Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  Miriam stared at it too, and muttered something under her breath before turning right to trudge along a muddy path lining the back of the houses. Stark seemed to know where he was going. Fran followed hindmost in order and enthusiasm, picking her way through the mud with a face on.

  The back of the old house was taped off too. Miriam peered over the fence, dead-eyed, then looked about, getting her bearings. ‘This way.’

  She led them along a way then turned uphill into the woods.

  Fran stared at the barely distinguishable path, then down at her shoes. However much she complained, she cared about crime. But what about the crime of picking her way through the quagmire of black, rotting leaves in her everyday shoes? It was a good job she wasn’t built for heels, but even so, these were good shoes. And good trousers … damn! She pinched the thigh material to hoick up the legs but the hems were already splattered.

  Miriam’s shoes were if anything less suitable, as were her tights, old dress and woollen coat, but she gave little sign of caring. She steadied herself with trunks and twigs as they made their way along the path, without really seeming to notice. Fran tried her best to touch nothing.

  Nature was so … dirty. People harped on about the ‘clean air’ but it stank. Woods stank of decay and fields stank of dung or oilseed rape. Give her city air any day. The only place Fran liked to be outdoors was the Caribbean. Barbados smelled of spicy barbecue, ripe ackee, rum and people, not cowshit and mouldy leaves. It was too long since she’d visited her relatives there. She found it amazing that places like this even existed, that they hadn’t been swallowed up, bulldozed in the path of progress. A few soggy steps from the road and the only thing telling you that civilization hadn’t been rendered away was the buzz of traffic and the whine of an airliner.

  They crossed a main path but plunged back into the wood’s twists and turns.

  ‘There was another path further up,’ said Miriam, sounding far from sure.

  Twenty or more years ago, thought Fran. How was anyone supposed to remember? Every tree looked the same to her. They turned a few more corners and Fran’s impatience and doubt began to coalesce.

  But then Miriam paused, staring right at two large trees which had sprouted close together and grown apart, in disgust. ‘This way, I think.’

  Fran frowned. It wasn’t even a path. ‘Are you sure?’

  Miriam swallowed. ‘There was a clearing, a way in, with a fallen tree.’

  Stark led the way, stamping down thorns and nettles for their impertinence and holding aside twigs like he was holding open a door for the ladies. Of course he would be loving this. His shoes had treads, not flat leather like civilized people wore, people in offices and cars, and coffee shops.

  Miriam steadied herself clumsily with every available twig as they made their way. Fran kept her arms raised to avoid the undergrowth, until she slipped over and came up caked and cross. ‘How much further?’ she demanded, not caring if she sounded like a whining child.

  Miriam stopped and looked forward and backward. ‘I’m … I don’t know. I don’t remember it being this far …’

  Fran’s temper threatened to boil over.

  ‘Wait …’ said Stark, who’d crested a small ridge. ‘This it?’

  There was a large fallen tree in their way. Time and the elements were eating into the massive trunk and nature was taking over. A tall mass to one side marked its base, earth and roots torn vertical as it toppled, other smaller trees taken with it. What made big trees fall over? Wind, she supposed, old age? Or just suicidal boredom?

  ‘This isn’t a clearing,’ she pointed out, barely keeping a lid on her patience.

  ‘It was,’ said Stark, looking around, and up. ‘Twenty years ago.’

  Fran had to admit the nearest trees were thinner, and less tall. Though there were no leaves it was just about possible to tell that their tops – or canopies, or whatever people who cared about these things called them – left more space to the sky. Stark probably knew the right name. He could probably tell you the bloody species, thought Fran, gloomily rubbing mud from her hands on to her trousers.

  ‘I couldn’t go any further,’ Miriam said, voice dull. ‘Even with Simon carrying …’ She trailed off, eyes lost in time, and perhaps horror. ‘I’ve tried to forget this place. But it creeps back, in my dreams. It never lets go.’

