‘MORNING, JIM, LOVELY day,’ said DCI Wells, as he breezed into reception.
Levers held up a scrap of paper. ‘No, it isn’t.’
Frowning at the duty sergeant’s disgruntled expression, Wells approached the desk and took the note. It told him that Jack was to attend an interview at the Discipline & Complaints office. The powers-that-be were taking Jason Perry’s allegations seriously.
Wells crumpled the paper and tossed it on to the desk. ‘Where can I find Joey Champion and Syed Shah?’
‘Canteen,’ said Levers.
The station canteen was heaving: all officers on nightshift had finished; those on dayshift about to begin. Champion and Shah were finishing their fried breakfasts when Wells came to a halt at the table, deposited his briefcase on the floor with a smile.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked, his tone deceptively mild.
‘Gotta be off in a minute, sir,’ said Champion.
‘This’ll only take a minute,’ said Wells, pulling up a chair. ‘Jason Perry – remember him?’
Shah scowled. ‘Nasty prick.’
‘Yes,’ said Wells, ‘he’s a piece of work, that one.’
‘How’s Jack?’ asked Champion.
Wells made a face. ‘Not good. His injuries’ll heal, of course, but how he’ll manage when he’s thrown off the job, with a little ’un to feed….’ He shrugged.
‘It won’t come to that,’ said Shah. ‘They won’t take that scum’s word.’
‘Looks like they have, mate. Jack’s got to see Discipline and Complaints.’
Wells picked up the brown sauce bottle, started fiddling with it. ‘How did Perry seem when you put him in the car?’
Champion lifted a shoulder, shot a glance at his partner. ‘OK, I’d say. He was bladdered, but….’
‘Did he look like he was injured?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What about you, Syed? Did you notice any injuries?’
‘No, he hardly looked like he’d been in a fight.’
Wells paused for a moment, stared at the sauce bottle still in his hand. ‘Nick reckons Jack was in a hell of a mess. Glad I didn’t see him. I’d have wanted to tear Perry apart.’
PC Champion sat back, blew out his cheeks. ‘He looked bad, sir. Good job he was out of it.’
Wells eyed them conspiratorially. ‘I hope you two stuck to station policy. I mean, nobody would have blamed you if you’d wanted to get a few punches in, but we’ve got to play it by the book.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shah. ‘His shins might have stung a bit, though, after we dragged him into the car.’
Wells grinned and nodded. ‘So you kept your fists to yourselves?’
Champion was mopping up egg yolk with a piece of bread. He gave the DCI an arduous glance. ‘Yeah, had a job though.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Wells. ‘We’ve all done it, given the bastards a bit of what they deserve. You did good with that paedo a while back.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ He pushed his plate aside. ‘You know, that little kid was alive when he set her alight. She was still screaming when we got there. You never forget something like that.’
Wells knew that to be true, but even so … ‘Villains have rights as well, unfortunately.’
‘Too many, if you ask me,’ said Shah, folding his arms with a flourish. ‘Law’s too lenient nowadays.’
‘Makes me sick,’ said Champion.
‘And me,’ said Wells. He skimmed them a surreptitious look. ‘So Perry was still intact when you brought him in.’
‘Honest to God,’ said Champion.
And that was when Wells’s convivial mood took off at a rate of knots – along with the sauce bottle. It hit an adjacent wall, the plastic splitting on impact. Brown sauce showered the hair and uniform of a female officer who sat chatting with three others at a nearby table.
‘So why is Perry covered in bruises?’ Wells bawled. ‘His torso’s black and blue.’
Champion and Shah just stared at the DCI, speechless. In fact, everyone in the canteen fell silent, everyone except the female officer. She was protesting loudly, yelling for Wells to look at the mess. He ignored her, carried on eyeballing the two men, waiting for an answer.
‘Well?’ he said, jowls quivering. ‘Hurry up, I haven’t got all fucking day.’
