‘Little point asking why you were there,’ DCI Groombridge muttered darkly. ‘After we agreed it was a terrible idea.’
Fran winced, glad he wasn’t there to give her that look which always made her feel ten years old and never failed to get her back up. She bit her tongue. ‘Guv.’
‘Anything hurt?’
Fran opted not to mention her bruised elbows and backside. Or the nausea of having a gun pointed at her, again, added to stomach backflips at yet another coffee-breakfast and generally feeling like crap. As if the smell of hospitals wasn’t bad enough, a porter’s trolley of disgusting patient breakfasts had just been wheeled past, and the so-called food on offer in the canteen downstairs was below contempt. ‘Just my pride.’
‘Well, that could use a dent or two,’ he replied tartly, but Fran recognized the current of amusement beneath and allowed herself a rueful smile in the privacy of her own end of the phone call. He never remained angry with her for longer than necessary to make his point. ‘Well that’s the ticking off dealt with. How’s that shithead Sinclair?’
‘Flesh wound, but they won’t let me near him yet. Bullet through the trapezius muscle – top of the shoulder by the neck, close to the jugular – inch over and it might’ve done us and the world a favour.’
‘Normally that would be a sentiment deserving of another ticking off,’ mused Groombridge, ‘but in this instance … We’ll have no shortage of suspects.’
‘We’ve got to start with the Talbots for this, surely, Guv.’
‘Agreed. But there’s a long line behind them that would love to get their hands on Sinclair just as much.’
But few with form like the Talbots. Paige Talbot, victim number four, had a broad extended family, but it was her brothers that fit this frame. Three – like this morning’s crew. They were big enough, bad enough and dumb enough to pull a stunt like this. The eldest, Dean, had served four-out-of-seven for violent assault, and was still on licence. The younger two, Troy and Blake, were little better, with youth records as long as your arm, minor convictions and reputations for violence, robbery and car theft. And the matriarch, Rhonda Talbot, had been ejected from Sinclair’s trial for shouting death threats; threats Dean later repeated for the TV cameras outside.
‘How’s Stark?’
‘Stoic.’
Groombridge huffed a laugh. ‘The two words share etymological roots in Old English, I believe.’
‘He’s got a grump on ’cos the second perp zapped him, I think.’
‘Ahh,’ said Groombridge sagely. ‘Not exactly light duties. Well, perhaps his pride could use a dent too. Any chance we can keep his name out of this?’
‘Well, there was no press there …’
‘But?’
‘But, for a second it looked like Sinclair recognized him.’
‘Great. And if there was anyone more inclined to spin the press …’ said Groombridge, his tone reminding her that it was her fault Stark was there at all. The last thing this mess needed was something else for the media to sink their fangs into, and Joe Stark was national news all by himself.
Stark rolled his shoulder with a wince, its perennial ache exacerbated by his earlier fall. God, he hated being tasered. Twice in special forces selection, now twice in the police. He’d banged his head pretty hard too. The paramedic had declared him more lucky than concussed but, all things considered, he’d far rather be waking hung-over from mojitos next to Megan, the solicitor-triathlete, right now. Some headaches were more worth it than others.
Fran had left him behind to assist the scenes of crime officers and speak to the prison officials.
The only blood on the ground was Sinclair’s. There was a small spot on Stark’s cuff, but this was as likely to be from his own split knuckles punching a hard-plastic mask as from the perp behind it. Hardly anything to be proud of. Taking the gun had been an instinctive reaction to it being fired, but failing to turn it on the second perp in time had been unforgivable. He was lucky it had been a stun baton and not another gun or a blade. His only consolation, the fact that the would-be kidnappers had fled without their prize.
No tracking devices had been found on his car – a long shot anyway – but somehow the perps had known where and when to strike. Surely they hadn’t just followed him? The army drummed threat assessment in hard and experience burned it in harder.
The van had been caught on the prison’s CCTV. DCs Williams, Hammed and Dixon were working with the traffic camera team back at the station to trace it, starting from the one near the prison bus stop, but nothing had come over the radio since the description was broadcast.
The SOCOs had already found the bullet, impacted in the prison’s brick façade after passing through Sinclair’s flesh. Fired from a Glock 17 or 19, Stark was sure from his brief time with it. He clenched his fists to stop his hands trembling. Adrenaline come-down, anger and more. If he closed his eyes for more than a blink the barrel flickered in his vision with its deathly whisper – Next time, next time. If not you, them …
‘Constable Stark?’
