by Jane Casey
If I could trust him at all.
Without a casket there was no focus for the proceedings. The choir from Vanessa’s school sang hymns, and Hammond’s colleagues shared out the readings. Superintendent Lowry waddled up to the lectern, vast in his dress uniform. He read badly, breaking the lines in the wrong place a couple of times, paying little attention to the sense of the words. The vicar was a woman, a cheerful grey-haired person who spoke at some length about what a wonderful person Terence Hammond had been, and how accepting of his family’s sometimes difficult situation. It was code, I gathered, for what had happened to Ben. I thought of Julie Hammond’s insistence that he had been in denial. As so often, there were two ways to look at the same set of actions. Julie Hammond had not been inclined to give her husband the benefit of the doubt. The vicar was far more generous.
The last person to speak was Dan West, who walked up on to the altar slowly, his shoulders rounded. I was struck again by his colourless quality. Charisma was not what had earned him promotion. He spoke without notes, and briefly.
‘Terence Hammond was a good colleague. A friend. A father. A husband. A police officer. All of these things were important to him, and all of these things made him important to us. He leaves a big hole in our lives. It’s no secret that his death was particularly sudden and shocking. It is my intention and my goal to achieve some measure of justice for Terence, and for his family. The person or persons who brought about his death can be sure they will be found and punished, as the law demands.’
It was about as close to an Old Testament-style cry for justice as the Church of England could accommodate. The small group of journalists who had made it into the church for the service wrote it down. I thought it would play better in print than it had in person.
Once the service was over, the congregation divided into two groups. There were those determined to pay their respects to Julie in person, and they queued the length of the aisle. I estimated it would take an hour to get from where I was standing to the front of the church. The alternative was to go out and mingle with the second group, the people who had slipped out as soon as they could, for a cigarette or a gossip or a quick getaway. Vanessa had gone like a shadow, speeding down a side aisle with her head down. I was more interested in where she had been going than in commiserating with her mother, I decided, and I headed outside.
The evening air was clear and cold, the light fading. A hum of conversation rose from the crowd in front of me. I always thought the best parties were after funerals: the living reasserting themselves after mourning the dead. I paused on the church steps to orientate myself, sorting out the scene into its various narratives. Uniformed officers in high-vis jackets were dealing with a couple of photographers who had got too close to the mourners. A gang of teenage boys stood by the gates – Vanessa’s classmates, I thought. One or two were smoking, the cigarettes hidden inside their hands, fooling precisely no one. I looked for Vanessa and found her surrounded by her friends. They were all smudged eyeliner and big hair, watching out of the corner of their eyes to see if anyone was paying them any attention. Vanessa had her arms wrapped around a tall, lanky guy with matted black hair and sky-high cheekbones – the ex-boyfriend, Jamie Driffield. An ex no longer, by the looks of things. I wondered if Julie Hammond knew he was back on the scene. He caught my eye and glared back at me defiantly. What he was defying, I didn’t know. It was Derwent who had taken against him when we interviewed him, not me. I’d just tried not to laugh as Derwent took him apart.
Someone came out of the church behind me and collided with me. I turned, surprised, to see a man on crutches. He shook his head.
‘Sorry. I’m clumsy with these things.’
‘I shouldn’t really be standing here,’ I said. ‘It was at least half my fault.’
‘Nice of you to say so.’
‘Truthful.’ I looked down at the narrow steps. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘Probably easier for me to manage by myself, to be honest.’ He smiled, making sure I wasn’t offended. ‘I could take both of us out with one wrong move. You’re safer to stand well back.’
I did as I was told and watched him negotiate the steps. It wasn’t difficult to see why he needed the crutches. His left leg was plaster to the top of the thigh. He was attractive, despite the fact that he was balding and at least fifteen years older than me. He had cut his remaining hair very short, and his head was a good shape, which helped. He was tanned, solid rather than overweight, and he had a winning smile. He also looked incredibly familiar.
‘Have we met before?’
‘I don’t think so. I think I’d remember.’ The smile again, this time accompanied by a handshake. ‘Peter Gregory.’
Something clicked in my mind. ‘The PC who got run over in Lambeth.’
The smile tightened for a second. ‘That’s me. Quite the claim to fame.’
‘Well, that’s why I recognise you. How’s the leg?’
He regarded it with a comically rueful expression. ‘It only hurts when I laugh.’
‘No sympathy, then. When are you going to be back at work?’
‘Months, they think. It was a bad break. We’ll have to see how I can manage when the plaster comes off.’ The humour faded. ‘I doubt I’ll ever be the same, to be honest. Light duties for ever.’
‘You’ll do fine. I have a colleague who got shot in the leg last year and he’s practically back to normal. He was obsessive about doing his physio.’ But then Derwent was obsessive about many things.
‘Just give me the chance. I’ll do whatever I have to.’ He took a second, thinking about what I’d said. ‘Are you in the job too?’
‘Detective constable on a homicide team.’
A whistle. ‘Get you.’
