If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (29 page)

You slam against the wall, gasping for breath. Check the safety is off for the tenth time. A nod. Collins kicks the door and you pile in, weapon raised, Collins behind you. Movement in the corner. Collins shouts! Swing the gun! The girl with pink hair, cradling her knees in the corner, looks up at you, terrified, defiant, angry as a snarling cat. He comes at you, knife flashing. You feel it drive into your back, a wild pain, a numbing wrongness. You twist and block and slip his arm out of its socket, mercilessly efficient. You have his weapon now and your knee on his neck; he squeals, pleads. One stab down and it’s over. You want to do it. You want to do it. But you’re dying, you can feel life leaching out of you, trousers slick with blood as you kneel in the dust, rifle aimed; relax, breathe, aim, hold, fire. Relax, breathe, aim, hold … Feel it draining from you. Must stay conscious as long as possible. Sleep is death. Relax, breathe, aim, hold …

‘
Still see their faces?
’

Stark blinked awake, Maggs’s voice so present in his ears that he looked round for him in the dark. His hand drifted to his back for a wound that had never existed. He groaned. Three pills, with three full fingers of whisky, and still this. Even his improper regimes were unravelling.

He’d neglected to close the curtains and the sky, from where he lay, hovered between blues. Somewhere below the horizon the sun lurked, bugle ready.

Stark let out his breath with a shuddering sigh, levered himself out of bed, limped awkwardly into the kitchenette and, after a minute’s fruitless rummaging, cursed his empty fridge and cupboards. If Kelly had accepted his invitation they’d have been looking at takeaway menus. He slammed the cupboard door so hard it hung off one hinge.

Leaving it, he went and showered, ignoring any thought of exercise. Afterwards, dripping, he wiped his hand across the steamy mirror. A stranger stared back at him. Grim, gaunt, rings beneath
sunken eyes. He peeled the damp dressing off his face and looked at the scratches. They were tender to the touch. There was no point in trying to shave round them so he left them to the air. Steam gradually re-obscured the stranger’s face. A great urge to smash his fist into it nearly overwhelmed him. Instead he dried, dutifully changed the dressings on his hand and ribs, dressed and limped out into the morning sun.

The bakery owner unlocked the door from inside, eyeing Stark warily. Stark waited in silence as the man put out the first of his stock. Armed with a cinnamon whirl and a double espresso, he took a stool by one of the tall tables wedged into the tiny space and ate. The owner continued to watch him, too unsure to make conversation.

Stark left a pocketful of small change as tip and departed with a nod. The pain felt distant as he walked, the painkillers doing their work. It was only when he neared the station that he remembered he hadn’t taken any.

The few uniforms he saw as he entered the station via the tradesmen’s door gave him odd looks. The office was all but empty. The clock read 07:31.

‘Wake up.’ Someone was shaking Stark’s shoulder gently. ‘Wake up! The sarge’ll be here any minute!’ Dixon’s voice.

Stark looked up. There was a crick in his neck: he’d been asleep with his head on the desk. Pain flared in his hip and he groaned.

Dixon recoiled. ‘Christ, are you okay?’

‘Hanging on my chinstrap,’ admitted Stark.

‘I looked that up,’ Dixon told him.

Stark checked the clock. ‘Just enough time for coffee.’ He stood but his hip sang out and he nearly sat again. Kelly had been right: this might be more tear than wear.

‘Jesus, what happened? Should you be here? Sit down, for God’s sake, before you fall. Wait here, I’ll get you coffee.’

The office was busier. Stark couldn’t help notice people craning their necks over desk partitions to peer at him. Dixon reappeared and brought water, too, which Stark gratefully used to swallow three pills.

‘What happened? I heard you found her. It’s all over the station.’

Before Stark could explain Fran walked in and did a double-take.
‘What the … Have you not
one
ounce of sense in you? What the hell are you doing here? Jesus, you look even worse than when I left you!’

‘I’m all right, Sarge,’ lied Stark. At least, I will be once these pills and the coffee get to me, he thought, taking a scalding swig.

