She wasn’t in the least surprised to find him still at it when she came back. Peering over his shoulder, she gave his efforts a withering scan. ‘A bit dry, even for you.’ We took cover in the front seats as the assailant discharged his weapon into the car. Nothing about probably saving her life. Nothing about his cool-headedness afterwards, or her near hysteria.
Stark tried to ignore her as he typed on. For someone who’d blatantly delegated a duty, she was aware that resorting to every impatient tut, huff and fidget in her arsenal was shameless even by her standards, but it was fun. ‘Come on,’ she complained eventually. ‘I need a bloody drink. It’s nearly closing!’
‘Thought you had plans?’
‘Postponed.’
‘You buying?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be facetious.’
A cleared throat behind them announced Marcus Turner.
‘Marcus?’ said Fran.
The forensic pathologist looked a little flustered. ‘Thought you should see this.’ He held up an evidence photo – of a hard drive. ‘From the envelope, as suspected. Exactly the same make and model as the smashed one from Old Man Quaggy, but this one’s functional. I’ve made you a copy. There’s a lot of financial records and accounting that our chaps are translating into English, but there’s more …’
61
‘Okay, what’s so urgent?’ said Harper, irritable after Fran had pulled him away from throwing his weight around on the uniform floor, where the manhunt was in full swing again.
Stark clicked play on the audio file.
‘Make this quick, some of us have work to do.’ A man’s voice, terse, irritable.
‘Take a seat, Clive,’ replied a female voice.
‘I don’t have time for your games, Mary.’
‘You’ll have time for this …’ A sound, paper.
‘What’s this?’
‘Every little ghost-company scam you’ve pulled, every penny you’ve stolen from this company.’
Tilly laughed scornfully. ‘Get off your high horse, Mary. You’ve been quietly bleeding this company dry ever since you got your feet under that desk.’
‘Really? This is my proof. Where’s yours?’ Silence. ‘You can keep that copy. I have it all backed up safe and sound.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you out of my way.’
‘And what makes you think that’s likely?’
‘I know what happened with Billy Forester.’
A pause. ‘Bullshit.’
‘I overheard you and Tom arguing about it in his office. You thought you were the last ones here but I’d come back for my purse.’
Silence from Tilly.
‘I heard everything,’ Mary’s voice continued evenly. ‘You all lied to the police that night. I suppose none of you realized the other driver was hurt, but even so … Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, they call it. I looked it up. The courts take a very dim view.’
‘And who’s going to believe you?’ scoffed Tilly. ‘That was … over thirty years ago.’
‘Luckily I videoed your whole conversation on my phone.’
There was a momentary pause. ‘Give me that.’
‘As if I don’t have this backed up too. Suddenly I understood why Tom kept you on here all these years.’
‘He’s my best friend!’
‘That didn’t stop you fucking me, though, did it, Clive?’ Mary’s voice was sneering now. ‘How would Tom feel about that?’
‘Who’s going to tell him? You?’
‘Oh, Tom knows I fool around. He knows it doesn’t mean anything. I’m not sure he’d forgive you, though …’
‘You … threw yourself at me,’ spluttered Tilly. ‘You practically begged!’
‘That’s not how I remember it.’ Stark had never seen Mary alive, but he could picture her now, smiling sweetly. ‘Still, don’t feel bad. It’s only fair you screw his wife since he spent so much time screwing yours.’
Silence.
‘Oh dear,’ cooed Mary. ‘Sandra didn’t tell you?’
‘You liar!’
‘Ask her yourself. She came to see me when I got engaged to Tom, tried to warn me off him. So sweet. Still, if it’s any consolation, I have all the leverage I need now to take Tom to the cleaners in a divorce.’
‘You gold-digging bitch!’ spat Tilly.
‘Get back in your box, Clive,’ snapped Mary, all sweetness abandoned. ‘There’s nothing left for you here. I’ll give you one week to clear your desk and go. And if you breathe a word to Tom I’ll drop you both in the shit with the police.’
Another pause. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re doing,’ said Tilly, a hard, cold edge to his voice.
