No Further Action

by TL Dyer

  ‘Fag break, would be my guess,’ she says. ‘Perfectly legitimate, Officer.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ I say, with a light laugh.

  ‘And you’re off duty,’ she adds.

  I tip my head in acknowledgement and take a large mouthful of the Heineken even as I’m thinking, since when did that make a difference? Is there ever an off duty? I swallow a few mouthfuls, smacking my lips when I return the bottle to my lap. But my companion has other worries.

  ‘The place isn’t the same without her,’ she says, staring through the space in the centre of the hall as though she sees something there I don’t. ‘She was so full of life. Colour. You know?’

  Black hair. Porcelain face. The palest blue eyes. Her dried blood on my skin.

  ‘I was hoping she’d stay on after her studies ended. She was really...’ Fair eyebrows flex, but when nothing comes, she turns to me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to...’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ I encourage, but it takes another swallow of gin before she goes on.

  ‘She was great at the job. I mean, a natural. I wanted to take her on full time when she graduated. That’s if she didn’t have her sights set on somewhere more upmarket than Usk. She’d have been snapped up wherever she went.’

  ‘Usk isn’t upmarket?’ I ask, and receive a careful evaluation in response.

  ‘You’re a local lad, then.’

  ‘That I am. London-born but Newport-bred.’

  ‘A Londoner? Wow. Well that changes things.’

  ‘It does?’

  She puffs through her lips. ‘An Englishman, dear god. And not only that, but a copper too. An English copper. Not looking good for you, is it?’

  We both giggle. It’s light and easy, almost refreshing. Either that or it’s hysteria.

  ‘Are we allowed to laugh?’ I ask, checking that Anna’s relatives aren’t within earshot.

  Tricia does the same, but says, ‘I think Anna would want us to. She was like that. Full of life. It’s why I liked her, she had this spark. Not like most teenagers you have to drag by the ears to do anything.’ She laughs over her words. ‘I don’t know. It sounds corny, and maybe it’s just because she’s gone, but she was so... So free.’

  She pins her lips together and looks at me as if she expects me to agree or disagree. I nod as if I understand what she’s trying to say, even if I’m not really sure that I do. What did being free look like for Anna? Was it a bubbly personality? A heart full of love, for the animals she cared for, for the people close to her? Was it an education, a skill, a talent? Was it her looks, that in a shallow world made her attract lots of friends, attract Brad? Made her never have to suffer cruel taunts from hormonal, brainless boys, or be sat alone and awkward in the canteen? What was it?

  Tricia stares into her glass, and I wonder if what she saw in Anna was something she wished she’d had herself. But I also wonder if she’s entirely right.

  Have you got any or what?

  I think I screwed up before and I’m really sorry. I miss you.

  ‘Anyway.’ Tricia’s head comes up, a broad smile papering over the cracks. ‘We’re arranging a memorial service. A little something at the college. Plant a tree, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea. Have you set a date?’

  ‘Not yet. We wanted to give the family some time. A little bit of breathing space. Funerals, they’re just got through on auto-pilot, aren’t they? We’d like the memorial service to mean something to them, if possible. Once all this has sunk in a little more.’

  ‘Of course. That’s very thoughtful.’

  I glance across the room to where Mary sits, surrounded by all the support she could wish for. Toby stands behind her with three other men, all about his age and each with a pint glass in hand. Both Toby and Mary are talking, sometimes smiling. For now, they’re okay. The worst of today is over. They have people to distract them with conversation, or talk about Anna as though she were still here, keeping her alive. For a while they might even think they can get through this, day by day. But when everyone’s gone home, back to their lives, back to normality for them, away from the trauma that isn’t their own, what then?

  ‘If you want, I can take your number, send you the details when we know for sure.’

  Tricia’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and for a second I have no idea what she’s referring to.

  ‘The memorial,’ she prompts.

  ‘Yes. Of course. That would be good. Thanks.’

  She jams the glass between her knees and rummages in her bag for her phone. ‘Okay. Shoot.’