Shah’s breathing became rapid; DCI Wells was a formidable sight when angry. ‘We didn’t touch Perry,’ he said. ‘We’ve already told you, sir.’
‘And I’ve already told you,’ said Wells, lunging forward, ‘that he’s sustained extensive injuries, and I want to know how. He didn’t get them from Jack.’
‘Nor from us,’ said Champion, pouting with indignation. ‘Ask the custody sergeant – he might have done it. Or maybe the prick was already hurt when he laid into Jack.’
‘Nice try,’ said Wells through gritted teeth. ‘But the bruising’s too recent. So, how about confessing … get it over with.’
Champion rose to his feet, Shah following suit. ‘I know you’re upset, sir – we all are – but you’re not gonna stitch us up.’
‘I’m not stitching anybody up,’ said Wells, replacing his chair. ‘But I will find out the truth.’
The officers made to go, and then Champion turned back. ‘Let us know when you do … sir.’
Nick and Mia were already working when Wells bounded into CID, red-faced and belligerent. He took one look at his fragile DS and hurled his briefcase at his desk.
‘I thought I’d told you to stay at home if you weren’t up to working.’
Mia’s face was very pale. But she was coping, had even looked forward to coming in. It was good to be busy.
‘I’m OK,’ she said, shocked by his fierce entrance.
She shared a glance with Nick as Wells struggled out of his jacket and settled into his chair.
Nick said, ‘Something happened, sir?’
Wells pushed out a breath and regarded them with a guilty expression. ‘Perry’s complaint’s going ahead. Jack’s got an interview with D and C.’
‘You’re joking,’ said Mia.
Nick pointed to Wells’s in-tray. ‘There’s a note just come in, sir, about the witness.’
Wells grabbed the wad of papers, found the relevant one. ‘A Mrs Valerie Clarke,’ he said, rubbing his jowls. ‘Works at the cheap stationery store in Argyle Street. Out shopping in her lunch hour when she saw the fight.’ He took to riffling once more through his tray. ‘Where’s her statement?’
Nick shrugged. ‘That’s all that came in.’
Wells tutted. ‘I’ll just have to pinch a copy from downstairs.’ He glanced at Nick. ‘Do me a favour, mate. Put her name in the system, see if you get anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I use that shop,’ said Mia. ‘Why don’t I—’
But before she could utter another word the door was flung open by Superintendent Shakespeare. He marched up to Wells’s desk, his pompous features pink with displeasure. He was wringing his hands and sweating. The superintendent hated confrontation.
‘I’ve had a complaint from Inspector Blakeley,’ he told Wells. ‘He says you attacked one of his female officers with a sauce bottle. Care to explain yourself, Chief Inspector?’
Wells sat back, his cold stare causing the superintendent obvious discomfort. ‘I didn’t attack her, sir. The bottle shot from my hand. There’s a difference.’
‘The officer in question alleges that you threw it at her.’
‘It shot from my hand. Is clumsiness a crime now, sir?’
‘Inspector Blakeley is backing his officer. He has every right—’
‘Was Blakeley there?’ Wells interrupted.
Shakespeare gave a resigned sigh. ‘No.’
‘Then it’s the officer’s word against mine.’
Shakespeare jutted out his chin. ‘It has also been brought to my notice that you were involved in a heated altercation with PCs Champion and Shah. What’s going on, Chief Inspector?’
Wells folded his arms. ‘Jack’s facing disciplinary action for a crime he didn’t commit. I was merely asking the officers if they knew how Jason Perry got his injuries. They took offence at my choice of words, that’s all.’
‘DC Turnbull is in a tricky position, I’ll admit, but you can’t go throwing accusations around.’
‘I was backing up my officer,’ said Wells. ‘I have every right.’
Shakespeare was edging towards the door. ‘I’ll tell those involved that I’ve spoken to you. I’ll give them your apologies and your sincere word that it won’t happen again.’
‘Give ’em what you like,’ Wells muttered, reaching again for his intray.
