Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

Fran held up a piece of paper and Stark read out the details.

  ‘Have you any idea how laborious this might be?’ asked Pierson irritably.

  ‘You have underlings, I presume.’

  ‘I list you in that number, Sergeant Stark. Though the world seems to have turned on its head.’

  ‘The world is no respecter of rank. Justice even less so.’

  ‘Don’t appeal to my better nature. I don’t have one.’

  ‘We both know you’re all fluffy kittens inside.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She hung up.

  Fran blinked, wondering if all their conversations went that well. ‘She’ll do it?’

  Stark nodded.

  She grinned. ‘She’ll put it on your tab.’

  He nodded again. ‘Talking of which … fancy a drink?’

  He looked like he needed one. Fran bit her lip. She hated the idea of him drinking alone, especially in his current state, but she had plans. ‘Sorry …’

  He shrugged, plucked up his cane and stood with a suppressed grunt. Christ, he looked terrible. She was about to change her mind when her phone beeped to announce a text. She read the ID with a smile and when she looked up moments later, Stark was gone.

  58

  Sometimes drinking alone was fine, sometimes not. Most times it was simple necessity.

  Chopsticks protruded from the plastic Chinese takeaway containers on the coffee table in front of him, half-eaten and abandoned. Stark sipped his beer without tasting it, staring at the large manila envelope he’d found waiting on the mat. Hand delivered. Hand addressed.

  Stark

  For when you change your mind …

  He’d almost binned it.

  Like he’d almost binned the business card, but hadn’t.

  Ripping it open, he’d pulled out printed photos with a sinking heart.

  Selena on his arm, then frozen mid-scream. The fight in the street; grainy, street-lit, damning.

  And Wootton Bassett. The cortège, the weeping, his form in the crowd, leaning on his distinctive cane in cap and shades. And a zoom shot of him saluting in those brief moments he’d exposed his battered face. Gwen had invested in a better camera. And hidden in plain sight among the others. His foolish threats had clearly caused the opposite effect to that he’d hoped for, and exactly the effect he’d feared.

  There was a note.

  You’ve got my number …

  I certainly have, he thought, grinding his teeth. He should’ve been politer. But if she thought she could leverage him with this shit he’d enjoy telling her to fuck off even more the second time.

  He wondered where Selena was right now. Scared off for sure, he thought, looking at her frozen face. Just as well.

  His mobile made him jump.

  Unknown caller.

  He ignored it on principle. The caller declined to leave a message, but then rang again. Surely Gwen hadn’t got his number. If there was one thing more aggravating than a cold caller, it was a persistent one. Stark snatched up the phone. ‘What?’

  Silence. Then, ‘I’m sorry … I should’ve called.’

  ‘Kelly?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I …’ More silence. ‘Just to check you were okay.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Stark lied automatically.

  A pause. It hurt her the worst when she knew he was lying. ‘A physio I know saw you in A&E last night. Said you were covered in blood.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  She waited for him to say more, but what could he say? He had deleted her number from his phone and asked her not to call.

  ‘I heard about Nathan Lovelace,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’m so sorry …’

  The choke in her voice rent his heart. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘Joe, please …’

  ‘Thanks for calling –’

  ‘I love you, Joe …’

  ‘I know.’ He hung up. ‘I love you too,’ he said to the silence, where the cruelty of the words could harm none but him.

  The phone rang again, before he could even put it down. ‘Please,’ he said desperately. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  Silence again. ‘I might, should you return the courtesy,’ said Pierson.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Stark. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘I guessed.’ She didn’t ask who. ‘Let’s make this quick then … I’m halfway through pasta, Chianti and packing –’

  ‘Packing?’

  There was a momentary hesitation. ‘Even shiny arses need to get out of the basement into sunshine occasionally. Now, I’ve news on our gun if you’ve a mind to listen?’

  ‘Our gun?’

  ‘Property of the Ministry, technically.’

  ‘Good luck asking for it back.’

