The traditional cafe was about as far from the cosmopolitan, metro-chic café as it was possible to get. Nowhere on the streets of Paris or Milan would you find a home for the greasy spoon, that quintessential great British institution; dispensing mugs of tea and full English to the dawn-trade working man and brunch-time hungover. And to footsore coppers, marking time between night and day in a futile attempt to realign their body clocks with the rest of the world.
‘You must be knackered?’ suggested Groombridge, as they levered themselves into the fixed plastic seating.
‘Nothing hot rations and a brew won’t sort, Guv.’
Groombridge sighed. ‘Things are about to get busy.’ He looked tired too. He may have had a few hours’ sleep, but not enough. There was more salt than pepper in his hair these days, and the lines around his eyes had deepened.
Stark nodded. The unsmiling waitress in her pink-and-brown polyester uniform slopped two steaming mugs on the plastic table and returned moments later with plates loaded rim to rim with heart-attack happiness.
Soon Fran would wake and see the missed calls. She would call Harper and the peace would end. But for now two comrades ate in consenting silence, content in the quiet before the storm.
31
‘Stark?’
Stark jerked. Three days, three nights, nearly letting him sleep then the blast of lights and white noise like the buzzing of a mosquito. His limbs stiff and aching from the stress positions but the bone-gnawing cold was gone. They thought he was tired but his mind was racing. They thought he was weak but he already had his hands free. The inquisitor coiled behind the lights hissing his lies and venom, whispering honeyed words. ‘You’re ill,’ they said. ‘We have a doctor. Just say the word. This is just a test, a simulation … Everyone breaks in the end. Why not call it a day?’
‘Come closer, snake,’ whispered Stark inside his head. ‘Come closer and we’ll see …’
‘Stark.’
Stark jerked awake, speakers and spotlights morphing into tyre noise and a low, stabbing sun. He squinted at the passing streets. The car was nearly back at the station, miles and years from ‘Tactical Questioning’ and his disastrous delirium. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry, Guv. Old habits.’
‘Your phone was ringing.’
Stark fished it out. ‘Missed call from Fran.’ He tried to call back. ‘Engaged.’
Groombridge stole a glance at him. ‘You okay?’
‘Nothing a few more hours’ kip won’t sort,’ lied Stark. Perhaps he’d been twitching or calling out. He hoped not. Kelly would wake him if it got bad. How many times had she lain there wondering what to do, whether the sleep he was getting was worth the dreams he was suffering?
Groombridge took a call on his mobile as he parked the car. Stark stepped out, to offer him privacy. While he waited a budget beamer swung into the car park, and Harper climbed out.
‘Stark!’ he barked. ‘What the fuck? I’m just hearing about this now on my way in?’
‘I called DS Millhaven –’
‘And left a message! This is a murder investigation, not a holiday camp. A senior officer should’ve been at the scene, not some –’
‘Good morning, Owen,’ said Groombridge cheerily. ‘That was Fran on the phone. Said she’d just spoken with you. Hope you don’t mind me jumping in. Thought I’d give Stark a hand with the legwork, let you come at it fresh. Talking of which, let’s get inside.’
Harper’s face was a picture – an abstract in reds. Forced to swallow any further words, he led the way in silence while Groombridge kept up his cheerful chatter all the way upstairs, but Stark could sense the resurgent resentment radiating from the big man. If Harper’s olive branch had ever been genuine, it was wilting fast.
Williams and Dixon weren’t in yet. They would have been Fran’s next call. ‘Get us some coffee, Stark,’ suggested Groombridge. The message in his eyes was that Stark should be out of earshot for the next bit. They both understood the impropriety of dressing someone down in front of their subordinates, particularly someone like Harper. It was his job to make sure everyone in his team had his phone number and he knew it. Enough damage had been done outside without adding more.
As he gratefully headed for the stairs, the lift door opened and Fran barrelled out looking flustered. She stopped when she saw Stark, and made, of all things, an apologetic face.
