Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  Culpepper showed them the under-stairs cupboard, lock broken. The DVR tower inside lay smashed on the floor, hard drive extracted.

  ‘You’re doing the frowning thing,’ said Fran. ‘Out with it.’

  Stark replayed the scene in his head. In uniform, he’d served on a three-months’ anti-burglary push and first impressions said this was burglary-gone-bad. But the downstairs office hadn’t been tossed; portable electrics hadn’t been taken; then there was the safe, and the gun … Burglars usually preferred a blade or cosh – lighter sentence. ‘Sophisticated alarm systems like this have night-settings; activating ground-floor window and door contacts only, limited PIR …’

  ‘This one does,’ agreed Culpepper.

  ‘Which wasn’t on,’ said Fran impatiently.

  ‘When the cleaner arrived,’ said Stark. ‘What about when the killer arrived?’

  Culpepper nodded, understanding. ‘The data would be logged on the missing DVR hard drive along with the CCTV.’

  Fran shrugged. ‘Professional burglar.’

  ‘Or someone who knew the system,’ said Stark, pointing at the label on the tower, the same as the alarm sounder outside, Chase Security. ‘Maybe the killer got lucky and jemmied his way in on a night the alarm wasn’t set … Or maybe they knew how to disable it and remove the evidence. Maybe they thought the house was empty … Or maybe they deliberately hit it when Mary Chase was home alone, knowing there was a safe and maybe even what was in it.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ suggested Fran pointedly, ‘you just like winding me up.’

  4

  The families had already been informed by uniform and Family Liaison officers. Now came the questions.

  Fran and Stark collected DCI Groombridge on the way. It might be okay for the DCI to duck out of the crime scene, but victim’s families expected to see the slaying of their loved ones taken seriously.

  This was the part of the job Stark hated most. Thankfully his role was that of silent observer. Blessed are the low in rank when the time comes to say those dreadful words – We’re sorry for your loss. Tom’s family first, such as it was. The father was long dead, the mother in a home with early-stage dementia. The poor old woman looked bereft, struggling to comprehend the loss of her only offspring, and there was a discernible vagueness to her eyes that made questioning her all the more obtrusive.

  I know this is the most difficult time but I’m afraid I must ask you … Can you think of any reason …? Anyone who’d wish to harm …? Any recent troubles …? What they kept in their safe …? Own a gun …? Et cetera, et cetera. No, no and no; as predictable as it was painful.

  It went much the same at Mary’s mother’s home. The poor woman even uttered the classic – I’m just glad her father didn’t live to see this – before collapsing in tears and being comforted by Mary’s sister. The Liaison put a brew on.

  It was only as they were about to get back in the car that the sister followed them out and spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘I didn’t like to say anything inside. Mum gets anxious about money, and she was always on at Mary about grandchildren …’ She looked distractedly back at the house. Groombridge stood patiently waiting for her to explain. ‘Mary said something about money, you see. In the safe. Tom had … Well, he wanted a baby, an heir, I suppose. But they couldn’t. Tom looked into adoption, but he was too old. So he’d been talking to someone in China. It was going to be expensive. Fifty thousand. In cash.’

  ‘In the safe?’

  ‘That’s what she said. She was …’ She trailed off, wiping tears from her eyes.

  ‘She was what?’

  ‘Worried about it, I suppose …’ Mumbling an apology, she turned back to the house.

  ‘Fifty grand,’ muttered Groombridge thoughtfully, watching the sister depart. ‘Tidy haul for a robbery.’

  ‘Makes you wonder if anyone knew it was there,’ said Stark.

  ‘You don’t think this was a simple burglary-gone-bad?’

  ‘Stark has an alternative theory,’ replied Fran, rolling her eyes, her tone highlighting that this was ever thus. Stark’s ‘sideways’ observations had a habit of generating extra work, and Fran always hid enjoyment of her teaching role behind a thick veil of impatience.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a theory,’ said Stark.

