‘Well,’ said Groombridge. ‘If ever we needed reminding of our triumphs and failures …’
‘You promised him,’ said Stark.
There was no accusation in his voice that Groombridge could discern. ‘You think I should’ve given him some anodyne promise to “try”?’
‘You don’t think the truth serves best?’
‘Sometimes.’ Groombridge nodded to the departing figure. ‘He knows the truth. He came here to make sure we did.’
‘If Kirsch did kill Kimberly Bates, he’s unlikely to confess after twenty years.’
‘You’ll just have to dangle him from the roof,’ said Groombridge, glancing at Stark. It was exactly the kind of thing Stark might do. Or perhaps it was the kind of thing he would fight to prevent someone doing. After two years Groombridge often felt he was no nearer to understanding the young man. Perhaps he should stop trying. People weren’t clockwork, ticking to order; surely he’d been a policeman long enough to know that.
‘If DI Harper doesn’t first,’ replied Stark.
They both smiled at that, but Groombridge couldn’t escape the sadness inside. An unsolved murder was like a cancer, eating away at you. Kimberly Bates was his first, but of all those subsequent she remained the only one they’d never even found. Lucky perhaps. He and Alice had tried for children but luck worked both ways. Three miscarriages was enough. If you can’t make a life you build yourself a different life. He could only imagine what it must be like to lose a child you’ve held, raised, but this … Bad enough not to know who or why, but to never even find out what had happened – that was the worst. He let out a deep sigh. ‘They don’t teach us this.’
‘No,’ agreed Stark and they stood in silence for a moment. ‘The News of the World?’
An abrupt change of subject. Groombridge pursed his lips. ‘Could just be they spotted the resemblance like we did.’
Neither of them believed that. ‘There is another possibility …’ Groombridge told Stark about a broader phone hacking investigation. ‘Just high-level rumour. Strictest confidence,’ he added needlessly; Stark recognized a need-to-know conversation when he heard one and was smart enough to understand that such an investigation stood little chance if people found out about it.
The young DC nodded thoughtfully, probably weighing up which possibility would be more disturbing: a few bent coppers or a bent press. Groombridge couldn’t decide either.
‘He wants your office,’ Stark said suddenly, as if the words were escaping captivity. ‘For keeps.’
‘DI Harper?’ Groombridge raised his eyebrows. From most people this might be an uncomfortable breach of etiquette; from Stark it was a shocking sign of how desperate he must feel beneath that stone-faced stoicism. Though surely he could not think it needed saying? Harper had insisted on making a second press statement during the afternoon, having removed the bandage to show off the taped dressing on his bloodied brow. He’d been a lot less circumspect about the possible link between White and Kirsch, and used the word ‘suspect’ rather than ‘person of interest’, followed by ‘extremely dangerous’, ‘armed’ and ‘hunt down’. Grandstanding of the worst kind. Fran thought she was bad at press statements, that Harper was better. She had too little confidence and he too much. ‘Are we talking man-to-man now, Joseph?’
Stark winced faintly.
‘He can have it,’ joked Groombridge. ‘I’m getting quite fond of my little room with its lack of view. It’s amazing the amount of work you can get done removed from the distractions of actual policing.’
Stark’s face creased with amusement, momentarily, then reset to default.
‘You look tired,’ commented Groombridge, ‘since we’re talking man-to-man.’
Stark gave a faint shrug. ‘Who isn’t?’
Who indeed? thought Groombridge. ‘I heard about you and Kelly. I hope it wasn’t the job.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Still, I’m sorry.’
‘These things happen.’
Some leaves danced a short-lived merry reel in the street and Stark looked thoughtfully up at the cloudy night sky, as if sniffing the air. ‘Storm’s coming,’ he declared quietly.
Groombridge glanced up. If anything it was an oddly windless night but his weather-sense wasn’t what it had been; too many years away from the beat. And now he’d allowed himself to be dragged from investigation too. The storm never really stopped, and he was rapidly becoming less and less use in it.
