Family Reunion

by Robert F Barker

  As the team’s designated ‘paramedic’ checked Koloyan for signs of life, Glen Swift was the first to Carver’s side and helped him to his feet. ‘Bloody Hell, Boss,’ he said. ‘That was a fucking stupid thing to do. You could have got yourself killed.’

  ‘Thanks-. Huh-. Glen-. Huh.’ Carver said, still trying to gulp air into his lungs. As he stood up, Swift let out a gasp.

  ‘Bugger me.’

  He pulled Carver’s jacket round so he could see it. There was a neat round hole in the material below the pocket, slightly burned around the edges. Only then did Carver realise how lucky he had been. The fact that the Firearm Team’s Senior Tactical Advisor later told him it was, ‘Only a ricochet,’ and therefore had only a ‘Sixty-percent chance of being fatal,’ didn’t help the memory of what might have been fade any quicker.

  Jess had the sobbing Lucy up and on her feet. A woman officer came out of the house and approached her. ‘Your Mum and Dad are okay love. In a bit of a state, but okay.’

  Reminded of her parents’ horrific ordeal, Lucy pulled herself together and made to go back in the house. In the doorway she saw Carver and stopped. He just about had his breath back.

  ‘Are… are you alright?’

  ‘I will be,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She even tried a smile behind the tears. He nodded. There would be time enough to talk later.

  She turned to look back at Antranig Koloyan’s body, the hordes of police and paramedics still scurrying round.

  ‘What… what will happen to us?’

  Right then Carver saw, more clearly than he had done thus far, the fear that Lucy had learned to live with. She had spent the best part of her life looking after her parents, trying to shield them from the past. But for a forgotten military conflict thousands of miles away, she would have succeeded. And in that moment he resolved that he would do whatever was in his power to protect this brave young woman from further anguish.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Carver said, honestly. ‘But whatever happens, rest assured, the worst is over.’

  He was never more wrong.

  CHAPTER 51

  ‘He’s ready for you now, Jamie.’

  Carver stood up, approached the door Mavis was holding open. The sign showing above the door read, ‘Assistant Chief Constable - Operations’. As he passed the woman who’d been a fixture within the ACPO secretariat as long as Carver could remember, she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Good luck.’

  The door closed behind him and he made his way to the single chair in front of the wide desk. The man behind it didn’t look up but continued to scribble.

  ‘With you in just a minute.’

  Over by the window was a low table, some easy chairs. Not having been steered in that direction, Carver assumed they weren’t going to come into play. It was going to be that sort of interview.

  As he waited, he checked the long, dressing mirror on the wall behind and to the ACC’s left. Reflected in it, was the clock on the wall behind him. Carver practised his spatial awareness and saw it was about right, just after eleven.

  The heavily built man with the florid face stopped writing, screwed the top back on his fountain pen and threw whatever document he had been pretending was so urgent into the tray marked ‘Out.’ His mouth widened into what, but for his eyes, could have been taken for a smile.

  ‘How are you after your little bit of excitement Mr Carver?’

  ‘So-so, sir.’

  The niceties over, the ACC pulled an orange Personnel file from the stack to his left. Its vibrant colour denoted CID. Carver recognised it. The ACC flipped it open, pretended to read.

  ‘I take it you know why you are here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your Director seems to think that your period of recuperation on NCA has run its course.’

  Carver said nothing. He and Broom had spoken frankly. He didn’t have a problem with it.

  ‘I get the impression he’s not terribly impressed with your recent performance?’

  Carver leaned forward. He recognised the letter in the ACC’s hand. Broom had shown it to him before he sent it.

  ‘I don’t believe he actually says that, sir.’

  A muscle twitched in the ACC’s face, barely noticeable.

  ‘Not in so many words perhaps. But the inference is clear.’

  ‘Mr Broom and I spoke at length about my position. I don’t believe this is a performance issue.’