Turning, he found a solid woman in her fifties eyeing him quizzically.
‘Eleanor Grainger,’ she smiled, extending a hand.
Disconcerted, Stark shook it. ‘Governor Grainger …’ He glanced down at his bandaged knuckles and the SOCO T-shirt and high-vis jacket he’d cadged from the Crime Scene Manager. His jacket and shirt were in an evidence bag. ‘I …’
‘Wasn’t expecting the organ grinder?’ she suggested.
‘Well, no. You really needn’t have.’
‘Happy to,’ she smiled. ‘You rather saved the day, I’m told. A habit of yours. Figured you deserved the VIP tour.’
‘I’d hardly call what happened here –’
‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Sergeant.’
‘Oh no, I’m just a Detective Constable,’ Stark insisted, trying not to think about the upcoming Sergeants’ Exam he’d been corralled into by Groombridge.
Grainger shook her head. ‘You can take the sergeant out of the army, but not out of the man, I’ve always found. Speaking of which …’ She stood to attention and snapped off a salute. ‘Colonel Grainger, at your service,’ she smiled. ‘And a pleasure it is to meet you, Sergeant Stark VC.’
He should’ve recognized her demeanour at once. Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought. Being saluted by officers was something the NCO in him would never get used to, but the little bronze medal locked away in his bank deposit box demanded it. The Victoria Cross. Her Majesty’s highest award for military valour, or in his case for allowing anger to overcome self-preservation. He forced a smile and saluted back.
‘Red Caps,’ she explained. Royal Military Police. Monkeys, as they were unaffectionately known in the ranks – short for Monkey Hangers – after an infamous incident in Hartlepool during the Napoleonic wars. ‘Twenty-five years in. Still on the books if they ever need me.’ She sounded like she missed it.
Technically Stark was still a reservist too. The fact that he’d never pass fit again seemed less important to the army than his PR potential. The damned medal again. He’d long since given up asking for his discharge. Perhaps when his MoD handler got back from her sunshine holiday in Helmand …
‘Used to find them, like you,’ said Grainger. ‘Now I guard them.’
‘And the bit in the middle?’ asked Stark, who’d seen the system incarcerate the good and now free the bad.
‘Not our job.’
‘But if we don’t care, who will?’
She smiled diplomatically, gesturing toward the prison. ‘Shall we?’
‘My client will allow you to speak with him just as soon as he feels well enough,’ chirped the Bitch Barrister brightly, enjoying every second. Miranda Moncrieff, QC, clearly still ruffle-feathered from the morning’s shenanigans.
‘His doctors tell us he’s well enough now,’ said Fran evenly, muzzling her frustration, if not her dislike. This woman had torn her and her star witness apart on the stand two years ago. And now she’d succeeded in tearing apart the forensic evidence to get her monstrous client released.
‘I think Mr Sinclair should be the judge, don’t you?’ said the BB chippily.
Fran had little faith in judges today. ‘Mr Sinclair may have information pertinent –’
‘So what now?’ demanded Moncrieff. ‘You’ll arrest him for impeding an investigation? You just can’t seem to help yourselves, can you? This is moving beyond harassment into persecution. I promise you questions will be asked about this morning’s debacle. One might call the lack of protection offered to my client, innocent in the eyes of the law, wilful, were it not so obviously vindictive.’ Fran suspected she was being rehearsed upon, and this speech would be trotted out for the cameras before long. Getting Sinclair off would be the making of this amoral witch’s career, and she’d milk it for every penny. ‘My client –’
‘Didn’t he stop being your client this morning?’ Fran interrupted curtly. A barrister’s work ended at the courthouse steps, but this one wasn’t about to be cheated out of her limelight. ‘Or does he anticipate rearrest?’
Moncrieff was too cool to bite back. ‘The only arrests you should be concerned with are the Talbot family and whoever in your so-called organization tipped them off.’
‘Unlike some, the police don’t spout wild accusations without evidence, such as witness statements,’ Fran smiled thinly. ‘So, since you seem to be doubling up as his solicitor, perhaps you’d tell Julian that I’ll be back for his first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll be in his interest to cooperate, for once. And in the meantime, I’m sure he’ll be happy to have two burly uniforms guarding his door.’
Fran left before the ice queen could get a riposte in, feeling pleased with herself. She wondered if she’d hate the barrister quite so much if the bitch wasn’t so slim, pretty, self-assured and successful; and decided she would.