‘I’ve never seen her out of uniform. She almost looks human.’
Stark abandoned breakfast and wandered down to reception, curious to see for himself.
Standing with her back to him, perusing the noticeboard in slim jeans and a fashion hoodie, Pierson was almost unrecognizable. She turned and noted his questioning look. ‘Twenty-four-hour pass,’ she explained, taking in his injuries. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Walked into a door.’
She frowned, disapproving. ‘Spare five?’
He nodded and followed her out into the dry, cold morning. On the corner opposite the station was Burney Street Gardens, a tiny public space with a few benches.
The Major didn’t sit, so neither did Stark. Old habits. ‘Does it get any easier?’ she asked. ‘Looking back?’
Stark frowned, unsure if she meant what he thought. ‘Watching from the sidelines?’
‘You know I’d never accuse you of that,’ she replied. ‘Though I might wear the accusation.’
‘No one could say that.’
‘I could,’ she replied flatly. For the first time in their relationship, for want of a better word, Stark sensed a crack in her façade. She looked up at the high, wispy clouds, silent for a few seconds. ‘My regiment is deploying to Helmand in a month. I put in for transfer back as soon as I heard.’
Packing, thought Stark, and all the other odd remarks she’d let slip in recent weeks. ‘They said yes?’
A tight smile. ‘I’ve been shining my arse on MoD secondment too long. It’s high time I did some soldiering.’
He nodded, uncertain what reaction she needed from him, but could not help his heart sinking a little. Something of his own family’s pain, perhaps, the pride and fear of waving a loved one off to war. ‘You’ve deployed before?’ He’d never actually asked her.
‘Telic Six,’ – sixth roulement of the British operation in Iraq – ‘2005, as a fresh-faced lieutenant.’
Stark was there in the first half of 2006 with Telic Seven as a fresh-faced lance-corporal. How faces changed.
‘I’m rejoining the regiment for pre-deployment on Wednesday,’ she explained. ‘I thought you should know. I’m not sure why.’
‘You should’ve said sooner. I’ve been pestering you with problems.’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘A friend has shown me that the good fight doesn’t stop at the edge of some foreign field.’
More than friend, thought Stark; family. ‘Then while I am still technically a reservist …’ He pulled his broken form into something resembling attention, and saluted her. ‘Good luck, Major.’
She smiled and saluted back, for the first time entirely without irony. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘Hope your arse isn’t too shiny,’ he smirked, ‘they’ll make you take the CFT again.’ The dreaded Combat Fitness Test, a gruelling eight-mile all-terrain march in full combat gear, in less than one hour fifty-five – or else.
‘My arse is in fine shape, thank you very much.’
‘Indeed it is, Major,’ replied Stark, deadpan. If their relationship hadn’t begun on such a bad note he might have considered its merits with more than casual appreciation himself. ‘I look forward to seeing it safe home.’
‘I really must look into what’s holding up your discharge,’ she said evenly. ‘I think perhaps the army could do without you and your cheek.’
‘Just so long as it takes good care of your cheeks, Major.’
Stark watched the cheeks in question march away.
‘I’m starting to lose count of the women in your life,’ said a voice behind him.
His smile faded. Gwen Maddox. At least she didn’t have a phone or camera in her hand. ‘One more than I’d like,’ he replied coldly.
Gwen made a moue. ‘I’m crushed.’
‘If wishing made it so …’
Gwen sighed. ‘You didn’t call.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Care to elaborate?’ Hazel’s favourite question. Stark’s least. ‘The slaying of Clive Tilly?’ Gwen pressed. ‘Shots fired at officers. At you?’
‘I told you to stop following me.’
‘I have.’
Stark opened his hands to indicate their location, and contemporary proximity within it, hoping his face displayed the appropriate level of scorn.
Gwen shrugged. ‘Your reception told me you were out here.’
‘And Wootton Bassett?’
‘I got there first.’
‘A lucky guess?’
‘A smart one.’
