If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) by Matthew Frank

opened the CCTV footage on DC Dixon’s computer. His jaw tightened.
    He found Fran nursing a coffee in the canteen. ‘Who decided what clothes and shoes to take from Gibbs’s house?’ he asked.
    ‘SOCO, why?’
    ‘The only trainers listed are the cheap white Asda two-stripe he was wearing when he was picked up. But correlating the confiscated clothing with CCTV, the figure we think to be Gibbs is wearing dark with three stripes.’
    ‘Adidas?’
    ‘Looks like. And I’m not sure but I think Gibbs was wearing blue with yellow stripes when we saw him last week.’
    ‘Bugger!’ Fran looked pained. ‘You’re right! I can picture the little thug. If SOCO didn’t find them …’
    ‘Perhaps he couldn’t get the blood off.’
    ‘Come on, Smarty Pants.’ She sighed. ‘Looks like we’ve got bins to rummage through.’
    An hour later Fran was placating Kyle’s mother with decreasing patience while a uniformed constable was placing two bulging bin bags on a plastic tarp outside the front of her ground-floor flat. Neighbours were gathering to gawp and Kyle’s mum moved from remonstration to abuse until Fran stepped smartly into the woman’s personal space and said something Stark couldn’t hear. The woman shut up immediately.
    ‘All yours, Trainee Investigator.’ Fran smiled darkly and tossed Stark a box. Disposable gloves. ‘The council, in their infinite wisdom, dropped the collections to every other week. I expect they’re a bit ripe.’ The uniforms chuckled. Without a word, Stark pulled on a pair of gloves; it couldn’t be worse than latrine duty.
    There were no trainers. It had been too much to hope for, of course, but that was police work for you. He pored over the contents anyway, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, just the predictable poverty of freezer-food, ready meals and takeaways. He noticed a cutting from a magazine, about ten centimetres square, clearly once folded geometrically in on itself. Then he found four more. ‘Sarge,’ hesaid, holding them up. They were classic drug wraps, grams of cocaine most probably.
    Fran turned to Kyle’s mother. ‘Tina, Tina, Tina … Yours? Or Kyle’s?’ Tina scowled, tight-lipped. ‘Five wraps in under a fortnight, and that’s just the ones we’ve found!’ Fran shook her head. ‘And you with nothing but income support to feed you.’
    One of the onlookers laughed. Tina Gibbs stabbed a murderous glance at them.
    Fran nodded to Stark. ‘Bag those up, Constable. They may be of interest to Tina’s parole officer.’
    Tina looked sick. Fran turned to her and said quietly, ‘Right, Tina, how about you let me have another look round upstairs? And while I’m doing that, you can have another think about what might have happened to Kyle’s nice blue-and-yellow Adidas Gazelles.’
    It was a good effort but, anxious as she was, Tina either knew nothing about them or wasn’t ready to tell. And there was no sign of the shoes inside. Stark was left to re-bag the rubbish and the uniforms helped him carry it back through the flat to the bin.
    ‘Foot search, Sarge?’ asked one of the constables.
    Fran’s lips twisted in frustration. ‘We can ask, but this isn’t a murder case.’
    ‘What did you say to calm her down?’ asked Stark.
    ‘I reminded her that the oldest profession is still illegal in this country,’ replied Fran. Stark detected no judgement or cynicism, just a sort of world-weary sadness. She didn’t say much on the way back to the station. The only good news for the rest of the day was that Alfred Ladd was back in ICU, stable and being kept unconscious for now. Tension that Stark had not noticed in himself eased.
    That night, however, he woke in the darkness to the faint ringing of the living room phone. Disoriented, he grappled the silent handset from his nightstand. It was Fran. ‘Sarge?’
    ‘The old boy died at three fifteen this morning.’

7
     
    Stark closed his eyes. For any other news he might have been grateful for