Die Twice

by Simon Kernick

  I took a long drag on my cigarette. ‘I think I always wanted to be one. You know, when I was growing up, I had this real sense of justice. I hated bullies, and I hated it when people did something bad and got away with it. I thought it would be really good to do a job where you could stop that sort of thing from happening, and when it had already happened you could punish the perpetrators. I also thought it would be a bit of an adventure.’

  ‘And has it been?’

  I took a couple of seconds to answer. ‘Well, I suppose it’s had its moments, but, to be honest with you, they’ve been pretty few and far between. A lot of the time it’s just endless paperwork and dealing with people who live shitty lives and do all these shitty things to each other for the most mundane reasons. And, you know, you can never seem to stop them.’

  ‘That’s human nature, Dennis. It’s what a lot of people are like. They grow up without values, alienated from the society they live in. You can’t just turn them into model citizens at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘But everyone’s taught right from wrong. Whether it’s in the media, at school … It’s just a lot of them aren’t interested. They have no fear of doing wrong; that’s the problem. I guess it’s because they have no respect for us, the people who are meant to be stopping them. You should hear the shit we put up with every day.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s probably exactly the same as the shit we put up with every day.’

  ‘Why do we do it, eh?’

  ‘Because we care,’ she said, and I suppose that was as good a reason as any. Although the problem I had was that I’d stopped caring a long time ago, and perhaps, in a way, so had she.

  I finished my brandy and she refilled the glasses. When they were full, she picked hers up and raised it for a toast.

  ‘To the carers,’ she said.

  ‘To the carers,’ I intoned.

  We clinked glasses, and once again I got a smell of that wonderful perfume. I was feeling relaxed now, at ease with the world; the drink and the company removing the heavy loads of worry from my shoulders.

  We talked for a long time. An hour … two hours … maybe more, I can’t honestly remember. Pretty much a bottle of brandy’s worth. Not really about anything in particular. Just things.

  At some point I began stroking her smooth bare feet while we chatted, my head spinning with booze and lust and confidence as my words tumbled out. Her toes were painted a beautiful plum colour and I bent down to kiss them one by one, taking them into my mouth, revelling in the intimacy of the contact. She moaned faintly, and I knew then that I’d conquered her. That this was it. That I was going to make love to the woman I’d fantasized about these past few nights, who I’d thought was far too good for me, but who had now shown her true, vulnerable colours, and who I wanted with a desperation that even now I find impossible to describe.

  25

  When I woke up I had that feeling you sometimes get where you don’t know where the hell you are. Well, where I was was in a beautiful king-sized bed in a darkened room. To my right, I could see the dull half-light of a winter morning peeping round the edges of long, crimson curtains. I was on my own in the bed, but there was a faint smell of perfume in the air and the noise of someone moving about coming from somewhere outside the door.

  It took maybe three seconds to work everything out and remember the events of the night before. The sex had been surprisingly ferocious; either she was a very good actor (which I suppose a lot of women in her situation must be) or she’d really been enjoying herself. I preferred to think it was the latter, and was pleased with my own performance, which had been solid if very much second fiddle to that of the opposition. I guess she’d had a lot more practice than me.

  I sat up in bed and looked at my watch. It was twenty past seven and my head hurt. Monday morning, the start of a new week. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to the station, and once again thoughts of jacking it all in drifted into my mind. I had the money to make a move. It was just a question of whether I had the guts.

  The door opened and Carla appeared, dressed in a thin black kimono-style dressing gown, carrying two cups of coffee. She was looking six a.m. good.

  ‘Oh, you’re awake, then?’ she said, handing me one of the cups. ‘I thought I was going to have to pour a bucket of water over you.’

  ‘I’m usually a pretty heavy sleeper,’ I said, ‘and I had enough exercise yesterday to put me out until this afternoon.’