‘By the way,’ said Shakespeare, his hand on the door handle. ‘DC Turnbull will, of course, be transferred to another station while the complaint is being heard.’
‘Oh no, he won’t,’ said Wells, his smile holding little humour. ‘We need him here.’
‘It’s procedure, Chief Inspector.’
‘Bollocks to procedure. The lad’s innocent. He’s coming back here.’
Shakespeare opened the door for a quick exit. ‘I’ll let you know when a suitable position has been found for him.’ And then he was gone.
Over at the hospital Jack was blissfully unaware of the developments taking shape; developments that had the potential to totally wreck any stability he’d achieved in his working life. Indeed, his whole future hung in the balance.
At that particular moment, though, Jack’s only concern was how to fit his few belongings into the miniscule overnight bag provided by Michelle.
Soon, everything was packed except for the magazines that Wells had brought in. Jack – still dodgy on his feet – shuffled towards an adjacent bed where a teenaged boy lay with both legs in traction.
‘Mike, do you want these?’ Jack asked, handing him the soft porn titles. He couldn’t take them home; Michelle would be well upset.
‘Ain’t gonna do me much good at the minute,’ Mike said, ‘but, yeah, thanks, Jack, they’re cool.’
‘Mr Turnbull, can I have a word?’
Jack swivelled round to find a stunning brunette by the side of his bed, her slender leather briefcase on the blankets. She was laughing.
‘Wow, your face is a mess … but there’s not much wrong with your eyesight.’ She pointed towards Jack’s abdomen.
He looked down to find the start of an erection nudging his pyjama bottoms.
‘I’ve … I’ve not been well,’ he said, blushing.
Her laughter increased as she held out a hand. ‘I’m Alison Parker, the hospital’s psychologist. You’re going home today, I hear.’
‘That’s right. After I’ve seen the eye specialist.’
Her own eyes held devilment, and Jack could guess what she was thinking as her gaze made another excursion to his lower parts.
‘Anyway,’ said Alison, moving on, ‘your doctor asked me to talk to you. You’ve had a nasty experience. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No, thanks. I just want to get home to my family.’
‘Have you heard of post-traumatic stress?’
‘Sure, but I haven’t got it. I’m fine, thanks.’
‘How have you been sleeping?’
‘I haven’t. Nights in this place are like the football ground after a home win.’
That laugh came again. Alison Parker had really great teeth. Her face and figure weren’t bad either.
Alison took from her briefcase a small white card and handed it across. ‘If you do ever need to talk just give me a ring and we’ll arrange an appointment. OK?’
No bloody way. ‘OK.’
‘Good luck, then.’
Alison was careful to keep her steps light and relaxed as she approached the nurses’ station for the real purpose of her visit to the ward.
‘Kirsty,’ she said, tapping the staff nurse’s shoulder, ‘have you got any Paracetamol? I’ve had a headache for hours.’
Kirsty looked up from the patient notes she was studying and gave Alison a chiding look. ‘I shouldn’t … Oh, go on then, you know where they are.’
‘I’ll buy you a drink next time we’re out,’ said Alison, making her way to a room behind the desk.
‘You’ll buy me two,’ said Kirsty, her attention already back on the notes. ‘And don’t forget to sign for them.’
The room was little more than a large cupboard. Floor to ceiling shelving covered opposite walls, on which resided all the essentials of a busy ward. Directly ahead, beneath a small reinforced-glass window stood a desk housing a large metal cabinet and an open ledger.
The cabinet was locked, but its key lay on the desk beside the ledger. Alison tutted through a nervous grin. Weren’t the newspapers always saying that NHS standards had slipped?
‘Bring back matron,’ she whispered. ‘But not yet.’
She unlocked the cabinet and quickly palmed two Paracetamol caplets. Then she took out one large box of a morphine-based painkilling drug and stood pondering as her fingers fluttered over a bottle of Valium tablets.
No, better not be greedy.
Quickly locking the cabinet and replacing the key, Alison dropped the drugs into her briefcase and signed for the Paracetamol.