He could ask if Stark was okay, truly, whether he needed some personal time, but if such questions would be an uncomfortable breach of etiquette man-to-man, to Stark they would be a shocking intrusion. He sensed the moment slipping away. Rare between menfolk, rarer still with those such as Stark – if such there were.
They watched the distant figure of Brian Bates turn the corner from sight. Then words came quietly from Stark as if he were speaking only to himself. ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep … and miles to go before I sleep.’
Groombridge glanced sideways at him. You grew accustomed to the years in his voice and too easily forgot whence they came; a man in his twenties, honed in ways no man should care to be, scarred and saddened. Groombridge was glad he hadn’t asked more. What more, in the end, could one offer? Poetry was not something he had much knowledge of but in the context of the moment the words spoke to him of mourning, duty and peace deferred. Were they for Stark or Brian Bates? he wondered. Or both?
Far to the north, silent lightning lit the sky.
Groombridge bid Stark a good night, with no discernible irony, and left him to his vigil.
There were no credible sightings of Kirsch over the next few hours. CO19 remained on standby and armed response cars were still stopping black motorbikes, but as midnight came and went the incident line feed slowed and little noteworthy disturbed Stark’s boredom and solitude.
Pensol had worked on the files in his absence, marking pages with Post-it notes for his attention in neat, feminine handwriting. Stark half expected the I’s to be dotted with little hearts. He went back over them, telling himself he was being thorough, and not just patronizing. Christ, he felt old. She’d done a good job. Sharp as well as pretty. He kept at it, propping himself up with coffee and snacks. Taking a break when the headache nagged at him to give in and sleep.
Outside, the rising wind moaned and lightning forked intermittently. Stark automatically counted seconds until thunder rattled the windows, tracking the storm. He’d stood guard in worse but was no less glad to be indoors. Peters and Pensol were out there somewhere. Stark was glad of that too, and barely ashamed of it.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
The warm darkness reached around to fold him in its embrace … and he snapped his eyes open, shaking off the drowse angrily. Sleeping at his post may no longer result in a court martial, but that wasn’t the point.
To distract himself he indulged his curiosity and looked at Brian Bates’ house on Street View. A humble mid-terrace in good repair, like Neville Darlington’s but with the garden paved over. Stark used the online map to trace the route to Simon Kirsch’s childhood home. The houses in Crookston Road were all much of a muchness, except the one Stark was looking for. While the others had cars in the drive, painted front doors and signs of habitation, the old Kirsch house was boarded up. Extensive graffiti, overgrown front garden and general decay suggested it had been so for some time. Strange.
Using the Met Police account, Stark checked the Land Registry details. The house was owned by one Mrs M. Larson.
Larson? Why did that ring a bell? He frowned at the stack of files, staring through it as if the answer would come into focus. It didn’t, and it was several more hours before he found a piece of paper that justified his nagging sense that he knew the name. The transcript of the first police interview of Simon’s mother, Miriam Kirsch, maiden name – Larson.
She still owned the house?
It was clear n
o one lived there. The team had enjoyed no luck tracing her so far. Presumably they’d tried her maiden name? Stark left a note on Fran’s desk all the same.
The phone next to Stark rang. More good news, no doubt.
‘That you, sweetie?’ asked Maggie. Even the indisputable queen of the control room had to pull her share of nights. Her team of civilians hadn’t escaped the belt-tightening.
‘In the flesh.’
‘Ooh,’ she made her voice quiver the way only she could.
‘And what can I do for you on this dark and lonely night, Maggie?’
‘I’ll get back to you on that, but right now you need to get downstairs. There’s a break-in underway at the Chases’ house.’
44
Stark’s mind raced all the way there, holding on tight in the back of a uniform car as it forged through the traffic and weather under blues and twos. This could just be some chancer taking advantage of a publicized empty property, but it might also be the killer proving the old adage by returning to the scene.
