If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (24 page)

‘Maybe not, but the first answer you gave me today was a bare-faced lie, justified or otherwise. Someone
was
filming. My guess would
be Cockcroft herself. And if that footage exists I will find it, with or without your help.’

‘Go on, then,’ sneered Maggs. ‘But don’t talk about duty to
me
.’

Fran’s conversation with Nikki was even shorter in both time and pleasantries. ‘No luck either, then. We’re wasting our time with this. We should be kicking in doors after Dawson.’

Stark disagreed, but suspected Groombridge had an ulterior motive. ‘A suspicious mind might think the guv’nor sent us out on a wild-goose chase to give us a chance to kiss and make up.’

‘If you try to kiss me I’ll break your nose,’ said Fran.

‘Just a little one, Sarge, I won’t tell.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Don’t fight it, Sarge. I know you feel it too,’ replied Stark, deadpan.

‘In your dreams, smartarse.’ There was no mistaking the suppressed smile. ‘You’re still on probation after that funeral stunt.’

Groombridge had told her. Why? To get her off his back a little? Stark wished he hadn’t.

Fran looked him in the eye. ‘You should’ve told me yourself.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘An
apology
!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is a new and welcome addition to your so-called personality.’

‘It was a personal matter, Sarge. I needed to pay my respects.’

‘Because he was a military man.’

‘Because there was no one else.’

She seemed to consider this. ‘Fair enough.’ Another pause. ‘Next time don’t piss me about, just tell me. There’s a limit to my forgiveness.’

‘I hope I never find it.’

‘Don’t push your luck. I haven’t forgotten about your little impromptu jaunt to the Ferrier, or your stunt with the CPS lawyer – don’t think I won’t get to the bottom of
that
.’

‘You sound like my shrink, Sarge.’ Stark smiled. ‘Talking of which … any chance you could drop me off?’

Suddenly she laughed. ‘You really are a cocky, ungrateful, secretive git!’

Fran decided to wait for Stark. Now she knew for sure what these Wednesday sessions were, she didn’t have to tiptoe. She called to update Groombridge from the hospital car park.

‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ he replied. ‘I suppose I’ll have to take a crack at the rest of them, but they’ll be wise to my tricks now.’

‘Guv.’

‘Is there something else?’

‘Constable Toerag’s idea about the phones – ghost memories? He may have a point.’

‘We have the culprits, Detective Sergeant. Why would I go cap-in-hand to Cox for funding just on the off-chance of a little more evidence?’

‘The CPS might like more. All we have so far is agitated confessions and some blood on Kyle’s shoes. We could add sexual assault. If we could, it might help shake Pinky out from whatever bush she’s hiding under.’

‘I agree, so I called the FSS while you were out.’

‘Did you?’ Fran managed not to sound annoyed.

‘I did.’ Groombridge managed not to sound smug. ‘Apparently Constable Toerag did have a point. Not a new one, sadly. The case officer told me they’d already checked, as a matter of course. He was kind enough not to make me feel a twit. He did, however, draw my attention to the subject of “transfer activity logs”. He emailed me some.’ Fran could hear paper being waved. ‘It seems that, among all the other traffic, every one of the gang’s phones reports receiving video files via Bluetooth from the number saved in their phones as N-Zone or G. Nikki’s missing phone. They were all deleted, of course, and the clever little shits had filled their memories with new footage, garbage, all recorded in the hours after Kyle Gibbs died, all ensuring there was no chance of finding any of Stark’s “ghost files”.’

‘Someone in that gang was smarter than they looked.’

‘Yes. My money would be on Naveen Hussein, under duress or otherwise. He seems to have been the most computer literate. He was the only one who had a laptop. Stolen, of course.’

‘But let me guess, the laptop was wiped too.’

