33
The first thing you noticed was the colour scheme – pastel purgatory. Close second was the smell: fire-retardant furniture, disinfectant and the real or imagined hint of stale urine. And finally, the dead-eyed disinterest on the face of the woman in her fifties who glanced up from behind the reception desk. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked with robot warmth.
Groombridge flashed his warrant card. ‘DCI Groombridge and DC Stark, here to see Ronald Cooper.’
‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. Visiting hours are between –’
‘If this were a social visit I wouldn’t have identified myself as a policeman,’ interrupted Groombridge with surprising sharpness. ‘Please inform your manager that I received her urgent message and that I am here to interview my old friend Sergeant Ron Cooper, retired officer of the Metropolitan Police Force, and that I don’t give a rat’s arse about visiting hours.’
The robot blinked, then smiled thinly. ‘Of course. Please take a s—’
‘I will not take a seat, because you, personally, will take me to Ron Cooper now. I’m a very important man with very little time, but I do have many underlings ready to relay my complaints regarding obstruction to the Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service who, I believe, plays golf with the Chairman of Dignity Retirement Community PLC.’
‘Is that true about the golf?’ whispered Stark as the woman led them through the pastel labyrinth.
‘Quite possibly,’ replied Groombridge, straight-faced.
They were marched through a room with a TV in one corner and elderly people arranged around the perimeter who barely acknowledged their passing or, in many cases, the TV or anything much at all. The receptionist stopped outside a door, knocked and entered without pause.
‘Clear off!’ said the fat old man inside, from his wheelchair. He had one of those clear plastic tubes looped over his ears and under his nostrils, delivering oxygen from a bottle on the small sack-barrow beside him. He glanced away from the television with watery, yellowed eyes and his indignation melted. ‘Mickey!’ he wheezed, grinning round incongruously white dentures. ‘As I barely live and breathe! You took your sodding time! Got a cake with a metal file in it?’ he whispered loudly. ‘Or a mobile phone? The screws here have rescinded my privileges.’
‘You were banned from the communal TV room for hogging the remote and shouting at Midsomer Murders,’ said the nurse who’d just appeared at the door. The receptionist had evaporated. ‘And your phone was confiscated until you promise to stop ordering pizzas.’
‘They don’t feed me,’ muttered Cooper. ‘They’re trying to cull the prison population.’
‘Now, now, don’t be like that,’ said the nurse, checking the gauge on his oxygen bottle. ‘You get the same menu options as everyone else.’
‘There’s no tick-box for all of the above,’ complained Cooper, eyeing her resentfully. ‘I’m half the man I was when they wheeled me in here. My clothes are hanging off me, look!’
The nurse ignored him. ‘Who are you gentlemen?’ she asked. Groombridge told her. ‘You mean he really was a policeman? We’re never sure what to believe. When he’s not making things up, his mind wanders almost as much as his hands.’
Cooper chuckled, and descended into a long bout of gasping coughs. ‘Please try not to excite him,’ said the nurse, handing Cooper a tissue to mop up his spittle.
‘Should’ve listened to Beryl, Ron,’ smiled Groombridge. ‘Those cigarette packs say “Smoking Kills” now.’
Cooper grinned sheepishly. ‘Good old Mrs C, God rest her soul. Cancer got her first, where’s the justice? Least she was spared this place. Dignity Retirement Community, get Dignitas on the bloody phone!’ He collapsed into more wheezing coughs.
‘I’ll leave you gentlemen to talk,’ said the nurse brightly.
Groombridge sat on the edge of the bed opposite Cooper and sighed. ‘It’s good to see you, Ron. It must be fifteen years!’
‘If a day.’ The jowly old man nodded, smiling.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘CID kept you busy after they snatched you. Too busy to keep tabs on retired uniforms.’
‘I’m ashamed, Ron.’
‘Don’t fret.’ Cooper waved a hand. ‘You probably all thought I was long dead. I am, too. They just won’t stop prodding me.’
‘Said the man with the wandering hands.’
