe. ‘I’m afraid DCI Groombridge is unavailable –’

  ‘Don’t give me the run-around, lad. I knew Mickey when he was a green, snot-nosed constable like you and I –’

  ‘Ronald!’ cut in another voice angrily. ‘What’ve I said about sneaking in here? Now give me that …’

  ‘Tell Mickey …’ More coughing erupted. There were sounds of a brief tussle and the line went dead. Stark dialled the switchboard and asked if the caller’s number could be traced, but it hadn’t come in via 999 so hadn’t been picked up automatically. Stark emailed a quick note of the few facts he had to Groombridge.

  He spent the rest of that day and most of the next with the main CID team, checking names off his list of database longshots. Burglary-murders were usually a tragic case of unfortunate timing, the intruder mistaking the house for empty, someone returning home at just the wrong moment, one person or the other panicking or overestimating their chances. Breaking into an occupied house, forcing your victim to pop the safe before killing them … That was something else. Stark’s list was dwindling nicely.

  A good portion of the names were reassuringly incarcerated. Several were dead. Some had emigrated. Of those left, some had already been questioned by their local CID. Stark hadn’t unearthed any new names. It was worth taking a second run at it, though. Only Harper’s motive added a hint of bitterness to the boredom.

  As a trainee investigator and then freshly minted detective constable, Stark had enjoyed unusual access. Groombridge had taken him under his wing. Fran had mentored his training as if his swift progress reflected on her, which it did, in her mind. Stark had been spoiled. Now he was being benched. To let it irritate him was childish vanity. Time his fellow DCs enjoyed some preferential treatment.

  Now they were off with Harper and Fran, enacting warrants to sweep-search the homes and the workplace of the three suspects. Harper’s energetic approach would suit Fran, were it not led by Harper. Perhaps she had been guilty of waiting for Groombridge to lead. Harper had no such hesitation. However long he was here, he would use every moment to make himself look potent.

  Towards the end of the day Stark had his list down to three names. He was back at his desk making arrangements with three regional forces to sweep up the individuals for re-questioning when the news reached him: he’d been wasting his time.

  24

  Carlton Savage had been arrested on suspicion of murder. A diamond necklace, matching that habitually worn by Mary Chase, had been found in Savage’s coat in his work locker. One pocket had a small hole. The necklace was found in the jacket lining. It was being checked for DNA, but Harper had slapped the cuffs on Savage on the spot.

  ‘Kids these days!’ Harper grinned, basking in the glory. ‘Should’ve learned to sew!’

  ‘Obviously never got his cub-scout darning badge,’ added Williams.

  ‘The look on his face,’ laughed Harper. ‘I thought his eyes were going to pop out!’

  Fran sat at her desk, trying to appear gracious. Admittedly, it had been satisfying watching Savage shocked, cuffed and bleating the usual denials as giant Sergeant Dearing tucked his head safely into the back of the uniform car; but Christ, Harper was pleased with himself. Cox had popped down to congratulate him personally. A press conference to announce an arrest was being set up. Groombridge, presumably, was busy. That was the only explanation for letting Harper hog the limelight. Now he had his feet under Groombridge’s desk he would do everything in his power to keep them there. And, damn his luck, he was off to a flying start.

  Fran watched him, on a high as he was now, ebullient and charming. Sadly, the rest of the time he was petty, jealous and mean. A classic dictator, thought Fran, reminding herself to be careful what she wished for. If Harper’s appointment became permanent, she would have to move stations again. It was a shame. This had been a good team, for a while. Then the bankers had pissed the economy up the wall and here they were, stuck with the likes of DI Harper, the true price of austerity.

  Groombridge entered the station via the tradesmen’s entrance. The press were milling out front, waiting for the DI Harper show.

  He went straight up to Cox’s office to watch on TV. Harper came out and waved down the sea of raised hands so he could read the short statement. An arrest had been made. No name would be released at this time. Enquiries were continuing.

  He took questions but gave sterile non-answers as he had been trained. He seemed to grow in confidence with every turn in front of the cameras. A collar like this could make his career. Barely three days in charge of the MIT and Harper was shaping up to make the position his permanently, while Groombridge rattled around, office-less, doing donkey work for Cox, his photo of Alice in a cardboard box in the storeroom. All his hard work, his team, his plans, still hung on the thinnest thread and Owen Harper, of all people, held the scissors.

  As he was watching, the news anchor went live to his reporter on the steps of the station. The reporter, wrapped tightly in her flattering scarlet coat with glittering remembrance poppy brooch on her lapel, summed up Harper’s statement succinctly: ‘And while the police are not willing to identify the man in custody, sources are report
ing that his name is Carlton Savage, an employee of the two victims. These images were taken earlier today outside the business premises of Chase Security …’

  Groombridge and Cox sat up straight at the photo on the screen. Carlton Savage being led out in handcuffs, between two uniforms, under the satisfied supervision of Detective Inspector Harper.

  The anchor and reporter batted the next-to-nothing they knew about Savage back and forth to each other for the requisite allotted seconds of air time and then the anchor moved on.

  Cox hit mute.

  Groombridge let out a sigh.

  Cox looked at him, less sanguine. ‘Look into it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Stark!’

  Stark turned to find Groombridge bearing down on him across the station’s small car park. ‘Guv?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Crystal Palace, Guv. Following up one of the longshots.’

  Groombridge frowned. ‘When we have a suspect in custody?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Harper wants to make sure we’re shiny, Guv.’

  ‘By wasting valuable time covering old ground?’ Groombridge rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, well, do as he says and keep your nose clean. I’ve something I want you to do for me.’

  Stark’s heart sank as Groombridge explained. His unhappiness must have been obvious. ‘I’m sorry to ask you to do this,’ added Groombridge. ‘I’m far from happy about it myself. But two press scoops in as many days can’t be ignored.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Groombridge looked at him appraisingly. ‘There are many people in this building I trust, Joseph, but few as much as you in this instance. This requires delicacy. Far better no one knows you’re digging. Just keep your ear to the ground and your eyes open. Find out who knew what when.’