She winced.
‘Here …’ Stark pointed at some printouts on the bench. ‘Mercedes fuse system schematics. Mary’s car.’
Fran indicated a folder. ‘Susan Watts’ school personnel file.’
Two notable absences were Simon Kirsch, and any guns.
‘The back door and gate,’ said Stark. ‘He’s obviously been coming and going here for a while, but this time he doesn’t bother closing up behind him.’
Fran nodded grimly. ‘He’s not coming back.’
‘Shit …’ hissed Harper, behind them.
They turned to the wall beneath the stairs.
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Fran, squinting in the light.
Stark felt a chill down his spine. ‘What the hell have we started?’
70
Photos. A lot of them.
‘That’s Rawlings,’ said Fran. A dozen or more, from across the street, showing cars to customers, crisp suit, wide tie, beaming smile, shaking hands.
‘And Mary Chase,’ added Harper. ‘In her garden, and house. ‘Jesus …’ There were shots through windows of Mary and Carlton Savage in flagrante in the kitchen and living room. ‘I said he was jealous, but …’ Even Harper couldn’t summon smugness in the face of all this.
It wasn’t just people. There were newspaper cuttings, from the Kimberly Bates case, dozens, yellowed and torn, her smiling face in school uniform which had been the staple press image. Kirsch too, the trial … everything. Even photos of young Kirsch’s battered face and body, presumably from the beating he’d taken from the police.
Every spare inch of wall was covered, except one patch. Stark blinked. ‘Sir …’
The others looked where he was pointing.
An area of wall was blank. Pinholes suggested something large and rectangular had been removed. In the centre, a solitary photo had been pinned. Harper, leaving his house, a thin, pretty woman waving farewell … His wife.
Harper stared at the image, swallowing, stricken. ‘Are nineteen still here?’ he asked quietly. Turning and catching his head on a beam, with a curse, he ran up the stairs and began barking orders.
‘Owen!’ Fran called after him but he was already out of earshot. She was crouching to stare at another small cluster of photos.
Stark followed her eyes. More of DI Harper. Outside the front of the station on his phone. In his car. Outside his home.
‘Why the hell is he stalking Harper?’ asked Fran.
Stark grimaced. ‘Ahh …’
Fran fixed him with one of her best stares, and he reluctantly confessed about Pensol’s lip-reading, and Harper’s whispered threat to fit Kirsch up.
She wasn’t pleased. ‘And you’re just telling me this now?’
‘Pensol couldn’t swear to it, and …’
‘And what? Loyalty? To Harper? Who hates you?’
Stark shrugged apologetically.
‘Christ … As if Kirsch needed his fuse lit,’ muttered Fran, looking all around.
She was right. This room was a persecution complex laid bare. Twenty years of pain, twisted into revenge fantasies. Beneath the benign construct of Mark White, Simon Kirsch had squatted in torment, an unexploded bomb waiting to be kicked.
‘Wait a minute …’ Fran craned in on one photo. Harper in a car park. Handing a file to … the DAC Stark had seen entering the station the other night. ‘That’s Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stevens,’ said Fran. ‘What’s a lowly DI doing talking with a DAC?’
More to the point, thought Stark, why is Stevens out of uniform, in a car park somewhere, being handed a file by a lowly DI? The photo proved nothing but two people talking. Cameras didn’t lie, but they froze time, omitting context. But everything about the image screamed clandestine.
Fran pulled out her phone and photographed that area of wall, capturing the damning image in position. ‘In case this gets lost between here and the evidence locker.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Crazier things have happened. Owen has friends … Funny handshakes and all that.’
Another unwelcome revelation. Not because Stark had strong feelings against Freemasonry. In general he disliked prejudging things he knew little about, but extrapolating from first principles – any system of reciprocal favours must be viewed with scepticism at best. What perturbed him was the thought that there might be more to Harper’s secondment than met the eye, and that his shortcomings might therefore not prevent him taking Groombridge’s office long-term.
Two-way street … Stark suddenly placed the memory … Harper on the phone … to Stevens?
Now there was a thought that would keep him awake.