‘Dixon, get this idiot out of here before the guv’nor sees him.’

‘Before the guv’nor sees who?’ said Groombridge, from the doorway.

Fran made a face at Stark and turned. ‘I was just suggesting to Constable Stark that he appears unwell and should go home to bed, Guv, and he agreed that would be best.’

Groombridge looked past her. ‘That right, Stark?’

‘Only the first part, Guv,’ replied Stark. Fran glared at him.

‘You look like crap. Maybe DS Millhaven has a point.’

‘I’ll be all right, Guv.’

‘Constable, you have two knife wounds and a face out of a werewolf film.’

Stark was in no mood to remind them he’d had worse. ‘If you’re interviewing Pinky today I’d like to be there.’

Groombridge considered him for a moment. ‘That’ll depend on her doctors. If she’s not ready, you go home.’ There was no invitation to argument in his tone.

‘Guv.’

For a while it looked as if that might be how it would go. The doctors were hesitant. But it gave Social Services time to come up with an appropriate adult. Until otherwise proved, anyone who looked like they could be under seventeen was assumed to be. You had to be eighteen to get a tattoo legally, of course, but they’d be foolish to rely on that as an indicator. Stark felt oddly isolated while they waited, as if people were moving around him, consciously avoiding him. Fran was in Groombridge’s office and he thought he heard them arguing, though they might just have been talking. When the door opened neither appeared ruffled.

‘It’s on. You sure you’re fit, Stark?’

‘If you’ll have me, Guv.’

‘I suppose you’ll have to do. Come on, let’s see if we can finish this.’

For the first time Groombridge slowed his walk right down. Stark railed inside but there was no point in denying the necessity.

A doctor was waiting for them. ‘She’s traumatized, Chief Inspector, and was clearly beaten badly a while back. There’s no sign of recent sexual activity, which, given where she was found, is a blessing, but judging from the cuts and scrapes we found below, she was either raped, or very nearly so, a while back.’

‘When?’ asked Fran.

‘Two or three weeks? But so far she’s only spoken to the psychotherapist.’

‘Do you have a name?’ asked Groombridge.

‘Paula Stevens. Nineteen. That’s all.’

‘No fixed abode,’ said Groombridge, softly.

‘As you say. She’ll be here in a minute. The psychotherapist will sit in and it’s over the second she says so. Understood?’

‘Understood. Thank you, Doctor.’

The social worker was dismissed. Stark saw who the shrink was and shook his head. Of course, he thought, chalking it up to karma, or a universe with a spiteful sense of humour.

‘This is Dr Hazel McDonald,’ said the doctor. ‘She’s in charge here.’

Seeing Stark, Hazel checked her nod of recognition, but Stark would have bet a million that Fran and Groombridge had noted it.

‘DCI Groombridge.’ He shook her hand. ‘Dr McDonald.’

‘Hazel, please.’

‘Hazel, we must know Paula’s version of events. Is she up to it?’

‘You’ll need to tread carefully, Chief Inspector. Her memory of the attack on her remains sketchy. I don’t believe we’re looking at retrograde amnesia but she is disassociating.’

‘But she remembers the attack?’

‘In part. I’d need more time to be sure. Are you certain this can’t wait?’

‘In my experience it’s better to harvest partial memories early before the brain sows weeds in the gaps.’

Hazel smiled politely. ‘Perhaps.’

Paula was wheeled past them into the interview room. She was capable of walking but hospital policy spoke loudest. She looked
alert, wary, fragile. She caught Stark’s eye fleetingly, but with no flicker of recognition that he could discern.

They waited outside while Hazel and the lawyer went in to speak with her. The sound was off, for privacy, but Stark watched Paula nod wordlessly from time to time, occasionally glancing at the mirror-glass as if she could see him.

When they were called in he took a seat in the corner out of the way. Groombridge introduced everyone, explained the presence of the tape and cameras and thanked everyone for being there. Paula looked ready to bolt.

