All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  ‘There was a load of shouting and an ambulance arrived. Everyone crowded round the window, till Ms Milton made us all sit down and get back to our verbs.’

  Verbs. Urgh.

  ‘Did he die?’ Seeing Roche’s confusion, the girl added, ‘The man on the bike.’

  ‘No. He’s fine. His bike got a bit bashed though.’

  ‘Mm.’ The girl took a bite of her pastry and chewed thoughtfully. ‘My mum says cyclists are a menace.’

  ‘She should meet my boss,’ Roche grinned. ‘He thinks pretty much the same thing.’

  The girl shoved the last of the pastry into her mouth. ‘Are you really a policeman?’

  Roche winced as the child wiped a chocolate-covered hand on her bright red blazer. ‘I’m a policewoman, yes.’

  ‘Can I see your badge?’

  ‘Sure.’ Stuffing the phone back in her pocket, Roche fumbled with her warrant card. Flipping it open, she handed it to the girl. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Wow!’ For several seconds, the girl stared at the photograph on the card, occasionally looking up at Roche, as if she was struggling to reconcile the two. ‘You look a lot younger in your picture,’ she said finally. ‘It must have been taken a long time ago.’

  Thanks a lot.

  ‘Amy!’

  The sergeant looked round to see a harassed girl in her late teens or early twenties standing by the gates, holding the hand of a younger child. Younger than Amy.

  The nanny, Roche thought.

  ‘What are you doing? Hurry up!’

  Amy handed the warrant card back to Roche and trotted off without another word.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ Roche huffed, sticking the ID in the back pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Sergeant Roche?’

  ‘That’s right.’ A young man was pushing a bike along the pavement towards her. He was wearing a hi-viz yellow jacket and a crash helmet, along with a pair of Lycra shorts and expensive-looking trainers. Attached to the side of the helmet was a video camera that looked like a small torch.

  ‘David Howard?’ She resisted the temptation to point out that he was fifteen minutes late.

  He gave her a nod.

  Roche belatedly noticed the guy hovering behind Howard with a video camera.

  ‘That’s Serge – he’s shooting some material for my vlog.’

  Serge waved his camera by way of greeting.

  Roche raised an eyebrow.

  ‘My video blog.’ Howard gave her a patronizing You are too old to understand this kind of stuff smile. ‘It’s on YouTube. I put up a couple of posts a week on cycling and the trials and tribulations of being a cyclist in a totally car-centric city like London.’

  What a wanker. Roche’s heart sank.

  Howard’s bland features edged towards a scowl. Everyone knew that the average plod was a bit thick, but this one surely took the biscuit. ‘I’ve had almost a million hits since I got knocked off my bike. If I get enough subscribers I’m going to give up the day job and do the vlog full-time.’

  Not wanting a starring role in his next post, Roche persevered with the small talk. ‘What is the day job?’ she asked, trying to sound remotely interested.

  ‘I’m a Planning Officer for Westminster Council.’

  Nodding, Roche gestured towards his helmet as casually as possible. ‘Is that thing on?’

  Howard reached up and pressed a button on the camera, activating a red light. ‘It is now,’ he grinned.

  Great. ‘But it wasn’t working the other day?’

  ‘This is a new one. The old one was broken in the accident. I think whoever nicked my wallet stomped on it on purpose. The casing was smashed to bits, although the memory card was okay. I got some great footage of me slamming into the van but then it goes blank.’

  Roche tried to discreetly step out of shot. ‘Are they expensive?’

  ‘Nah.’ Howard’s face brightened as the conversation turned to his new toy. ‘This only cost sixty quid and it more than does the job. Works a treat.’

  Great. ‘And what about Serge?’

  ‘He’s going to get some extra footage,’ Howard explained. ‘We’re planning to do a follow-up special on what happened. You should check it out; maybe we’ll make you a star.’

  And maybe I’ll make you eat that fucking camera.

  ‘I’ll start shooting once you’ve sorted out the set-up,’ Serge told them.

  Set-up is exactly right, Roche thought grimly. How was she going to get out of this?