  Stark was nodding. Equating it with his morbid recollections, no doubt. ‘There?’ he said, pointing to the nettle-filled depression where the tree had torn itself out of the earth. The rounded mass of the roots stood taller than Stark and would have torn a deep hole at the time. A handy head-start for a shallow grave, but filling it in after must’ve been a sod in all this root-riddled ground. No shortage of fallen leaves to cover your handiwork. And rain. Fran really hated nature.

  ‘Should I dig?’ asked Stark, unfolding the collapsible spade he’d pulled from the boot of the pool car as if he’d known it would be there. Perhaps they all had one.

  Fran considered letting him have a go, clearing the nettles at least. He could use a sting or two for dragging her out here. ‘Best leave it to Forensics. Tape off the area.’

  He jabbed the spade into the ground and began tying blue-and-white police tape around a nearby tree. Miriam watched impassively as he looped it from trunk to trunk to begin forming an irregular circle around them. Everything was irregular out here. Fran shifted her feet, the mud sucking at her shoes. Her socks were definitely wet now. This was intolerable. If there wasn’t a body buried here she would hit Miriam over the head with the spade and make Stark bury her.

  A snapping crack off in the woods made her jump. A branch falling, or some little furry animal doing whatever little furry animals did. There was a sudden, sharp, demonic birdcall and black wings clattered skyward overhead.

  At least it seemed to have startled Stark too. He looked round sharply, suddenly tense, rigid, like a cat at a nearby dog bark.

  Miriam looked round too, only slower. When she looked back at Stark her eyes looked lifeless as a shark’s. ‘That’s right,’ she nodded, smiling wanly.

  Stark’s eyes widened.

  ‘He’ll be furious,’ continued Miriam, looking out into the woods again. ‘I’ve tried to guess what he’ll do, but I just can’t. Jesus knows …’

  ‘Get down!’ yelled Stark. He barrelled across the clearing towards Fran as she stared at him dumbly.

  He crashed into her, sending them both crashing down into the mud and nettles just as something hit a tree behind her.

  With the breath knocked out of her and Stark’s crushing weight, the curses that queued in Fran’s throat at the cold, wet, stinging indignation, came out as a strangled gasp.

  ‘Stay down,’ he hissed, rolling off and peering away through the nettles. And brambles! Fran felt thorn scrapes and torn trousers.

  Thwack! Something whipped past, slapping through foliage into the distance behind her.

  Fran tried sitting up but Stark shoved her flat. ‘Stay the fuck down!’

  The truth hit her, like a bullet …

  She flattened herself against the ground, cold mud plastering her cheek, ice choking her veins. Through the undergrowth she watched Miriam staring around blankly. The stone-cold bitch had led them out here like lambs to the slaughter! Miriam stepped awkwardly over to the base of the fallen tree, staring into the depression. Was there even a grave there at all? Or would there soon be one, a shallow grave for two? Would Fran’s parents cry over an empty coffin, or a plaque in the cemetery, like Mr and Mrs Bates? Would Stark’s mother? Miriam was a mother too, of a monster maybe, but … how could she do this? Fran wanted to shout at her but she could hardly breathe. She could only watch as the so-called mother knelt in the nettles, clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head to pray.

  For forgiveness? Fran cursed her to fiery eternity.

  Miriam’s head knocked sideways in a spray of red, and she slumped down, limbs twitching briefly and then still.

  73

&n
bsp; Fran gaped, comprehension forcing its way into her like emetic through a tube.

  She vomited.

  She’d never seen death. She’d seen bodies, but she’d never witnessed death swoop down and snatch a life away before her very eyes.

  She was too stunned to move. Too stunned even to blink, or spit away the acid in her mouth. Was this what terror felt like?

  ‘Stay down!’ growled Stark, then pressed her flat with both hands, using her to push himself up … and with barely a glance at Miriam he took off into the woods, not towards where the bullets were coming from but sideways over a slight ridge, lost from sight in seconds. Sideways. His army nickname, probably for things just like this …

  Stay down? Bloody right! Her laugh escaped as a strangled sob.

  But she couldn’t stay here.