  Groombridge eyed the young DC. Despite working hard from the beginning to get the measure of Stark, the best he could claim was that he was one of the few who could long endure the lad’s gaze. He had an eye-watering solidity. Where Fran was a force of nature, Stark was like a singularity; the metaphoric lead ball on physics’ rubber mat – no matter how inconspicuous he tried to remain, he attracted or perturbed all around him.

  Stark explained, reluctantly.

  Groombridge sighed. ‘All right, you’d better get over to their offices and look for likely candidates with knowledge of the Chases’ alarm system. And find out where Thomas Chase was out so late.’

  Fran stiffened, then jerked her head for Stark to take himself out of earshot. Groombridge braced himself. Things between them had grown fractious of late. Everyone was feeling the pressure but Fran made little allowance for his difficulties. But then she didn’t know the half of them. ‘You’re not coming?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a meeting at Division.’

  ‘Guv.’

  On most people a poker-face meant keeping your expression even. On Fran, that in itself was a screaming tell. ‘Problem?’

  She made an isn’t-it-obvious face. ‘Double homicide, Guv.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. I’ll ask DI Graham if he can spare a DC or two.’

  ‘And he’ll say no, again.’

  ‘Probably.’ The main CID team were just as stretched as the Murder Squad. The station was wearing perilously thin. Groombridge was hoarse from singing the same song to Cox, and Cox upward. But every super in the force was pleading the same, and getting the same answer – there’s no money.

  Gone were the competitive announcements of more bobbies on the beat. Now politicians queued up to promise further efficiencies with ring-fenced frontline services, before passing responsibility for delivery of this oxymoronic conundrum down to their nearest sacrificial lamb. Do more with less or make room. Austerity – the byword for impossible decisions, corner cutting and backbiting. Fran’s limited patience was clearly wearing thin. But so was his. ‘Something else on your mind?’ he asked, knowing precisely what it was.

  She took a deep breath and let it out, glancing around to make sure Stark wasn’t eavesdropping. ‘This team can’t function headless, Guv.’

  There … She’d said it. He was amazed she’d held it in this long. ‘You’re doing fine,’ he replied evenly, knowing it wasn’t the answer she wanted, or deserved. She waited for more but he was all out of ways to placate her. She was right, and they both knew it. He sighed silently. ‘I’ll keep my head in the game.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Fran. I’m doing what I can, but I can’t fight on two fronts.’

  She pursed her lips in frustration. ‘Perhaps if you told me what’s going on I could help.’

  He half-smiled and shook his head sadly, knowing that being kept out of the loop was driving her as nuts as the lack of leadership. ‘I’m trying to put something in place, I just need a little more time.’

  5

  Fran resisted the temptation to flick on the lights and siren. London traffic was almost as good for venting frustration on as underlings. Stark was often good for a punchbag, but just like the real thing, his stoic absorption soon sapped your strength.

  Today wasn’t the day anyway. The morning’s commemorations had left him humourless. A pair of corpses didn’t help. She shivered, trying to dislodge the images, wishing she could maintain his crime-scene coolness. Brusque gallows humour was the closest she could manage. You’d think she’d be used to it by now, but death never got easier.

  Stark, she reminded herself, had seen more than she had.

&nb
sp; Chase Security Ltd was run from a small warehouse in the unfashionable end of Woolwich Riverside. They provided alarm installation, private security patrols and guards, as well as temp staff for events and venues, and small-scale retail cash transport. Liveried vans sat idle, while liveried guards did likewise. The news had reached the shop floor.

  DC Dixon was talking with a man in a suit whom he introduced as Clive Tilly, Operations Manager. The man looked badly shaken, eyes red-rimmed and harassed.

  He led them to his office and closed the door. ‘Ops manager is bit of a fancy title for my role. Tom had the charm for all the front-of-house crap, schmoozing clients, winning work. I dealt with the nitty-gritty and all those feckless donkeys out there.’

  ‘And Mary?’

  ‘Did the books. Head for numbers. Really helped turn this place around.’ Tilly shook his head miserably. ‘Christ knows what I’m supposed to do now. What’ll happen to the business?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Fran. Sympathetic, non-committal. ‘How long have you known them?’