‘Yes and no. Naveen slipped up. There was a Trojan hiding on it, which they tell me was designed to generate …’ Groombridge consulted
his notes ‘… pop-ups. Specifically, links to a series of unpleasant websites, porn mostly, but a couple were dedicated to the nefarious business of happy-slapping. The same Trojan was apparently also sending keystroke records back to its masters, password fishing apparently, looking for banking access. The forensics techie said he’d be happy to look into it.’

‘If only their reports weren’t so dull, people might read them instead of leaving it to the CPS to pick over. So?’

‘So it’s all being referred to the National Internet Crime Unit as we speak.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Just when I thought Stark had run out of cages to rattle.’

‘Indeed. Though Cox is pleased with his small investment and I look rather shiny. So how are you two getting along now?’

‘Meaning, has your scheme to sit him in my car for the last two days worked?’

‘Did it?’

‘If he crosses the line one more time I may kill him.’

‘He will and you know it, and not just once. He’s one of those rare individuals you meet in life who know exactly where the line is but have no qualms about stepping right over it whenever they see fit.’

‘Yes, Guv.’ Fran sighed.

‘I quite like that he rubs you up the wrong way.’

‘You would.’

‘I think you do too.’

Fran could all but hear him grinning. ‘With all due respect, Guv … piss off!’

After the usual wait, Stark settled into Dr Hazel’s couch with an odd determination to engage. When prompted, he spouted every remembered detail of his recent most disturbing dreams, if not the ill-advised method he used too frequently now to avoid having them, then segued into Kelly. Poor Hazel had probably never taken so many notes in one session. She made little or no comment, either too stunned by his unfettered sincerity or simply unable to get a word in. Whatever. His time was up and Stark left, feeling unburdened and rather virtuous.

Fran had waited, saving him the cab fare but killing any chance of lunch. She’d had calls to make, she claimed, but it was more likely that she hadn’t finished prying. Her news was startling. The investigation now had national implications and she teased him that he’d started a wildfire. Stark sighed inwardly. So much for the Grey Man.

Fran pulled in at a petrol station. ‘Lunch.’

Stark made them both large instant coffees at the franchised machine. Fran added a Danish and went to wait in the car, leaving Stark with the bill. He picked up a Red Bull and a triple all-day-breakfast sandwich, paid, glugged down the can in the shop and gathered up the rest, burning his hands as he carried it all to the car.

‘Jesus,’ said Fran, as he tore open the sandwich packet. ‘What is it with you and food?’

‘Old habits, Sarge. An army runs on its stomach.’

‘I thought you all crawled on your bellies,’ joked Fran. ‘Give that here.’ She held out her hand for the receipt.

‘You paying?’ It seemed highly unlikely.

‘Don’t be daft. Lunch on the road is on the Great British Taxpayer. Though they might wonder why you necked that energy drink hoping your sergeant wouldn’t see you.’ Stark handed her the receipt. ‘Needed a pick-me-up, did we?’

‘Asked the lady on her
n
th coffee of the day.’ He laughed.

‘Fair enough. Buckle up.’

‘Don’t you want to finish your Danish before driving?’ Stark asked innocently.

‘Bollocks.’ She shot the car out into the traffic one-handed, munching and ignoring the flashing of lights behind her.

The journey back couldn’t have been more different. Once he’d fobbed off her questions about his shrink, they got talking about work. Fran was still firmly of the opinion that chasing Nikki’s missing phone was a waste of time.

‘It could be vital in cementing the case,’ argued Stark.

‘Granted, but even if we find it, she’s probably wiped it like the others.’

‘Then why doesn’t she have it? Why would she toss it?’

‘Maybe she panicked, maybe she just lost it. Either way it could be anywhere. We found a handful of phones just on our little foot search
– people lose them all the time. If someone hands it in, fine. In the meantime we’ve got proper villains to chase.’

If someone hands it in. ‘There is another possibility,’ said Stark, slowly. It wasn’t like a light-bulb going ping above his head, more like a dimmer, slowly brightening. ‘What if Maggs took it?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘No, seriously. What if he did?’