  Kirsch could walk right over and shoot her where she lay. This wouldn’t do. Forcing herself, she crawled on elbows and belly through the stinging, tearing fingers of Mother Nature to the base of the fallen tree. Then she crawled right down into the hole and lay there panting deep among the nettles, hoping she was hidden, trying to ignore the stings covering her hands and face, trying not to tremble, trying to stay silent as the grave. Not a happy turn of phrase considering where she lay. Her heart felt like it had either stopped or was rattling so fast as to make individual beats indiscernible.

  Stark barrelled through the autumn foliage, ducking under or leaping over obstacles. Blood pumping, lungs straining against bandaged ribs, pain quashed.

  He hit a trail and stopped.

  He could hear the gunman crashing through the woods ahead, moving away, traversing the hill. Kirsch knew these woods. Stark took the path uphill, trusting the map in his head. Kirsch hadn’t followed them here; Stark would have noticed. He was already here, watching, from the castle most likely. The upper windows of the triple-turreted tower offered clear lines of sight through the leaf-denuded winter trees. That meant Susan’s little red car was up there too, in the car park, out of sight from passing police cars. Stark had this one chance to outflank him.

  But the trail he was on curved the wrong way and he was forced to cut left through thick woods, and by the time he broke cover again Kirsch had already passed, rifle in his hands, taking the stone steps towards the castle two at a time.

  Stark accelerated, pounding up the steps and rounding the tower only to hear the sound he’d feared … A car revving to life and tyres skidding away. A flash of departing red.

  Cursing, clutching his side, he took out his phone to call it in.

  He needed to get back to Fran, so she could begin the vital process of blaming everything on him. For once, he was way ahead of her. If only he’d inspected the old house more closely, maybe he’d have spotted that Kirsch had been using it all along, could even have been inside at the time. But as he rounded the tower again something caught his eye.

  Tracks. The same heavy off-road bike tyres from the alley earlier, the same pattern left behind outside Chase Security the night before last. Leading right up to the door … and up the steps.

  The triple-turreted tower was boarded up with steel shutters … but the door wasn’t padlocked. It swung open easily. Oiled. Inside a padlock lay on the floor; a study combination, identical to the gym locker and house back door. And someone had fitted a hasp and staple inside so it could be padlocked from within. There was another padlock nearby, weathered, cut through with bolt cutters. The original. Uniform had reported the place safely locked up – with Kirsch’s lock, evidently.

  The muddy tracks inside were preserved from the weather along with large bootprints. Size twelve, no doubt. There were drips of oil on the floor, scuffs from the bike stand. Smart again – hiding the bike’s heat signature from the infra-red eye of police helicopters just a short walk from the house, his HQ.

  The interior was in poor condition. The rear turret had been boarded up but a panel had been prised off, exposing the winding stair. Stark climbed, careful to keep his feet to the edge to avoid trampling evidence.

  On the second floor he found Kirsch’s home-from-home: roll mat, bivvy bag, camping stove, supplies. Stark had hoped he was wrong; hoped his failure to inspect the tower himself on Saturday wasn’t the catastrophic mistake it clearly was. Whitewash had been scratched from some windowpanes. Peepholes. One offered a distant view of the alley through which they’d entered the park.

  On the next floor up it got worse. Shell casings. Dozens. There was a pane cut out from one window. Kirsch may have failed his army medical but he knew how to read. The bullets in the house were subsonics, but even with no sonic boom and a silencer fitted, a rifle still made a noise, however small. Shooting from well inside the window made the whole room an additional suppressor.

  Peering out, estimating trajectory, Stark doubled back outside and a quick search of the treeline revealed vivid orange splatter and the nearby disposal of a dozen or more exploded Halloween pumpkins.

  Target practice.

  Fran lay still for an age. The forest came alive with noise; every knock, snap, flutter, tweet and gust of wind amplified by her straining eardrums. Wet cold seeped into her but she could hardly feel it against the stings and scrapes, the ever-increasing, almost agonizing urge to move, and the oppressive, crushing fear.