  ‘Tom and I have been sinking beers and locking horns since school, he’s … he was, my oldest friend,’ replied Tilly sadly. ‘And Mary … Who’d do a thing like this?’

  Bad people, thought Fran. The world had no shortage. ‘Do you know where Tom was yesterday evening? We think he arrived home late.’

  ‘Hotel in Birmingham. Business meeting. Piss-up, usually. Alcohol lubrication. He had a room booked, to stay up there. Don’t know why he didn’t. I’ll get you the name of the hotel and the guy he was meeting.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone with a grudge against the Chases? Ex-employee, business contact? Were there any financial problems that you’re aware of?’

  ‘I thought this was a burglary?’ Tilly looked confused. ‘Your colleague said …’

  The bereaved grasped for answers, but baulked at questions. ‘We have to explore all avenues.’

  Tilly shook his head. ‘Mary kept the books close to her chest. I know we’ve had our share of disgruntled creditors; perhaps more than our share. I’ll get you a list. Times have been lean since the crash. We’ve made lay-offs. But you can’t seriously think …’

  ‘My inspector does the thinking.’ Fran smiled evenly. ‘I just do the asking.’

  ‘The culprit did a number on the security system,’ added Stark. ‘We have to look into the possibility that they had prior knowledge.’

  ‘Of the system? Someone here?’ Tilly frowned. ‘Mike Parsons installed that one, I think. Old school. Proper craftsman. Retired a couple of years back just in time to drop dead – poor sod. There’s no justice. Wish we had more like him.’

  ‘Including the safe?’

  Tilly shook his head. ‘Didn’t know they had one. Must’ve come with the house.’

  ‘Who else would have knowledge of the system?’ asked Stark.

  ‘No one specific. Mike wouldn’t let any of the youngsters near his jobs. But any of the fitters. And half the idiots here have helped out on installations at one time or another … It’s not rocket science.’

  ‘Would anyone here know the alarm code?’

  ‘No. Tom’s been in the business long enough to set a new code the moment Mike walked out the door.’ Tilly shrugged. ‘Family, maybe?’

  ‘We’re going to need a full list of your employees, including who was working last night and where,’ said Fran. Tilly nodded. ‘And can you confirm your whereabouts last night?’

  ‘Me?’ Tilly looked predictably affronted. They always did. ‘I was here until nine-ish, then out on a job.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘On a round. In one of the patrol vans.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘One of the donkeys didn’t show and I had to do their round. It happens.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘Not really. Most patrols are single drivers. But …’ He glanced at the door to make sure it was shut. ‘Look,’ he sighed, annoyed, channelling grief into anger, ‘the staff don’t know this, but the vehicles are all fitted with GPS trackers. We’ve had problems in the past with drivers skiving, or worse, using the vans for their own ends. We use the tracker logs in our customer billing to demonstrate service, and in disciplinary procedures against staff who take the piss. I can get you the logs.’

  ‘That would be useful, thank you. Do you own a gun, Mr Tilly?’

  Tilly blinked in surprise. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘What about your staff? Any rumours, bragging?’

  ‘No,’ Tilly replied earnestly. ‘Tom had an old gun … back in the day. Gave me the willies.’

  ‘Back in the day?’

  ‘When we were young, if we ever were. His grandfather’s, from the war. A revolver.’

  Fran kept her face straight. ‘Calibre?’ Tilly shrugged. ‘Did he still have it?’

  Another shrug. ‘It was twenty years ago, at least.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Fran after he’d shown them out.

  Stark shrugged. ‘Looks like a man staring into the abyss.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he’s not our killer.’

  6

  Midnight seemed the appropriate time to call it a day.

  The initial investigation had achieved little more than preliminary background checks and tracking the victims’ movements leading up to their deaths.

  Tomorrow they’d start turning over stones.

  Stark hung the cane on the hook inside his front door and stared at it. He only took it down if he expected to be on his feet all day or he’d overdone it the day before. His hip recovered quicker these days and troubled him less than it had, but he’d got used to the thing. It had a certain comfort in his hand. Odd that he should think so – Mr Stubbornly Independent.