  ‘Don’t be trite. Now, my army of underlings have come up with two possible names.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘I believe speed is of the essence, in such matters?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So, of the two grandfathers you named, one was too young to serve and the other was an RAF mechanic at Biggin Hill. So no match to your pistol. However, I am emailing a list based on the serial number variables. Eyes only, Sergeant. You may find number eight interesting. And should you need anything else … please don’t hesitate to piss off.’

  ‘I love you too,’ muttered Stark to the sudden dial tone, wondering how many ways there were to mean those words.

  He opened the email. A list of ten names – zero to nine variables of the unclear serial number digit. The X-ray and acid-etching photos made it look like a three, six or eight. He scanned down. And stopped at eight: Lieutenant Eugene Tilly, London Rifles.

  He dialled Fran.

  ‘We really must have a word about the meaning of time off,’ she said.

  ‘Are you still in the office?’

  ‘I’ve got my coat on.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I’ve got plans, remember?’

  ‘That gun didn’t belong to Tom Chase’s grandfather. It belonged to Clive Tilly’s.’

  59

  Fran glanced at Stark as she drove. He looked tired but alert. Pretty much normal, aside from the stitches in his head and countless scrapes and bruises. Given his history he probably thought they were normal. She sounded the horn at a van that had the temerity to pull into her lane, altered course and squeezed the car between two buses, sensing Stark flinch.

  ‘The keys,’ he said suddenly. ‘From the river …’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘If we search Tom’s office or home again, will we find a set of keys to Clive Tilly’s house?’

  Fran thought this through. ‘A reciprocal arrangement?’

  Stark nodded. ‘Best friends.’

  ‘Best friends water your plants and feed the cat …’

  ‘And lie about guns …?’

  It was as simple to believe as Simon Kirsch stealing the keys but, although she loathed to think it, Fran hoped Harper was right. One killer was better than two.

  Tilly wasn’t at home, so they were heading to his office. They could have called ahead but they wanted to make this informal, amiable, and above all lawyer-free. She yawned. Under the circumstances cancelling her ‘plans’ was for the best, but she still felt a pang of regret.

  This development had her head muddled. It just didn’t feel like they had unravelled the knot. It came down to who at Chase Security knew about the operation running out of the old lock-up. As well as using it as a base for the burglaries, someone had run at least one parallel company scam, possibly diverting customer orders to the different address. Was that Simon Kirsch and Carlton Savage too, or was someone higher in on it all? It could have been another side-scam instigated by Thomas and Mary Chase. Burglary seemed a little blunt, a little blue-collar compared to their white-collar frauds.

  Or was it Tilly? He’d lied; or at the very least omitted to mention that if Tom’s grandfather had brought a revolver back from the war, it wasn’t the only one.r />
  Her stomach growled loudly as they sat idle at the lights, protesting missed dinner. As if in reply, Stark’s growled too. A smile crept over both their faces, and they broke into chuckles, shaking their heads. Probably wondering what it was that drove them to eschew sustenance and rest to go chasing down a single anomaly on a Sunday evening.

  God, it felt good to laugh, to let the absurdity of it all out. Better still to see Stark laugh, to know he hadn’t forgotten how.

  The radio crackled into life: All cars – shots fired at Stone Lake Industrial Park – business premises – Chase Security Ltd. Staff hiding on site report armed suspect motorcyclist still on premises. ARV and ambulance inbound. Repeat, all –

  The radio message rattled on but Fran had already flicked on the siren and concealed lights and booted the car into the oncoming lane and across the red lights. Stark called in their proximity as other cars did likewise.

  Only three streets away, they arrived first, with other cars still minutes away. Fran cut the siren and lights and pulled up short of the gate to wait for the armed response vehicle.

  ‘Wait here,’ Stark ordered. But at that moment a motorbike shot out of the gates, turned their way, wavered and then skidded to a halt ten metres away, headlight glaring straight into their eyes.

  ‘Fuck!’ hissed Fran. She couldn’t see anything but the glare, but it had to be Kirsch. What was he doing?