Stark didn’t have the patience for this. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Seriously? You want to do this here?’
‘Not a good time to be seen talking with a reporter?’ she asked pointedly. Another smart guess.
‘Not a good location to try blackmailing a police officer.’
She sighed again. ‘I’m sorry. The envelope was a bit cloak and dagger.’ She gave an odd smile and placed a memory stick on the brick wall in front of her. ‘This is all of it. Photos, video, times, dates, notes. No copies.’
Stark stared at it and her with suspicion. ‘Why?’
‘Your life is yours,’ she replied simply.
‘What about your big scoop?’
‘There’s always the next one.’
‘Wasn’t this going to be your break-through story, your chance to impress?’
‘Sometimes it’s worth taking a look at who it is you’re trying to impress.’
‘Or whether you’re in the wrong game?’
She shook her head. ‘The wrong team, perhaps.’
Stark watched her carefully. She seemed sincere, but his ingrained distrust of her kind was hard to shake. ‘Won’t you starve?’
She smiled wryly. ‘There’ll never be a shortage of slime and decay.’
He picked up the stick. ‘Was I wrong about you?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What changed your mind?’
She nodded to the memory stick in his hand. ‘Call it cumulative. You should think about hanging on to that. There’s good material there. A story worth telling.’
‘Still holding out for that exclusive?’
‘When you’re ready.’
‘What if I’m never ready?’
‘Everyone talks, in the end.’
The counter-interrogation mantra that Stark liked least. He frowned. In daylight she was older than he’d originally thought. His age or close, in years at least. But there was something in her eyes suggesting she’d covered her share of miles too. There was something else behind this decision, behind those eyes. The same thing he’d seen in eight thousand-plus faces lining up at the Cenotaph two weeks earlier. ‘Who did you lose?’
Her face tightened. ‘My brother, Rhys. Captain. Welsh Guards.’
‘Where?’
‘Helmand, last year.’
Stark nearly said tell his story, not mine, but perhaps that was what she’d been trying to do in a roundabout way. Until now. ‘A story doesn’t end when you tell it.’
‘I should hope not.’ She forced a smile, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Where would be the adventure?’
‘I’m done with adventure.’
Gwen shook her head, with a touch of sadness. ‘Somehow, I doubt that.’
Stark made himself useful in the CCTV suite, helping scan recordings, but black motorbikes with riders all in black were almost as common on London streets as white vans. All Stark had really seen himself was the headlight. CCTV at Chase Security couldn’t pick out a badge or markings, but blacked-out plates helped narrow down potential sightings.
They thought they’d found it on two cameras inbound and outbound, but no further. Last sighted north of Abbey Wood, there were a hundred ways it could have disappeared in the darkness, not least across the woods themselves. If he’d uncovered the plate or otherwise altered appearance whilst out of shot, it could be any one of dozens of bikes they were now tra
cing, all of which had proved innocent so far. The longer it went on the greater the temptation to fast-forward too quickly and miss something.
Thankfully Harper had taken himself off to HQ and Stark could relax in the canteen for lunch with his colleagues and the new faces. He ignored the latter’s sideways glances. His current appearance would do little to dismiss whatever preconceptions of him they’d arrived with.
On the TV high on the wall Harper made an uncharacteristically bland statement to the press, that the investigation had ‘shifted focus’. It was odd watching him mouth off in silence, his words flowing late on the stilted subtitles. News wasn’t yet out that Clive Tilly was both latest victim and prime suspect in the Chase killings as well as a killing from the eighties. But too many people in the station knew for that to narrow the source if it leaked.
A few hours more of the world’s most boring TV show and Stark was wishing more than ever that he was at home looking for flights online. The phone rang and one of the new faces passed it to him.
‘Hello, this is DC Stark.’
‘Hi … It’s Jenny Stubbs.’ A tremulous voice. ‘Mary Chase’s sister?’
‘Yes, of course. How can I help?’
‘Is it true?’ she asked, voice a little hoarse. ‘Terry is telling us that Clive Tilly killed Mary.’