Fran glanced at him, frustrated. ‘Why would he? To sell?’

‘I was thinking more that he doesn’t want anyone else to have it. What if the person he barged to the ground wasn’t one of the lads but Nikki
because
she was filming? Think how angry you’d be if you saw what was being done, with Nikki egging it on and filming the whole vicious business for kicks.’

Fran rolled her eyes. ‘So he’s furious and intervenes. Maybe he even barges Nikki aside and the phone goes flying, Pinky runs off, then the fight, the killing, the gang flee … leaving Maggs
stabbed
and
bleeding
,’ she said.

‘Right. But what does he do? He doesn’t stagger about looking for help. He sits down, gets out his thirty-year-old field kit and patches himself up as best he can. Considered actions. What if he saw the phone, knowing what was on it, looked at Kyle’s body, realized there was no way out for him but made up his mind there and then to try to shield Pinky from further trauma?’

Fran considered this, drumming the wheel with her fingers. ‘Utter bollocks!’

‘He decided to at some point, why not then?’

‘He was drunk. And stabbed, in case I haven’t already mentioned it.’

‘He was drunk by the following morning, but that was analgesic after being stabbed. We’ve only his word that he was drunk before. He had time to decide what to do, time for his training to kick in.’

‘Thirty-year-old training?’

‘They ram it home pretty hard, especially when you’re in elite forces like Maggs was,’ replied Stark. ‘You’re hard-wired to assess, plan and act under pressure.’

Fran was shaking her head. ‘This is meaningless. It’s nothing but what-ifs.’

‘Will you at least take it to the guv’nor?’

‘What for?’ cried Fran. ‘Even if by some weird quirk of the universe you’re right, Nikki doesn’t have the phone, Maggs doesn’t have the phone and we don’t have the phone!’

‘We’ve searched in the direction Nikki and the others ran off. But Maggs couldn’t get out of the park with his precious trolley till the gates opened in the morning. Either he dumped it somewhere in the park or on his way to the station to turn himself in.’

‘
If
he had it,’ insisted Fran. ‘And if you’re proposing another foot search, you can tell the DCI yourself.’

‘Do you derive twisted pleasure out of making work for us?’ enquired Groombridge. He looked at Fran whose shrug reiterated that she was mere spectator, not participant.

‘I’ve checked the cameras, Guv. Maggs didn’t leave before morning. The gates were unlocked at oh six hundred. Maggs is seen trundling his trolley down the hill through St Mary’s Gate shortly before eight and weaving off down Nevada Street on his way here. The next camera to pick him up was the one out front. The time differential suggests no deviation. He said he’d bivvied up in the Flower Garden.’

Fran made a face. ‘Bivvied?’

‘Bivouacked. Camped. His belongings included an old army bivvy bag and a small camouflage tarp.’

‘More Boy Scout bullshit.’

‘All right, all right,’ Groombridge intervened. ‘Take Stark and Dixon and walk the route.’

Fran looked horrified. ‘Oh, come on, Guv, this has gone far enough. We know who killed Alfred Ladd, we know who killed Stacey Appleton and we know who killed Kyle Gibbs. Surely we
must
focus on Liam Dawson now.’

Knowing who did something was not the same as proving it, thought Stark. Of course the bigger fish wanted catching, but he intended to see that Alf, Stacey and her mother, Maggs and even Kyle got justice too. Otherwise what was the point?

‘Surely you’re not suggesting we leave stones unturned?’ Groombridge chided.

‘Send the Boy Scout and some uniforms,’ protested Fran. ‘He can turn over stones, leaves, squirrel shit and stinking bins to his heart’s content.’

‘I agree TI Stark is uniquely qualified for the task,’ replied Groombridge, ‘and as his PDP mentor you will be uniquely placed to ensure he doesn’t take any shortcuts.’

‘Should we ask Marcus Turner along?’ asked Stark, innocently.