  Unpacking, he placed the leather cases on the side: two campaign medals, Iraq and Afghanistan, and the VC. It was supposed to go back into the bank safety deposit box first thing in the morning. Fat chance of that now. The powers that be, not to mention the insurance company, would have a fit if they knew. They would prefer he used the replica. But that wouldn’t have felt right; not today. Aside from the inscription on the rear they were identical, and yet the real one always felt heavier in the hand. Both were bronze, but maybe the bronze of that Sebastopol cannon was indeed denser. One was worth over a million, the other a few hundred pounds. What a world. Value had little to do with cost in this case. Cursing his Army OCD, he took them out, polished them, again, and stowed them in the back of the sock drawer.

  He showered the day off and pulled on baggies, then took the Royal Lochnagar and one of his pair of lead-crystal glasses, collapsed on to the sofa and poured himself a triple.

  One for the present, future and past, perhaps.

  Time was he’d have tossed down a pair of OxyContin too. Relic of the bad old days, they called out to him from the bathroom cabinet. He hadn’t used them for over a year, for pain physical or mental, yet it was rare he enjoyed a whisky without thinking of those innocent-looking little pills. Tonight, though, darker thoughts tugged harder.

  Thomas and Mary Chase, slaughtered in their own home; lives, loves and laughter stolen. The bitter truth that, blue uniform or green, he couldn’t protect everyone.

  Pierson’s strange questions still rang in his ears, and her toast. Life was for the living. But where did that leave Stark, forced to acknowledge that some portion of him remained outside that definition? His shrink, Doc Hazel, would have words of wisdom, or scorn, to pour over him on that point, but she still thought this was all about grief and he hadn’t corrected her.

  All certainty was fragile. The black-and-white world of his youth was a fading comfort, a thinning conceit beyond which the greater issue grew harder to ignore. A thing was in him that must come out. But for the first time in his life he doubted his strength. Doubt bred caution, hesitation, fear. Perhaps that was growing up. It couldn’t be before time. But it felt like growing old.

  As we that are left grow old … The words from that morning�
��s service echoed in Stark’s mind like the boom of the gun, and the tolling bell.

  Closing his eyes, he sipped the whisky gifted him by Her Majesty the Queen.

  ‘Joe.’ The whisper echoed around the bare concrete room but Stark didn’t recognize it. He looked around but saw no one. His eyes strained to see into the dimness but had not yet adjusted from the searing sunlight outside. The sweat on his face seemed strangely cold. He wiped at it but could not feel. His fingers were numb. He stared at them, pale skin, nails tinged blue. Cyanosis? Rigor mortis. Cold, lifeless as the two corpses in the corner; a woman and small boy. The blood from their bullet-ridden cadavers, black with time, black as the flies buzzing around their withered flesh.

  His breath froze in the meat-locker air. The desert heat from the doorway rippled like a mirage but could not enter this place. Major Collins lay dead on the floor, lips snarled back with decay, the index finger on his outstretched hand pointing, pointing at the woman and child.

  ‘Joe?’ Stark spun round. The mother and child stared at him. Collins shooed them to their feet and out the back way … but he was dead on the floor, finger pointing at Stark now, blood leaching into the sand like mascara weeping into white cotton.

  The rifle felt heavy in Stark’s hands, pulling, dragging, tearing at his shoulders. He was too tired to hold it any more. Too tired. Its blue-black anodizing was blistered with rust, blood-red rust. His hands too, blue-black and bloody, morphing into the gun; he shook his arms in horror, trying to drop it, but he didn’t have hands any more, just the gun.

  ‘Joe!’ He looked up. Sergeant Tyler crawled towards him, blood spewing from his neck in a gush of blue-black flies, lifting up his desiccated arm and pointing, his mouth snarling, screaming. Not pointing, aiming, aiming his rifle at Stark, and not Tyler, Stark, his own face shrunken, lips peeled back over blue-black teeth, skin cracked with death – aiming at himself.

  Screaming, he pulled the trigger, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t, congealed with rust. He thrust the bayonet instead, the mirror shattering into a thousand splintered Starks.