Out on the ward, Kirsty was plumping up pillows for an elderly patient. Alison gave her a wave, mouthed ‘thanks’, and regretted bitterly that the girl would soon be in the mire.
‘Rebecca Crawford,’ said Wells. ‘She’s our most likely candidate.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell,’ said Mia.
‘Probably because she disappeared from Nuneaton.’
Fifty-six women had been reported missing in the period between June 2006 and June 2007. Fourteen of those had been found dead, and a further thirty-three had long since been reunited with their families. Of the remaining nine, only one woman came anywhere near to matching the colour, age, and financial status of the team’s mummified corpse.
Rebecca Crawford.
‘We’ll follow this line of inquiry for the time being,’ said Wells. ‘No point in wasting resources till we know for definite she’s not the one.’
Wells took the report over to the whiteboard, wrote her name and last known address. ‘She was twenty-eight,’ he said, still writing. ‘Single, although she was seeing a bloke called Bryan Baxter. According to this Baxter was in Switzerland when Rebecca went missing. He worked for a pharmaceutical company – moved to Switzerland permanently about a year later.’
‘Was Rebecca in the same business?’ asked Mia.
‘No, she was a personal trainer, from London originally, had a few of the rich and famous as clients. She was on the verge of opening her own fitness centre – a super gym, apparently.’
‘In Nuneaton?’ said Mia. ‘A bit out of the way.’
Wells shrugged. ‘Doesn’t say where.’
‘Anyway, she wouldn’t be doing much training with an eight-month bump.’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Wells, scratching his chin. ‘There’s no mention of a pregnancy in this report. Nick, can you find out the boyfriend’s address, ask his local force to contact him?’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘And we’ll need her dental records. Did you get that list of cosmetic dentists, mate?’
Nick grabbed his computer mouse, clicked a number of times. ‘It’s only partial,’ he said, hurrying across to the printer where three sheets of A4 paper were dropping into its tray. ‘I’ll let you have the full list later this afternoon, sir.’
Wells winced when Nick handed him the sheets. ‘This is only partial? Christ, I thought there’d only be half a dozen or so. It’ll take for ever to work through this lot. Right, we’re definitely having Jack – even if I’ve got to hide him and his computer in the bloody stationery cupboard. Sod Shakespeare.’
‘What about Rebecca’s family?’ asked Mia.
‘There’s no mention.’ Wells held up the report. ‘This is only partial an’ all.’
Nick made a note on his pad. ‘I’ll get on to Nuneaton and ask for the original case files, sir.’
‘Thanks, mate. Oh, and while I remember … did you check on Jason Perry’s witness?’
‘I did.’ Silence for a moment while Nick thumbed through the clutter on his desk. ‘Here it is. Not that it tells us much. Valerie Clarke appeared in court last year as the plaintiff. She’d accused a neighbour of trying to poison her Yorkshire terriers – she breeds them – but the case was thrown out on insufficient evidence.’
‘That’s it?’ said Wells, clearly hoping for more.
‘Afraid so, sir.’
Wells’s sigh was heartfelt. ‘Worth a try, I suppose.’ He returned to his desk. ‘OK, where are we? Nick, you’re on top of Rebecca Crawford, so to speak.’
‘I am, sir.’
‘And I’ll track down the post-mortem report. John promised we’d have it by now.’
‘What about me?’ asked Mia. She felt like the little girl nobody wanted to play with.
‘You could always make us some coffee,’ said Nick, smirking.
Mia gave him a ferocious look, then said to Wells, ‘Would you like one, sir?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘OK, I will then.’
She was handing out the mugs – a bit too heavily in Nick’s case so that coffee split all over his paperwork – when she said, ‘I found that baby’s parents, by the way … the baby in the cemetery.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Wells, only half listening. He was dialling John Lloyd’s mobile number.
‘They’re Reverend Fisher’s daughter and son-in-law.’
