‘Assuming he ever left,’ said Fran aloud, immediately regretting it.
‘You mentioned a break-in at the school …?’ Stark swooped in with a change of subject.
Susan nodded. ‘About six months ago. Our tiny collection of sporting silverware was stolen and the school office ransacked, the small cash float stolen. The police wrote it off as a simple burglary.’
‘You think otherwise?’ asked Stark, not mentioning the stolen staff photo.
‘The silverware was found abandoned. I’d already begun getting the creeps, here, catching glimpses. But after the break-in it started outside my flat too. It’s exactly what he did before, when all this first began. Simon didn’t know where I lived. I used to catch a bus and I saw him trying to follow me home on his bicycle. Then he was caught in the school office, “just looking around”, passed off as just another of his odd misbehaviours. But the next day I saw him outside my flat. When things got bad I moved back to my parents’. Not long after, he showed up there too. But the police couldn’t prove anything,’ she said bitterly.
Fran had seen too many frustrated victims in her career. ‘All I can tell you is that Simon is in real trouble now. I can’t confirm or deny the media speculation, but when we catch him he’ll face firearms and ABH charges. The witnesses don’t get more credible. He won’t get bail and he will go to prison.’
Susan nodded but looked no less miserable. ‘I’ve put my flat on the market. Even if you catch him, I can’t bear the fact that he knows where I am again, that he’s been there, watching. It doesn’t stop. It never stops. Even knowing he was gone, for twenty years. Even if you lock him up. The fear never leaves you. That’s what he did. He stole my life.’
‘Is there somewhere you might stay for a few days? Just until we catch him?’
Now Susan looked worried. ‘You think …? Well, yes, my friend. She’s on holiday. I’ve got the keys to water her plants. I could text her.’
‘I’m sure she won’t mind,’ Fran said soothingly, trying for reassuring. ‘How about we take you home for a few things and drop you round there now?’
Susan’s modest flat in an unfashionable area seemed a snapshot of her life. Nicely furnished and un-encroached by slovenly male disorder. A single cleaned plate, cutlery and wine glass sat on the drainer. Fran lived alone too, but it wasn’t just Susan’s overt Christian paraphernalia that marked them apart. There were hardly any family photos, no souvenirs of travel, no knick-knacks or bric-a-brac, little sign of life lived. It reminded Stark too much of his own flat before Kelly, and after.
She packed a large bag and a box of food and they followed her little red Nissan to her friend’s Edwardian terrace a few miles away – a divorcee, rooms a-clutter with remnants of offspring flown the nest. Stark scanned the mirrors all the way. They saw her inside, checked the windows and doors to reassure her it was safe, and then scared the crap out of her by telling her to be on the lookout for a black off-road motorcycle or other signs of being followed.
‘What do you think?’ asked Fran, staring at the house and surroundings.
‘We should sit an unmarked car here.’
Fran nodded. They’d already told Susan they’d ask uniform to patrol the street. ‘I’ll ask. Keys …’ She held out her hand, impatience at his passive driving outweighing her dislike of the station’s pool cars.
She answered her phone as she drove, one-handed, basking in the glow of Stark’s silent disapproval. ‘DS Millhaven.’
‘Marcus Turner,’ said Marcus, who for a man of science held a perversely Luddite view on smartphone technologies like caller ID. ‘Bad time? Should I call back?’
‘No, go ahead.’
‘Are you driving?’
‘No comment. How can I help?’ she replied tersely.
‘Okay, well in that spirit of plausible deniability, by swearing never to repeat anything I’m about to tell you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘But are you discreet?’
‘Depends.’
‘Fair enough. Were you aware that Simon Kirsch’s biometrics were destroyed after his acquittal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then should anyone ever ask you whether a DNA sample was overlooked at the time, retrieved many years later, sequenced anonymously and compared with a recent sample from Mark White, you would be perfectly justified in denying all knowledge?’
Fran let this sink in. ‘Entirely.’