He found the Chases’ home aglow with blue lights for the second time in as many weeks. The house alarm was silent, but a car alarm was sounding from inside the garage, the noise barely audible over the howling wind and lashing rain. The orange hazard lights were visible through the high gable porthole.
Lightning strobed the diagonal rain, momentarily still in the eye, thunder following within a second. Stark’s jacket kept his core dry, but his trousers and shoes were soaked within seconds of stepping from the car and he had to grip the edge of his hood to keep it in place. ‘Intruder?’ he called to the armed response team, emerging from the side of the garage.
‘No sign,’ barked their sergeant. ‘We’re patrolling surrounding streets but there’s no chance of getting the ghetto birds up in this shit.’ His tone suggested that if he was out in it at one in the morning, so should everyone else be. But helicopters, storms and built-up areas were a terrible combination.
Stark looked around for someone more helpful and singled out Ptolemy on the perimeter talking into his radio. ‘What have we got?’
‘Sod all so far,’ replied Ptolemy, raising his voice over the ceaseless hiss of the rain.
‘Witnesses? Who called it in?’
‘Just trying to get that from control.’
Stark looked around and picked out a diminutive figure standing just beyond the reach of the lights. The intruder? Ptolemy followed his eye, but the figure didn’t back away as they approached.
Closer, Stark recognized him. The wing commander. The Chases’ neighbour.
‘Evening,’ said the little man, standing un-hunched in the driving rain in his long coat and flat cap. ‘Was wondering when one of you would spare the time.’
‘Did you call this in?’
The old man held up a very basic mobile phone. ‘Grandson got it for me. Just about induce it to place a call but damned thing goes to gobbledygook if I try one of those text thingies,’ he declared in clipped stiff upper lip. ‘Anyway, heard the alarm and stepped out for a spot of recon. Gate was open, if you see what I mean; intruder had the code. In and out quickly, not much more than a couple of minutes from triggering the alarm. It was that fella you’re after, the gardener.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Had his helmet on, but you can’t fool the old pattern recognition,’ replied the old man, tapping beside one eye. ‘Recognized the motorcycle too. Noisy brute.’
‘You didn’t mention a bike when we first talked,’ said Stark.
The old man shrugged. ‘You were asking about gardening. He’d left it parked round the corner this time, but I followed him.’
Stark nodded. Sound evasion practice – park the vehicle out of sight so you can start it up unobserved after your initial getaway. It would explain how he’d evaded police after Tasering Harper. ‘Did you get the licence plate?’
The old boy shook his head. ‘Had it blacked out. Can’t remember it from before, I’m afraid. Better on aircraft tail numbers.’
Ptolemy turned away to speak into his radio, but it was too late. Over twenty minutes had elapsed since the initial call. If Kirsch was on a bike, he could be halfway across London.
‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help,’ said the wing commander. ‘Might’ve taken him on if I was a year or two younger, but discretion is the better part and all that.’ There was a glint in his eye that said he’d have relished the prospect in his time.
Stark thanked him profusely all the same, and sent him off out of the rain with a constable to take his statement.
Waiting for SOCO was interminable. But at least they silenced the alarm.
Stark and Ptolemy were eventually shown inside.
The side gate was open. Not forced. Same for the door from the garden into the spacious double garage. Both hefty locks. As part-time gardener, Kirsch aka Mark White may have had keys.
The Mercedes driver-side window was smashed, the boot open.
The scene-of-crime manager shone his torch inside. The glove compartment hung open, the fusebox exposed, the same for the fusebox behind the passenger seat. Fuses had been pulled out of both. Stark had no idea whether the alarm could be disabled this way, but the intruder either hadn’t known or hadn’t bothered. If Stark had to guess, he’d say they’d simply pulled those fuses necessary to open the boot. The boot floor liner was open. The space-saver spare was there, and the pristine tools. Nothing missing. Or nothing obvious.
The SOCM pointed. ‘There.’