‘I’m winning, Clive,’ replied Mary glibly. ‘And guess where that leaves you.’
The recording ended with scornful laughter and the sound of a door slamming.
A collective silence pervaded the MIT office.
‘Far be it from me to say,’ said Marcus, ‘but isn’t that what you people call motive?’
‘His grandfather’s pistol gives means,’ added Fran, trying to read Harper’s blank expression. ‘And his hour’s “nap” in a petrol station car park half a mile away gives opportunity.’
‘This isn’t proof,’ said Harper. ‘All we know for sure is that Simon Kirsch killed him, and Carlton Savage.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve news on that score too,’ said Marcus. ‘The written report came back on the glove you found. Gunshot residue outside. DNA from sweat inside match for your Mark White aka Simon Kirsch, of course, but they also found powdered corn-starch inside – commonly used as surface lubricant on surgical gloves, such as the ones found in the lock-up.’
‘Someone wore gloves inside the gloves?’ asked Fran.
‘Quite neat, when you think about it,’ added Marcus. ‘Steal gloves belonging to your chosen patsy, pull them on over your surgical gloves, fire the weapon, then burn all the evidence whilst “accidentally” dropping one glove under the stove … Pure conjecture, of course.’
‘Tilly had access to Kirsch’s locker,’ said Williams.
‘And Savage’s,’ added Dixon. ‘Maybe he put that necklace in Savage’s jacket after all.’
Fran made a face. ‘Nothing puts Tilly at the lock-up, though.’
Stark rubbed the scar on his right temple, deep in thought. ‘What’s the betting that if we check the list of burglaries you found in the lock-up we’ll find a corresponding list of rejected Chase Security quotes for domestic alarms? Tilly’s intel, Savage’s skills.’
‘Team burglary?’ said Williams. ‘Makes sense.’
‘If so, why would Tilly try framing his partner in crime with that necklace and risk it all spilling out?’ Fran objected.
‘Pressure from us?’ suggested Stark. ‘Who better than a burglar to take the rap for a burglary-gone-bad?’
‘But Savage comes up with an alibi …’ added Williams.
‘And the pressure doubles,’ said Stark. ‘Now Savage is a liability. After the necklace, he knows someone is trying to set him up. Maybe he guessed it was Tilly and tried a spot of blackmail. Tilly kills him and frames our next best suspect, White aka Kirsch, for everything. Two birds. One bullet.’
Fran nodded, slowly. ‘We’ve been chasing the wrong man all along.’
‘Simon Kirsch shot me with a fucking Taser!’ Harper blurted out angrily. ‘And killed a traffic cop!’
‘Accidentally,’ said Stark, shaking his head at the enormity of their error. ‘After we drove him into hiding. We did this.’
‘We?’ said Harper. ‘You mean me.’
‘I –’
‘You’re forgetting that Simon Kirsch killed an innocent schoolgirl twenty years ago, fled abroad, assumed an illegal identity and has lied through his backside every day since. And three hours ago he gunned down Clive Tilly – deliberately. So you’d all better get on with finding him before he does it again.’
62
A tap on Stark’s shou
lder brought him round. He didn’t recall falling asleep and blinked, disoriented, in the harsh fluorescent lighting. The archivist waved a file at him impatiently. ‘William Forester.’
Two birds with one stone – curiosity and impatience to get out of the same space as Harper. Stark had struggled to summon the requisite charm to endear the archivist to his cause at one in the morning, but name-dropping Fran procured the man’s keen cooperation.
Stark got to his feet with a series of aches protesting, and signed for the file. It was thicker than expected, but neat and chronological.
The tale began with the fatal car collision in 1975 – Clive Tilly and Thomas Chase were named as passengers but faced no charges. They spent a night in the cells, sleeping off the shandies. Owner of the car, William Forester, hadn’t been drinking but was later prosecuted for causing death by dangerous driving and jailed for four years.