‘Coffee, Sarge?’ he asked.
‘Double espresso.’ She nodded and took off to face the music. It was her job to take the call, whatever the hour. She had explaining to do too. Stark had expected his own dressing-down for not trying hard enough. If there was one thing a person could normally rely on, it was to know where they currently stood with Fran. This thing with Harper seemed to have knocked her sideways. Stark felt he should ask how she was, offer help. God knows she butted in quickly enough the other way round. But the mere thought was laughable.
‘Well … at least we know why he didn’t show up to court,’ said Harper, as the meeting formed.
‘Note from his doctor,’ said Williams.
Fran stared at Carlton Savage’s face on the board. First the shameless Chases, and now a cuckolding, girlfriend-beating burglar. Really, what was the point in caring? It was a sergeant’s job to keep the troops at it, not to let chins drop. At least that’s how Stark would put it. But some days motivation was harder to summon.
She made Stark lead off the meeting with an update of the night’s events. He looked like shit, but he had every right to. She felt like shit and deserved to. A childish two fingers to Harper in switching her phone to silent, celebrated with too much Chardonnay. She’d left Stark alone to cope with a murder. And to make matters worse, the Guv’nor had mopped up the mess and been nice as pie about it.
She didn’t believe in God or karma, but a mixture of Church of England schooling and her father’s wild Caribbean bedtime stories and sayings had left her with an understanding that the bill had always to be paid. No good turn went unpunished and warm nights preceded dark days.
Her phone buzzed and she looked down to read a text.
Shame you had to run. Hope all’s well. Call me later X.
Fran smiled.
‘Something you’d like to share with the class, Fran?’ asked Harper.
Dark days, thought Fran, tucking the phone away.
‘Dixon,’ continued Harper. ‘Names and addresses taken at the scene last night – get statements. Fran, call your secret admirer in pathology for their preliminary findings. Then go with family services and see what the weeping mother has to say.’
‘You don’t want to come?’
Harper shot her a hard glance. ‘I’m here to collar killers, not hold hands. I’ll get some uniforms to bring Mark White in for another shake.’
Fran nodded. ‘We should get Clive Tilly in too.’
‘What about me?’ asked Stark.
‘You can write your report and piss off home,’ replied Harper coldly.
‘But –’
‘Don’t whine,’ interrupted Harper. ‘If the rest of us mere mortals have to get by without overtime, so do you.’
Stark glanced at Fran for support but she silently shook her head. Under normal circumstances a fresh murder trumped a rest day, but every moment Stark and Harper were in the same room was a risk. As crazy as it was to have Stark’s skewed brain removed from the investigation, having him under Harper’s nose, right now, had a greater potential to get in the way. ‘You’ve done your bit. Get some rest. I want you fresh as a daisy tomorrow morning.’
He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. It wasn’t often easy to read Stark’s feelings, but his silence said it all. Allowing for the unfortunate pun, it stood in stark contrast to Harper’s exaggerated man-on-a-mission posturing.
That her team had been reduced to this …
She had little choice but to work with it, for now. She couldn’t undermine Harper without risking the case and the team. She sighed and called M
arcus, knowing he’d chuckle at Harper’s ‘secret admirer’ quip if she told him – which she most definitely wouldn’t.
32
Clive Tilly would say nothing until his lawyer arrived, and precious little after. He was a long way from the harassed-but-compliant man Fran had met on day one. They tried the usual tricks to see if he would let slip prior knowledge of Savage’s death but his lawyer wasn’t about to let that happen. When they finally told him he looked genuinely shocked, but then being the killer gave you time to rehearse. After a private conference he let his lawyer do the talking.
He had been working late in the office, trying to do three people’s jobs. The police were welcome to scrutinize the yard CCTV, but otherwise he was all out of ways to tell them he had nothing to do with the murders. He had lost his best friend, the managing and financial directors of the company and two key members of staff. If the police continued to waste his time he would consider a harassment suit.
‘Two members of staff?’