‘For the record,’ said Hazel, ‘Paula has been told what to expect and has agreed to take part. In some instances I will answer for her. She has asked me to do so. If I cannot, Paula will answer if she feels able to. If not, I will not allow you to press her. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Groombridge. ‘Thank you, Paula. We’re here in the hope that you might shed light on two fatal incidents. On the night of Friday, May the fifteenth, around midnight a scream was heard on the Ferrier Estate. A girl, nearly your age, member of the local youth gang known as the Ferrier Rats, was found dead at the foot of a building – we believe pushed off it. Immediately after, you were seen running from the area. Can you tell us what happened?’ Paula shook her head. Groombridge smiled warmly but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘Perhaps I should tell you what I think happened. The girl, Stacey Appleton, was accosted in one of the derelict properties, hit on the head and tipped over the balcony to her death. And you saw this happen. Just nod if I’m right.’

A shake, hesitant, uncertain. Hazel pitched in. ‘I’m sorry, Paula and I have not had much time together and I wasn’t aware of her link to this event. Might we be allowed a few minutes to talk?’

Groombridge nodded, cut the tapes and the police withdrew. After a brief discussion inside the lawyer was ejected too, his body language faintly betraying frustration. Stark sympathized, but he had to give credit to Hazel for her quiet command of the proceedings. And she, at least, was able to get Paula to speak. It tested his patience to watch the facts they needed being discussed beyond their hearing. Stark found himself wondering whether any copper had ever secretly learnt to lip-read.

Talking she might be, but Paula glanced anxiously at the mirrored glass throughout. This was going to be difficult. Groombridge would have to bring all his experience to bear. Fran seemed surprisingly relaxed. Stark would have expected her to be the very model of impatience.

Eventually Hazel came out to them.

‘Are we ready?’ asked Groombridge.

‘Yes and no. She’s frightened, obviously, but particularly of you, Chief Inspector. There may be past traumas to explain that. But I’m not sure it’s wise for you to question her further.’

Groombridge didn’t take offence. ‘Fair enough. I’ll wait out here and let Detective Sergeant Millhaven take over.’

‘Actually,’ said Hazel, ‘she says she’ll only speak with you, Constable Stark.’

‘
Me?
’ exclaimed Stark.

Fran was already shaking her head. ‘No. He’s just a trainee.’

‘How much specific experience do you have with trauma victims, Detective Sergeant?’ asked Hazel.

‘More than my constable,’ said Fran.

‘Perhaps.’ Hazel looked at Stark, ignoring Fran’s obvious annoyance. Surely she wasn’t thinking his experiences were more applicable here than Fran’s. ‘She told me earlier about a man who’d held her hands last night. She thinks it was you, Constable. Was it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then. I understand your hesitation but if you want answers now, Chief Inspector, my advice would be to let Paula be the judge of whom she feels comfortable with.’

‘Guv, he’s in no shape for this,’ insisted Fran. ‘Look at him! He shouldn’t even be here!’

‘I agree completely, Detective Sergeant. Yet Fate seems determined to spite us. Let’s just see if we can wrap this up, shall we?’

Stark took the seat opposite Paula, Hazel the one beside her, the lawyer the other. Stark re-started the equipment, spoke the required words and paused, perhaps ordering his thoughts.

‘Do you remember me, Paula?’ he asked. She nodded, meeting his eyes for a moment. ‘You’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry we have to ask you these questions. Dr McDonald here might say talking about things helps. I don’t know how true that is. I would say talking about things makes them more real, more frightening, but perhaps we’re both right.’ He sighed, rubbing his eyes.

Watching from outside, Fran still thought this was lunacy. ‘He’s coming apart at the seams, Guv,’ she complained. ‘What if he fucks this up?’

‘What if he doesn’t?’ replied Groombridge, without looking away from the glass. ‘He can be irritatingly likeable.’

Stark seemed to pull himself together a little. ‘Paula, did you actually see what happened to Stacey Appleton?’