  Howard looked at her expectantly. ‘So, Sergeant, how would you like to proceed?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Roche glanced towards the school, in search of some inspiration. The man in the red waterproof was in the process of closing the gates when he was distracted by a shout. He looked up to see a red-faced woman jogging along the pavement towards him, a couple of young kids, a boy and a girl, in tow, struggling to keep up. She waved a hand and called out something that Roche didn’t catch. Smiling, the teacher waved back, signalling that he would wait. A look of relief crossed the woman’s face as she realized that the kids would just be able to duck inside before the gates were shut for the morning. Another school-run successfully completed.

  The woman slowed her pace to a walk, allowing the children to catch her up. As they reached her side, she came to a halt to hand each child its bag. Bending down, she kissed the boy on the forehead and then the girl, offering some final encouragement before the working day began in earnest. Setting off again, the little group were almost level with the zebra crossing when Roche noticed two well-built, shaven-headed men slip out of the back of an ancient Transit van that had been parked by the service entrance of the office block adjacent to the school. As the men ran up behind the woman, one of them said something, causing her to turn. The moment she did so, he lifted a small aerosol and sprayed something into her face. When she started to scream, he grabbed the collar of her coat and began dragging her towards the van. The children were wailing now, making quite a racket as they tried to cling on to their mother. With a minimum of fuss, the second man gripped each one by the collar. Sticking the girl under one arm and the boy under another, he marched briskly back to the van.

  The abduction lasted less than ten seconds. Still holding the gate open, the man in the red waterproof looked on, bemused. Howard and Serge, fiddling with their technology, didn’t even look up.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  As the van doors slammed shut, Roche stepped off the kerb.

  ‘Eh?’ Belatedly realizing something was wrong, Howard started after her.

  ‘Stay here,’ Roche commanded. Striding towards the van, she saw the driver, skinhead number 3, reach forward and turn the key in the ignition. The engine reluctantly spluttered into life. ‘Call 999. Tell them an officer needs assistance.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do it now!’ Roche was conscious of Serge bringing the video camera up to his face. She would have to take that off him later. The van edged out into the road and turned towards her. Grabbing her ID, Roche flipped it open and held it above her head. ‘POLICE!’ she screamed. ‘Stop the vehicle and take the keys out of the ignition.’

  The driver released the handbreak and rolled the van slowly forward. When Roche stood her ground he came to a halt barely six feet in front of her, a bemused grin on his face.

  ‘POLICE!’

  Half turning in his seat, he kept his hands on the steering wheel as he had a brief confab with his colleagues in the back about this latest development.

  Stepping up to the driver’s door, Roche flattened her warrant card against the window. The driver studied it, unimpressed.

  ‘Get out of the fucking van!’

  After a moment, there was a click. Roche took a step backwards, stuffing the ID back in her pocket, as the driver pushed the door open.

  ‘Okay, officer,’ he smiled. ‘I’m getting out of the van.’

  TEN

  In the cold light of day, things didn’t look any better. A couple of foren
sics technicians remained working in the chapel but Daniel Hunter knew that there would be nothing much left to find. Wishing he was still in London, he looked at his watch. He should have been dropping the kids off at school about now. Once this crap was sorted out, he was definitely packing it in. Whether he ended up becoming a History teacher or not, his Army days were over.

  The lack of sleep did nothing to improve his mood. A couple of hours laid out on one of the back pews had left him feeling stiff and profoundly weary. Yawning, he pointed to the CCTV camera positioned on the wall high above the altar.

  ‘How long has it been out of order?’

  ‘Oh, it’s working all right, we had to switch it off.’ The MCTC Commander, Brigadier William Soames, gave a helpless smile. ‘One of the men who used the chapel complained that it infringed his Human Rights. Freedom of religion, or some such. His lawyer threated to take it to the European Court, so . . .’

  ‘So you switched it off.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brilliant.

  ‘Commander.’

  Soames and Hunter turned to see a red-faced young recruit, who saluted the pair of them as he walked up the aisle. Soames returned the salute; Hunter didn’t bother.