But for now, he needed to focus. There were maps on the wall too: Abbey Woods – Kirsch’s likely escape route after killing Rawlings; Oxleas Woods outside, as well as the town centre and half the borough in chunks. Stark crouched to look in the bottom right-hand corner of the space cleared to make space for the photo of Harper. Still pinned was a corner scrap of paper – the partial title block of a map or architectural drawing with an imperial scale bar and the end of two words above one another, –all and –ans; something plans?
‘Oh shit,’ said Fran, pointing at another cluster. ‘Susan Watts.’ On the doorstep of the friend’s house they’d moved her to.
Harper had already left with CO19 towards his home in Sidcup.
Fran and Stark headed towards Susan Watts’ school.
‘She hasn’t shown up for work,’ said Stark, hanging up his phone. ‘No answer on her mobile or the landline.’
Fran changed direction and stepped on the gas. Harper had refused to spare manpower to babysit the house. Uniform had prioritized the manhunt, offering drive-past patrols only.
Stark clung on to the door handle, twitching and squirming at every blared horn or cutting up. One advantage of the shitheap, she cared even less if she dinged it.
They were still a mile or so away when the radio crackled.
Suspect motorcycle matching description spotted in vicinity of Brownlee Road, Sidcup. Harper’s address. ARV intercepting.
A flurry of calls, checks, ETAs, and then, minutes later – Suspect apprehended.
Fran eased off the accelerator.
Stark let out a breath, imagining Harper’s impotent panic and relief, listening to all this en route.
Minutes later they were knocking on Susan Watts’ door.
No answer.
Louder banging, and calling out her name. Still nothing.
Stark looked around. Susan’s little red Nissan wasn’t in sight, but it could be parked in the next street. Still, something felt wrong. The curtains were closed.
‘Excuse me, Sarge,’ he said, gently moving Fran aside and peering in through the spyhole. The elongated hallway looked clear. ‘I’ll check round the back,’ he said. ‘Stay away from the windows and door.’
Fran raised her eyebrows impatiently, but complied.
A shared footpath ran behind the tiny back gardens, Stark remembered, open at both ends of the street. As soon as he turned into it he saw he was right, and that whoever had been apprehended in the vicinity of Harper’s house, it wasn’t Kirsch.
It was narrow and overgrown, but heavy off-road tyre tracks cut through it, to where the bike, with blacked-out plates, stood parked beside an open gate.
Stark took out his phone and called Fran. ‘Get clear and call it in.’ He didn’t wait for her response.
Large, heavy-treaded bootprints led into the garden. The back curtains were closed. The back door had been forced. Muddy bootprints led inside.
Stark flicked out the ASP baton he’d borrowed from the car and crept inside.
There were dregs of coffee in a mug on the side in the tiny rear kitchen, evidence of a fried breakfast. The pan was cold. The house, silent. He crept along the hall, testing every floorboard to avoid creaks. The living room was empty. The bootprints led up the stairs carpet. Climbing silently, he checked rooms one by one, all empty, until just the main bedroom was left. St
ark thought he heard a noise.
The main bedroom door was open. Peeping through the gap by the hinges, he knew Kirsch was gone.
Susan Watts lay on the bed, unmoving.
71
The first thing Stark did after reassuring her, finding some scissors to remove her duct-tape bindings and gag and letting Fran in, was check for the car keys.
Missing.
He called in the description of Susan’s little red Nissan and let it be known that Kirsch was still at large. There was no news from Harper yet. The suspect motorcyclist was being given a cup of tea and a fulsome apology.
‘He said he just wanted to talk,’ said Susan, her quiet voice flat with shock.
‘What did he say?’
‘He was just there,’ she continued, eyes staring into the distance. ‘On the edge of the bed, talking. He only tied me up when he went to get something to eat. He made me breakfast in bed.’ The evidence sat congealed on a tray, untouched.
‘But what did he say?’ So far they’d established only that Kirsch had broken in around midnight and left before it got light.
‘He took my phone.’ Susan frowned distractedly, as if that was the most perplexing thing. ‘I woke up and he was sitting on the bed … You said you’d protect me,’ her voice rose, and then she broke down into sobs.