‘Really?’ said Wells, the receiver to his ear. ‘Could they tell you anything?’
‘I only got to chat with the son-in-law but, no, he couldn’t.’
‘Pity.’
Lloyd picked up at that moment and Mia lost Wells’s attention, so she targeted Nick. She filled him in on the previous evening’s events, gave him her views on Tom and Grace and the state of their marriage.
‘It’s only been a few years since they lost their baby,’ he said. ‘They’re bound to be fragile still.’
Mia hadn’t really expected Nick to be interested in her observations. He very rarely was. And when he too lifted his telephone receiver, signalling that their conversation was over, she felt her sense of isolation increase.
Then her phone buzzed. ‘DS Harvey….’
It was Jim Levers with an update on Jason Perry’s appearance before the magistrates. Mia replaced her receiver in time with Wells.
‘I told John we’d fetch the post-mortem report,’ he said. ‘It’ll be quicker than …’ He stopped; Mia’s face was showing real horror. ‘Oh Christ, what’s up now?’
‘Jason Perry got bail.’
Wells threw down his pen. ‘Stupid bloody magistrates … The bastard’ll be in the pub by now, celebrating all that compensation they’ll be throwing at him.’
Mia slowly shook her head. ‘He’s at the hospital, actually, sir. He collapsed in the dock.’
‘Why are we here?’ asked Nick.
‘You know why.’ Mia gave him a sideways glance. ‘You turning into a goldfish?’
‘No, I mean, why are we here, in this life? What’s it all for?’
They were in Nick’s car en route to the hospital. Wells wanted them to pick up the post-mortem report and query Jason Perry’s condition at the same time. Nick was silent for most of the journey – nothing new there – and Mia’s thoughts were wandering yet again towards her mother when he suddenly spouted that age-old conundrum.
‘You all right?’ she asked with a laugh.
‘There, you see? – we never talk.’ He swiped the steering wheel. ‘Nobody ever talks.’
Mia snorted. ‘Listen to Mr Chatty. If I get a couple of sentences out of you in a day I feel lucky.’
‘Oh forget it….’
But Mia didn’t want to forget it. A trip into the dark recesses of Nick’s psyche might be interesting. Better than dwelling on dead parents, anyway.
‘No, tell me, what’s brought all this on?’
Nick shrugged. ‘I just wonder whether it’s worth all the aggro, that’s all. You get born, do your best not to screw up, and then what? – misery and high taxes.’
Mia turned towards the side window. ‘I think I prefer you when you’re quiet.’
He swung the car into a side street. No way was he going to pay for hospital parking again. ‘I’m right, though,’ he said, pulling on the handbrake and sitting back. ‘That dead baby’s parents – you said yourself they’re in a mess. Rebecca Crawford’s family … her boyfriend … Christ knows how they’re managing without proper closure. And what’s Jason Perry’s story? He probably wouldn’t be using if he wasn’t so fucked up.’ He turned to Mia, his expression an open dare. ‘Name me one happy person. Go on.’
‘Jack,’ she said without a pause. ‘Jack and Michelle couldn’t be happier.’
‘For now. But when he loses his job and that nice lifestyle they’ve worked so hard for, they’ll be just as desperate as the rest of us.’
Mia was appalled. ‘Give it a rest. God….’
Nick reached for his cigarettes, opened the car door and lit up. ‘Take you and me,’ he said, smoke escaping with the words. ‘We’re like a couple of mice stuck in a fucking wheel. Work and sleep, work and sleep … Where are the fun bits? Where are the rewards?’
‘What exactly do you want?’
‘I want more. I deserve more. We both do.’
Mia stared at him, marvelled at the way his dour expression only enhanced his good looks. ‘Nick, are you asking me out?’
‘What?’ Now it was his turn to be appalled. ‘Fuck off, I was just—’
‘Well, thanks a lot, Nick. You could have tried to look a little less repulsed.’
Mia got out of the car, slammed the door so hard that the dashboard shook, and Nick could only watch her stomp away without a backward glance.