Cooper wheezed a faint laugh. ‘I was a one-woman man for forty years. And what a woman. She wouldn’t begrudge me a little diversion in my dying days. Who’s this?’ He looked at Stark properly for the first time. ‘Wait … I know that face. Well, well … I don’t suppose the force is a patch on the old days but they’ll be better for the likes of you, young man. You’ll be no good for undercover with that face, but learn from young Mickey here and you’ll make a decent copper.’ He turned back to Groombridge. ‘Funny enough, it’s a face off the TV I wanted to talk to you about, Mickey. A face I never thought I’d see again.’
There were press outside White’s block of flats.
‘Let me out here,’ he said urgently.
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll escort you inside.’
‘Please!’
She pulled the car around the corner, still disconcerted by White’s sudden decline from strong-silent to gibbering wreck. He was out of the door almost before they’d stopped, away up the street in the opposite direction to his besieged home.
She watched him in her mirror, trying to decide what she thought of him, whether she could picture him as a killer. She couldn’t decide. A big, powerful man, quiet unless provoked, pent-up feelings, aggression, rage and an odd level of fear – a prime candidate for sudden violence. But the killing of Mary Chase didn’t feel like that. It felt more … deliberated. Whatever past he was concealing he must believe it was worth all this attention and anxiety, and that made Fran doubly determined to uncover it.
She tapped her fingers on the wheel. White turned the corner and disappeared from view. Tutting, she pulled out and headed back to the station to see what Harper wanted to try next.
34
‘Wait!’ Cooper held up a hand, eyes fixed on his small TV.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ said Groombridge.
‘Old men have to get their kicks somehow. Here it comes.’
The news anchor announced the discovery of a man’s body in a river in south-east London. The scene cut to police divers entering the Quaggy, in daylight, failing to mention the body was long gone, then SOCO and uniformed officers searching somewhere upstream.
Next came the steps of Royal Hill police station, with Harper holding up his hand for quiet amid the baying press. He made his short, bland statement then called for questions.
‘Detective Inspector! Detective Inspector!’ yelled the loudest reporter. ‘Do you have a name for the victim?’
‘The body is yet to be formally identified. Until that time we cannot release the name. Next question.’
‘Detective Inspector, are you any closer to an arrest?’ called another disembodied voice.
Before Harper could answer, a female voice shouted out. ‘Is it true you’re linking this murder with the double homicide of Mary and Thomas Chase?’
Harper blinked. ‘We have made no such statement …’
‘What do you say to unofficial reports that the same gun was used in both cases?’ called the same voice.
Stark shot Groombridge a loaded glance. Once was luck, twice coincidence; third was a leak.
Harper’s face was rigid with stifled annoyance. ‘I won’t comment on rumour and neither should you –’
‘Is Mark White your prime suspect?’ interrupted the voice. The other reporters seemed to have taken a back seat, recognizing that the story was unfolding right here. ‘Are you any closer to establishing his real identity?’
‘Get out,’ murmured Groombridge to the image of Harper.
Harper held up a hand to stop the questions. ‘As I
’ve already stated: this is a complex investigation into a heinous crime. We are pursuing multiple lines of enquiry. Several people are assisting us in this. We are doing everything possible to bring the killer to justice. That’s all for now.’
‘Killer or killers,’ Groombridge tutted disapprovingly.
‘Keep watching,’ murmured Cooper.
The image cut to the on-the-spot reporter, scarlet coat and lipstick, serious expression; same voice as the questions. ‘While police remain tight-lipped, we have exclusive information that the latest victim is none other than Carlton Savage, former suspect. And the man named there as “assisting with enquiries”, is Mark White, interviewed last week in connection with the double murder of Mary and Thomas Chase, and again this morning following the discovery of the third body.’ Footage showed a car pulling out of the station car park past paparazzi, Fran at the wheel, Mark White in the rear holding up a hand to shield his frightened face.