But Billy’s brushes with the law hadn’t ended with his release from prison. At the time of the crash his girlfriend was pregnant. A daughter, born shortly before his trial, and incarceration: Belinda, shortened to Billie. Unfortunately for Billy senior, shortly before his release the girlfriend shacked up with someone new, restricted visitation, then moved away taking little Billie beyond reach or hope.
So began Billy’s descent. Drunk and disorderly more than once, affray, suspected of mugging. Stints of employment for T&C Security … So he’d come out of jail and worked for his old mates’ firm, on and off at least, until his second spell inside in 1982 for burglary. Released after two years only to be killed in a suspected mugging one week later. Not a lucky man. Shot dead on the way home from the pub, wallet stolen.
Stark’s eyes scanned through the investigating officer’s notes until one section caught his interest. The officer had logged a call from a warden in the prison where Forester had spent his second spell. A former cellmate had attempted to buy favour with information, alleging that Billy had claimed to have taken the dangerous driving rap of another man.
It was Billy’s car, his pride and joy, but he claimed Tom Chase had begged a go one night, and it was he who’d caused the crash. Drunk and frightened, Tom then persuaded the sober Billy to take the blame. The other driver had looked relatively unhurt, and the roads were wet; Tom and Clive persuaded him that it would pass as a simple accident. But the next day the other driver had fallen ill and died, brain haemorrhage, and the police had taken a dimmer view of things. Billy shouldered the blame, served the time and kept quiet, all for friendship. But afterwards he had to beg a job from Tom and Clive – his old mates were making their way in the world, and Billy grew increasingly resentful to the point where he somehow blamed Tom for his decline into debt and criminality and consequent second incarceration. The investigating officer had dutifully written it all down, but Billy’s prison records charted a decline into volatility and illicit drunkenness, no one else had heard the claim, and the cellmate was dismissed as a time-waster.
The weapon was never found, there were no leads, no suspects, and Billy’s family had long washed their hands of him. The officer stamped the case unsolved and moved on.
Stark sat back and let it sink in. So this was what Mary had heard her husband and Tilly arguing about. Perverting the course of justice.
He began to close the file, but something else caught his eye. The weapon wasn’t found … but a bullet was recovered from the body. There was a close-up photo of the deformed lead. Stark could imagine all too well the damage it had done Billy. It was thirty-eight calibre, two-hundred-grain … the same as the one found with the Webley revolver used to kill the Chases.
Coincidence was perfectly feasible, but there was a second. Time of death had been impossible to pin down accurately because the body had been found in water. In Deptford Creek, mouth of the River Ravensbourne into the Thames. Point of entry had never been identified … but the Ravensbourne was fed upstream by the River Quaggy.
Coincidence squared.
Alternatively, after his second release from jail, the bitter, desperate Billy Forester had gone looking to his oldest friends for help, or making demands of the men he blamed for his train-wreck of a life, and Tilly had silenced him. Maybe Billy’s brief burglary career had been directed by Tilly, just like Carlton Savage later; and with the same fatal conclusion. Mary thought she was threatening Tilly with a short jail term, but Tilly was more frightened that revisiting the case might have led the police to an altogether bigger conclusion.
‘But there was no bullet match?’ Fran yawned.
‘I spoke with ballistics from the car,’ said Stark. ‘In old cases, bullets weren’t uniformly scanned. If a case was low priority, the bullet was deformed or there was no weapon found to compare …’
‘And …?’
‘I need your signature to get them to test the old bullet.’
‘You’re making friends tonight.’
‘I’m affable.’
‘So you think Clive Tilly killed his oldest pal?’
‘Families fall out,’ replied Stark. Her words.
Fran signed and Stark scanned the document and emailed it to ballistics. She looked at the clock. Two in the morning. She’d already sent Williams and Dixon home. ‘Right. Let’s get some sleep. Next briefing is at eight. I need you fit.’