  She smiled but didn’t say anything as she put her cup down on top of a chest of drawers and switched on the main light. She slipped off the dressing gown to reveal a naked body that seemed to have aged perfectly. I watched her hungrily as she slowly dressed, starting with expensive-looking black underwear.

  ‘It’s a pity you’ve got an early meeting,’ I told her.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ she said, without looking round. ‘I’ve got a hangover from hell. Drinking at home always seems to do that to me.’

  I bit the bullet. ‘Are we going to see each other again?’

  She pulled on a pair of tights. ‘Look, Dennis, I don’t want to hurry anything, you know. Last night was, well, a one-off.’

  ‘Is that what you want it to be?’

  She came over to the bed and sat down on it, facing me. ‘Remember what you came over here for: to question me about a murder in which I was a suspect. You still haven’t told me straight that I’m not one. Things happened, but that’s because we were both pretty inebriated. It’s not exactly the ideal way to start a relationship, is it?’

  ‘I’m not proposing marriage, Carla. It’d just be nice to see you again, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re getting involved in, Dennis? I see other men. It’s not something I’m going to stop overnight, and I don’t know how easy you’ll find it to deal with that.’

  ‘I’m quite a liberal guy.’

  ‘You’re a copper.’

  ‘I’m a liberal copper and I had a good time last night. I got the impression you did too. It’s an experience I want to repeat, that’s all. Shit, I’d even pay for it.’ She shot me a bit of a dirty look. ‘I’m joking,’ I told her.

  ‘Look, I’m not trying to give you the brush-off, Dennis, but my life’s complicated. The last time I had a boyfriend, he tried to get me to change the way I live, and I’m not the sort of person who likes to be told what to do. I value my independence. And I know it sounds shallow, but after what I went through after the divorce, I value the money as well.’

  I leaned over and patted her on the knee, letting my hand linger there for a moment. She didn’t, it has to be said, seem desperately interested.

  ‘I understand, but I’d appreciate it if we could at least pop out for a drink one night.’

  She stood up and pecked me on the forehead. ‘Yes. We can do that. Give me a call some time.’

  Realizing that I wasn’t going to tempt her back into bed, I got up and started putting on my crumpled clothes – clothes I was now going to have to turn up for work in.

  By the time I’d located everything and put it on, Carla was at the dressing table applying the finishing touches to her face. I stopped beside her and bent down to kiss her on the head. She patted me on the hip in a way that reminded me of the way you pat a dog.

  She must have seen the creases of disappointment on my face because she managed a weak smile. ‘I’m sorry, Dennis. I’m not the best person in the mornings. I take a while to get going. It’s normally lunchtime before I can get enthusiastic about anything.’

  ‘No problem. I understand. I’ll call you, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have a nice day.’ That one just slipped out, for want of something better.

  I winked at her as I shut the bedroom door behind me and headed out, wondering if I’d done something wrong. Probably, although whatever it was I couldn’t for the life of me work out. But that’s women for you. Complicated and unpredictable.

  Just like my days were becoming.

  2
6

  Work that day was mundane. There was a meeting first thing about the mugging of the old lady. Apparently she’d survived the weekend but had yet to regain consciousness, and Knox was pissed off. Things were not going well in our division crime-wise, and the clear-up rate on offences of violence was now hovering below the 20 per cent mark, which, as he told us, was utterly unacceptable and wouldn’t look too clever in the performance league tables.

  To remedy this, however, there was going to be a series of raids the following morning at the homes of a number of mugging suspects, aged between twelve and sixteen, one or more of whom could well have been involved in the attack on the old lady. There were nine homes in all to search, so it was going to involve all of us. ‘It’s time to take the battle to them,’ he concluded loudly, but for me the message was muted. I remembered him saying exactly the same thing a few months back about crack dealers in the area. We’d simultaneously raided a total of fourteen premises in an operation Knox had cunningly codenamed ‘Street Shock’, had recovered drugs with a street value of more than twenty-five grand, and made a total of nine arrests. Five were later released without charge; one absconded while on bail and hadn’t been seen since; one pleaded guilty and received a fine and suspended sentence; one was acquitted by a jury who believed his story that he hadn’t known the stuff was in the house; and one was now in custody awaiting trial, having previously been released on bail and re-arrested twice in the space of three weeks for dealing. The only shock was the one the taxpayers would get if they ever discovered what a pathetically negligible effect such an expensive and time-consuming operation had had on both the criminals and the local crime figures. It was hardly a wonder our clear-up rate was so bad. Most of the time, it just wasn’t worth the bother.