‘Several newspapers have focused on the apparent uncertainty surrounding the past of Mark White and whether indeed that is his real name,’ added the anchor. ‘This footage was taken two days ago at his flat in Greenwich.’ They cut to a reporter banging on White’s door and getting a muffled reply that had to be bleeped out.
This was getting out of hand, thought Groombridge. The picture they had on the screen behind the anchor was of White getting into a police car outside the station, flanked by uniforms, looking as disreputable as it was possible to look short of a mugshot. There was no picture of Clive Tilly, the ordinary-looking middle-aged businessman. Mark White was far more interesting; the big, scary enigma.
The anchor had moved on to a brief conversation with her crime correspondent, who reiterated that White, and others, were helping with enquiries and the police were at pains to stress that. Everyone was innocent until proven guilty, added the anchor unhelpfully.
Groombridge had a sick feeling he was watching a man’s life being stolen on national television. The story was to be discussed after the headlines in the afternoon round-up of today’s papers. He could picture it – the smiling presenter turning on his or her sofa to a pair of B-list commentators who would take turns to hold up that day’s front pages. Innocent until proven guilty. The keepers of settee wisdom discussing how the public must not rush to conclusions, citing the salacious speculation of the redtops, yet all the while waving that same image of White looking as though he was already in custody, where he belonged.
Cooper clicked off the sound and turned to Groombridge, an expectant look on his face. Groombridge stared back blankly. ‘Come on … Two and two …’
‘Just tell me,’ said Groombridge testily.
‘You never did have much patience, Mickey. Could see it in your eyes. That was why we waved you under CID’s nose.’
‘You did what?’ spluttered Groombridge indignantly.
‘See? You were always going to be happier demanding answers than waiting for them. Uniform is a patient man’s game. How do you think CID got wind of you in the first place?’
Groombridge closed his eyes for a second, years of blind misconception crumbling. ‘Bastard.’
‘Now, now. We did the right thing. Your old dad was a solid copper, but you got your brains from your mum and you know it. You’d have done a lot of good in uniform, Mickey, but more out. Got a fag on you?’
Groombridge raised his eyebrows at the plastic oxygen tube tucked under Cooper’s nose. ‘My wife had more influence over me.’
Ron nodded sagely. ‘How is Alice? Still on at you to find a nice safe desk?’
‘We were fortunate men, to find good women to love us.’
‘Fortunate men indeed,’ Ron echoed wistfully. He turned his gaze on Stark. ‘How about you, young Stark, have you struck lucky as we did?’
Stark smiled. ‘My old general once told me I’d used up my share of luck and more.’
‘Bah!’ Ron waved a hand dismissively. ‘Luck is a state of mind, don’t let it slip away. Find yourself a nice round woman to remind you every day. Do you smoke?’ he asked, more in hope than expectation. ‘A man with your past can’t be all that risk-averse?’ Stark shook his head and Ron sighed. ‘Young coppers these days. The only puff I’ve had since they banged me up in here is when I lifted a pack out of Nurse Ratched’s pocket. Still thinks I was copping a feel.’ He chuckled breathlessly. ‘Only got halfway down one fag before the bloody smoke alarm brought the Fun-Gestapo running. Look at me – reduced to petty larceny and accusations of attempted arson.’
‘Ron …’ Groombridge interrupted the flood of mock melancholia.
‘Quite right, Mickey … I digress.’ He scrabbled around on the table behind him and pulled out a copy of the Sun, opened it to an inside page and tapped on a photo – Mark White, some old snap they’d trawled up, looking almost demonic.
‘White? You know something about him?’
‘Don’t you?’ Cooper looked disappointed. ‘I hoped when you never called back you’d seen it yourself, but the news just kept using the wrong name.’
‘Saw what?’
‘You didn’t interview him, did you?’ Cooper saw the truth in Groombridge’s eyes. ‘No. If you had you’d have seen it, plain as day. It’s the eyes, Mickey, everything changes but the eyes. You had him in but you let him go.’ Cooper descended into another paroxysm of coughing.