  The ACC’s face hardened. ‘Believe me Mr Carver. When the Chief Constable receives a letter from the Director of the National Crime Agency suggesting The Chief may wish to consider taking back one of his officers before the due date for that officer’s period of secondment, it’s a performance issue.’

  Carver said nothing.

  The ACC leant back in his chair. ‘People say you have an attitude problem, Mr Carver. That you think you have a right to be treated differently from other officers.’

  ‘I don’t think that at-.’

  ‘And that because of your involvement in some high-profile cases, you have the right to pick and choose your postings.’ Carver kept his mouth shut. The man had a speech to deliver. ‘Well I’m sorry to break your bubble Mr Carver, but I’m here to tell you that is not the case. I am the deciding authority in this force over people’s careers and postings, no one else. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And if, after taking account of an officer’s recent performance and other factors, I believe that his or her career would benefit from a change of direction, then that is what will happen.’

  As if realising he was in danger of going too over the top too soon, the ACC took a moment while he calmed down. He would want to make sure the end result looked like it was a natural and considered outcome to their discussion.

  Carver checked the mirror again.

  The ACC went back to his file. ‘I see that some of your cases have resulted in you suffering from severe stress.’

  ‘I’m not aware anyone ever described it as ‘severe’. And it was one case, not some.’

  ‘But according to your recent Performance Review reports, it appears there are still some issues that remain unresolved in your mind.’

  Carver waited until there was eye contact. ‘Someone I was close to died. Someone else nearly died.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘I have every sympathy for what you went through. Nevertheless, in your own interests I have to consider whether it might not be better….’

  Carver let him waffle on. He knew the drill. He’d had to go through it with a couple of his own staff from time to time. The difficult ones. But he liked to think that at such times he was at least honest enough to tell the person concerned exactly why they were being re-posted. None of this, ‘in your own interests’ bullshit. But then the man was a Chief Officer. Some of them are like that. He was coming towards the end.

  ‘Is there anything you would like to say? Any further representations you would like to make?’

  As he realised the ACC had finished, Carver checked the mirror again.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well then. I am going to record on this review form that you were given the opportunity to make representations, but you chose not to do so. Then I will ask you to sign it. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The ACC took out his pen again. This time Carver could make out it was a Mont Blanc, something inscribed down the side. He watched as the man behind the desk wrote. He took his time, as if to let Carver know that his future was being decided by the elegant instrument that was now filling the ‘Chief Officer’s Decision’ box at the bottom of the Career Review Document with a neat, flowing script.

  When he was finished, the ACC swivelled the document one hundred and eighty degrees and pushed it towards Carver.

  Carver checked the mirror, then reached down and picked up the buff folder he had brought with him. He placed it, deliberately, on top of the file.

&
nbsp; The ACC looked at it, then back at Carver.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Have a look.’

  ‘If this is something to argue your case, you should have presented it when I gave you the opportunity.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with my case.’

  Clearly annoyed that his carefully-choreographed ceremony was being disrupted, the ACC opened the folder. The forms had changed over the years and Carver could see that after years spent climbing the ladder, the ACC’s memory was cloudy. He looked up at Carver, mystified.

  ‘Read it. Sir.’

  Even more annoyed now, it seemed, the ACC started going through the file. To begin with he didn’t read, just leafed through the forms. But when the moment arrived and memory stirred, it was obvious. A red tide began to creep upwards from his neck. Carver saw his adam’s-apple do a little jig. Nevertheless, he regained his composure, quickly. He hadn’t got to ACC by being chicken. He did the only thing he could do. He blanked it.

  ‘I’ve no idea what this is about Mr Carver, but I seriously doubt it has any bearing on-.’

  ‘It’s the Investigating Officer’s Report into a series of rapes around the Stretford and Salford areas in the late nineties. They were never cleared up, and they remain undetected.’ Carver paused but this time there were no interruptions. He continued. ‘The closing report says, ‘No suspect identified, which is a bit strange. Because apparently there was one.’

  The ACC eased himself back into the safety of his high leather chair, eyeing the papers before him, warily.