I laughed a little, but warily. I was expecting the reaction that I got: he stood up a little straighter and he turned the friendliness right down. There was nothing wrong with being a career PC, but I had gone far and fast, and Gregory wouldn’t be the first police officer to have a problem with that.
‘Are you here on business?’
‘I’m investigating Terence Hammond’s murder, yes.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘We’re working on it,’ I said smoothly. ‘Why are you here? Did you know him?’
‘A long time ago. A long, long time ago. We’d lost touch.’
‘Did you work together?’
‘On response. We were on the same team. This would be going back twelve or thirteen years.’ He looked down, considering. ‘Thirteen. God. Where does the time go?’
‘Were you friends?’
‘Friendly. We only overlapped for a few months and we were never crewed together so I didn’t know him all that well.’
‘It was good of you to come, then.’
‘What, here?’ He shrugged. ‘It felt like the least I could do. I was sorry to hear he was dead, you know? And I wasn’t doing anything else, being on sick leave. Maybe there was a bit of being glad it wasn’t me after my close call. That’s as close as I’ve ever got to dying.’
I’d been close a couple of times myself, but I wasn’t about to share that with Gregory then and there. I nodded. ‘You were lucky, by all accounts.’
‘Very.’
‘Have they made any progress with your case?’
‘If they have, they haven’t told me.’
‘I’m really surprised they haven’t been able to trace the car.’
‘Me too. I gave them a pretty good description, I thought. Then again, it all happened so quickly.’ He started to laugh. ‘I sound like every witness I’ve ever hated.’
‘It’s hard to remember the details, especially when you’re shocked and in pain.’
‘I got a pretty good look at the car as it came towards me, I thought. I have a very strong image in my mind, even now.’ He sighed. ‘You’d think I’d made it up, if it wasn’t for the broken leg. They haven’t even picked it up on CCTV.’
‘We have a CCTV wizard on our
team. He’d have found it.’
‘But I would have had to be dead to qualify for his attentions.’ Gregory smiled. ‘I think I’ll stick with the detectives I’ve got.’
I was about to agree that his attitude seemed fair enough when I was jostled, again. This time, it was someone going into the church. It was the student counsellor, Amy Maynard, today in dark grey and purple. This outfit was just as shapeless as the one she’d worn before. She turned to apologise, looked up at me and gave a start.
‘Oh, you’re the police officer who came to the school.’
‘Maeve Kerrigan,’ I said. ‘How are you, Amy?’
‘Fine. I mean, I’m okay. There’s such a big crowd.’ She looked terrified, her eyes huge. ‘I wasn’t expecting this. I thought I should come along to give Vanessa my support, but I didn’t want to approach her in front of her friends and she seems very … involved.’
I cast a glance over my shoulder, in time to see Vanessa kissing Jamie Driffield with abandon.
‘There’s a time and a place for that sort of thing,’ Gregory said, shaking his head.
‘Sorry, I should introduce you. Amy Maynard, Peter Gregory. Peter’s a police officer too.’
She shook hands with him, doe-eyed. ‘Do you work together?’
‘No. I’m not that glamorous,’ he said wryly. ‘I’m just an ordinary PC, not a murder squad detective.’
‘There’s very little glamour in it,’ I said quickly. ‘And very little sleep.’
‘Are you busy at the moment?’ Amy asked.
I shrugged. ‘People keep dying.’
‘You’re investigating Terence’s death,’ Gregory said slowly, then snapped his fingers. ‘Are you investigating the officers who were shot last night?’
‘For my sins.’
Amy’s mouth was a perfect O of horror. ‘That was so awful. I couldn’t believe it had really happened.’
‘It was unusual,’ I said, wondering why I couldn’t make myself be nicer to her.
‘I’m actually surprised it doesn’t happen more often,’ Gregory said. ‘We walk around, unarmed for the most part, with minimal body armour and equipment. We have to be out in the community to do the job but we’re not really safe on the street. As you can see.’ He gestured to his leg, and laughed. ‘I used to think I was immortal. Not any more. Maybe a desk job wouldn’t be so bad after all.’
I knew what he meant. I had been feeling all too vulnerable since my experience in the stairwell. As a result, I probably sounded more forceful than normal when I replied. ‘You can’t allow yourself to think that way. You can’t be a good police officer if you’re afraid.’
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Amy said, reverent. ‘I’d be terrified.’
‘It’s vocational,’ I said. ‘Like your job. We do it because we love it.’
‘What do you do, Amy?’ Gregory asked.
‘I’m a student counsellor. It’s very rewarding.’
Surely no one had ever been so earnest before. I tried, very hard, not to be irritated. Amy had such a little-girl manner, though, for a grown woman. She was practically playing with her hair.
‘I’m sure it is,’ Gregory said. He caught my eye and smiled again, and I found myself liking him quite a bit more than I liked myself at that particular moment. It was just unpleasant of me to belittle Amy, even to myself, for being devoted to her job. I had spent too much time with Derwent lately, and not enough time with more pleasant human beings. To make amends for thinking evil thoughts I asked her what I thought was an uncontroversial question. ‘Did you know Terence Hammond?’
In the light spilling out of the church, her face was luminously pale. ‘Me?’