Groombridge stared at the picture of White. There was something familiar there, but you could say the same for countless people. When you looked properly you noticed it, the same body shapes, gait, facial structure, eyes, endlessly reappearing throughout the population, the same genealogy dividing and recombining … He froze, his mind screeching to a halt like a speeding train with someone yanking the emergency cord.
‘You see it now,’ said Cooper, studying him. ‘Took me a while too. Thought I was finally losing my marbles till I saw the same news report later. I may not be half the man I was but there’s enough copper left to recognize those eyes, even if the face around them is twenty years older.’
Groombridge couldn’t take his eyes off the image. They’d had him in, more than once. ‘Fuck.’ It was all he could think to say.
Cooper chuckled, nodding his head. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’
35
Stark looked back and forth between Groombridge and Cooper. ‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’ he demanded impatiently.
Cooper wheezed in amusement. ‘Cut from the same cloth as you, this one, Mickey.’
‘Just tell me, one of you.’
‘That man,’ said Cooper soberly, ‘is Simon Kirsch. And he’s killed before.’
‘That was never proved,’ said Groombridge.
Cooper shrugged. ‘He did it, though.’
‘Did what?’ asked Stark, exasperated.
‘Killed Kimberly Bates,’ said Cooper. ‘Denied it, of course. Sixteen to his eighteen, they’d had a fling. She disappeared walking home from a friend’s house one rainy night.’
‘Remembrance Sunday, 1989,’ said Groombridge. ‘We searched and searched, but she was never found.’
‘Trail kept leading back to Kirsch,’ pitched in Cooper. ‘Mickey here was a green young constable back then. Can’t be many left who’d remember his face. DI Walhurst ran the case but he’s long dead. What happened to Neville Darlington? He was detective sergeant.’
‘Retired a DCI,’ said Groombridge, still staring at the newspaper. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see this.’
‘Took your eye off the ball,’ said Cooper. ‘The pitfalls of promotion, Mickey. I always told you. Sergeant, yes, inspector if you can, but no higher. Neville knew the game. Shine too bright and the brass will use you to feather their nest; thieving magpies, the lot of them, stealing talent and wasting it, I always said. If you were the type to follow advice I’d tell you to use this, Mickey: take some of the shine off before they stuff you into a super’s uniform where you’ll be no damn good to anyone.’
Stark watched Groombridge for any rec
ognition of this potentially timely advice. ‘So what happened?’
‘It was the story of the year. Went to trial but the jury couldn’t reach a verdict. Went to retrial but Kirsch walked. Not guilty. I always thought there should be a middle result – guilty, not guilty or pending proof!’ Agitated, Cooper broke into another bout of coughing.
Stark already had his phone out. ‘Come on, come on … Sarge.’
‘What is it? I’m driving,’ barked Fran. Meaning she was now driving one-handed. She had never bothered to learn how to sync her phone with the car and thought rules were for everyone else.
‘Where are you?’
‘Nearly at the station – why?’
‘Where’s Mark White?’
‘What’s it to you? You’re supposed to be sleeping.’
‘I’m not at home. I’m with DCI Groombridge –’
‘What? Why?’
‘I’ll explain later, but do we have White?’ He put his phone on speaker so Groombridge and Cooper could hear.
‘No. DI Harper gave him a grilling but got nothing. I just dropped him off.’
Groombridge winced. ‘Fran, it’s Mike. You dropped him at home?’
‘Sort of …’
‘Turn around. Have uniform meet you there.’
‘Seriously?’
‘He’s been lying to us. His real name is Simon Kirsch. He walked for murder twenty years ago and I’d say he’s got some explaining to do.’
‘I’ll put the call out to uniform, Guv, but there was press outside his flat. He wouldn’t go in. He left on foot in the opposite direction.’
Groombridge looked pained again. ‘Okay. Do what you can. Make sure everyone knows to approach with caution. We think he was dangerous twenty years ago. He may still be.’
‘Guv.’ She rang off.
‘This is what you get for not answering your phone,’ wheezed Cooper, then bent double, coughing again. Stark called for the nurse when he started to go purple.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 15