  I had a brief chat with Malik after the meeting had concluded, but neither of us had time to cover much ground. He was now heavily involved in the mugging case and was keen to make a good impression.

  After that, Knox had me writing up reports on all my current cases, which took all morning and a good part of the afternoon. He told me Capper wanted to take a look at what I was working on to see if there was any mileage in giving me additional resources; in other words, to see if there were any mistakes I was making. Apparently, the two of them were particularly keen for movement on the armed robbery case, which appeared to have ground to a complete halt. Which was true. It had. But I wasn’t quite sure what more I or any of my colleagues could do to kick-start it. If no-one gives you information and the perpetrators haven’t left any obvious clues, a detective’s room for manoeuvre is somewhat limited. But it transpired that the Chief Superintendent had had a meeting with representatives of the Kurdish community (both the stabbing victims – the shop’s proprietor and the customer – were Kurds) who’d told him they wouldn’t rest until the culprits were caught. They had also raised that possibility, so dreaded of all senior Met officers, that racism might be playing a part in holding things up. Obviously, the Chief Super was keen to show his community bridge-building skills, and since much of the work on the case had been done by me, I was going to have to indulge in some serious arse-covering. Knox also suggested that at a later date I too might have to prostrate myself in front of these so-called representatives of the community so that they could have a go at me as well – another good reason to resign, if ever I needed one.

  It was difficult to concentrate on the report writing. I kept thinking of the sex with Carla, and wishing that I could repeat the experience. I had to make a conscious effort not to call her number. I knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. Not today. She was, as she said, a woman who liked her independence. Fair enough. I’m a man who likes mine – most of the time anyway – but I still harboured hopes that I could get something going with her.

  Some time around lunchtime, Jean Ashcroft phoned again. She asked me if I’d been round to see Danny. I told her I hadn’t but that I’d phoned him, and everything seemed all right. She said she’d tried to get hold of him but he wasn’t answering his phones, and I mentioned that he’d gone away on holiday for a couple of weeks.

  ‘Did you find out where he was getting his money from?’ she asked. ‘It’s just not like him to have any, you know.’

  I told her that I wasn’t sure (I’d given up on the police informant story, thinking it might prompt her into further investigation), but said that I didn’t think it was anything to be overly concerned about. ‘Maybe he’s got less money than you think,’ I added. ‘You can get these last-minute deals for hardly anything now, so I expect he just picked up something cheap. I checked with some colleagues up his way and they say he’s not in the frame for anything they’ve got on the go.’

  ‘But he didn’t say anything about what was worrying him?’

  ‘No. But I wouldn’t read too much into it. He didn’t sound like he had anything serious on his mind, and I can usually tell. It’s my job.’

  ‘Did you say it was yesterday he went on holiday?’

  ‘That’s what he told me he was doing when I called him.’

  ‘Well, I’ve tried his mobile this morning and he’s still not answering.’

  I said that this was probably because he couldn’t get a signal where he was, and I think I managed to convince her not to panic about it. ‘He’ll call back soon, I’m sure,’ I said, but for the first time I began to get a bad feeling about it all. I made a mental note to call Raymond when I got the chance, just to confirm that neither he nor his jittery associates had tried to track Danny down. Finally, I said my goodbyes to Jean and got back to my report writing.