‘Since the sodding press started calling Mark White all sorts he won’t leave the house,’ said Tilly crossly. ‘I need him back at work but you’ve got him wound up like a spinning top. Surely now Savage is dead you lot can stop chasing your tails. Winding up dead shows he was in this up to his eyeballs. You’re probably looking at him for a whole string of burglaries. He obviously had an accomplice, or more than one. They share burglary stories for the night and bingo, Savage has an alibi. The selfish prick probably went back demanding a bigger share and got more than he bargained for; or they just realized he was a liability. There’s no honour among thieves. I just hope it’s not one of my lot. The last thing Chase Security needs is another burglar on the payroll.’
‘He may have a point,’ said Fran afterwards.
‘Which bit?’ muttered Harper. ‘When he called us thick or when his lawyer told us to fuck off?’
‘The accomplice. Two burglaries; the alibi …’
Harper didn’t look convinced. ‘I think Mark White killed them all. Unless he was Savage’s accomplice. Either way, he’s going down.’
Writing a report and pissing off home were never as closely aligned as the likes of Harper, or Fran for that matter, thought. Luckily they were busy downstairs. Having indulged his pedantry for detail, Stark filed his report and was halfway downstairs when his phone rang. Switchboard. He’d forgotten to cancel the office-number redirect.
‘Is this Inspector Groombridge?’ asked a woman’s voice curtly.
‘DCI Groombridge isn’t here right now. Can I help?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Constable Stark. Perhaps I could take a message?’
‘This is Karen Wilson, care manager at Dignity Retirement Community, Eltham. One of our residents is adamant that he speak with Inspector Groombridge concerning a murder.’
‘He wants to report a murder?’
‘I don’t think so but he won’t discuss it with me. He keeps babbling on about the television, but he’s always deriding some police drama or other. I suppose I should add that he used to be a policeman. He says he knows Inspector Groombridge.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ronald Cooper. Not our most cooperative resident and I wouldn’t normally give him much credence, but he’s got himself rather worked up. We’ve caught him sneaking into Matron’s office twice this week to phone some hotline number he says he got from the TV. But he also had your switchboard number, ripped out of Matron’s phone book. Since then he’s tried stealing mobile phones from the other residents and we just found him outside trying to flag down a taxi.’
Stark thanked her, hung up and swore, then called by the switchboard to cancel the call redirect and went to see if Groombridge was still in the building.
Since vacating his own office, Groombridge had taken temporary possession of one on the top floor. The door stood open but Stark swallowed his surprise and knocked. It was a storeroom; windowless and uncarpeted, shelving up the walls lined with stationery and boxes of God knows what, dusty desk fans, small electric heaters, redundant desk phones and defunct printers. More boxes had been stacked aside to make space for a tatty old desk.
Groombridge looked up from his paperwork and smiled wryly. ‘If my old mum could see how I’ve come up in the world, eh?’
Stark held out the note wordlessly. Groombridge’s mother and father were alive, well and enjoying retired life in the country.
Groombridge read, frowning. ‘Ron Cooper? You sure?’
‘Sunday’s heavy breather, Guv?’
‘And the rest. Christ, I can’t believe I forgot I know a Ronald! I thought he was long dead. Right … Well, you’ve got your coat, let’s go see an old friend.’
Harper deliberately left White to second. Uniform had all but dragged him from his house, reportedly. The big security guy sat now, arms folded, tired, nervous perhaps, but still defiant.
‘Do you now or have you ever owned a gun?’ asked Fran, reading through the same questions they’d asked Tilly, the same questions they always asked. The bullet had passed through and was not present in the skull, but first impressions suggested thirty-eight millimetre, the same old-fashioned calibre used to kill the Chases.
‘No.’
