If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) by Matthew Frank Page A

a call that tore him from another nightmare. On another night without whisky and pills, he noted.
    ‘Stark?
Stark?
’
    ‘Sarge.’
    ‘Get your arse up. There’ll be a car outside in ten minutes. We’ve got a few hours’ head start to put a shine on this before the super talks to the press.’ Fran barely paused for breath. ‘DCI Groombridge is leading this now. Are you getting any of this?’
    Christ, how many cups of coffee had she already consumed? ‘Understood.’ The army taught you how to go from asleep to clean, shaved and dressed in minutes. He was standing outside as the uniform car pulled up. Strangely, considering his previous emotions, he could summon no anger. He felt numb, detached, beyond. No doubt a textbook reaction.
    Fran and DC Dixon were already poring over the case notes when he arrived. ‘Well, don’t you look shiny?’ she said. Dixon gave him a limp smile.
    A few minutes later, Groombridge rolled in. ‘Right, where are we?’
    ‘Cause of death to be determined, but liver and general health were poor. Possible failure of the remaining kidney or brain haemorrhage from the recent physical beating or blood clot from subsequent surgery.’ Fran read off her notes efficiently. ‘If that’s confirmed, it’s enough for the CPS to call it murder, though no doubt the defence would test the point. I’ll get FSS to process the physical evidence for DNA to back up the fingerprints. The landlady of the Meridian pub remembers the core of the Ferrier Rats leaving around the time we see the group on traffic camera cross the road towards St Alfege Park. What appears to be the same crowd are seen climbing into Greenwich Park. The war memorial was desecrated with more physical evidence. A matching can was found in Blackheath on the way to the Ferrierwhere the crowd had earlier bought supplies from the off-licence. The magazine pages used for the cocaine wraps found at the memorial and at Gibbs’s house matched. Fingerprint and DNA will probably confirm some or all were his, but he’ll just say he bought them
from
 …’
    ‘A bloke in the pub,’ chorused half the room.
    ‘All this leaves us exactly nowhere. The CPS won’t lift a finger unless we have blood – so we need a foot search to find those shoes. DS Harper will organize it. I’ll go through the interviews again with Stark to see if any of the little shits said anything we missed. I’m assuming you don’t want them all pulled in again until we’ve got more evidence behind us.’
    Groombridge nodded. ‘We’ve got their bullshit statements already. Maybe a day to sweat after the news gets out will open some holes. Can we spare some bodies to watch the estate?’
    ‘Already got some uniforms out of bed,’ Fran said, ‘all happy to sit in unmarked cars for overtime.’
    ‘Good. Right.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The super’s going to face some awkward questions about the lack of progress and, politically speaking, it doesn’t do to hide behind funding shortfalls and resource priority. We need to turn something up quickly. So get to it.’
    The interview recordings were painful to watch. It was truly shocking to think that, just a few precious years earlier, these kids had been smiling innocents, children with as much potential as any other. Now they were every
Daily Mail
reader’s fear and delight. Watching them, Stark was inclined to join the chorus demanding boot camps for young recidivists; a lick of real authority would do them the world of good.
    Worst among them were Kyle Gibbs and his girlfriend Nikki Cockcroft. He posed, feigning indifference, silent and sneering; she hissed like a cornered snake, spitting venom. They all trotted out their rehearsed alibis and clammed up like old pros. ‘How do kids like this get so savvy?’ Stark wondered despondently.
    Fran said nothing. They’d both served enough time in uniform to know the answer, having endured the ceaseless tide of youth offending from the depressingly dim