  I give her my number and she taps at the screen. As she types, she mutters under her breath, ‘Steve. The. Copper.’

  I laugh. ‘Right you are, Tricia the vet, I should get going.’ I knock back the Heineken.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ she says, dropping the phone into her bag and hooking the strap over her shoulder. ‘I’ll walk out with you.’

  We take the empties to the bar and slip out of the exit. The early evening sun is still bright as it lowers in the sky, and I squint against it. Tricia holds out a hand for some invisible force to steady her.

  ‘Alright?’ I ask, as she chuckles to herself.

  ‘Three G and Ts in the middle of the day is more than my usual quota. I had to have one just to leave the house.’

  ‘How are you getting home?’

  She brushes the question away with the wave of her hand. ‘Buses are every half hour to Usk round here.’

  We walk the path that takes us around the side of the rugby club to the car park. No sign of the older teenagers, but I see Sienna over by the stands with two other girls. She wears a black dress and cardigan, while her friends are in jeans and hoodies. All three of them are swinging upside down on the metal barriers that skirt the pitch. Just kids.

  I look back to Tricia, thinking Usk will be quite a ride on the bus from here. ‘I’ve got the car, I can drive you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s out of your way.’

  ‘No bother. It won’t take long.’

  ‘What, can we put the blues and twos on?’

  ‘Not in a civvy Ford Focus, I’m afraid. Maybe next time.’

  We pause at the edge of the car park. Her hair shines in the sun and her smile out here seems less forced.

  ‘I’d be putting you out,’ she says, hesitating, but I walk on.

  At the car, I take my warrant card from the glove compartment to show her.

  ‘Nice mugshot. But did you think I wouldn’t know a copper when I saw one?’

  ‘Probably best you don’t tell me any more,’ I say, snapping the warrant card shut and returning it to the car.

  She mimes zipping her mouth closed as we get in, but when we pull into the late afternoon traffic, she says, ‘Only pulling your leg, Steve. I’m a good girl. These days, anyway. In fact I can prove it.’

  She roots through her bag for her phone, and swipes the screen. When I pull up at a red light, she tilts it my way.

  I have to squint to read what she’s showing me, but then she scrolls down to a picture. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The lights turn green and I’m glad of the chance to focus my attention back on the road. ‘So, what? Ballroom stuff?’

  She drops the phone in her bag. ‘It’s Salsa, Steve. You know, Cuban origins, Latino rhythms, sparkly outfits.’

  ‘I can see that. And all this makes you a good girl?’

  ‘It makes me a very good girl. I run the classes. Well, just started actually. We’re in our third week. Free of charge for the over thirties.’ She’s smiling as she peers at me, but I think she’s serious.

  ‘Free?’

  ‘Yep. All it costs is your time and a donation, if you fancy. It’s about getting people moving, and having fun at the same time.’

  I nod approval. ‘Fair one.’

  ‘See, all the kids assume that once you get to thirty the fun’s over. That it’s al
l just mortgages and car payments and walking the dog.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  She chuckles. ‘It shouldn’t be.’

  ‘So this is about proving a point to the kids.’

  Her eyes glint as she weighs me up. ‘Are you taking the piss out of my benevolent venture, Officer Fuller?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Seriously, good on you. I think that’s a noble thing to do.’

  ‘Excellent. Because we’re short on men.’

  I’m concentrating on getting us safely from the slip road to the motorway at a particularly busy time of the evening, which means I take a few seconds to grasp her meaning. But when my brain catches up, I notice she’s watching me with a slim smile and a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there earlier.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, laughing over the words. ‘Appreciate the offer and all that. But... Really. No.’

  ‘It wasn’t an offer. Next class is tomorrow. Friday night’s Salsa Night, regardless of age or ability, and right now I have eight women and only two men. I’d say that makes your service to the community a requirement, and as an officer of the law you are obliged to fulfil it.’

  ‘And I’d say me on the dance floor is a criminal offence and I can’t afford to lose this job.’