‘Bollocks,’ he muttered, tossing his cigarette into the road and following.
They were approaching the hospital’s main entrance – their usual animosity now tinged with embarrassment – when Mia spotted Reverend Fisher looking furtive by a bed of tall shrubs. And she was pointing him out to Nick when he was joined by Alison Parker.
‘Hello, what’s going on there?’ Mia said, as they watched the vicar lean in for a hug.
The couple’s faces showed smiles and pleasure in the encounter, but their body language – Fisher’s especially – told a different story. He frequently shot guarded looks around the car park, seemed to flinch whenever the hospital doors swished open.
‘That woman looks familiar,’ said Mia, stepping aside for a man in a motorized wheelchair.
‘One of the doctors?’
‘Not one of Mum’s. Oh, hold on, she’s Kate Fisher’s sister. Tom told me she works at the hospital. She’s got the lead part in their play.’
Nick laughed. ‘He’s keeping it in the family then.’
‘Oh, trust you,’ Mia said, skimming him a look. ‘He’s a vicar, for goodness sake.’
‘Vicars can have it as often as they like. Only priests are celibate. And me … unfortunately.’
Mia managed a crooked grin. ‘I’d have no problem getting into a nunnery, if you want the truth.’
Nick spread his arms. ‘Like I said, work and sleep.’
Mia focused again on Reverend Fisher. He’d shifted position, was now around the side of the shrubs, pulling Alison with him. He was talking urgently, his face close to hers.
‘They don’t look very happy,’ said Mia, frowning.
‘Which just goes to prove my point,’ said Nick. He started towards the main doors. ‘Anyway, good luck to them.’
Jason Perry was still in the Accident and Emergency department, undergoing tests. He was awake, apparently, but not very coherent due to the large amount of narcotics even now entering his body through an intravenous drip.
‘You do know he’s a user,’ Nick said to the helpful doctor who’d given up part of his lunch hour to fill them in.
‘No, you’re wrong. He said he’s been clean for years.’
Mia gave a humourless laugh. ‘For all of forty-eight hours, actually.’
‘Pity the accompanying officer didn’t mention it.’
‘Mr Perry beat up one of our colleagues, doctor. We’re not exactly in a rush to help him.’
‘But if we’d known about his drug use we’d have tailored his treatment accordingly. As it is, we’ve probably made a bad situation a whole lot worse.’ The doctor pulled on the stethoscope around his neck, clearly annoyed. ‘And we’ve wasted time and money into the bargain.’
Nick said with a lethargic shrug, ‘When will you know what’s wrong with him?’
The doctor gave a listless sigh. ‘Give us a call on Saturday. We should know what’s what by then.’
‘So he’s not going anywhere before the weekend?’ asked Mia.
‘Wouldn’t think so. He’s pretty sick.’
The detectives shared a worried glance. ‘OK,’ said Nick.
Kate Fisher couldn’t keep still. She was pacing her living room, checking her watch. Charlie had promised to be back for lunch. Where was he?
His mobile was on voicemail. Should she call him? They’d parted that morning with angry words. Would a call antagonize him further?
If only he’d talk. How could she help if he didn’t make the slightest attempt to communicate? Charlie used to be so considerate, would put her first all the time. She used to joke about him placing her on too high a pedestal, said it was hell for her vertigo.
Not any more. Not for a long while. They hadn’t made love in ages. Charlie could barely look at her most of the time. He made her feel as though she was in the wrong when all she wanted to do was love him.
Now things were worse than ever. And that bloody corpse was to blame. Charlie’s antagonism had worsened from the moment it was found and Kate could only wonder why. She knew that losing the space for more burial plots added to his worries. But it was only temporary; the police would release the land as soon as they possibly could. And, anyway, it wasn’t her fault. Why should she be the one to suffer?
Getting to her feet once more, glancing again at her watch, Kate went back to counting the minutes.
Where are you, Charlie? Please, darling, hurry up.