‘Jolly good. Then, apropos of nothing, were one attempting to prove that Mark White was indeed Simon Kirsch, one would not be wasting one’s time. Entirely inadmissible, of course.’
Fran grinned. ‘How deliciously unethical of you.’
‘Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t spoil it. You’re a bad man.’
‘Perhaps I’ve just spent too much time in the wrong company. Till next time …’ He rang off.
Fran tutted. For someone so laid back, Marcus had an annoying ability to get the last word in.
Stark scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Bad man?’
Fran tucked the phone into her pocket. ‘Is there any other kind?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought Beefcake Dave was delightful.’
‘Careful … I’m having to work quite hard on my not-punching-someone skills today.’
Stark nodded and stifled a yawn.
‘Come on, princess, I’ll drop you home. Get yourself fresh; you’re back on duty at seven.’
He didn’t complain. He never did. He hadn’t even asked why she wanted him for these little excursions instead of Dixon or Williams. Perhaps he just knew he was better, or perhaps he was past caring. Much as his quiet self-assurance drove her crazy, Fran had a horrible feeling it was more the latter recently, and her attempts to snap him out of it pinged off his armour like bullets off a tank. Christ, even his maddening military metaphors were rubbing off on her.
41
Stark grabbed a late lunch, an even later shower, a few hours’ sleep and made it into the office in time for the evening handover. Dixon and Williams had made a start on sifting the case files for information about Simon Kirsch. They now sat in a series of piles on Stark’s previously ordered desk. Fran had just received a preliminary report on Chase Security’s finances from the forensic accountants and was failing to interest Harper in it. Taking it from her outstretched hand he dropped it on to her desk with a flourish, clapped his hands together in anticipatory satisfaction and launched into a grand show of dragging everyone to the pub for Friday drinks, even offering to buy the first round.
Stark felt sure some of the bonhomie was for his benefit but was more than happy to miss out. If leaving hospital with a concussion was foolish, going out drinking afterwards put that in the shade.
Fran obviously didn’t fancy a Friday evening of fun and frivolity with the lording prick either, and mumbled her apologies.
‘Got a better offer, have we?’ scoffed Harper, for the crowd.
‘That wouldn’t be too hard,’ said Fran.
Harper grinned, thinking he’d struck a nerve. ‘Hot date, is it? I hope he knows what he’s letting himself in for.’
She didn’t rise to the bait, just snatched up her jacket and left, ignoring his amusement. Stark watched in sadness. Hot date or otherwise, before Harper’s promotion she’d have cut him down to size for remarks like that. Both Williams and Dixon gave Stark the looks of condemned men as they filed out after Harper. They’d been at the coalface since the early hours, but neither would feel they could slip off and leave the other.
Alone, Stark felt his tension dissipate. The incident number on the TV was being run from one of the private firms, with live links to the relevant teams. He kept an eye on the feed as he read through the progress made by the others, but in truth the hunt for Simon Kirsch was out of his hands. The moment Kirsch pulled a Taser this became a uniform operation, with CID reduced to intel support. Armed response teams were patrolling sectors, waiting for the call to action. Uni
forms, downstairs, were following up calls from all the well-intentioned members of the public who thought Kirsch looked like so-and-so down the street.
This was why Harper and the team could take some R’n’R, and why Stark jumped when he sensed someone enter stealthily behind him. He spun round to find Pensol hovering uncertainly just inside the doorway with a steaming mug, his start making her spill some on her hand with a yelp.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sucking scalding liquid from her fingers, looking around for somewhere to put the dripping mug. ‘I didn’t mean to sneak up. You were sitting so still I thought you were … asleep, but of course not, sorry.’ She offered the mug apologetically. ‘Constable Peters said you liked two sugars?’ Her uncertainty betrayed either wise rookie scepticism or personal distaste. Two sugars was a hangover from army days where the coffee was crap, or desert hospitality where the tea was strong. He should probably cut down but, as now, more serious issues always took precedence.
He took the mug from her with a simple thank you and smile, hoping she’d take both and withdraw.
