application had merit and Cox seemed genuinely taken with it. They both understood the potential downside, should Stark not cope physically or, worse, mentally. ‘Well enough.’
‘I got the sneaking suspicion he might be a deal smarter than he lets on.’
‘I’m sure we’ll find out, sir.’
Cox nodded. The twinkle of amusement said he appreciated their game. ‘See if a few drinks loosen him up a little, eh?’
‘Care to join us, sir, you’re always welcome.’
Cox laughed. ‘If there’s one thing I’m quite sure of it’s that my presence in the Compass Rose on a Friday evening would not be welcome.’
Cox needn’t have worried. The atmosphere in Rosie’s that Friday evening was muted anyway. It had been a frustrating day. Groombridge sat with Fran and Harper, but she could be little deterred from shoptalk, while his sour mood had returned now that the low-priority case, once his, had escalated into murder. The rest of the team had joined with all the other coppers to put the day behind them and enjoy themselves. Groombridge noted Stark among them, but not long later saw him quietly slip away.
Stark limped down to the cab rank in town and rode home. He was tired, and sore, and the effort of smiling with his new colleagues had quickly proved too much of an effort. Faced with either pills, whisky and a Saturday hangover or an early night and some chance of recuperationhe had taken the coward’s way out. He didn’t think anyone had noticed him leave. It was the weekend, and he was glad of it.
He swallowed a couple of pills and collapsed on to his sofa with a deep sigh of relief, feeling the tension in his aching muscles finally relax. He didn’t even know he was falling asleep until the phone woke him with a start. ‘What?’ he managed, sitting up stiffly, blinking at the fresh dawn light.
‘Stark?’
Fran’s voice? He rubbed his face, still confused. ‘In theory.’
‘Dixon is on his way to pick you up.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Ferrier Estate. We’ve got a body.’
8
Stark thanked his lucky stars he’d left the pub early. Dixon looked positively green at the gills.
They arrived moments before Fran pulled up with DCI Groombridge. Even at this hour a respectable crowd of morbid gawpers had assembled. Uniform had strung tape across an entrance to one of the main courtyards and people were craning their necks to glimpse something gruesome. The sun was rising, but the rectangular arrangement of tower blocks would keep swathes of their courtyards dim and cold till mid-morning.
Groombridge greeted the sergeant standing guard. ‘Nice boots, Tony.’
Stark remembered the stocky Sergeant Clark from his first-day introductions – something of a legend among the uniforms, Ptolemy and Peters had said later.
Clark looked down at his blue wellingtons. ‘SOCO’s finest, sir.’ His uniform shoes were, no doubt, in a sealed evidence bag.
‘What have you got for us, then?’ Groombridge gestured towards the weighted blue plastic tarpaulin at the foot of one of the ugly blocks.
‘Female, late teens. Looks like she took a tumble from up there,’ replied the sergeant, pointing up the brutalist façade. ‘Resident found the body on his way home from the night shift and called it in just after five. SOCO got here a few minutes ago.’
‘ID?’
‘The poor girl is not at her best, facially speaking, and you know how SOCOs get if you go rooting around.’
‘Mm,’ agreed Groombridge. ‘Young Jones looks a bit peaky.’ He jerked his head towards the blue-booted constable guarding the tape.
‘We all remember our first body, sir,’ replied Clark, sagely.
‘Even grizzled old campaigners like us,’ added Groombridge.‘Relief is on its way. Take Jones for a cuppa on me, and a bacon roll, if he can stomach it.’ He handed over a tenner.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Remember
your
first body, Stark?’ asked Groombridge.
‘No, Guv.’
The momentary embarrassment on Groombridge’s
‘I got the sneaking suspicion he might be a deal smarter than he lets on.’
‘I’m sure we’ll find out, sir.’
Cox nodded. The twinkle of amusement said he appreciated their game. ‘See if a few drinks loosen him up a little, eh?’
‘Care to join us, sir, you’re always welcome.’
Cox laughed. ‘If there’s one thing I’m quite sure of it’s that my presence in the Compass Rose on a Friday evening would not be welcome.’
Cox needn’t have worried. The atmosphere in Rosie’s that Friday evening was muted anyway. It had been a frustrating day. Groombridge sat with Fran and Harper, but she could be little deterred from shoptalk, while his sour mood had returned now that the low-priority case, once his, had escalated into murder. The rest of the team had joined with all the other coppers to put the day behind them and enjoy themselves. Groombridge noted Stark among them, but not long later saw him quietly slip away.
Stark limped down to the cab rank in town and rode home. He was tired, and sore, and the effort of smiling with his new colleagues had quickly proved too much of an effort. Faced with either pills, whisky and a Saturday hangover or an early night and some chance of recuperationhe had taken the coward’s way out. He didn’t think anyone had noticed him leave. It was the weekend, and he was glad of it.
He swallowed a couple of pills and collapsed on to his sofa with a deep sigh of relief, feeling the tension in his aching muscles finally relax. He didn’t even know he was falling asleep until the phone woke him with a start. ‘What?’ he managed, sitting up stiffly, blinking at the fresh dawn light.
‘Stark?’
Fran’s voice? He rubbed his face, still confused. ‘In theory.’
‘Dixon is on his way to pick you up.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Ferrier Estate. We’ve got a body.’
8
Stark thanked his lucky stars he’d left the pub early. Dixon looked positively green at the gills.
They arrived moments before Fran pulled up with DCI Groombridge. Even at this hour a respectable crowd of morbid gawpers had assembled. Uniform had strung tape across an entrance to one of the main courtyards and people were craning their necks to glimpse something gruesome. The sun was rising, but the rectangular arrangement of tower blocks would keep swathes of their courtyards dim and cold till mid-morning.
Groombridge greeted the sergeant standing guard. ‘Nice boots, Tony.’
Stark remembered the stocky Sergeant Clark from his first-day introductions – something of a legend among the uniforms, Ptolemy and Peters had said later.
Clark looked down at his blue wellingtons. ‘SOCO’s finest, sir.’ His uniform shoes were, no doubt, in a sealed evidence bag.
‘What have you got for us, then?’ Groombridge gestured towards the weighted blue plastic tarpaulin at the foot of one of the ugly blocks.
‘Female, late teens. Looks like she took a tumble from up there,’ replied the sergeant, pointing up the brutalist façade. ‘Resident found the body on his way home from the night shift and called it in just after five. SOCO got here a few minutes ago.’
‘ID?’
‘The poor girl is not at her best, facially speaking, and you know how SOCOs get if you go rooting around.’
‘Mm,’ agreed Groombridge. ‘Young Jones looks a bit peaky.’ He jerked his head towards the blue-booted constable guarding the tape.
‘We all remember our first body, sir,’ replied Clark, sagely.
‘Even grizzled old campaigners like us,’ added Groombridge.‘Relief is on its way. Take Jones for a cuppa on me, and a bacon roll, if he can stomach it.’ He handed over a tenner.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Remember
your
first body, Stark?’ asked Groombridge.
‘No, Guv.’
The momentary embarrassment on Groombridge’s
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