Terry had to be the Family Liaison officer. ‘That’s what we believe.’
‘But is it true?’
The FLO would, or should, have included the word probably. Mary and Tom Chase were dead. Billy Forester was long dead. And now Tilly was dead. No witnesses and no confession. Certainty died with them. But that wasn’t what Jenny needed to hear. They didn’t teach this, as Groombridge had said. Meaning you had to learn it by yourself. ‘Yes.’
Jenny was silent. Summoning her questions, no doubt. It took several seconds for Stark to realize she was simply crying. Hard enough to deal with in person, impossible over the phone. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ How people must hate those words.
She sniffed, pulling herself together, clearing her throat, taking a deep breath and letting it out. ‘Thank you. For caring. It matters.’
Stark had no response. He’d been thanked before, in uniform; for matters of life, not death. Nathan Lovelace’s mother had visited Stark in hospital to thank him, believing he’d saved her son’s life. What would she say to him now?
He stared into the past, listening to the dialling tone long after Jenny had hung up; then slowly replaced the receiver.
Fran stuck her head round the door and picked out Stark. ‘Come on. We’re summoned.’
66
Stark was told to wait outside. Fran took a seat in Groombridge’s excuse for an office, wary as a cat ready to hiss. With Harper out all day she’d probably had time to be grateful her resignation hadn’t been accepted, not that Groombridge would hold his breath for her to voice it, given their recent run-ins.
‘Right. Well, as you’ve probably guessed, DI Harper has made a formal complaint against you and –’
‘Arsehole!’ spat Fran. ‘I told you he would –’
‘But …’ interrupted Groombridge, pointedly. Not getting through his first sentence without interruption wasn’t without precedent, but today she needed to shut up and listen. ‘I have persuaded him to let me park it for now. I strongly suggest you do likewise, and I’ll try to talk him out of it later.’
Fran looked utterly indignant. Not a good start. ‘But that’s not why you’re here,’ he continued before she could marshal her thoughts. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. As I may have mentioned, I’ve been trying to get agreement to a permanent solution to our staffing shortfall. Our problem is that the super is under considerable pressure to make further cuts.’
Now she looked alarmed. ‘Guv, we can’t –’
‘I know,’ Groombridge held up a hand. ‘And I’ve dug my heels in so far, but you’ve probably heard the rumours … He’s in line for promotion and he needs to show that he has his house in order.’
‘We’re barely staying afloat as it is,’ protested Fran. ‘We need another DS and a DI that’s in it for more than his ego.’
Groombridge nodded. ‘I agree completely. But Cox needs a saving. I’ve been forced to compromise.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve struck some kind of deal I’m not going to like, haven’t you?’
And Cox had just delivered the go-ahead from brass. ‘The team gets a permanent Detective Inspector –’
‘Not Harper,’ interrupted Fran, jaw set. ‘Over my dead body.’
Groombridge swallowed his irritation. Everyone was run ragged, himself included, but Fran was leaning right over the line with her arms flailing. ‘Superintendent Cox is eternally grateful to DI Harper, and once this investigation is concluded will be happy to propose a commendation and personally thank Owen’s super for the loan.’ Fran clearly would rather Harper be dispatched to some Hebridean outpost in disgrace, but he’d done nothing to deserve it. Removed from this place, Owen’s ego might fare better. ‘We get a second Detective Sergeant too, but … we lose one DCI –’
‘No,’ Fran blurted out. ‘No, no, no, you can’t!’
‘I have no choice. Cox wants me in his chair as acting super pending promotion. If he can’t swing that, I get transferred –’ He held up his hand again to cut off further protest. ‘It’s the only way, Fran.’
She was still shaking her head violently. ‘Leaving us with some unknown DI to run the team?’
Groombridge shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not proposing a new face.’
He couldn’t help but enjoy watching the implications registering in her expression. Now she looked positively alarmed. ‘No. No, no, no … come on, Guv, this is going too far.’