Fran’s expression darkened. If Groombridge noticed, he played along seamlessly. ‘Capital idea.’

Fran looked back and forth between them, daring either to smirk, then stalked away in frustration.

Marcus met them at the bandstand, greeting them cheerfully. He walked them to the Flower Garden duck pond. ‘You’ve no wish to know the foetid jetsam we dredged out of there,’ he said.

‘You already searched it?’ asked Stark, failing to check his surprise. Of course they had.

‘I apologize for Trainee Investigator Stark, Marcus,’ said Fran. ‘He thinks he’s the only one around with a brain.’

Marcus smiled. ‘Seemed a likely spot to ditch a weapon if you scarpered this way. Or other evidence. I have a notion I can show you where your man Maggs camped, though.’ He led them to a secluded dell and pointed out linear marks around forks in branches about a metre off the ground. ‘I wasn’t sure what to make of these. They’ve been deepened by repeat use as you can see. Something tied here regularly. Tarpaulin perhaps? And here.’ He pointed out faint wheel marks. ‘The trolley, I’d say. There’s little other evidence that anyone camped here but …’ He was looking at Stark.

‘He’d clear up behind him, especially if he was coming back regularly,’ confirmed Stark. He glanced up and spotted what he was looking for. High up in the twisted fork of a branch was a dark green bag. He shimmied up awkwardly and retrieved it. It contained some energy bars, some tinned rations, a silver space blanket, some matches and a small penknife wrapped in waxed cloth.

‘Boy Scouts,’ muttered Fran.

There seemed little more to be gleaned from the area so they followed the various routes Maggs might have taken back to the main paths, finding nothing. Marcus was meticulous, and Fran made a faint show of impatience, though only faint and only a show, Stark noted.

The main diagonal path down towards St Mary’s Gate had no steps to impede a trolley and was the most direct route. There were few opportunities for concealing anything along the way, apart from the hollow remains of the fallen twelfth-century Queen Elizabeth Oak.
Fran was not shy with her impatience as Stark rummaged inside. Nor when he paused to take in the view north over the stately Queen’s House and Old Royal Naval College to the upstart monoliths of Canary Wharf just across the winding river Thames. To the north-west the Gherkin and Tower 42 marked the City, London’s financial district, and to the north-east the defiant brick chimneys of an old power station juxtaposed before the extra-terrestrial Millennium Dome on the Greenwich Peninsula. The elevation and green generosity of the park highlighted just how surrounded it was, how besieged, as if it must inevitably fall to the rampaging urban sprawl stretching away to every horizon. London was as oppressive as it was impressive.

Marcus joined him in silent contemplation.

‘Daydream in your own time,’ barked Fran.

At the gate there were bins and countless other places to ditch something but the CCTV footage had shown Maggs taking no such action. The camera on a pole also covered the length of Nevada Street all the way to where it crossed into Burney Street, which culminated at the station. On one corner of that crossroads there was a tiny square park with shrubs and benches shaded by the fat leaves of a broad London plane.

‘Sorry to drag you out, Marcus,’ said Fran. ‘For the record it was Stark’s idea.’

‘Was it? Oh, well, never mind,’ replied Marcus, rather enigmatically. Fran caught Stark suppressing a smile and scowled at him. Dixon studiously ignored eye contact.

Seemingly unaware, Marcus was peering at a nearby parking meter. He pulled on a surgical glove and wiped his finger across its domed top, inspecting the dust on his fingertip in the sunlight. ‘Glass powder.’ He glanced at the ground and crouched to collect a tiny piece of glass. Stark spotted another. Marcus rummaged around in the shrub behind the courtyard’s low wall and pulled out a piece of plastic casing and then a larger piece of glass. It was thin and faintly curved, not a bottle or sheet glass but, unmistakably, a piece of mobile phone screen. He mimicked the action of smashing an object on the top of the parking meter.

