‘I called him in,’ said Fran.
‘Last night?’ Harper’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then where have you been?’
‘Helping me,’ announced Groombridge, arriving with the last box. ‘All well, Owen? Doctor’s said you were fit?’
‘As a fiddle, sir,’ lied Harper, frowning at the elderly man trailing in Groombridge’s wake.
Groombridge put his box down with the rest and tapped the lid. ‘Right, this little lot are the Kimberly Bates files. There’s enough about the young Simon Kirsch to keep us busy, but in the meantime DCI Darlington here has agreed to step briefly from well-earned retirement to help us with a summary. He was DS on the case. Neville …’
Darlington had been DS to Groombridge’s DC, DI to his DS and DCI to his DI. Fifteen years side by side on the thin blue coalface. Groombridge had a photo of them together on his desk, or had before Harper’s return. Now it was in a box.
Average height but thin and drawn, watery eyed, Darlington looked much older now, as if age had descended on him with retirement. A man not long for this earth, would be Stark’s guess. There was little justice in this entropic universe, little but what men like Neville Darlington sought to fashion.
His bony fingers fiddled with the visitor badge hanging from his neck on blue-and-white ribbon. He stared at the photo of White aka Kirsch for several seconds, then shook his head and turned to face the room and cleared his throat.
‘Good morning. Right, listen up and don’t ask questions unless they’re good ones,’ he began in a strong voice that belied his appearance. ‘Simon Kirsch was an only child, raised by his mother, Miriam, alone. The mother taught him that his father had died but we soon discovered he’d just walked out.
‘Simon was a shy boy, big for his age but lacking talent or interest in sports. Academically above average but socially awkward, he became a target for bullying at school. But he was unpredictable. Most of the time he took his licks in silence, the gentle giant, but every now and then he would explode; not violent, but crazed, all but foaming at the mouth, quoting the bible. It was a Catholic school but his mother’s piety was hardcore and alienated her from most of the other parents, adding to Simon’s isolation. He gained a reputation for being “a bit mental”, to use the vernacular of the time, and the kids learned to leave him alone.
‘A year before Kimberly’s disappearance Simon had come to the attention of our uniformed brethren. He’d found recognition with a young religious studies teacher called Susan Watts. Fresh out of college, naive, she mistook his attentions as academic while Simon mistook hers for more. When she cottoned on and rebuffed him, he reacted badly. There was a fuss. She narrowly kept her job but Simon left the school. He was seventeen at this point.
‘Not long after, she began to complain about a peeping tom and being followed, she claimed, by Simon Kirsch. Uniform had a quiet word with him and the stalking stopped. But then it started up again. Uniform spoke with him again and again it stopped, for a while.
‘Simon finished his A-levels from home and joined Greenwich School of Management on a foundation course. His teachers described him as a loner, often inattentive or plain absent. After a year and several more complaints by Susan Watts, there was an incident. A pair of uniform coppers put Simon in the hospital. They claimed it was unrelated, that he’d been lippy in the street, they’d pulled him up for it and he got violent. Because of his history of outbursts they got off with a short suspension, but Kirsch had broken bones. His mother made a stink.
‘It may have been this brief notoriety that caused Kimberly Bates to take an interest in him, or perhaps the lingering gossip that he’d been lovers with Miss Watts. Kimberly was two years his junior but far less innocent in the ways of the world. They engaged in a sexual relationship. Not her first, but his.
‘On Sunday, the twelfth of November 1989, Kimberly spent the day in Bromley with girlfriends, before returning to best friend Maria Soames’s house around four. She was due home for tea at six. Foul weather was closing in and Kimberly’s mother called Maria’s to say Kimberly’s father would pick her up, but Kimberly had already left.’
Darlington stepped up to the huge wall map. ‘She left Maria’s house, here, at just after four on foot. Her mother didn’t start getting worried until after eight. It was far from the first time that Kimberly had taken a diversion on her way home. She called around Kimberly’s friends – she knew nothing of Simon – and then called us.