‘You’ve been dragging your heels on this and you know it.’
‘I’m not ready.’
‘Yes, you are. Long since ready. I’ve told Cox that unless you take the DI slot the whole deal is off. He approved your application for the inspectors exam this morning. It’s congratulations all round,’ he concluded wryly.
Fran’s mouth opened and closed several times, but nothing came out. Ignoring the irony of his own unwanted prospects, Groombridge savoured this rarity.
‘Which brings me on to the other bitter pill …’ he continued. Fran’s look asked what could possibly be worse. ‘The money only works if we give up one Detective Constable position –’
‘What?’ she hissed, glancing at the door and lowering her voice. ‘So that’s why you’ve been asking about Stark; he was last in! You can’t be serious! I know he’s not at his best right now but he’s still head and shoulders above the rest and you know it … and you know how it kills me to say it.’
Groombridge held up his hands in desperation. ‘Let me finish. For God’s sake, Fran, just let me finish before you go off on one.’
Her nostrils flared with indignation. ‘I do not –’
‘Yes, you do,’ Groombridge interrupted irritably. ‘Often, and with vigour! Now please stop interrupting and listen. The numbers cannot be fudged on this and Stark will have to adapt like the rest of us.’
Stark had found a plastic chair from somewhere to await his turn in the lion’s den, or in his case … catch forty.
Fran rolled her eyes. He confessed to insomnia yet could nap at the drop of a hat, mostly in cars while she was still talking at him. One of his most irritating ‘soldier’s habits’. And while she knew he couldn’t leave a puzzle alone, he could blithely slip off to la-la-land when she’d have had her ear pressed anxiously to the door.
Just so long as he didn’t wake up screaming, she thought.
He was in for a shock all the same. And how would the others react?
Fran still felt utterly lost for words. The thing about being a sergeant was that you had people below you to boss about and people above you to ask the hard questions, face the hard decisions. She really did not want to be an inspector. Just the thought of sitting the exam gave her the shivers
. She hated change. Relocating from Croydon three years ago had been enough upheaval for a lifetime. And Groombridge was too good a detective to turn brass. This was wrong!
She stared down at Stark, sleeping. He looked innocent and unafraid; it seemed a shame to wake him.
‘Wake up,’ she barked loudly, kicking his chair. ‘Your turn.’
67
‘Take a seat. You’re not in trouble,’ said Groombridge, but Stark didn’t smile. ‘Here.’ He slid a paper across the table.
Stark took a breath and picked it up. Perhaps the DCI had had second thoughts since this morning too. He frowned as he comprehended what he was reading.
‘Sign at the bottom,’ said Groombridge.
Stark continued to stare at the form: an application to sit the sergeants exam, already completed and countersigned by Cox. ‘But, Guv –’
‘No buts. I’m in a corner and if I’m going to hold this team together we’re all going to have to swallow our medicine.’ Groombridge explained the deal he’d struck. Fran had to step up, and so must Stark.
Stark looked like he’d have preferred a dressing-down.
‘We don’t have any choice,’ said Groombridge. ‘Superintendent Cox included; this isn’t his fault. It’s this or they tear the heart out of this team.’
‘But they are tearing the heart out of this team. You are this team. We’re floundering without you.’
Groombridge shook his head. ‘There’s no standing in the path of progress,’ he said wryly. ‘Or cutbacks. Sign the form, Detective Constable.’
Stark shook his head, clearly struggling to accept this. ‘But the others, Guv … I don’t have seniority.’
‘I said no buts. My only consolation in this Faustian negotiation is that I get to reward merit over blind seniority. We’ll keep all this under our hats until things have settled down,’ – until Harper’s power to sabotage it was removed, in other words – ‘then I’ll speak with the others. If they take issue, they can take it up with me. Now sign the damn form, try to stay out of trouble till this is all over, study your arse off for that exam and do your best to keep your future DI’s temper focused on catching bad people – that’s an order.’
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 30