  ‘Nigel Drinkwater has arrived, sir. They’ve put him in the Goose Green Room.’

  ‘Drinkwater . . .’ Soames struggled to place the name.

  ‘Soldier B,’ Hunter reminded him.

  ‘Ah, yes. Very good. Let’s go and speak to him then, shall we?’

  ‘I think I need to speak to him alone.’

  Soames started to protest, then thought better of it. Frankly, the less he had to do with this mess, the better. Running the MCTC was a thankless job at the best of times and these were most definitely not the best of times. The sooner the Brass found him something else to do, the happier he’d be. With a grunt, he signalled for Hunter to do as he pleased. The Captain, already halfway to the door, did not acknowledge the concession.

  The Goose Green Room was basically one half of a prefabricated building that had been divided in two. The other half bore the moniker the Darwin Room, both names being a nod to the Falkland Islands military campaign. After a quick diversion to the canteen, Hunter flashed his ID at the two guards by the door and stepped inside. The room was dominated by a large square table, which took up maybe 80 per cent of the available floorspace. Hunter counted sixteen chairs. Only one was occupied. Drinkwater sat in front of the only window, which looked out on to a car park. He watched Hunter pull out a nearby chair and sit down.

  ‘How’s it going, Nigel?’ Hunter placed two paper bags on the table. ‘I thought you might want some breakfast – I know I do.’ From the first bag, he pulled a couple of cups of coffee, placing one in front of Drinkwater and taking a sip of the other. Aaah! ‘There’s milk and sugar in the bag.’

  ‘Black’s fine.’ Removing the lid, Drinkwater left the cup sitting on the table.

  Delving into the second bag, Hunter produced a couple of rolls wrapped in greaseproof paper. Placing one next to Drinkwater’s cup, he began unwrapping the other. ‘Bacon sarnies.’ He took a bite. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving. It’s been a very long night.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Drinkwater said with feeling as he reached for the roll. ‘They dragged me out of bed at three o’clock this morning to drive me down here.’ Pulling off the wrapper, he took a large bite.

  ‘Bummer,’ said Hunter. ‘Where were they holding you?’

  ‘Bolton.’ Drinkwater heaved a sigh. ‘I’ve been moved three times in the last week. No one has any space.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘They sent Dern to bloody Stirling.’

  ‘I know.’ Bryce Dern was Soldier C, the third man being court-martialled for the alleged murder of the terrorists. ‘He’s on his way, apparently,’ Hunter said. ‘God knows what time he’ll actually get here.’

  ‘So, once we’ve had our little chat, I’m going straight back, am I?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Nothing to do with me.’ Stuffing the last of the food into his mouth, he reached into the bag and took out a second roll, along with a fistful of napkins and a sachet of tomato sauce. Having got what he wanted, he tossed the bag over to Drinkwater. ‘Two each.’

  For a couple of minutes, they sat in silence, enjoying their food. Hunter, feeling his mood improve as his stomach filled, ran through in his head what he knew about Nigel Drinkwater. Twenty-four years old, seven-year veteran, grew up in Brixton, a smart kid, with six A-levels from the Pimlico Academy. Quite the athlete too: he had walked out on a professional contract with Charlton to sign up for the Army. He had been on his second Afghan tour when he had hooked up with Andy Carson. Never been in any kind of trouble before.

  Being honest, Hunter was hoping that Drinkwater escaped punishment from the court-martial. As far as the captain could see, Carson had simply gone a bit crazy on the day and the others had just not been able to stop him. It would be a crying shame if Drinkwater’s career ended up being destroyed because the Army was spooked by the PR fall-out from the incident.

  Wiping the grease from his fingers, Hunter swallowed the last of his coffee. Gathering together all his rubbish, he shoved it into one of the paper bags.

  ‘Right. That’s better! Now, where will I find Andy Carson?’

  Drinkwater pushed his chair back from the table and stretched. ‘No idea, sorry, Captain.’