‘Just before nine a resident of Dumbreck Road, here …’ he jabbed a gnarled finger, ‘near Kimberly’s home, here … dialled nine-nine-nine, claiming her husband had witnessed an abduction. He had heard screaming outside in the street and looked out to see two figures struggling. The larger figure appeared to hit the smaller and drag them away. The husband had run outside but found no trace. Uniform were sent round for a look. The husband had found a handbag lying in the street, containing the usual teenage girl’s clutter, recently purchased cosmetics, cigarettes and a purse containing a name and address. Kimberly Bates.
‘Maria told us Kimberly had been planning to meet Simon in some secret rendezvous. We later established that this was probably Severndroog Castle, the old folly up on Shooter’s Hill that had been boarded up the year before. We found both their fingerprints inside, some candles, blankets and a soiled condom. Simon later claimed these were from an earlier tryst. Critically, Maria claimed that Kimberly had been planning to end it, that Simon’s affection had become overbearing. Also that Kimberly had been seeing another boy at the same time, James Rawlings; incidentally Simon’s chief playground persecutor. Cast-iron alibi.
‘A motorist later reported seeing someone carrying someone else over their shoulder on the south side of Rochester Way, right by one entrance into Shepherdleas Woods, so the initial search concentrated there, to no avail.
‘A line was quickly drawn from Kimberly to Simon. His house is just a few streets away here, in Crookston Road. A car was dispatched there and he was found all tucked up in bed. He reacted with considerable distress when told Kimberly was missing, and fervently denied involvement. His mother swore he had been there with her all afternoon and evening. The coppers were shown around the house and found nothing suspicious.
‘We followed countless leads. Past and potential boyfriends, local trouble-makers and known sexual predators. But we always came back to Simon Kirsch.
‘Given his history of emotional instability, the theory was that he reacted badly to being dumped, and/or found out Kimberly was going behind his back with his worst enemy. Or she just told him; anecdotally she could be quite cruel, though you won’t find any mention of that in the newspaper cuttings. Once she was missing no one would say a bad word.
‘Simon’s home backed on to Oxleas Woods just to the north, so we extended the search there, but the bad weather carried on for weeks, making the search a farce. We never found a body and evidence wasn’t there. Kimberly’s hair, DNA and clothing fibres found in Simon’s house were explained away by their recent relationship. It shouldn’t have gone to trial, really. Not guilty, seven to five.’
Darlington sighed and looked again at the recent photo, still labelled Mark White. ‘It’s the unsolveds you remember most vividly,’ he said quietly. ‘This one stuck in the public craw too. The press went to town, blaming us in equal measure for persecuting an innocent man and failing to convict a killer. Simon received death threats. His mother too. Their house was attacked. He tried to go back to college but the principal asked him to leave for the sake of the other students.
‘Once the media lost interest, the brass quietly wound down our numbers until Kimberly Bates became a cold case. Simon Kirsch moved away and we lost track of him.’
Darlington looked slowly around the room, taking in all the faces one by one, as if sizing them up. Whether or not he found them wanting he kept to himself.
Stark raised a hand, keeping his eye on Darlington to avoid Harper. ‘Mark White volunteered to be fingerprinted and swabbed. What did he kn
ow that we don’t?’
Darlington studied Stark, making him await judgement on whether his question was ‘good’ enough. ‘He knew that, as Simon Kirsch, after the trial, he’d successfully sued the Metropolitan Police Service for a hundred thousand pounds, a public apology, the removal of his fingerprints and DNA from the database and proof of their destruction.’
The faces around the room said it all.
‘Right,’ said Harper sharply. ‘Thank you for your help, Neville. Whenever you’re ready Detective Constable Stark will drop you off on his way home.’
‘Home?’ protested Fran. ‘We need all hands.’
‘We also need someone on tonight, and everyone knows the only thing Stark likes more than questioning his elders and betters is volunteering. Isn’t that right, Constable?’
Groombridge could see Stark weighing up the odds of successful protest and stepped in, offering Neville a coffee and natter in the canteen for old times’ sake, and guiding Stark out with them. ‘Keep your powder dry,’ he whispered.
‘I’m needed here,’ whispered Stark.