They looked around but found no phone. Then Dixon called out.
By a drain gully in the road lay another fragment of glass, very like the others. Dixon prostrated himself to peer down the gully, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘All I can see is reflection on the water,’ he said. ‘Can you find me a stick or something?’

‘Here.’ Marcus produced a crowbar from his small bag as if it were a perfectly ordinary item to carry about. ‘You can try this, but we’ll probably need the jack SOCO use.’

Dixon tried to prise the grate up but it was cemented in place with decades of gunk. Stark crouched to help, gripping the iron grate, but the second he tried to lift, his hip sang out in agony and he let go with a choice curse, hobbled to the low wall and sat flexing his leg gingerly.

‘Okay,’ said Fran, ignoring Stark’s discomfort. ‘Where youth and brute ignorance fail, wiser heads prevail.’

An hour later SOCO pulled the smashed remains of a broken mobile phone from the drain.

‘Did you have any luck with that photograph?’ asked Marcus, as they looked on.

Fran frowned. ‘What photograph?’

‘The faded portrait among Alfred Ladd’s effects – came to me with the body. Constable Stark asked for it.’ Marcus immediately saw he’d spilt a secret but it was too late.

Stark shrugged. ‘His wife, Nancy, most probably.’ Social Services had drawn a blank but his friendly MoD underling had come through again. Alf’s military records listed his wife’s name. The General Register Office had had their marriage and her death certificates. From parish records Stark had tracked down her grave. ‘Died in ’seventy-two, no children or living relatives. That’s all I could find.’

‘The age of the photo and clothing fashion support your theory,’ said Marcus.

‘And where is it now?’ asked Fran, though she surely suspected.

‘Alfred Ladd’s breast pocket would be my guess,’ said Marcus. ‘Next to his heart?’

Stark nodded, avoiding Fran’s eyes.

‘The world loves a romantic.’ Marcus grinned. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Detective Sergeant?’

Fran didn’t comment.

An FSS boffin called later to say the phone’s SIM card registration matched that of the N-Zone number but it would take longer to discover if anything could be salvaged from the phone’s memory. No fingerprints or DNA evidence had survived immersion in the sludgy water.

Fran hung up and relayed the news. ‘Well, Trainee Investigator, if FSS find anything useful the great British taxpayer will know they got their money’s worth out of that energy drink. Come on, you owe me a proper drink.’

Stark was heartily glad to knock off early. Fatigue and the pain in his hip were crushing him.

‘You okay?’ Fran asked, as he flinched sitting down in the pub.

‘Bit sore,’ he admitted, taking a grateful swig of whisky, feeling its burning warmth rush to his aid.

‘You’ve looked like shit for days. Having trouble sleeping?’

She’d watched his conversation about it with Maggs. ‘Global warming, Sarge. I just can’t sleep for the worry.’

She looked at him. ‘You’re an artful dodger. I hope your shrink sees through your crap.’

‘She’s yet to convince me she can see far past her own pre-assumptions.’

‘It’s a she? Have you got a crush on her too?’

‘No, she’s nosy enough but, until she has your passion for roughshod inquisition, she’ll never hold a candle to you in my eyes.’

‘And your other therapist, Tantric Aqua-babe?’

‘I told you, she’s out of my league.’

‘And yet you aspire to me?’ Fran chortled.

‘Not me. I know when I’m outclassed.’

‘Good.’

‘Yep, that Marcus is a helluva guy!’

It was worth it. Besides, a punch in the arm was nothing to the fire in his hip. He’d definitely pulled something trying to lift that sodding drain gully. Pills hadn’t helped much, and while whisky on top did, it also reinforced the fatigue. After a while Fran sent him home. There was a message from Captain Pierson on his phone, demanding to see him in her brusque manner. One by one, thought Stark. But winning round the icy captain was beyond him for now.

‘Ah, there you are, Stark! Guess what I have here.’ Groombridge waved a memory stick.