Stark waited, but when it was clear the crying wasn’t going to stop on its own, Fran jerked her head for him to press on.
‘Did he say where he was going next?’ he asked. Changing vehicles was a smart move but Kirsch had to know they’d find Susan. Like the gate at his old house, he didn’t care. This was the endgame. They had to know where he was heading next. Harper’s house, or somewhere else …
Susan shook her head, face buried in her hands.
‘What did he say?’
Susan waved her hand, still sobbing, wishing them away.
‘What did he say, Susan?’ demanded Fran impatiently.
‘I don’t know …’ wailed Susan. ‘Rubbish, just rubbish … about knowing we weren’t meant to be together, that he understood now. He was raving. He said it wasn’t my fault. That it was all someone called Tilly’s fault. That he couldn’t trust anyone, especially you, the police. He kept cursing someone called Harper. He said everything was ruined. And that he was going to punish everyone.’
‘Did he say who? Or where?’
Susan was shaking her head, wiping snot from her nose with the back of her hand, oblivious to how she looked. ‘He mentioned his mum. He’d been to see her, I think.’
News was in that Harper’s wife was safely surrounded by armed cops. Harper was packing her off to a friend’s house until this was over. Grudgingly relieved, Fran jabbed irritably at the doorbell for a second time, though someone was clearly visible through the obscured glass, shuffling towards them. Miriam Kirsch unlocked the door painfully slowly and peered cautiously round the chain at them. Her eyes were ringed red and bloodshot. ‘You again,’ she muttered. ‘Figured you’d be back. He’s not here.’
‘Good. May we come in?’
Miriam grunted, slid out the chain and shuffled back down her hall into the living room without looking back. No close the door or wipe your feet this time.
Stark went first without asking. Instinct, Fran assumed, in case Miriam was lying. Protect your officer or some presumptuous mantra. Miriam was already slumped in her armchair when they caught up. She looked as if years had descended on her since their last call, and like she’d been up all night crying. Fran sat opposite. Stark hovered by the door, half an eye on the hallway.
‘Are you well, Mrs Kirsch?’ asked Fran, deliberately deploying her married name.
The old woman stared back but didn’t protest. No fire, no feisty old bat. Stark caught Fran’s eye and nodded to the sideboard. The photo of Simon was lying face down. Fran glanced around the room. Nothing much else seemed out of place … except. ‘Where is the medal, Mrs Kirsch? Simon’s medal?’
Miriam shifted in her seat but didn’t look at her. ‘He was good at losing himself in running,’ she said absently. ‘He could keep going and going.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Away,’ she said, coming back into focus. ‘He’s … sinned.’ A mother facing the awful truth – of her little boy lost.
Stark shifted his weight and Miriam jumped. Not just tired and tearful, but fearful. Fran nodded to the picture and Stark stepped over.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked, picking it up. Miriam flinched, looking away. Stark made a thing of looking closely at the picture then carefully placed it back, upright. Miriam couldn’t look at it.
‘Has Simon been here?’ asked Stark, standing over her.
Miriam shuddered, and shrank. Unable to look up at Stark, her eyes met Fran’s almost by default and in the briefest exchange Fran saw her confession. It was true. ‘Last night?’ she demanded. Miriam shrank further but said nothing. ‘When was he here, Mrs Kirsch?’
‘Larson,’ she croaked. ‘My name is Larson.’ Fresh tears were forming.
‘No, it’s not. Not for many years. Your son is wanted for murder, Mrs Kirsch. Tell me everything you know or I’ll haul you down the station and let my DCI ask you. He’s not as polite as me,’ Fran lied.
Stark picked up the photo again and held it for Miriam to see. She jerked her head away but he followed, keeping it in her vision. She closed her eyes. ‘Look at it, Miriam,’ he said firmly. ‘Look at it.’ She did so, and tears streaked down her cheeks. ‘Your son is a very dangerous man.’
Miriam pushed the picture away violently. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ she cried. ‘You think I don’t know what he’s capable of? That I haven’t known for years? Since that girl …’
‘What girl?’ Fran seized on the slip.