  ‘Get down!’ barked Stark, grabbing Fran’s jacket and dragging her towards him.

  Fran’s head clipped the wheel on its way down and she yelled a curse at Stark just as the windscreen imploded to the sound of five deafening gunshots.

  Gasping, choking, heart in her mouth, Fran was only distantly aware of the revving engine and squeal of the bike racing away into the night.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  60

  ‘This is your fault,’ growled Harper at Stark, his bitter expression stuttering in the blue flashing lights like some twisted stop-frame animation. He looked tired, the strain telling. ‘You and your army girlfriend. We could’ve had Tilly in custody!’

  ‘He was dead before we got here,’ said Fran wearily. Adrenaline had lasted a full ten minutes before it pulled off its mask to reveal the grinning face of shock. That had eventually given way to bone-numbing weariness. The lights tore at her eyes like sandpaper and she had to stop herself barking at one of the uniforms to turn the bloody things off. She was still finding glass in her hair. Her car squatted beneath plastic tarp like a fat corpse. A work car, of course, but it felt like hers. Her second-best hair comb was still in the glove compartment; now a crime scene. She’d be stuck with a pool car now, or Stark’s driving.

  ‘You didn’t get here soon enough, then, did you?’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got a dead cop and now a dead suspect. We’ll be a laughing stock!’

  Stark cleared his throat.

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. ‘Something to say, Constable?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Stark evenly.

  Harper bristled. ‘When told to speak, you will address me as Detective Inspector, or Guv. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’ Everyone waited for a Detective Inspector or Guv, but neither were forthcoming. Fran nearly laughed. Stark had a far subtler impatience than her, but he was pushing his luck.

  There was a polite cough from behind them. Marcus Turner stood in his anti-contamination gear, the mask pulled down around his neck.

  ‘What’ve we got?’ demanded Harper.

  ‘Five bullets: one to the face, four to the chest after the body fell. Thorough but messy. First took the back off the skull and lodged in the wall. No shell cases.’

  ‘So a revolver again,’ said Harper. ‘Thirty-eight?’

  ‘Forty-five,’ said Stark quietly.

  ‘You saw it?’ asked Marcus, interested.

  Stark shook his head. ‘Too loud for a thirty-eight.’

  Marcus nodded, seeming to accept this. ‘We’ll know for sure soon enough. The SOCO chaps will pull it out once the photographer’s finished. Sorry about your car,’ he said to Fran sincerely. ‘Looks like your biker left you a nice tyre track, though; perhaps you’ll have some luck there. And then there’s this …’ He held up an evidence bag containing the bloody envelope found placed on the body. Scrawled on the front was one word – Police.

  ‘What’s inside?’ asked Fran. Stark had insisted she leave it for the bomb squad and SOCO.

  ‘Hard drive,’ muttered Stark, looking down as eyes turned on him.

  ‘Feels about right,’ agreed Marcus. Fran was reaching for it but he pulled it to himself. ‘I’ll make sure Forensics process it at something other than their standard glacial pace, of course. Get you a copy of the content asap.’

  Fran cursed. If it was indeed the twin of the smashed one from the river, she needed to see what was on it now, not tomorrow!

  Marcus looked apologetic, but unmoved. ‘So … Any notion who perpetrated this dark act?’

  ‘We had better hope it was Simon Kirsch,’ said a new voice behind Fran. ‘Or Superintendent Cox is going to blow an aneurysm.’

  Groombridge, lurking in earshot as was his wont. How long had he been here?

  ‘Not to mention the damn press,’ growled Harper.

  Groombridge patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. ‘I’m sure you can handle them.’

  No doubt, thought Fran, and welcome to it.

  Harper nodded to her and Stark. ‘Right, I want a full report on my desk before either of you thinks of swanning off home.’

  Dixon and Williams had been called in and were in the CCTV suite helping scan traffic-cam footage for the bike, but the rider had either got lucky or knew to stick to side roads to avoid cameras.

  Stark wrote the report. Fran hated doing them, and had even less patience for collaborative writing, especially with Stark. She made some calls, got overtly bored and wandered off to the canteen, leaving him alone.