  ‘It seems that a SOCO managed to lift a print, in blood, off one of the victim’s legs. An excellent piece of soco-ing for the time, given that back then some still thought you couldn’t lift prints off skin. Even got a match. A bloke called Brendan Halfpenny. He’s doing time now for rape and attempted murder. But he was already known back then. Indecent exposure, Indecent assault, some other bits and pieces.

  ‘The SOCO gave his name to the DI running the enquiry. Halfpenny was brought in, questioned but never charged. When the SOCO asked why, he was told that someone in the Fingerprint Bureau had cocked up the ID. Halfpenny was alibied to the hilt apparently, and by a solicitor of all people, so it couldn’t have been him. And DNA was still fairly new back then.’

  ‘Where the fuck’s this going, Carver? If you think-.’

  ‘The SOCO knew it stank of course. But when he started asking questions the DI told him to drop it. Trouble was, the SOCO was one of the old school. Not above making the evidence fit the offender now and then. Just on those occasions when justice needed a helping hand of course. We’ve all done it, haven’t we, Sir?’

  There was no affirming nod. Just cold blue eyes, staring across the desk. Carver continued.

  ‘The SOCO knew that if he said anything, someone would do the same to him, and that would be his pension up the spout. So he kept his mouth shut. Of course he didn’t know the whole story then; the SOCO I mean. He only found out some time after. The DI who was Officer-In-Case, and the solicitor? They were both servicing Halfpenny’s sister. She was on the game but wasn’t averse to giving it free to coppers and people she thought might look after her, financially that is. But there was nothing the SOCO could do see?’

  The ACC opened his mouth but Carver kept going.

  ‘Then the force opened up this nice new archive we’ve got down that salt-mine and everyone spent months running round, finding exhibits and packaging everything up so it could go into storage. The SOCO was due to retire round that time but he remembered coming in one night and finding the DI, he’d moved up in the world and was a Chief Super by then, going through his neatly-labelled boxes. The SOCO knew what he was looking for. But even if the Chief Super hadn’t been disturbed, he wouldn’t have found them. DNA was getting a lot of press and the SOCO had never forgotten. He knew that if someone got rid of the exhibits, clothing, that sort of thing, the truth would disappear for ever. So he took it. Kept it at home in his loft all these years. Until one day someone asked him about it.’ Carver stopped. He looked in the mirror.

  For long seconds the ACC regarded Carver the way he might a piece of dog turd on his shoe. Eventually he let out a long breath and sat forward. He drummed his fingers on the table as if he were considering. Carver knew the man didn’t have any choice. The ACC nodded.

  ‘Very good. I must admit I never thought you would go this far. But then again, someone told me I shouldn’t underestimate you.’

  Carver let him talk. The ACC gave a begrudging smile.

  ‘I have to say, credit where it’s due, it’s not a bad card to play, at this stage of the game. I can see now why you are so keen to stay on CID. You’ve a gift for it.’

  He moved the folder aside that Carver had put in front of him, picked up the Career Review form and ripped it in half. He dropped it in the bin beside him, then sat back, job done. The two men looked at each other. Carver’s eyes flitted to the mirror.

  Eventually the ACC spoke. ‘Okay, let’s cut this short. I’m very busy. Where do you want? But let’s not be stupid. If it looks too good, people will want to know the fucking reason why.’

  Carver didn’t move.

  A puzzled frown came into the ACC’s face. ‘What? That’s what this is all about isn’t it? Staying on CID? Well okay then. You’ve got it. Now bugger off.’

  Carver reached into his inside pocket and took out the four photographs. He dealt them, one at a time, so they landed in front of the ACC. Teenagers. Attractive. Happy. Smiling. As innocent as they could be for their age. The ACC looked down on them.

  ‘It was over twenty fucking years ago. What do you want me to say?’

  Carver looked in the mirror.

  Eleven-fifteen, precisely.

  Time.