A shake of the head. She exchanged a look with the shrink, who seemed to be waiting, encouraging Paula to speak up. ‘It’s okay, Paula. Are you happy for me to tell Constable Stark what you just told me?’ The lawyer did not look happy, but Paula nodded.

‘Paula just told me all she knows or is sure of,’ began Hazel. ‘She was round the corner, two floors down, on a balcony-corridor of the perpendicular block, returning to her … lodgings. She heard raised voices, a cry perhaps of pain, then a scream. She saw something fall, peered over to look, then saw the body. Hearing voices across and up, she turned and saw faces looking down, two, though it was dark on the balcony.’

‘Did they see you?’ asked Stark. ‘Is that why you ran?’ Paula nodded, her hands were trembling. ‘Do you know the names of the people you saw?’ Paula shook her head. ‘But did you recognize them?’ A faint nod.

‘Could you pick them out from these photographs?’ Stark slid prepared female and male perp-sheets on to the table, the known gang mixed in with mugshots of similar-aged offenders.

Paula closed her eyes, steeling herself. ‘It’s okay, Paula,’ Hazel reassured her. Paula leant in. Her finger crept forward and pointed to Nikki Cockcroft. She closed her eyes again before looking at the male sheet. Gulping, she picked out Kyle Gibbs.

Craning her neck to see, Fran barely contained a whoop of triumph. Nikki had motive, means and now opportunity. It wasn’t watertight: her barrister would call it circumstantial and no doubt pin it on Kyle, with Nikki as unwitting bystander. And Paula would not have an easy time of it if she took the stand, particularly after what was coming next.

Stark read out the photo numbers for the record. ‘Thank you, Paula. That took guts. You should know the girl in this picture, Nikki Cockcroft, is already in custody. The boy, Kyle Gibbs, is dead – but I believe you already know that.’

Paula immediately became more withdrawn. Stark looked at Hazel, but she indicated he should try again.

‘He died on the night of Monday, May the seventeenth, by the bandstand in Greenwich Park. He and his friends had been looking for you, we think. Was the girl, Nikki, there also?’

Paula lifted her eyes slowly to his, searching for something, it seemed to Fran, judgement, perhaps, or reassurance that Nikki could not hurt her. Either way she nodded. Stark verbally noted each nod for the tape. It was an odd process, but Fran watched with grudging respect. The doctor was calm, authoritative and thorough, and you had to hand it to Stark, he was doing okay. Beside her in the dimmed room Groombridge stared through the glass, still as stone.

‘Can you tell us what happened that night?’ asked Stark.

It was too clumsy. Paula shrank in on herself, a cornered animal, frozen between fight and flight. Hazel stepped up. ‘Would you like me to answer for you again?’ Paula gave the barest nod. Hazel referred to her notes. ‘After witnessing the death on the night of May the fifteenth Paula fled, hoping she’d not been recognized. Afraid, she stayed away from the usual haunts, sleeping in Greenwich Park each night. But they found her there, the boy and girl already identified. There were others,
perhaps five or more, but the attack on her was so sudden she doesn’t remember any other faces. I’m afraid this is where it gets sketchy. The boy punched and kicked and attempted to force himself on her at knifepoint but someone intervened. She doesn’t know who or indeed remember much beyond that point, only fleeing across the park.’

Stark indicated the perp-sheets again. ‘Would you take another look, in case they jog your memory of the others?’ Paula looked reluctantly, but shook her head. She was trying very hard not to cry.

‘After that, time becomes a little elastic,’ continued the shrink. ‘She went to Lewisham station and in the morning caught the train to Orpington, hoping to find friends in a squat she knew, but it had been boarded up. She heard about a hostel and stayed there on and off until someone tried to get in to see her. Was it this girl, Paula?’ She pointed to the picture of Nikki and received a nod. ‘After that she planned to get on a bus or train, but she was out of money. A man she’d met suggested she stay the night at a local squat – he knew the headman. Once there, she was locked into a room and forcibly injected with something – the rest is a blur.’

