Seriously? Now? She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t afford to lose a moment before Harper returned to foul everything up, but of course she couldn’t. Flagging up your boss’s failings to their own boss wasn’t the done thing. Groombridge knew already. It was his job to do something about it. It was also his job to make the statement, but he had that perverse patriarchal look in his eye again. If he’d had children he would’ve taught them to swim by throwing them in the deep end and calmly reminding them to pull themselves together and get on with not sinking.
So she wasted precious time drafting a statement, sorting her damn hair and make-up and trying to make it look like she wasn’t wearing yesterday’s bloody clothes. God, she hated this. Harper’s love of the camera was probably his only redeeming feature. She should send Stark out instead, she thought, imagining him stepping up to the mike with his terse one-liners and short-shrift directness. That would be worth seeing. There were far more press today, but Fran was determined to make this the shortest and least satisfying press statement of all time.
She never got as far as ‘unknown aliases’. Before she had even opened her mouth the questions came.
‘Can you confirm Mark White is indeed Simon Kirsch?’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Is Simon Kirsch now prime suspect in the Chase double homicide and that of Carlton Savage?’
‘Is the Kimberly Bates investigation being reopened? Is there fresh evidence?’
‘Detective Sergeant?’
Fran blinked in the strobing camera flashes.
‘Detective Sergeant Millhaven?’
She blinked, pulled herself together and got on with not sinking. She raised her hand and waited for the noise to abate, and then winged it.
‘We are acting upon information that Mark White may be an alias but cannot comment further at this time. He is known to be in possession of a Taser gun and has shown himself willing to use it. The public should avoid approaching him and report sightings to the police or nearest person of authority. That is all for now.’
She turned and marched back into the station to howls of protest and questions and quietly locked herself into a toilet cubicle until she felt less like punching someone. The best she could say was that it probably would go down as mutually the least satisfying statement of all time.
It didn’t take long after her serene re-emergence to uncover what had happened.
The Sun had the story – Mark White as Simon Kirsch, Kimberly Bates, the old case in lurid detail. Some hack had put two and two together, remembered the face, or taken a call from a pocket copper. Everyone in the station had arrived before the papers came out and no one in the headquarters press office had flagged it up. Fran was furious, to put it mildly, but she had little time to stew.
The fresh search warrant had come through and CO19 had a Specialist Firearms Officers team inbound.
38
Fran kept her foot down all the way. Running the manhunt was uniform’s job, but if there was any way she could make the arrest before Harper got back from the hospital she clearly wasn’t about to let piffling speed limits stand in her way. Stark clung on, navigating as best he could.
The SFOs were already there, directing regular uniforms, establishing their perimeter and evacuating any occupied flats. Stark observed with professional interest. It was much like a targeted search op in Helmand, only about a hundred times slower, infinitely less covert and entirely pointless.
Mark White wasn’t home.
An unmarked car had been outside the place all night, and the siege team commander had been phoning the flat since he arrived. Stark supposed he’d better start thinking of White as Simon Kirsch, but the flat was rented in White’s name.
When they were good and ready the commander sportingly called out one last time in the megaphone just to be sure that if anyone was inside, they were good and ready too.
All this because a man who wasn’t inside was known to be in possession of a non-lethal firearm. Stark had half a mind to walk up the stairs and kick the sodding door in himself. Fran spotted him yawning and rolled her eyes. He was too tired to care whether she was pissed at him or at the delay. It was almost certainly both.
Her phone beeped and she read a text and replied with a faint smile. If Stark didn’t know better he’d think she was text-flirting, but it was more likely a parent, one of her four brothers or myriad nieces and nephews.
The siege team made their final approach along the open corridor balcony, huddling behind one guy with a bullet shield like a disorganized rugby maul, banging on the door and shouting to give the imaginary occupant one last chance to come out all Tasers blazing. The doorman finally swung his ram and broke a perfectly good door open while his team shuffled inside, shouting even louder in case any doubt remained that they were definitely the police, they were definitely armed and they were definitely coming in, ready or not.
After one last spot of shouting they traipsed out in a cheerful line and proudly pronounced the flat to be clear.
Fran had asked him once why he didn’t sign up for CO19. This pretty much summed it up. At least a soldier knew when they were in danger. For these guys, even the real thing turned into practice most of the time.
He of all people had respect for anyone who carried a gun in the name of peace, and these guys operated under constraints that made military rules of engagement look like a one-line memo. No shots had been fired. No bombs had gone off. Armed coppers were an indispensable anathema to a force proud of its unarmed heritage, but all save an unlucky few would never discharge their weapon outside the range, and today Stark found it hard to see the protracted proceedings as anything other than a waste of time.
The SOCO team went in next, as if the scene hadn’t just been tramped with a dozen pairs of combat boots. One day, thought Stark idly, someone in CO19 was going to figure out that if they timed things right they could commit a violent murder and also be first on the scene to contaminate or excuse any evidence they’d left earlier.
Finally, Fran and Stark were allowed to don blue anti-contamination gear and see if there was anything they could bring late to the party.