  Her laughter fills the car. I don’t remember the last time anyone laughed in here. I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t alone in here. Ange prefers the Tiguan whenever we go anywhere together.

  ‘Well, it would be criminal in a good way once you get the hang of it,’ she says. ‘But okay, I’ll let you off the hook. Just have a think about it. It’s nothing serious. A bit of fun, that’s all. And god, after days like today...’

  I glance over when she doesn’t finish, but I can only see the back of her head and a thin reflection of her in the side window, the smile gone.

  Silence fills the car, and the longer I take to respond, the more it seems best not to. But into that silence I consider how odd it is that what has brought us both here is Anna. Her death to be more specific, but also who she was as a person, and why we both felt it was necessary to be here today. I could kid myself that it was done out of duty, but it’s more than that. I was drawn to come. Compelled, for reasons I can’t place.

  And even later on, once I’ve dropped Tricia off, Anna’s still there, permeating my thoughts. I take the long route home, avoiding the motorway and trying to pinpoint what’s gnawing at me. I’m just a mile outside of Bassaleg when I think I’ve got it.

  It’s because I know there was something going on with Anna that night, something the collision investigators wouldn’t be interested in. A break-up with a boyfriend, a row with a mate, a bad spliff that screwed her up – in this case, none of that was relevant to the outcome of the investigation. But it was relevant to Anna. To her, it was the difference between life and death.

  My duty bound me to not touch those messages she wanted erased. Messages that, for all I knew then, might have forensically determined the cause of the accident. But now that the case is closed, duty no longer comes into it.

  Despite what I told Toby to ease his mind, girls like Anna – intelligent, caring, from a good background, a secure home environment, and with like-minded friends – they don’t do things like smoke pot and drive at crazy speeds while making phone calls. They just don’t. Anna was upset that night. She must have been. And I feel that, if she could, she’d want me to find out why. Then she’d want me to do something about it.

  Chapter 15

  When I’m on my way out of the door, Ange reminds me for the umpteenth time about Dan’s parents’ evening tonight. She always insists I be there, even though we know what they’ll say. We’ve never had a bad report for him, and I don’t expect it to be any different now. More like, we’ll sit across the table while the teachers praise what a good kid he is, we’ll say yes we’re very proud of him but you’d never guess what he’s like at home, everyone will laugh politely, Dan will resemble a beetroot, and when we leave, he’ll walk six feet ahead like he has nothing to do with us. But none of this will go down well if I mention it to Ange. If nothing else, I know when to toe the line. I tell her I’ll get there as soon as I can.

  ‘Right then, Smithy, you up for this or what?’ I say to my partner, tugging the seatbelt across the front of my vest and clicking it in place.

  PC Neil Smith adjusts the crotch of his trousers in the driver’s seat and looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Mandarin.

  ‘Nice to see at least one of us managed to fit in a stress reliever this morning,’ he grumbles, and starts the car.

  ‘Not my fault you can’t organise your time, mate. You might want to rein it in now you’re getting on a bit. Leave the candle burning to the youth.’

  ‘Oy, you cheeky fuck, I am the youth. Compared to you anyway. What was it again, the big five-oh?’

  I let him have that one, seeing as it’s early and, candle burning or not, he can be a temperamental sod first thing.

  ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t have said no either, Fuller, if you’d seen her.’ Smithy cracks a smile as he pulls away from the station and out into the traffic queuing at the lights.

  ‘Well, Ange might say otherwise.’

  ‘Mate.’ Smithy’s dark and faintly bloodshot eyes look at me like I haven’t lived. ‘What a handful. I mean, both of them.’ He flips his hands over on the steering wheel, imagining something there that I don’t see.

  ‘Much as I envy your youth and single status, Smithy, you can’t expect me to believe that two hands were required. For a start, you’d need one to operate the mouse, right? Then to hold your credit card while you read out the number.’

  My partner for the day slaps his palms back on the steering wheel and shakes his head as he drives us through the traffic lights and bears left. ‘Jealousy, my friend. It’s an ugly trait.’