Stark produced pictures of the men arrested at the house. Paula recoiled but made herself look, nodding to both. ‘They were dealing drugs and using girls as favours, keeping them doped up,’ said Stark. ‘Do you remember anything else?’

Paula leant to whisper to the shrink, who spoke for her again. ‘She remembers the headman being very angry with her suddenly, shouting at her and the other man.’

‘Perhaps he’d discovered his latest victim was the centre of a police hunt,’ said Stark.

His face as Paula looked up sharply showed he knew he’d blundered. Fran tutted. ‘Patience,’ rumbled Groombridge. She couldn’t tell if it was for her or Stark.

Stark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘If so, it probably spared you exposure of a worse kind. He dared not show you to anyone.’

And didn’t have the courage to sneak her out and dump her somewhere in case she remembered too much, thought Fran. It was lucky he hadn’t killed her. Maybe he wasn’t the cold-blooded type. Stark’s hand and ribcage showed what the bastard would do in hot blood.

Stark peered at Paula thoughtfully. ‘Is everything Dr McDonald
told us accurate?’ A nod. ‘Is it everything that you remember?’ He placed a faint emphasis on everything, just enough. Paula glanced up at him again, searching, anxious. She did not nod.

‘There is a gap, Paula,’ said Stark, softly. ‘Between the attack on you and your escape. A man came to your aid, fought to protect you, told you to run. A good man, whose pride and honour would see him take the blame for what happened next.’ He waited but she said nothing. ‘I can’t imagine how scared you were, how powerless you felt, how angry.’

She shook her head. A tear fell into her lap but she said nothing. Fran found herself holding her breath. They waited.

‘Actually, Constable Stark,’ the psychologist broke the silence, ‘I think maybe you can.’ Fran saw momentary shock in Stark’s expression, anger, even. It was obvious now that she was his shrink: surely she wasn’t about to betray professional confidence. The woman continued calmly, ‘I read in the newspaper that you used to be a soldier, that you were involved in heavy fighting and badly wounded. Maybe you know more about fear, powerlessness and anger than you think.’

‘Maybe we should stick to the matter in hand,’ said Stark, curtly. Fran watched, fascinated. Jesus, he looked terrible. This was madness. ‘What Dr McDonald says is true, but deeply personal. There are things I don’t like to talk about. Perhaps we
are
alike there, as she suggests. I’ve … done things …’ Stark’s face remained fixed, even, but the words faltered. ‘Perhaps we all have,’ he said quietly.

Paula watched him but said nothing. Then her hand inched across the table and into his. Fran stared, spellbound. ‘Yes,’ said Paula, so quietly it almost passed unheard.

Stark closed his hand on hers. ‘I know why you did it,’ he said quietly.

Her lip quivered. ‘Will I go to prison?’ she asked, looking into his eyes.

‘I don’t know. But whatever happens, few people will blame you for what you did.’

Paula’s other hand reached out over Stark’s, grasping it so tightly her knuckles whitened. Tears began to streak down her face, unheeded. ‘Do you?’

‘No.’

She broke down and wept, clasping his hand as she sobbed uncontrollably. Fran expected the shrink to close the proceedings but she just let the sobbing go on and on. Stark held Paula’s hands but obviously
could think of nothing more to say. Eventually, the weeping subsided and Paula let go to wipe her face. The shrink produced a packet of tissues from somewhere, which Paula accepted, with murmured thanks, blowing her nose apologetically and wiping her eyes.

Stark waited until she had regained some composure. ‘Paula,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to hear it from you.’

‘Careful,’ murmured Groombridge.

Paula looked up at Stark, biting her lip. A strange look came into her eyes, almost like defiance. Fran couldn’t believe Stark would ask. She didn’t think he had it in him to press the point.

‘I have to ask,’ he said softly. ‘Did you stab Kyle Gibbs?’

She took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘What happened, exactly?’

‘They were fighting. The knife landed near me. I picked it up and … and …’

‘You did what you had to do.’

‘Yes.’ She looked up, eyes red.