Inside it was sparsely furnished, clean and tidy, everything in its place, often indications of a military past – or as Fran would have it, boot-polishing OCD. Similarly there wasn’t much fresh food in the fridge, but where it differed from Stark’s was that the cupboards were full. White/Kirsch lived largely from cans, jars and dried foods rather than takeaways. The tiny bathroom was clean, the bed was made. The clothes in the drawers were folded and those in the small wardrobe were ironed. There was gym clothing and a set of barbells and fist grips. What there was almost nothing of was life: clutter, dirty washing, dishes, bills yet to be opened, paid or filed – or indeed anywhere to file them. There was a heavy-duty paper shredder with a sprinkling of shreddings around it.
‘That’s seen some use since last week,’ commented Fran. ‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean the world isn’t out to arrest you.’
‘Covering his tracks after his ID came into question,’ suggested Stark, flicking on the TV to see what Kirsch had been watching last. News 24.
‘Here …’ One of the SOCO bodies pulled something from the gym bag in the bottom of the wardrobe. A gym membership card.
The gym in question was a small independent; one of those poorly ventilated, man’s-man establishments for serious gym bunnies, tucked out of sight behind some low-end shops. The rubber floor matting was worn but the wall mirrors were polished. The equipment looked sturdy but aging, rather like the bulging man behind what stood for a reception counter.
The eponymous Dave, whose name was emblazoned above the door in peeling paintwork. Enlarged but fading photos on the wall behind showed the younger him mahogany-tanned, grotesquely inflated, veined and oiled, striking poses in obscenely small Speedos and clutching rosettes, a tale of past glories, steroid abuse and a warped brand of self-awareness.
The lat
ter-day Dave greeted them with a wide smile and a wink at Fran, which oddly didn’t result in his head being bitten off. ‘You here about Mark?’
‘What makes you think that?’ asked Fran, fishing.
‘Only the fact that, according to the TV, you and every other flat-foot from Land’s End to John o’ Groats is looking for him.’ Dave laughed, a deep bass boom.
‘Any idea where he is?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What about anyone else here? Who was he friendly with?’
‘Most people, I suppose. Everyone spots for everyone else here. He was a quiet sort but he could bench his weight. I don’t think anyone knew him outside, though.’
‘He keep a locker?’ asked Stark.
‘Out the back. Want to see?’ He showed them the old battleship-grey metal lockers, dented and scratched, with assorted padlocks. White’s was a chunky five-dial combination lock.
‘Number?’ asked Fran.
Dave shook his head. ‘Want a peek inside anyway?’ He looked around and picked up a five-kilogram dumb-bell weight, indicating the padlock with a hint of mischief.
‘You don’t mind?’
Dave pointed at the sign on the lockers. Property is left in the lockers at the individual’s risk. The management are not liable for any loss, theft or damage. ‘I never much liked Mark anyway.’
Fran smiled. ‘If he wants reimbursement for the padlock, tell him to come find me at Royal Hill nick.’
Dave grinned and broke the lock with one deft clout.
‘You don’t like Mark?’ Stark queried.
‘To be honest, not many people do.’ Dave made a face. ‘He’s got some of the younger, impressionable ones in awe of him, but after a while it gets boring. About how he used to ride in a biker gang and be a famous cage fighter in Manchester – The Tornado.’ Dave did a sarcastic jazz hands to indicate the name in lights. ‘And the foreign legion stuff, doing special ops with the SAS, things he’s done but wasn’t allowed to tell you about … He tries to slip it in casual, but once you’ve heard it a few times …’
‘You didn’t believe him?’
‘I’ve always thought real heroes didn’t brag about it, but what would I know?’ He grinned, suddenly pulling a pose to show off his still considerable physique. ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’
He pulled it off with such panache that he even got away with another wink at Fran without paying for it with his testicles.
‘Biker gang?’ asked Stark to cover the embarrassment Dave clearly didn’t feel.
The big man shrugged and packed away the pose, still grinning at Fran. ‘Some notorious name or other. Probably different every time. I’d stopped listening. His bike wasn’t all that.’
‘His bike?’
‘Noisy off-road type thing. Everything sprayed black. Bit tatty.’
Fran and Stark exchanged a look. There was no bike registered to Mark White, and a bike had been heard at the time of the Chase murders. ‘And the tornado stuff,’ said Stark. ‘The tattoo?’
Dave shrugged again. ‘Who knows? Mark always looked like he could handle himself, but once you start to doubt some of it you stop caring what’s true and what’s not. He’s got a temper, though. One of the kids called him on it all once, and Mark got hissy. Could be the pills. That was the other thing I didn’t like.’
‘That’s a problem here?’
Dave pointed at another sign on the wall – This is a clean gym. If you don’t like it – fuck off!
‘Subtle.’ Fran chuckled.
‘I’m hardly the best person to tell kids not to dabble, I s’pose,’ said Dave, nodding to the pictures of his glory days. ‘I can’t help what they do at home but it’s not allowed on the premises. Course, not everyone will listen to an old fart like me.’
‘And Mark?’
‘Told me he’d packed it in. It’s not true, what they say, though; that they shrivel your extremities.’ He grinned at Fran. ‘In case you were wondering.’