Stark crouched over something on the floor. A neoprene fabric pouch with a zip, too small for a laptop. There was a logo on it. A common brand of portable USB hard drive. But Stark had seen one like this before, and just as empty … among the scattered debris near Mary Chase’s body on the night of the killings. Which Harper had shown Kirsch a photo of …
‘Your phone’s ringing,’ said Ptolemy.
Stark fished it out. Four missed calls. Stark had asked Maggie to call Fran, but in the car and then rain he’d not heard her call back. ‘Sarge.’
‘About time!’ she cried. ‘If you wake someone in the middle of the night, it’s only polite to take their bloody call back. Where are you?’
‘The Chases’ garage.’
‘Kirsch?’
‘Looks like … But long gone.’
‘Anyone dead?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anything missing?’
Stark relayed the little he knew.
‘Right then,’ replied Fran. ‘I’m going back to bed. Leave your report on my desk before you clock off. Are you wet?’
‘What?’
‘Wet. It’s pouring with rain outside.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘So are you wet?’
‘Very.’
‘And cold?’
‘That too.’
‘Good.’ She hung up. From anyone else it would have sounded caustic, but Stark knew it was her way of monitoring his welfare.
The thought was shattered by the sound of shouting outside. Car doors and engines, sirens and screeching tyres.
‘Sarge!’ A constable beckoned frantically to Ptolemy from the doorway. ‘Traffic officer down. Stopped a bike and got Tasered. Ambulance en route but chatter says he’s not breathing.’
45
The motorcycle officer didn’t make it.
Just before the latest alert had gone out he’d pulled over a speeding bike with blacked-out plates, and got Tasered for his trouble. Fingers would be pointed about why he’d not alerted Armed Response. Perhaps he’d forgotten about the manhunt.
The next vehicle to the scene had found him not breathing. Heart failure, most likely. Or head injury from falling, though he was wearing his helmet. Taser deaths were always the subject of intense scrutiny. Bottom line – a cop was dead and Simon Kirsch was prime suspect.
Stark was back at the station when Fran arrived. The uniform floor was abuzz, seething with muttered anger, as directionless as it was useless. Stark recognized th
at from operational patrols: when a soldier was killed elsewhere, it hit the base hard.
He looked around, waiting for someone to take charge. The sergeants were doing their bit, cooling heads, lifting chins, but these situations needed leadership; someone to step up and channel anger into something productive.
Instead, Harper turned up, demanding a briefing, posturing and putting backs up.
Dixon and Williams arrived and the MIT team spent the next few hours retracing Kirsch’s life for some clue to his current hideout or ownership of a motorbike. Harper spotted Stark flagging and berated him openly. Stark was tired enough to hate the man. More pointless emotion.
Where the hell was the real guv’nor?
As if his prayer had been heard, the word went round for everyone to gather in the canteen. Groombridge and Cox stood at one end with Harper, DI Graham from CID and the uniform inspector, Cartwright. Everyone else waited in hushed impatience. Harper opened his mouth to speak but Groombridge gently touched his arm and Cox stepped up.
‘Right. As you all know, Constable Butler, a long-serving officer of the motorbike section, was fatally injured a few hours ago. His family are being informed as we speak. We’ll give a press conference at eight. A Taser deployment tag recovered from the scene matches that found after the Tasering of DI Harper two nights ago, by Simon Kirsch, aka Mark White.’
A ripple of muttered curses rose and Cox held up a hand for silence.
‘This of course raises Simon Kirsch from person of interest to prime suspect –’
‘To cop-killer,’ called out an angry voice and the muttering rose again. The station was tinder dry and sparking.
Cox nodded, but his firm gaze soon brought about quiet. For all his projected demeanour of moustache-puffing bluster, Stark had long suspected Cox was a proper officer. ‘A cop-killer is still an innocent man until the courts have proved otherwise. I expect every person here to exercise steely determination and professionalism in bringing that about. I want Kirsch in a cell without a mark on him a barrister could use to get him off … understand?’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 20