‘Yes. You are. Tonight it seems, so get some rest. The investigation needs you alert and so do I.’
Neville made a show of not overhearing but Groombridge knew him too well to be fooled. Eavesdropping was just one of the lessons the old man had passed down. The retired copper was greeted warmly in the canteen by several of the older lags. He and Groombridge traded war stories for as long as seemed decent before Groombridge sent Stark to re-sign out the pool car to take Neville home.
‘Harper?’ said Darlington, his watery eyes suddenly boring into Groombridge. ‘What the hell, Mike?’
Groombridge sighed. ‘Long story.’
‘I never liked him.’
‘He was a half-decent DS.’
‘You felt sorry for him, because his wife drank and laid hands on him,’ said Darlington, shaking his head. ‘You mistook darkness for depth. That was why you brought in that girl, what’s her name?’
‘DS Millhaven.’
‘To plug the gaps. She’s the real deal, right?’
‘She is.’
Darlington leant in, keeping his voice low, but no less intent. ‘So why the hell isn’t she running the show? More to the point, why aren’t you?’
Groombridge sipped his coffee, and told him.
‘DAC Stevens?’ asked Neville.
‘New generation,’ explained Groombridge. ‘After your time.’
‘Thank heaven for small mercies.’
Neville sat back, weighing the facts, as was his way. He looked a shadow of himself. Pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. Six months, tops. Hardly a fitting reward after forty years of public service, thought Groombridge bitterly.
‘Well,’ sighed Neville. ‘And I thought I was in bad shape.’
Darlington seemed lost in thoughts of his own, as Stark drove. Understandable; he’d seen a ghost today, of sorts. The journey passed in silence, until they pulled up outside Darlington’s immaculately kept mid-terrace in Lime Street. Stark waited for him to get out, but the old boy turned to him instead.
‘Well, Detective Constable Joseph Stark, VC … It would appear the station has a leak, the MIT is overstretched, this case is a mess and the best copper you’ll ever meet is polishing brass in a broom cupboard while one of the worst is flapping about in boots he can’t fill. So, what are you going to do about it all?’
‘Me, sir?’
‘You, sir.’
Darlington studied him intently. Gone was the watery-eyed bag of bones. Now he was fixed by the watchful eyes of an eagle. Stark had withstood the glaring scrutiny of drill sergeants, officers, Special Forces interrogators and Fran, but only in Groombridge had he ever felt someone had so much the measure of him before now. ‘My job.’
Darlington’s glare cracked into a grudging smile. ‘Make sure you do. All it takes for evil to flourish is that good coppers do nothing. Trust your gut, use your eyes, ears and above all your mind, and your heart will do the rest.’ He nodded and got out of the car.
‘Did he do it?’ called Stark. ‘Kirsch?’
Darlington turned. ‘The jury thought not.’
‘Only seven of them. What did you think?’
‘That it’s our job to build a case, not decide it,’ replied Neville flatly, his protégé Groombridge to a tee. But then he looked at Stark and sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. ‘He was guilty all right, you could see it in his eyes; he was riddled with it. But don’t take my word for it. Build a case.’ He turned and walked up his short garden path without another word, an old man again, to outward appearance.
Stark sat back in his seat and listened to the engine ticking over, not sure what to think. Whatever was expected of him there was little he could accomplish banished to bed.
His phone interrupted that particular cheery thought. ‘Where are you?’ demanded Fran.
‘Sipping cocktails on a tropical island.’
‘Fancy some unpaid overtime?’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘DI Harper ordered me home to sleep.’
‘Justice never sleeps. And we both know you sleep even less than you follow orders, especially from Harper. Stop arguing, knock back your Sex-on-the-Beach. Susan Watts just called the incident line.’
40
Fran played Stark the audio file from her phone as he drove. A tremulous voice, but unapologetic, Susan explained who she was, her historic connection to Simon Kirsch. She had been watching the lunchtime news in the staffroom at school when she’d heard his name.