Miriam shook her head, dropping her chin as if trying to retreat within herself.
‘She had a name, Mrs Kirsch …’ Still nothing. ‘Kimberly Bates. Sixteen, feisty, her whole life ahead of her, Mrs Kirsch.’
‘Whore.’
Fran blinked. But even this twenty-year-old hatred sounded … exhausted. ‘Tell me what you know, Miriam. Now.’
‘He’ll kill me.’ A quiet statement, said with absolute certainty. Her eyes darted this way and that, alighting on the old crucifix on the wall.
‘Is that what he told you?’ asked Stark.
Miriam managed a jerky nod, tears rolling down her cheeks unheeded.
‘When?’ demanded Fran.
‘Last night.’
‘What time?’
‘Elevenish, I don’t know.’
‘That was hours ago,’ said Fran hotly. ‘Why haven’t you reported this?’
Miriam pointed to the phone. Its cord was cut. ‘He took my mobile.’
‘You could’ve got off your arse and used a neighbour’s!’
Miriam just shrugged.
‘What did he say? What did he want?’
‘He wanted …’ She cast another glance at Jesus, as if asking permission, or absolution. ‘He made me make him toast. With a ketchup smiley face, like when he was young. We never had much money after his father died. I couldn’t even afford baked beans for his tea …’ She broke down sobbing.
‘His father didn’t die, Miriam,’ said Fran coldly. ‘He left. And if you utter one more lie to me I swear to your precious God I’ll arrest you for conspiracy. Tell us everything you know about Kimberly Bates, right now. And if you hold anything back …’ She paused for effect, letting her anger show. ‘You knew at the time, didn’t you?’
Miriam nodded, looking up, eyes awash with desolation. ‘I’m his mother, his only family. Who else would he turn to? Who else was going to help him?’
‘Help him what?’
‘He was frightened.’ A spark of the old defiance now. ‘My little boy.’
‘Help him what?’
Miriam looked up at the crucifix. ‘Jesus knows … Isn’t that enough?’
‘Help him what?’
‘Get rid of her!’ wailed
Miriam, making the sign of the cross again as another wave of sobbing crashed through her.
Help him get rid of her.
Of the body.
Stark met Fran’s glance, but with nothing of triumph, only anger. Anger she shared. This woman had helped dispose of the body and left Kimberly Bates’ family to weep over a plaque.
‘Where?’ said Fran, trying to control her temper. ‘Where is she?’ Miriam wept on. This wretched woman, with no right to weep. Fran grabbed her arms and shook her. ‘Where is Kimberly?’
Miriam opened her bloodshot eyes and stared back, defiance gone, misery victorious. Her voice came in a hoarse whisper. ‘In the woods. Where else?’
72
The low sun strobed between buildings as the car streaked along, and shone straight in their eyes as they hung a right by the old Shooter’s Hill nick, now ‘fashionable flats’.
Oxleas Woods, Stark informed her, was part of the woodland just north of the old Kirsch home. Protected woodland, popular with dog walkers. No-man’s land as far as Fran was concerned. Walking in the woods – or anywhere else for that matter – for fun, was anathema to her, as were dogs, cats or any of the parasitic vermin people chose to call pets.
‘Here?’ she asked, pulling over in Crookston Road, well short of the old house now taped off with a uniform car and SOCO van still parked outside.
Stark was pointing to an opening between the houses, a path leading up towards greenery. The woods, Fran figured.
Miriam looked around as they got her out, still cuffed, shamed perhaps at being seen by someone in her old neighbourhood, even if most people here would be unlikely to know her or care.
Stark removed her cuffs. ‘You’ll need your hands in the woods.’
Fran didn’t like the sound of that. Miriam seemed indifferent. Tears dried, face haggard, eyes distant; she’d shut down.
Walking into the park Fran could see high up the hill, a narrow castle-like tower projecting up through the leafless trees. Severndroog Castle, she assumed. Simon and Kimberly’s love-nest. A folly or monument of some kind; Fran neither knew nor cared. History was of even less interest to her than nature.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 32