‘Where were you yesterday?’ With his usual morbid delight, Marcus had informed her that, allowing for the temperature of the flowing water, the rectal temperature of the body suggested it had been in the river approximately nine hours; if it went in straight away. Unfortunately at this stage there was nothing to establish how long it may have been out of the water beforehand. That uncertainty gave them a time of death window between four thirty a.m. and nine p.m. Dumping bodies in water was a smart move, if you didn’t mind them bobbing up. Williams and Dixon were busy trying to establish the last time anyone had seen Savage alive. SOCO were still working with uniform searching likely areas upstream where the body may have gone in.
‘Home.’
‘Did you leave the house?’
‘How can I?’ complained White. ‘Since you set the paparazzi on me? This is only going to make it worse. Why can’t you leave me alone?’
‘Because you’re a killer,’ said Harper, leaning forward and putting his big fists on the table.
‘I didn’t kill them. How many more times do you want me to say it? It was Savage, it must’ve been!’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was a thief, a housebreaker! It was on the news. And he’s done a bunk. Why aren’t you looking for him?’
‘And what do you think he’d tell us?’ asked Fran.
White looked confused. ‘How would I know? Tilly sacked him, that’s all I know. He’ll be sacking me any day too. I can’t go to work because you set the dogs on me. How am I supposed to live like this?’
‘I’m sorry for the press intrusion, but that’s beyond our control –’
‘Bullshit,’ interrupted White. ‘It’s what you do. When you think someone is guilty but can’t prove it. You knobble them. Trial by media. Sentencing by mob!’
‘Quit your whining, Mark,’ said Harper. ‘If that’s your real name. We’ve got Carlton Savage and he’s talking all right. About you.’
White leant back. ‘I’ll bet he is, lying bastard. What’s he saying?’
Harper leant forward. ‘That you killed Tom and Mary Chase and he can prove it.’
Fran didn’t approve of this tactic. Flat-out lies too often came back to bite you.
White was shaking his head. ‘He’s a liar. Bring him in here and let him say it to my face.’ If he knew Savage was dead, he was well rehearsed too.
Harper sat back and began a slow hand clap. ‘Bravo. Take a bow. Stop pretending you don’t know he’s dead.’
‘Who?’ White frowned. ‘Savage?’
‘Oh, you remember now, do you?’ Harper slid three photos of death on to the desk. Thomas and Mary Chase, and Carlton Savage. ‘He’s talking all right; his body is telling us he was shot with the same calibre bullet as the Chas
es, less than a mile from their home. His body is telling me that he didn’t kill them but he knew who did. His body is telling me that he knew you were the killer and he could prove it.’
‘No.’ White couldn’t take his eyes from the photos; particularly Mary, face down among the scattered remains of the robbery. His eyes widened, as if in realization – of what he’d done.
Harper nodded, smiling darkly. ‘I’m not going to let you get away with it again. I’m going to connect the dots and when I do, I’m going to come knocking. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder.’
‘I’m not a murderer!’ insisted White.
Harper terminated the interview and turned off the tape. Fran was half out of the door when she saw Harper lean in and whisper something.
White recoiled, eyes wide with anger, or horror. And then exploded. ‘I’m not a murderer!’ he bellowed, bursting out of his chair, eyes wild. He tried to wrench the table aside but it was bolted down. Instead he picked up his chair and threw it against the mirrored glass. It bounced off the laminated polycarbonate facing without a mark. Custody officers were already in the room. Outnumbered, White backed into the corner. ‘I’m not a murderer!’ he screamed at them, voice like a wounded animal, eyes wild, his big frame quivering with rage. ‘I’M NOT A MURDERER!’
It took several minutes and the presence of Mick, the custody sergeant, and three additional men, to talk White down. He only became compliant after Harper left the suite.
‘What did you say?’ Fran asked Harper.
He shrugged, half smiling. ‘That I was going to nail him to the wall. Didn’t expect him to pop his top.’
White was offered the hospitality of one of the cells until he calmed down and apologized for trying to break Mick’s window. He looked more shocked than relieved to learn he would be released without charge, for now. But as Fran drove him out of the gate through a yelling bank of flash photography, his expression was one of ashen-faced horror.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 14