Deadpan, Fran pulled on a pair of anti-contamination gloves with a loaded snap.
Stark held open a large evidence bag as she began pulling items out of the locker: a pair of fingerless gym gloves and talc, a stiff leather support belt, shower gel and deodorant, neatly folded spare clothing, an empty water bottle, a large container of protein drink powder and … a bottle of pills with no label.
Dave’s smile was gone. ‘Lying bastard.’
Fran added the bottle to the evidence bag and slid out a photo that was tucked into the back of the locker door. A pretty blonde in her late thirties – staged, smiling thinly before a neutral backdrop, like a work photo. She held it up to Dave. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Saw him show it around once. Said it was his girlfriend but didn’t give a name. All part of his man-of-mystery act. You work out?’ Dave asked Stark. ‘Fancy a free trial?’ He waved a leaflet.
Stark declined.
‘How about you, Sweetcheeks?’ Dave winked at Fran. ‘You look like you enjoy breaking a sweat.’
A howler of a chat-up line. Stark cringed on Dave’s behalf. But Fran just rolled her eyes and took the leaflet.
‘Well,’ said Stark innocently, outside, taking deep breaths in the cold air. ‘He was charming, I thought.’
Fran avoided his eyes. ‘I’m immune to charm, you know that.’
‘Definitely a lover, not a fighter.’
Fran tried to ignore him.
‘Who’d’ve thought beefcake was your type?’
‘I don’t have types,’ growled Fran.
‘Fair enough, Sweetcheeks.’
‘Piss off!’
‘I refute the allegations of incompetence on the part of Greenwich Police,’ said Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stevens to the cameras and microphones as his body men cleared a way to his car outside New Scotland Yard.
Whose allegations? thought Groombridge, staring at the TV in Cox’s office.
‘Increased oversight is a matter for the Metropolitan Police command structure,’ continued Stevens, who was either answering questions asked before the report cut to this footage, or was setting the agenda himself. ‘We stand together to make London a safer place,’ he concluded, aping the words on the prismatic sign behind him as he climbed into the rear seat and was driven away.
Cox turned the sound off. ‘You think I’ve been played for a fool.’
‘Now, don’t go accusing me of thinking, sir,’ replied Groombridge evenly. The illicitly obtained report Cox had just shared with him suggested they were all being played.
‘All the same; better catch this Simon Kirsch before we face more allegations …’
Groombridge nodded and left. In his makeshift office he found a message from the archive storage to say the files were ready, but they had no driver to deliver them. It was a private secure-storage company. Theoretically their contract required them to retrieve and deliver any file, any time. This worked okay for files that had been digitized, but that process began with modern files and worked backwards in time with inconsistent speed and success. The Kimberly Bates files were still analogue. The physical evidence was largely stored with the Forensic Science Service, another private service, but their monopoly was being broken up in the name of ‘competitive efficiency’ and few people in the police had high hopes for that. Such exercises looked logical on budget sheets, until you needed something overnight or the driver pulled a sickie.
Downstairs the station was still busy as an ants’ nest.
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, spotting Stark at the pool-car desk.
Stark explained that he and Fran had just got back.
‘Perfect. I’ve two birds to kill … You can drive.’
‘Guv.’ Stark led the way to the car and climbed in. ‘Where to?’
‘Archive first. After that, there’s someone you should meet.’
The traffic was already thick and Groombridge held the usual Londoner’s disdain for any route recommended by the satnav, directing Stark via circuitous back routes
to avoid the clogged arteries.
With several boxes packed in the back he directed Stark back to Greenwich via another maze of turns until they pulled up in a quiet, leafy residential street. Wartime bombs had opened holes in the neat terraces on both sides of the road, later plugged by unsympathetic flats, but the mid-terrace house they pulled up outside was original, well kept, with a neat little garden and checkerboard mosaic footpath.
Groombridge stared at it without getting out. ‘Any thoughts on our leak?’
Stark took a breath and puffed it out slowly. ‘Other than we have one …?’
Groombridge nodded. ‘A busy case gets in the way. But it also tempts the leaker to show his or her hand. This morning was blatant. We must be vigilant.’
‘You’re assuming it’s just one leak, Guv.’
‘Well, that’s a cheering thought.’ Groombridge sighed. ‘Come on … time to visit another old friend.’
39
Stark recruited some friendly faces to help carry in the boxes, but was appalled to find Harper inspecting the incident board with a comedy bandage around his head, a full day early by anyone’s reckoning. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Harper was too insecure to lie in bed and risk someone else making the collar. Stark was hardly one to criticize anyone for ignoring the advice of their doctors, but when it came to concussion he was content to think Harper a damn fool all the same.
As for the rest, Stark had been Tasered himself during Special Forces training, ostensibly to gain an understanding of the weapon’s usefulness and limitations, though he strongly suspected the directing staff got a kick out of zapping recruits. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. And that was one positive thing about post-military life – at least Harper with his misplaced jealousy was the worst enemy Stark had to worry about.
Fran’s stony face did little to mask her dismay.
The big man appeared just as annoyed to see Stark. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, around a swollen tongue.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 17