Stark was in no mood for guessing games. He’d woken before dawn, not from dreams for once but pain. Despite more OxyContin he’d struggled to get comfortable and had hardly fallen asleep again before the radio woke him. ‘Footage off Nikki Cockcroft’s phone, Guv?’

‘You could at least pretend sometimes not to be a smartarse,’ said Fran.

Groombridge just laughed. ‘FSS just emailed it over. They could hardly believe it’d survived. Let’s see where your luck and intuition have led us. If you would, Trainee Investigator …’

Bodies jostled for space around Stark’s computer. The file took a few seconds to open and several long minutes to run. The image was small, packaged for a mobile screen. Once enlarged to fill his screen it was pixellated but clear enough to identify faces and actions. Everyone watched to the end in silence.

‘Still think we should have every officer in the station rub Stark for luck, Guv?’ said Fran, humourlessly. No one was in the mood for jokes with those images fresh in their minds.

‘At least it seems Maggs intervened in time.’ Groombridge’s tone was grim.

The film had shown familiar youths surrounding Pinky by the phone’s dim video-spotlight, taunting her. Nikki Cockcroft’s voice could be heard jeering. Jeering became baying for violence, then worse. The rest of the gang stepped back, perhaps shocked, as Kyle used his knife both to threaten and cut at clothing. One voice even called for him to stop, but Cockcroft spat invective at whoever it was and urged Kyle on with more.

Pinky’s pleading became screaming as Kyle fumbled down his trousers. Just as it seemed too late for hope a bellowing roar erupted. There was the briefest flash of olive drab clothing and a thump, the image became a blur, a crash of the phone tumbling across the ground and then nothing. That was it. It was enough.

‘CPS are going to crucify them with this,’ said Fran. There was a chorus of satisfaction from the team. Someone even patted Stark on the shoulder as if this were all his handiwork, but he was still too sickened to be embarrassed.

‘Everyone except Nikki Cockcroft,’ said Groombridge. ‘
We
all know it’s her phone and her voice but you never see her face and there’s a lot of background noise.’

Fran frowned. ‘And no one has that number saved in her actual name.’

‘It’s enough, though, Guv, right?’ asked Hammed.

‘Maybe. And we’ve got her interview slip-up. Depends what the jury call reasonable doubt. What we really need is for one of the others to turn on her, place her at the scene, or we find that girl and get a positive ID. Otherwise the only ID we have is from Maggs, a homeless drunk charged with murder. I think it’s about time I leant on Naveen Hussein. In the meantime get Munroe back in a cell and find me that girl!’

Sobered, the team dispersed.

The first frame of footage sat on Stark’s screen with an invitation to replay: a girl with pink hair looking up in confusion and alarm, unaware of the horror about to be inflicted on her. Stark was transfixed. ‘Who are you?’

‘Good question.’ Stark jumped. Groombridge stood behind right him. ‘At least she escaped the worst, lad. We’ve Maggs to thank for that.’

‘Still think murder is the just charge, Guv?’

‘Don’t you?’ Groombridge perched on the desk and looked down at him seriously. ‘Are you saying Kyle Gibbs deserved to bleed to death in that park?’ Stark didn’t answer. ‘Who would we be to say that? We don’t even hang people when we’re as sure as we can be of the worst possible guilt.’

‘Surely the CPS will see that Maggs intervened with good intent.’

‘All we have is his confession and fingerprints on the bloody knife. Everyone else present is shut up tighter than a drum for fear of making matters worse for themselves. And we have the body of a boy with a knife in his back, his
back
. We work with hunches, suspicions and bloody-minded legwork, but the CPS can only work with what we present to them.’

‘You’re forgetting someone, Guv,’ said Stark, indicating his screen.

‘No, I’m not.’ He looked deep into Stark’s eyes, perhaps sensing the fury. ‘You must stop looking at this through a soldier’s eyes. Outside combat, moral absolutism is a dangerous precept.’