‘No need for that,’ said Harper. ‘You’re off for the rest of the week, Stark. And don’t give me any guff about being off this weekend. You hit your forty hours for the week long before your extra-curricular jaunts with DS Millhaven over the weekend. And I note that you have six weeks’ leave accrued. Take this week off or I’ll see to it that you can’t carry a single day over in January. HQ have ratified my request for additional manpower. We’ve got two DCs joining us from DI Graham’s team, and three more from outside.’ He smiled thinly. ‘No need to thank me. I want your timesheet for this week before you go. Not one minute over your forty.’
‘Sir,’ said Stark, returning Harper’s gaze without the contempt he felt. He would not gift Harper the reaction he sought, however tempting. He’d endured far worse during military training, but that had a purpose, to teach you the need to play along, to put personal discomfort aside and do as you were told. You knew the only time being wasted was yours and it didn’t matter. But this mattered. Brian Bates deserved answers, Susan Watts deserved peace, Mary and Thomas Chase, Carlton Savage and even Clive Tilly deserved their measure of justice. Stark was not so conceited as to believe any of that depended on him, but he should play his part. Otherwise, what was the point in the oath he’d taken?
Harper had taken that oath too, of course. But this smacked of trying to get Stark out of the way, paranoia that he’d somehow snatch the glory again.
Stark risked a glance at Fran and saw her staring at Harper, aghast. Better for everyone if he packed up and left without delay. The last thing the team needed was Fran backed into a corner, though judging from her face it may already be too late.
‘Go on then …’ smiled Harper brightly. ‘Off you fuck.’
63
Fran watched Stark meekly pull on his coat and leave. She wanted to say something to him. She wanted him to say something. But what she wanted most was to say something to Harper. Instead she bit her tongue. But as Harper turned towards his office she saw him smirk.
He closed the door behind him but was barely in his chair before he looked up to see her closing it behind her. He looked at her with enquiring innocence, inviting her rant. He wanted her to crack.
‘That’s enough,’ she said quietly.
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘I think you’re forgetting yourself, Detective Sergeant.’
‘No,’ she replied calmly, determined not to lose her temper. ‘I’m remembering myself. It’s my job to help you get the best out of this team, even when that means telling you you’re wrong.’
‘Wrong? For managing the load evenly between resources? For hurting your little favourite’s feelings?’ mocked Harper.
&n
bsp; ‘We need him at his desk.’
‘You should be thanking me. It’s my job to get the best out of this team, and that includes dealing with the resentment created by DCI Groombridge and you invariably favouring your little war hero over more experienced constables.’
Fran stared at him, incredulous. ‘The other constables respect Stark for his obvious talents and commitment and his respect for theirs. The only resentment here is yours; it always has been. Stark is worth ten extra bodies and you know it.’
His eyes flashed with anger. ‘Constable Stark is a conniving, contemptuous prick, living off his celebrity –’
‘Celebrity?’ Fran interrupted. ‘He got the Victoria Cross, for God’s sake!’
‘For what? Surviving while others died?’
‘You’re insane! They don’t give them out for nothing.’
‘They give them out whenever they need a new hero to gloss over failing public support for their pointless wars, so people like you will lap it up. Well, I don’t. I saw through Stark from the start. And this whole conversation only underlines your poor judgement. He’s a liability and I want him gone.’ It was clear he meant for more than just a week. Harper was finally showing his true colours.
He stood now, leaning forward with his fists planted on the desk, intent on bullying her with his size. ‘And don’t think I don’t see through you too. You’ve worked to undermine me ever since you got here. I was the DCI’s right-hand man. Well, I’m wearing the pips now, Sergeant, and you’ll come to heel like a good little doggy or I’ll have you out of here with so many black marks on your sheet you couldn’t get a job investigating lost pets!’
Fran stood her ground, but any hope of keeping her cool had evaporated. ‘No one has ever undermined you but yourself. I used to think you were just sad and lazy, but ever since you got back you’ve been lording it around like a complete tosser. I don’t care whether it’s your lack of ability, tiny dick or the knowledge that Stark can twist your arm out of its socket any time he pleases, but yours must go down as the most justified inferiority complex of all time. And while you’re indulging your childish vendetta, you’re not doing your fucking job!’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 28