‘I gather from Julie that he did most of the school-related stuff for Vanessa. I thought you might have got to know him.’
‘Yes. I mean, I did know him through that,’ she faltered. ‘Vanessa’s on the netball team and I help out.’
‘Did you play?’ Gregory asked.
‘A bit. I wasn’t any good. I don’t coach them or anything. I just go along to matches and help with the equipment and stuff. It’s a good way to get to know the students instead of just seeing them for appointments.’
‘And you got to know Terence on the sidelines.’
‘I suppose so. He gave me a lift to an away match once. My car was in for a service.’ She blushed as she said it and I had a moment of blinding insight: a young woman who seemed to be more innocent than most, who wasn’t married, who had nothing better to do with her evenings and weekends than to help out with a netball team. A young woman who was in awe of police officers and the work they did. A young woman who went red to the roots of her hair at the memory of a trip taken to an away match, time spent in the close proximity of the car with a man she had undoubtedly worshipped. A young woman who had turned up at his memorial service for no good reason, except to say goodbye.
Ben Hammond emerged from the church, a middle-aged woman guiding him by the arm. His carer, I assumed. He looked at me, blank-faced, then saw Amy. He didn’t smile, but he threw his arm up and waved at her. She waved back.
‘Poor Ben. He’ll be devastated. If he even knows, I mean. It’s hard to tell what he can understand but he loved his dad.’
I tried and failed to imagine Amy Maynard in the role of seductress. I couldn’t see her going in for it, somehow. She was too demure. The woman who had been with Terence Hammond had been a risk taker. Sex acts in a public place were not romantic, especially if they involved a married man, and I would have put quite a lot of money on Amy Maynard being a romantic.
‘So you were friends with Terence Hammond.’
‘N—no. Friendly. That’s all.’ She blushed again. ‘I mean, he was nice to me.’ She paused for a second, struggling to explain. ‘He was kind.’
It was the most heartfelt and sincere tribute to the man I’d heard that evening. From what I’d learned about him, Terence Hammond had been a deeply flawed individual, but Amy had seen the good in him and that only.
As epitaphs went, I’d heard worse.
Chapter 18
I could understand why security was tight at the hospital where the two surviving officers were patients, but I couldn’t help sighing as we approached the third checkpoint on our way to interview Tom Fox. Derwent dumped the contents of his pockets in a small tray for inspection.
‘Remind me to leave everything in the car next time we’re here.’
‘You should get yourself a handbag,’ I said, putting mine on the table ready for the constable’s attention.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Derwent was not in the mood for levity, I gathered. ‘This is such a waste of time.’
‘They have to protect the officers.’
‘In case someone tries to finish them off? Hardly likely.’
‘We don’t know why they were targeted,’ I pointed out. ‘You can’t assume it was random. Maybe there was a reason for that TSG team to get shot up. Maybe one of the survivors was supposed to die.’
‘Kerrigan,’ Derwent said in a pained whisper. ‘Not now.’
I looked up to see an elderly patient staring at us, wide-eyed, his knuckles white on his walking frame. I smiled and held up my ID. ‘Police.’
‘Put it in the tray,’ the bigger constable said. I did as I was told.
‘Anyway, I’d say this is mainly about keeping the press out,’ I went on. ‘You know they’d love to get hold of the families, even if they can’t get an interview with the men themselves.’
Derwent nodded. ‘I do know. Bill Stokes’ fiancée was offered five thousand by the Mail for her story.’
I stopped for a moment to wonder at Derwent’s ability to get the inside track on these things. ‘Did she take it?’
‘She’s holding out for ten.’
‘Good for her, I suppose.’
‘I’d prefer a copper and his family to get it than some bloody no-mark celebrity selling copy about their latest divorce.’ Derwent had passed the inspection and was deftly r
estocking his pockets: phone, notebook, pens, gum, paperclips, change, a fold of notes – because like many police officers he was paranoid about card fraud and used cash for preference.
‘I’m not so sure.’ I took my bag back from the smaller constable. He’d done an absolutely terrible job of searching it but I wasn’t about to point that out. At least he’d been quick. I picked up the leather wallet that contained my warrant card and frowned as something crinkled. I flipped it open and picked out the cellophane-wrapped lollipop that was caught inside it.
‘Is this yours?’
‘Thank you.’ Derwent whipped it out of my hand.
‘I didn’t think sugar was allowed on your diet.’
‘It’s not a diet, it’s a training regime.’ He tucked it into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘So you don’t think the families should go for a quick buck from the press.’
‘If you take their money, they own you. I don’t think there’s any amount of money that would make up for the loss of privacy.’ I was thinking about how easy it had been to ignore the offers I’d received from various newspapers to tell my side of the story the previous year, when Derwent had been shot while being simultaneously brave and a dickhead.
For once, Derwent was thinking along the same lines as me. ‘We both turned down a bit of money from them, didn’t we?’
‘You might have struggled more with the decision. I think you were offered more than I was.’
‘That’s because I was the hero and you came along for the ride.’ Derwent whipped through a set of double doors before I could reply, letting them swing back in my face.