The call receiver at HQ treated her with courtesy, expressing no doubts and patiently making note of the key details. Miles away in Greenwich the incident line feed flagged the call with key words: subject connection, stalking, potential sighting. It was nice when things worked. When Fran called her back Susan asked what would be done and quickly grew emotional. She couldn’t take the afternoon classes and was too scared to go home. Then she burst into tears.
That was why Fran had called Stark.
She’d be the first to admit, to herself only of course, that she lacked the temperament for hand-holding. And while Stark was buttoned up tighter than a drum, he had on more than one occasion demonstrated an inexplicable calming effect on the distressed. The exact opposite of his effect on Harper, in fact.
Stark listened to the recording without comment, driving like a country bumpkin as usual. He avoided driving when possible; his dodgy hip, she suspected. Consequently he hadn’t adjusted to London’s make-it-their-problem school of road sharing. Fran tried not to huff or tut.
The receptionist showed them to the school chapel. The woman inside glanced up from prayer as they entered. Fran shared a look with Stark. There was no mistaking the woman from the photograph in Kirsch’s gym locker. Not Mark White’s girlfriend, but Simon Kirsch’s first victim.
She looked slightly older in person, in her early forties perhaps, more worry lines. Pretty, willowy and blonde. No wedding ring or sign of one recently removed. Susan had told the hotline she lived alone. The small gold crucifix around her neck might put some off, but surely there was a nice God-bothering man to sweep this God-bothering woman off her dainty feet?
‘Was it you I spoke with on the phone?’ she asked.
Fran nodded. ‘DS Millhaven. This is DC Stark. Thank you for calling the hotline, Miss Watts. We know who you are. We have reason to think our suspect and Simon Kirsch are one and the same.’
Susan was already nodding firmly. ‘I knew the moment I heard his name on the radio. I’ve felt him, for months now, cold shivers down my spine. I know what it feels like to be followed, watched.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Glimpses. Shadows.’
‘Nothing concrete, actionable?’
Susan’s face tightened. ‘He’s had a lot of practice.’
‘Months, you say?’
She removed a school exercise book from a zipped sub-compartment of he
r bulging satchel, handling it as if it made her flesh creep. ‘They told me to keep a log. Back in 1988, for all the good it did. He was never punished. I think that’s why I kept it; because it was never over. I don’t know whether he killed poor Kimberly Bates, but he was never punished for what he did to me. And then …’ She opened the book to show them new entries, dating back half a year.
Stark photographed the recent pages for timings and locations. ‘From what I understand he received quite a severe punishment from two of our kind.’
Susan Watts flushed. Shame, perhaps, for unchristian thoughts. ‘Constables Oats and Ferry. They were very kind to me, but I didn’t ask them to do that. I wish they hadn’t.’
‘It can’t have helped, with bringing charges for stalking,’ commented Fran.
‘There were never going to be charges,’ replied Susan. ‘Simon was too careful.’
‘What can you tell us about him?’ asked Stark.
‘Quiet. Slow. Not lacking intelligence, just thoughtful, pensive. Passionate underneath. Kind, at least that’s how you think he is. But …’ She trailed off. ‘It was my fault. I should’ve realized. I felt a fool after, as if everyone could see it but me. What must they have thought …’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never lived it down. Even now, twenty years on. It gets passed down year on year, and the kids I taught have kids at the school. I’m the teacher who had sex with a pupil … I didn’t, of course,’ she added hurriedly. ‘But that’s what they whisper. Did she really? Would she again? The head teacher encouraged me to leave, try another school. He left himself, after a while. I’ve seen so many come and go. They made me head of department eventually, but no further. I stayed anyway. I felt a duty …’ Suddenly she broke into sobs. ‘Why?’ she moaned. ‘Why is this happening again? What does he want after all this time?’
Fran had no answers. It was the best she could do not to tap her foot impatiently while the woman pulled herself together. Fran had grown up with four brothers, and learned early to stand her ground and never let them see you cry.
Stark passed Susan a tissue from somewhere and the woman murmured thanks and forced a limp smile. She blew her nose, wetly. ‘I’m sorry,’ sniffed Susan, then blew her nose again, red-eyed, weary and somewhat less attractive than Fran’s initial assessment. ‘I just can’t believe he’s back.’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 18