  ‘Like deceit. Big-headedness.’

  ‘Hey mate, I can show you the pictures. Want to see?’ He takes one hand from the wheel to undo a pocket on his utility vest, but I hold up my palm to stop him.

  ‘Christ, no, you’re alright. I’d like to keep my breakfast where it is.’

  Smithy manages a sly chuckle as he manoeuvres the car to the bottom end of town, pulling in to the side of the road close to the boarded-up Indian takeaway, a notorious drug peddling spot. It might be only just after nine in the morning, but sometimes business picks up around this time, once the kids have been dropped off at school.

  ‘Look out,’ Smithy says, lowering the electric window and sticking his head out. ‘Hey, Right Guard. How’s it going, man?’

  There’s a mumbled something of a reply, then a cough, before I see the man himself scrambling to his feet, tugging his sleeping bag with him. He beams a gap-toothed grin through his ragged, furry beard.

  ‘No sweat, fellas, no sweat.’

  ‘Getting everything you need?’ Smithy rests his elbow on the door, fingers propping the frame.

  Right Guard gives a thumbs up. ‘Yep, yep. All good. No sweat, man.’

  He thrusts the sleeping bag into his ancient, battered army kit bag like he was only this minute setting off when we pulled up. Right Guard’s old school; he’s been on the streets longer than I’ve been a serving officer. As such, he can’t ever seem to get over the fact that these days we won’t arrest him just for being there.

  ‘Hey, where’s Piper?’ Smithy asks, looking up and down the pavement and whistling for the white and brown Jack Russell that’s never too far from its owner. Except the old man shakes his head, pulls the drawstring on his kit bag to close it, and steps out from the doorway of the abandoned DVD rental shop.

  For a rough sleeper, Right Guard’s a sucker for hygiene. Despite his missing teeth and haphazard beard, he washes daily wherever he can, sometimes twice daily, and amongst his few prized possessions is always a can of antiperspirant. Which is in part where his nickname comes from, but also, of course, for the—

  ‘No sweat, fella, no sweat. She gone went and...’ He rubs a gnarled fin
ger over his lips, then waves the same finger down the road, gazing in that direction. ‘Gone went and got herself caught under a transit.’

  ‘Shit, man,’ Smithy drops his fingers from the door frame. ‘She pull through?’

  Right Guard sighs, scratches at his beard. ‘Nah, nah. But, you know, s’no sweat. She was getting old. Maybe better this way.’

  ‘You must have had her... What, years now?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. From a pup. Fifteen years, old Piper. Yeah. Fifteen.’

  ‘So sorry to hear that, Right Guard,’ I lean across the centre console to say, because Smithy looks like he’s thinking about his own dog and how many more years he might have her. His French Bulldog has a respiratory disorder, which means he won’t leave her alone for more than an hour or two. Instead, he drops her at his mother’s before shift and collects her again on his way home. He dotes on the thing. The only female he’s ever committed to.

  Right Guard ducks his head to better see me and gives a thumbs up. ‘No sweat, Officer Fuller. No sweat.’

  ‘So listen, man,’ Smithy says, pulling himself together. ‘Any more trouble from those idiots?’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah, s’all good. Yeah, all good.’ He shuffles the bag into a different position on his shoulder, hooking his thumb under the cord straps.

  Smithy’s about as convinced as I am. Right Guard might be a friend of the local fuzz, but he’s also a man of the streets, and that means self-preservation. The poor sod’s been punched, robbed, spat at and pissed on more times than he’d ever tell us.

  ‘Mate, don’t give them the privilege of protection. We’ll have your back.’

  ‘Sure, no sweat, no sweat, Officer Smith. S’all good,’ he says with a grin, even though all three of us know we can’t always have his back. Not while he’s out here, vulnerable. It’s a vicious circle for men like Right Guard – get a beating, speak to us, get a harder beating. What I’d really love is to get him onto one of our self-defence training weeks so he can learn how to give as good back. But no matter how you work it, five against one will never end well.