  At any moment she expected to hear his footsteps tramping through the mulch towards her, and to see Kirsch rear up.

  Or perhaps Stark had caught him? Or was Stark dead on the ground not far away and Kirsch was waiting for her to show herself as foolishly as her possibly-erstwhile detective constable? Fran felt like crying. And also like shouting very loudly at Stark. At six this morning she’d been asleep next to what she may soon have to admit might just possibly be her boyfriend. Now she was lying in freezing mud, nettles and brambles, about to be killed by a psychopath. And it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. You joined the murder squad to catch killers, not to get killed. Her job began where someone else died.

  Then, in the far distance, faint … footsteps. Coming closer, slowing, searching. Fran stared through the thick nettles but saw nothing. Her heart was ready to explode.

  ‘Fran!’ The footsteps came nearer. ‘Fran! Where are you? It’s me, Stark.’

  She almost wept. She tried to get to her feet but the cold had stiffened her like premature rigor mortis. The footsteps raced towards her and suddenly he was there, helping her up. Dragging her up.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked to her silence.

  ‘Kirsch?’ she managed.

  ‘Gone. I tried to get round behind him but he must have scarpered as soon as he saw me go.’ There were a number of scratches on his face – from twigs? And he was out of breath. How far had he run? His eyes shone. ‘Made it to his car before I could cut him off. Here,’ he held out a fistful of leaves.

  Fran stared at them, confused.

  Stark rolled his eyes. ‘Dock leaves. For the nettle stings.’

  ‘Does that work? I always assumed it was mumbo jumbo.’

  ‘I could talk to you about formic acid neutralized by alkaline secretion or astringent properties, or about finite pain gateway theory and the benefit of rubbing with any soothingly cool material,’ he said, crushing a handful and rubbing the veiny side against her left hand. ‘Or you could shut up and do this yourself.’

  ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ said Fran.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’

  Fran couldn’t recall Stark ever raising his voice to her. His jaw clenched in anger. He wasn’t about to take it back. Nor should he. They both glanced at the corpse sprawled a few feet away. Fran took a breath and released it slowly. It felt jerky, as if the sustained pounding of her heart had set up a systemic percussion wave that would take time to dissipate. Her hands still trembled. ‘Sorry. That was …’

  He softened. ‘It’s okay.’

  Fran took the leaves and rubbed them on her hands and face, trying to mask the trembling.

  �
�I was scared too,’ said Stark, watching her intently. ‘If that helps.’

  ‘Really? Only it looked like it was only me huddled in a hole like a quivering rabbit.’

  Stark’s mouth twisted. ‘You did what you were told,’ he said soberly. ‘The right thing. I had to split his attention. Once his targets separated his best option was to withdraw or be outflanked.’

  ‘Yep, that’s just what I thought too,’ she said. ‘Make sure you tell everyone how bravely I hid.’

  74

  Stark offered to drive. Fran told him what she thought. He took the passenger seat.

  She hit the lights and siren, stomped on the accelerator and gripped the wheel tight to stop her hands shaking.

  Scratched, stung, shot at, filthy, cold and pissed-the-fuck-off, she gunned the car through the traffic, taking her irritation out on the London masses. Making sure he wasn’t looking, she furiously wiped at a stray tear and sniffed. He kept his eyes the other way.

  Blaring the horn, she cut it fine past a van, weaved between lanes and ran a red light. Stark twitched in alarm.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, stop flinching!’ she cried. ‘It’s like driving with my mum in the car, only she’s got more balls.’

  ‘I’m not flinching at your driving,’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘I’m …’ He fell silent.

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to,’ she replied pointedly. She glanced across, hoping to catch his expression, but he was staring out the window. The muscles in his jaw were twitching as if he were biting down, trying to keep words in. ‘You’re what?’

  He hissed a tight sigh, clearly frustrated. ‘Look …’ He paused as if not certain how best to explain. ‘On combat patrol … the driver drives, the passenger does threat assessment.’

  It took Fran a moment to comprehend this. ‘You’re … looking for bombs?’