  Tired, he took less care than normal. However he couched it, Harper would find fault or ammunition. Eschewing his usual verbosity, he stuck with dispassionate accuracy, adding nothing of his burning frustration or scalding rage, all now ghostly and beyond description anyway.

  He closed his eyes, and rolled his shoulder where he’d wrenched it pulling Fran down. The old bullet damage still ached in the mornings; tomorrow morning wasn’t going to be fun; if it ever came.

  ‘Some people just can’t help getting shot at,’ said Ptolemy, materializing to place a steaming mug of coffee on Stark’s desk. ‘Milk and two, I’m told.’ He looked dog-tired.

  ‘Have you been home?’ asked Stark.

  ‘Double shift,’ replied Ptolemy, rubbing his eyes. ‘You lot keep screwing up our roster. Here,’ he said, glancing around and furtively sliding a piece of paper to Stark.

  Five names: two sergeants, three constables.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s one of them,’ added Ptolemy in a low voice. ‘But if things went official, I’d start there.’

  ‘What does Sergeant Clark think?’ asked Stark. They hadn’t discussed sharing this problem with anyone else, but the two were friends and both nurtured their status as station confidants.

  ‘He reckons it’s one of your lot.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a lot of resentment below stairs. Voluntary lay-offs, recruitment cuts, everyone wondering whether involuntary lay-offs are next. Add in overtime restrictions and yet another pay freeze … It’s getting harder and harder to do our job, harder to motivate people to care, and harder to keep the ones who do. I have three constables trained up for Trainee Investigator slots only for brass to cut their funding, and that’s just the start. I’ve had three more leave because they can’t keep a roof over their family’s heads on a basic forty hours.

  ‘The politicians lean on the brass who lean on the coppers, but the public still expects … This station is running on duty and goodwill, and both have limits. I’m not condoning it, and if I find out one of
my lot has been selling out to the press they’ll know about it, but it’s getting harder to blame them. How about you? Any names?’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘Begin with an H?’

  Stark nodded. ‘But I think the leaks started before he got here.’ He was in the hospital when the press linked White to Kirsch, but that was as much opportunity as alibi.

  ‘You’re assuming there’s only one hole in the boat.’

  Stark sighed. ‘Just hoping.’

  Ptolemy nodded. ‘And what can good men do but act and hope?’ He patted Stark on his unharmed shoulder and left.

  Act and hope? Stark looked at the report in front of him. If only there were some fact he could tweak, some detail he could plant for Harper’s eyes only, which were it to turn up on the news would incriminate him … Stark shook his head. Woolly fantasy. Unconscionable. Any wrong detail might impede the search. Anger, not logic. It couldn’t be Harper, not even him.

  Speculation, spying and suspicion within – the whole business left a bitter taste in the mouth.

  And this pernicious breakdown in trust was just the internal damage. One individual’s casual betrayal, their grubby pieces of silver, would cause this station a catastrophic loss of credibility. What member of the public would help them, what informant would trust them when they couldn’t trust each other? The cost of these leaks was incalculable. He wished Groombridge had never set him on this trail. Surely he’d known Stark could achieve little alone. Ptolemy, Peters and now Clark … Who else had been enlisted into Groombridge’s growing band of Royal Hill Irregulars? Maggie for one; Groombridge’s perfectly placed spy.

  Stark sat up. Maggie. The centre of all information. He got up and wandered down to her throne room and knocked.

  ‘Sweetie …’ She smiled, though it was a touch forced. She looked tired too. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Stark wondered how to start. Maggie was above suspicion, but her little empire … ‘It’s delicate,’ he replied awkwardly.

  ‘Ooh,’ she grinned theatrically. ‘Better close the door then, sweetie. Let Maggie take a look.’

  Fran took her time over coffee. No sense rushing back and spoiling Stark’s flow. He seemed to like writing reports, and much as she liked spoiling his fun, in this instance she was prepared to take the higher road.