Yes, thought Fran, what she had to do. In that moment. You could see in her eyes that it made little sense to her too, now, with the heavy consequence of the law bearing down on her. But in that moment it had made absolute sense. And who could argue with that, sitting here now, a world of understanding away? Not for the first time Fran wished herself judge and jury, though this might be the first time she’d wished for acquittal.

Paula was wheeled away by her doctor.

‘Well done, lad,’ said Groombridge.

‘Yes, well done,’ said Hazel.

Stark rounded on her sharply. ‘
Walk … away
,’ he growled.

Alarmed, Fran grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Groombridge apologized smoothly, though the shrink seemed unfazed. She accepted his thanks and left.

‘Constable Stark,’ said Groombridge, like a displeased master calling his dog to heel. They left the hospital without another word, Fran shaking her head most of the way.

Stark simmered, almost hoping Groombridge would demand an explanation, but nothing further was said.

‘Get some lunch,’ said Groombridge, when they got back to the station. ‘When you’re done you’re coming to Belmarsh to talk to Maggs and then you can clear off home. Understood?’

‘Guv.’

Stark found it hard to eat. Either the pills or the fact that he was still boiling with anger that his own shrink would use him like that. He gave up after a few bites and took more painkillers instead. He nearly added coffee but he was already fidgety. He’d have to stay awake on his own. He was just getting up to find Groombridge when his phone rang. ‘What now?’

‘Don’t take that tone with me,’ barked Pierson. ‘Sit down and don’t interrupt!’

‘I’m in no mood to take orders from a stuck-up –’

‘Rupert?’ she interrupted. ‘You can only call me that if you’re still a corporal. And if you still are, you’ll think better of it.’

Stark took a deep breath, wishing he’d just rejected the call. ‘Okay, Captain. How can I improve your world today?’

‘Short of getting off it, you could shut up and listen. It’ll be in this Friday’s
Gazette
.’

Stark felt sick and his legs went weak. He sat in the nearest chair, unable to speak. This day was always going to come but it was still a kick in the guts.

‘The tabloids will have it too, I expect,’ she added.

Of course they would. The
London Gazette
was the state’s premier journal-of-record – probably the only people who read it were other journalists.

‘I deduce from your stunned silence that I have your full attention at last,’ continued Pierson. ‘If you’re capable of heeding advice, request some leave.’

‘I’ve got work to do.’

‘And criminal investigation will grind to a shuddering halt without its latest trainee?’ she scoffed. ‘This isn’t a drill, Corporal – the press will be all over it. Are your family prepared?’

‘The letter said
confidential
.’

Pierson was momentarily silenced. ‘Surely you understood that you could tell immediate family.’

‘I was following orders, remember?’

‘Bullshit! Just how long did you expect burying your head in the sand to work?’

‘As long as possible.’

‘Well, that point is now. Is there anyone else, a significant other?’

‘Captain Pierson, are you making a pass at me?’

‘
Yes or no?
’

‘No.’ Stark thought of Kelly but the longer he kept her away from this mess the better.

‘Can’t say I’m remotely surprised. Is there somewhere you could stay for a while – family, friends?’

‘Not local to work, no.’

‘A colleague, then?’

‘Definitely not.’

She tutted her frustration. ‘Then repeat after me … “No comment”.’

‘What?’

‘Practise those words. There’ll be hacks banging on your door. If you say anything other than “no comment” I’ll hunt you down like a dog. Understood? “No comment”, full stop. And, if you come to your senses, take time off and hide.’

‘Till this all blows over,’ Stark said sarcastically.

‘Or Hell freezes over you. If you need help you know my number. Less than four weeks now. Make damned sure you’re ready!’ She hung up.

Several minutes later Stark was still staring at the phone when Fran appeared next to him. ‘On your feet, soldier boy,’ she said harshly. ‘You’re off to prison.’

Maggs was led in and took his seat. He looked resigned. Perhaps he knew what was coming. Nothing came. Stark turned to Groombridge.

‘Don’t look at me. Today seems to be the Constable Stark show.’