  ‘C’mon, Nigel. You know I’m going to track the stupid bastard down sooner or later. Do yourself a favour.’

  Placing his hands on the table, Drinkwater looked slowly around the room. ‘Is this being recorded?’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  Unconvinced, Drinkwater scratched at the stubble on his jaw.

  ‘I’m not even taking any notes.’ Hunter held up both hands. ‘And nothing that gets said here will appear in any report.’

  Drinkwater stared at the remains of his breakfast on the table. ‘This is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Andy is a crazy bastard, a real nutter. And some of his mates, they’re even worse.’ When Drinkwater looked up, Hunter could see real dismay in the man’s face. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘I’ll keep you out of it,’ Hunter repeated.

  Drinkwater bit his lower lip. ‘So . . . I got a message yesterday evening. They told me to deliver it to you face-to-face, when we had our meeting. I was to tell you to ring your wife.’

  Hunter frowned. ‘You were to tell me to call my wife?’

  Drinkwater nodded.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘No idea. Some guy just came up to me in the canteen. One of the warders.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Drinkwater thought about it for a few moments before his face broke into a grin. ‘He was white.’

  ‘Right. You can do better than that.’

  ‘You know what it’s like if you come from Brixton, man. All you white boys look the same – know what I mean?’

  More questions started thudding through Hunter’s mind. Ignoring them, he got to his feet, fumbling for his mobile as he headed outside. Stepping on to the tarmac, he hit Mel’s number. It rang three times before a male voice answered.

  ‘About time. We were beginning to think that you weren’t going to call.’

  ‘So, what happened? Are you okay?’

  Sitting on the edge of a bed, Roche dangled her feet a couple of inches off the floor. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Other than the bandage on her cheek, Carlyle had to admit the sergeant looked pretty much the same as she had at Charing Cross a few hours earlier.

  ‘Yes I’m sure,’ she insisted, more than a hint of irritation clearly evident in her voice.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ The question sounded more voyeuristic than concerned.

  ‘I’ve had worse hangovers.’ She lifted a packet of ibuprofen from the bed and waved it in her hand. ‘They told me to take a cou
ple of these if it gets worse.’

  That’s doctors for you. ‘Did they do any tests?’

  ‘I don’t need any tests.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a brain scan, or something?’

  She waved away the suggestion. ‘Don’t be daft. You’re worse than my mother.’

  ‘Err on the side of caution, that’s my motto. You read so many horror stories, about people being sent home with a few pills and then dropping down dead the next day because a stomach tumour was misdiagnosed as indigestion.’

  Roche gave him a hard look. ‘Since when did you start to believe stories in the papers?’

  ‘Fair point.’ Carlyle backed against the wall as a nurse skipped past carrying a stack of folders. ‘You would have thought they could have done better than plonk you in a bloody corridor though.’

  ‘Everyone’s been very nice. It’s the NHS. They’re doing the best that they can.’

  ‘Mm.’ The inspector let his gaze slide towards her stomach. ‘And the—’

  ‘All good,’ she said sharply. ‘The baby’s fine. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Phew!’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘The way it all happened was really quite fortunate.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘The scary thing is, I didn’t stop to think, “I’m pregnant”. I just waded in.’

  ‘Acting on instinct.’

  ‘Worse. Acting on cop instinct,’ she groaned.

  ‘Think of it as a learning experience.’

  ‘It bloody better be.’ Roche dropped the painkillers into the pocket of her jacket. ‘Did becoming a parent change the way you handled things like that?’

  Carlyle knew he should say ‘yes’ but Roche deserved an honest answer. ‘Not really. Not in any quantifiable way, at least. It’s not like we go taking undue risks, is it? It’s just part of The Job. As you get older, the way we do The Job changes. Becoming a parent may be one factor in that, but there are lots of others.’

  He could see in her face that he wasn’t making a lot of sense, so he changed tack. ‘I think you can be a good parent and a good cop. In my opinion, the people who are irresponsible are those who have kids and then go off and get themselves killed climbing mountains or skydiving – shit like that.’