Instead, she hesitated. ‘She sent me up to see if you needed any help?’
Undoubtedly, but that was Doc Hazel’s job, thought Stark, irritated that Peters was trying her hand again.
Pensol was easy on the eye, there was no denying it. There had to be plenty of young lads here who would jump at the chance. Why Peters thought Stark any more suitable was a sign of how poorly she knew him – or how little he’d let her. Stark sighed inside, wishing the world wasn’t so. He should send this girl on her way again but he was too tired to do it nicely, and his conscience still pricked him over his recent bluntness. ‘Sure, thanks.’ He managed a smile.
Pensol flashed pearly whites and sat down. She wore a subtle perfume: roses, sweet and uncomplicated – a world away from Kelly’s intoxicating jasmine, but warm, inviting.
Stark shook the thought from his head.
‘What are you watching?’ she asked.
‘Last interview with Mark White aka Simon Kirsch.’ Stark reset it to the beginning and pressed play. He’d already watched it twice, curious at Kirsch’s sudden explosion. Harper had obviously whispered something incendiary.
‘Mind if I …?’ Pensol leant in and rewound a little and watched the explosion again. And then again. ‘Hmm,’ she said, leaning back.
‘What?’
She looked hesitant. ‘It’s what DI Harper says …’ Stark must have looked confused, so she went on. ‘I’m not sure. My sign is good but my lip-reading isn’t so hot.’
‘You can lip-read?’
‘A bit. Not as well as my brother. We practise together for giggles. He’s profoundly deaf.’
‘You know what DI Harper whispered?’
She looked anxious now, reticent. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘But you think …?’
‘I think he whispers, “I’m going to nail you. Even if I have to … something … the nails … make …? Fabricate.” ’
Well, that might do it, thought Stark, sitting back and letting the implications sink in. Innocent or guilty, Simon Kirsch had suffered overzealous police attentions before. Had Harper triggered old fears?
Up until that moment Mark White had seemed calm, controlled. Now they knew he was really Simon Kirsch that seemed … worryingly practised; the unconscious projection of a pathological fantasist or the calculating ease of a chilling psychopath, or both.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ said Peters, sticking her head round the door with a smile that said the opposite, ‘but there’s a Mr Bates at the front desk asking for DS Millhaven. I told him she’s not here but he’s not budging.’
Stark frowned. ‘Not Brian Bates?’
‘You know him?’
Stark sighed. ‘I’ll come down.’
42
Kimberly Bates’ father was older than he looked on the press cutting upstairs; twenty years and a broken heart older. A short man in his sixties, grey, balding and portly; a man worn down and etched with grief.
Stark showed him to the interview room. Not with a one-way mirror and recording equipment, but the one with plastic flowers and pastel furnishings, where they broke the news. This man’s news had broken twenty years ago and it was still breaking every morning, those waking moments of blissful forgetfulness followed by crushing remembrance. Stark offered him tea and phoned upstairs. Thankfully Groombridge was also uninvited to Harper’s party, or had the authority to decline.
Brian Bates stood as Groombridge entered, jerking his head in a deferential, apologetic nod. If he’d brought a cloth cap he might have wrung it anxiously in his hands.
Groombridge introduced himself.
‘You’re in charge, then?’ asked Bates. ‘I saw the girl on the telly, Detective Sergeant Millhaven.’
‘She works for me. Won’t you sit?’
Bates sized him up. There was a shrewdness in his eyes as he took his seat. ‘How old are you, Inspector?’
Groombridge nodded. ‘Old enough, Mr Bates, to remember. I was a newly minted constable back then, but I remember.’
Bates shook his head. ‘I remember, Inspector. You may recall bits and pieces but I remember, day in, day out. I remember the last words she spoke to me as she left the house that morning. I remember the green nail polish and awful make-up she was wearing. I remember that ridiculous perm and the words I didn’t say about what she was wearing. I remember the way she laughed like nothing mattered. I remember.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Groombridge.