  I left the station at five thirty that night, having got the feeling that under Capper I was going to be pushed to one side of things, and that my time at the station really was coming to an end. I fancied a drink, if only to get rid of the dry, sour taste in my mouth and the worries constantly surfacing in my head, but decided instead to go and visit DI Welland in hospital. It was duty, really. I don’t like going to hospitals (who does?), but Welland needed some moral support. When I’d been put in one three years ago, having received an enthusiastic tap on the head with an iron bar when an arrest went wrong, he’d visited me three times in the six days I’d been in there. The least I could do now was return the favour.

  He was being treated at St Thomas’s, and it was five past six when I got there, armed with a jumbo box of wine gums, which were always his favourite, and a couple of American true crime magazines.

  Hospitals always smell so uninviting and, in England at least, they usually look it too. Being a copper, I’ve had to spend more than my fair share of time in them. Aside from the many visits I’d made to interview victims and sometimes the perpetrators of crime, I’d ended up being on the receiving end of treatment on three separate occasions, all work-related. There’d been the iron bar incident; the time during my probationary period when a mob of rampaging Chelsea fans had used me for kicking practice; and an incident early on in the Poll Tax riot when a huge crop-headed dyke had whacked me over the back of the head with a four by four while I’d been trying to resuscitate some old granny who’d just fainted. In that case my assailant had been arrested on the spot and, ironically enough, had turned out to be a nurse.

  Welland was in a ward at the back of the hospital and they’d got him a private room. He was sitting up in bed in his pyjamas reading the Evening Standard when I knocked and went in. He was much paler than usual, as if he was a bit seasick, but he didn’t appear to have lost any weight, and all in all he didn’t look quite as rough as I’d expected.

  He looked up and managed a smile when he saw me. ‘Hello, Dennis.’

  ‘How are you, boss?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve been worse, but I can’t honestly remember when.’

  ‘Well, you look all right for it. Have they started the treatment yet?’

  ‘No, it’s been postponed until tomorrow. Lack of specialist staff, something like that.’

  ‘That’s the NHS for you. They make the Met look over-man
ned. Here, I brought you these.’ I put the wine gums and magazines down by the side of the bed. He thanked me, and with a quick gesture offered me a seat.

  I sat down in a threadbare chair next to him and said something else to the effect that he looked remarkably healthy given the circumstances, which is the sort of inane bullshit you have to come out with at times like this, even though no-one ever believes it. I once remember telling a girl whose face had been partially melted by acid thrown at her by an ex-boyfriend that she’d be all right in time. Of course she wouldn’t and neither would Welland.

  ‘It’s good of you to come, Dennis. Thanks.’ He sat back further into the pillows, looking tired, and I noticed that he sounded short of breath when he spoke.

  ‘Well I wouldn’t say it was a pleasure, sir, because visiting a hospital never is, but I wanted you to know we hadn’t forgotten about you or anything.’

  ‘How is work? I miss it, you know. Never really thought I would, but I do.’

  ‘It’s the same as ever,’ I told him. ‘Too many criminals, not enough coppers. Plenty to keep us busy.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a hiding to nothing sometimes, isn’t it?’

  ‘It sure is that,’ I agreed, wondering where this conversation was going.

  ‘You know something, Dennis. I’ve always thought you were a good copper. You know the job, you know what it’s all about.’

  He turned his head and looked at me just a little bit too closely for my liking. I had the feeling this was going to turn into one of those deep conversations about life and policework I could really do without.

  ‘I’ve always done my best, sir.’

  ‘We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, we have. Eight years you’ve been my boss now.’

  ‘Eight years … Christ, is it that long? Time just goes, doesn’t it? One minute you’re a young copper with it all in front of you, and before you know it … before you know it, you’re this … Sat in a hospital bed waiting to begin the treatment that could save your life.’ He was no longer looking at me, but was staring up at the ceiling, seemingly lost in his thoughts. ‘Funny how things go, isn’t it?’