‘Oh my God,’ she breathed softly.
Stark froze in her searchlight stare, bare but for boxers, fighting the urge to cringe and cover up, the self-consciousness he’d felt exposing his scarred body to Kelly that first time returned in force. But there was little point turning away, no good side to show. He’d gotten himself back into reasonable shape, but the surface …
She might have averted her eyes, but perhaps she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. She was a very different person to the shy young woman she’d been, stealing glances and giggling with her peers. Different from casual one-off tumbles in semi-darkness. And very different from Kelly – who he still needed to call back …
‘I had no idea …’ Her face shone with stinging sympathy as she padded towards him across the carpet, Stark wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. ‘You … you poor boy,’ she choked, one hand over her mouth, tears glistening in her eyes. She slowly circled to his left, eyes running over the countless shrapnel and surgical scars that peppered him, gasping when she saw the mess of his back where the bullet had exploded out through his shoulder blade, and all the surgical incisions surrounding it.
She paused to peer at the old tiger tattoo atop his left arm, slashed through by a diagonal shrapnel scar, and frowned at the crow on his right – fresh ink, redness not long receded.
When she’d completed her circuit, tears ran down both cheeks. ‘I had no idea.’ Her hand rose unconsciously to lightly touch the entry scar on his chest but he flinched involuntarily and she jerked her hand back as if stung, looking into his eyes, fearful she’d hurt him.
He often stared at it in the mirror himself but he could rarely bring himself to touch it. It wasn’t sensitive, as such, but consciously touching it sometimes triggered memories more vivid than plain recollection. It was odd that this only seemed to apply to where this bullet had struck. Perhaps it was because the other scars were shrapnel, random blast damage. Even the much more recent bullet through his leg had been more accident than design, whereas the bullet through his chest was aimed, deliberate. Or perhaps because it ended his fight, brought him face-to-face with death. Kelly had quickly learned to keep her kisses away from this one mark. She had both soothed and stung.
Pensol was blinking back more tears. Her hands rose and he flinched again, but looking up she gently traced the scar down his right temple, knowing now what his visible wounds left unseen. ‘We all look at you and gossip like star-struck schoolgirls, but we didn’t know, none of us knew … what you’d given.’ Stark had to force himself not to recoil again. She could not know how such words freshened his wounds. ‘How do you do it?’ she asked. ‘How do you carry on?’
He looked at her, wondering where to begin or how honest to be. ‘By taking a long, hard look at the alternative.’ She absorbed this bluntness with worrying solemnity, causing him to wonder how close to the precipice she’d drifted herself. ‘By accepting there can be better days ahead.’
She looked away as if ashamed, looking instead at his leg; the freshest wound, sharing a birthday with hers. Lifting the hem of the T-shirt, she looked at her own scars, comparing. ‘I … I hate looking at it.’
‘It’s healing well. Give it a year. They get easier to live with as they fade.’
‘It makes me feel ugly.’ Her hand covered her mouth again as she realized how that must make him feel. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘They’re part of us now,’ he replied honestly, trying to reassure her with a smile. He’d had longer, worked harder and needed help to get this far. ‘But you are just as exquisite as before, if not more so. Flawlessness isn’t the same as beauty, and a scar taken in service is a badge of honour. There is nothing, nothing ugly about that or you.’
Tears rolled forth once more, unheeded as she stared into his eyes for reassurance, and perhaps something else. She tilted her head up, inviting. ‘Just once,’ she breathed. ‘Please. Just to know I kissed you once.’
A TV-ad fantasy, peddling temptation in pyjamas and the lifestyle of your dreams. All you had to do was buy the aftershave, kiss the girl and forget your old life. Only this TV was cracked. She was too lovely for him to trust his motivation or restraint, and too damaged for him to trust hers. But sometimes, when the hurts were counted, the kiss of life was all there was left.
Polite, confident and bland … straight out of the Groombridge handbook, thought Harper. He’d been criticized for grandstanding in the run-up to the disastrous shootings. He’d learned a number of harsh lessons that day. He wouldn’t screw up this time, not on this grand stage.
The steps of New Scotland Yard itself with twice as many TV trucks, including American channels.
‘But are you saying there’s no connection to any other crimes?’
He suppressed a smile as he picked out the wizened old harridan from the Greenwich Crier, still first with her hand up like the parochial class swot, even among the assembled great and good of the national networks, God bless her. ‘As I said,’ he nodded sagely, ‘all I can confirm at this time is that the body of a twenty-four-year-old woman was found in the early hours of this morning on Kidbrooke Green Park and a murder investigation is underway. Immediate family have been informed but I’m not yet at liberty to release the victim’s name.’
He saw eyes roll in his audience and silently cursed the family. There was a sister, off blowing Daddy’s money on an exotic gap year and irritatingly yet to stray within range of a cell-phone tower. The family didn’t want her finding out about Emily’s death on social media the next time she went to upload her latest barrage of auto-tweaked Instagram selfies – leaving Harper fuming. And much as he’d like to, he couldn’t make the connection public before the post-mortem without opening himself to the accusation of drawing a line to Sinclair and the sudden minor gap in his legal team. What was given could be taken away. He needed Emily’s pretty face on screens next to his ASAP to cash in on this chance in case it evaporated in one of Stevens’ Machiavellian moves or National Crime swooped in on some pretext. But in the meantime, he could make the most of what he couldn’t say … ‘You will understand that the early hours of any investigation as serious as this one merit considerable delicacy. More information will be made available in due course as operational considerations allow.’
But do keep asking, he thought, scanning the crowd, picking out the hot blonde from yesterday near the back, crimson lips pursed in thought as she checked her phone. His eyes paused also on a cute young redhead near the front, hoping she’d raise a hand to beg his beneficence. She didn’t. Perhaps too junior. Perhaps he should introduce himself …
Not that he’d ever cheat on Jessica, not again, and especially not with a reporter, but the eye could enjoy candy the mouth declined. Flirtation was in his nature. Jess understood that. It had worked on her after all. She had a beautiful laugh. He missed it. Perhaps he should take her out to dinner this weekend; that overpriced Michelin star place she used to love, where he’d taken her back in those early dates when he was pulling out all the stops to impress. He felt himself sigh. It was hard to go out now. The laughter came less easily since her sobriety ruled out wine with the meal. Perhaps a movie instead …?
‘Has there been an arrest?’ asked the blonde suddenly. ‘Scarlet Jennings, Capital-Cast. Reports are circulating that a man named Patrick Burgess was arrested in a raid last night, but released …?’
Where the bloody hell had she got that name? ‘A man was briefly detained, but quickly discounted from our investigations and released –’
‘Are there any similarities at all between this killing and those of the Greenwich Strangler?’ interrupted the Crier.
He smiled inside, remembering what a pain in the arse the old witch had been in the past. ‘It’s far too early to indulge in speculation.’
‘Given the age and gender of the victim, the location of the body, the recent release of Julian Sinclair and rumours about a new suspect, I should think it a rather obvious line of enquiry. The vulnerable young women of this borough deserve to know whether they can walk the streets in safety.’
Several of the other journos had closed in to enjoy the spectacle and, if possible, feed on the scraps. The Crier had been a thorn in the side throughout the original case and they were obviously determined to stir up another frenzy. First to nickname the killer, they’d never let it drop. But it had been DCI Groombridge facing the lions then. This lot would learn that DI Harper brought a whip and a chair to this circus ring, but right now he was more than happy to see their hungry eyes. ‘As I said, you should respect the sensitivity and integrity of this investigation and resist inciting hysteria before the facts are confirmed.’