Bates huffed a laugh, bitter and tired. ‘I remember the first time one of you lot said that to me too. Days of “don’t give up hope”, then “prepare yourself for the worst”, and then finally “I’m sorry for your loss”. They teach you those at police school, I expect.’
‘Yes.’
Bates smiled thinly and pulled himself a little straighter in his chair. ‘It’s him, is it? Simon Kirsch?’
‘I think so. I didn’t see it at first. It was my old sergeant who spotted the resemblance.’
‘I saw it,’ said Bates. ‘Only today. My sister called to say they were talking about it on the news. I don’t watch the news. One tragedy heaped upon another like snow, one bitter blizzard after another. How can a man hold on to his own tragedy in such a world? I don’t dare watch it. But Anne called, so I switched it on as soon as I got home from work and saw him, and I knew … The boy that took my –’
He stopped. He didn’t choke up or break down; he just stopped, looking down with no other outward sign of the torment that rent his insides.
‘Took my Kim,’ he concluded quietly.
He raised his head and looked them both in the eye. ‘No one should have to bury their child. It’s not natural, not fair. It’s “the worst possible thing”, they say.’ Bates shook his head solemnly. ‘It’s not. The worst possible thing in the world … is not having your child to bury.’
He stared at them, expressionless, the fires of hell burning behind his eyes. ‘We never held a funeral, did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘My wife begged me. They all did. A funeral …’ He shook his head. ‘With an empty coffin? I don’t understand why people do it.’
Groombridge shrugged with his eyes. What could anyone say?
Stark knew the value of a funeral. He had buried his father when he was just eleven. Comrades had gone into the ground while he was still abroad fighting or on his back in hospital unable to attend, unable to say goodbye, to say sorry. He’d stood to attention as flag-draped coffins were bugled aboard transport planes, many containing less of the occupant than nature had given. But who hadn’t seen the funerals of missing children on the news and wondered how anyone could put themselves through it – a coffin containing nothing more than horror and sorrow and the futile hope of closure?
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Bates. ‘She’s gone; I accepted that a long time ago. Hope leaches out of you day by day, thought by treacherous thought, until th
ere’s little or nothing left inside. In the end they held a service of remembrance,’ he said, as if the words were ashes in his mouth. ‘Put up a plaque in the cemetery. I went. Didn’t speak, but I listened. Listened to my wife’s heart dying word by word. Poor Sandra. She went to her own grave five years later. She wished it was sooner. Who can blame her? You can’t live without a heart.’
He looked at them. ‘But I still have a heart. I’m like that bloke in hell having his liver pecked out every day by some giant bird. My heart is ripped out every day but it won’t die, I won’t die. Not before I bury my child.’
The last words came out with a quiet fierceness long in the forging. His eyes were moist, but no tears fell. Stark wondered at the strength of the man. It seemed to be the week for it: Ron Cooper, gasping against the consequences of a lifelong habit but still a copper to his core. Neville Darlington, shrunken by cancer’s callous two fingers that would rob him of the retirement with his wife that he’d earned, still giving of his precious time. And now Brian Bates, carrying twenty years of grief in nothing but the bitter hope that his only child would be found long dead. Three old men, defiant of their lot, calling out for justice in the howling storm. Courage incarnate.
‘I’m sorry.’ Bates stood, suddenly back to the worn-down man who’d entered the room. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t talk about this any more. Not to anyone. Not for years.’
‘Some things are better for talking,’ said Stark. He felt compelled to speak, though the words did not come easily. ‘Some are not.’
Bates looked at him long and hard, and nodded. ‘Make him tell you where my daughter is.’ His hands were curled into fists, his quiet voice rigid. ‘When you find him. Make him tell you.’
43
Brian Bates refused Stark’s offer of a lift home. He’d little left but pride and, as he’d reminded them, they had work to do. The two detectives stood on the station stoop watching him walk slowly away down Royal Hill to catch the first of three buses. He still lived in the same house. The house where he’d raised and lost a daughter, and then a wife.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 19