  He stood up, shook his head, and came forward. The ACC pressed himself back into his chair. Carver leaned forward and put his finger on the fourth picture he had dealt.

  ‘She’s my SISTER, you, CUNT.’

  Two things happened.

  The blood drained from the ACC’s face as he realised how wrong he had been. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘And you’re FUCKED,’ Carver finished.

  The door opened and two men, smartly dressed in dark pinstripe suits came in. Assistant Chief Constable Paul Murphy, ex-CID DI, and one-time Investigating Officer, recognised them at once. A look of fear came into his face.

  Carver stepped back. The taller, and older, of the pair turned to him.

  ‘Finished?’

  Carver nodded. ‘The solicitor?’

  The man checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Murphy breathed.

  Derek Robinson, Deputy Chief Constable of Derbyshire Police took a step towards Murphy. What he was about to do would give him no pleasure, but he knew how important it was to get it right.

  ‘Paul Murphy. I have been appointed by your Chief Constable to investigate a complaint made against you by a retired police officer, Mr Ronald Gover. I am now arresting you for an offence of conspiring to pervert the course of justice. You do not have to say anything, but if you fail to mention when questioned, anything….’

  As Robinson gave out the statutory caution, Murphy and Carver stared at each other. Murphy wasn’t listening to the man about to initiate the chain of events that would end his career prematurely, but not because he knew the caution and didn’t need to hear it. He was concentrating on conveying his hatred - and contempt - for the man who, only minutes before, was going to have been his step onto the final rung on the ladder.

  Murphy had known for a long time that the only thing holding him back from a Chief’s job was the absence of the tick in the box marked, ‘Decision Making’ on the lists of prospective candidates kept in the Home Office. By doing Carver, the man whose investigative exploits had been brought to public notice so prominently, it would signal that when it came to taking the difficult decisions, he could be relied upon not to shirk from acting in the ‘best inte
rests of the service.’ In the months to come, Murphy would try to convince himself he was simply the victim of a man desperate to save his CID career. But deep inside he knew. Carver’s career had nothing to do with it.

  And though Carver was staring towards Murphy, he was not seeing him. He had done his bit. As far as he was concerned the man was history. Instead, he was in a Manchester Arndale Centre shoe-shop, watching, embarrassed as hell, as a young girl on the cusp of womanhood, twirled before him the way, many years before that, Bruce Forsyth used to make Anthea Redfearn do every Saturday night on the Generation Game, showing her younger brother the new shoes she was thinking of buying and asking, ‘Well bruv, what do you think?’

  CHAPTER 52

  Disturbing though it was, Jess’s call couldn’t have come at a better time for Carver. It was the excuse he needed to postpone trying to make Nigel Broom’s clearly speculative assessments fit within the NCA Crime Intelligence Strategy Framework Document he had promised he would finish before his move across the other side of the corridor. Now, with two weeks still to go before his new posting came into effect, he was wishing he hadn’t. Following The Duke’s return to work, Carver’s former boss had wasted no time orchestrating the transfer he kept telling everyone made ‘perfect sense’ and was, ‘long overdue’. And having seen and felt the clamour that followed in the wake of Antranig Koloyan’s shooting, Nigel Broom had, finally, seen the light and given in, gracefully.

  Closing the file of papers he’d been pouring over, he lobbed it into ‘pending’, and rose to head over to Jess’s office. It’s all bullshit anyway, he thought as he left his office.

  In truth, Carver had been working on the document for less than an hour. Most of the morning had been swallowed up by a series of meetings, urgent emails, and phone calls.

  First off was an early morning meeting with Broom himself - a preamble he guessed to his final ‘farewell.’ After wishing Carver well in his new post and thanking him for his efforts, Carver was surprised when Broom started mumbling something about occasions when he should, perhaps have, ‘listened a little more closely’ to what Carver was saying, and shown a, ‘little more support’ for his efforts. Carver batted it off as not necessary, but took it as the nearest thing to an apology he was ever likely to get.