Lethal Game, page 8
‘Very good, Joel. I think it’s a good choice. Someone you can really benefit from.’
‘Someone I know?’
‘A man by the name of Jim Kemp. And you may not?’
‘I don’t,’ Joel said. Which wasn’t really a lie. Yes, they’d met, but he still knew nothing about him.
‘He’s done most of his career in Essex. He was the firearms lead for them when he came over to us to do a counter terrorism role when Kent and Essex Counter Terrorism merged. Now he’s adding the Serious Crime Investigation Team to his portfolio. I mean he’s still a seasoned detective, just his SIO roles were leading major terrorism investigations. I’ve heard nothing but good things.’
‘So he’s got us as well as all his CT stuff?’
‘For now. We will be expanding, Joel, we’re going to have to. Major Crime will be centralised and this team will be at the forefront. The existing area teams can do all the kicking and screaming they want, but this is happening.’
‘And all this time I’ve been telling them how we’re no threat to their setup, that we’re just here to take some of the workload. They haven’t believed me from day one, but I believed it because it was what I was told!’
‘Did you?’ Marsden said.
‘Not for a moment.’ Joel couldn’t contain his chuckle any longer.
‘And do you care, Joel?’ Her voice was starting to break into laughter too.
‘Couldn’t give a shit, ma’am. Fuck ’em!’
‘Yes …’ Any laughter was instantly lost from her voice. ‘That sort of reaction is part of the reason I wanted to call you immediately and give you a bit of a heads-up. This last few months … I know it’s been tough, I know you may have formed an opinion or two, maybe even a bit of an us-against-them attitude, but I don’t want that to be the first thing DCI Kemp gets to see. Not straightaway at least. You can swear at me anytime you want but I want you two to hit it off. I don’t want him thinking you’re some sort of uncontrollable pitbull that PSD have backed into a corner.’
‘I see,’ Joel said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I understand. I’ve been keeping my head down just recently, like you told me to.’
‘I also told you I would get you an investigation, did I not? How was it being back on active service today? The murder out in Lenham, I see your name as the SIO?’
‘That was you then?’ Joel said, trying to hide the humour in his voice. ‘How did you get that one to us?’
‘I told you we only get the best jobs, the highest profile, that’s what my CHIT team is for.’
‘We really need to change that name, ma’am. Major Crime have already changed one letter.’
There was a pause. ‘Very good, Joel. I’ll speak to DCI Kemp about when he will be coming over to meet you and the team.’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘I am. And now you have a new one I will be taking some annual leave. I’m off from tomorrow for a couple of days, I know it’s a bit sudden but something came up. I may not be around when you do meet Jim Kemp. So, like I said, no foul language, no … Just don’t fuck this up, Joel.’
Day 2
Chapter 11
‘I’m sorry … You know that, right?’
Lucy Rose rolled her eyes in an exaggerated movement under the muted lighting of the communal hall and outside the door of Flat 18. ‘You said.’
‘I didn’t know who else to call.’ Lisa Hopkiss shook her head while looking sad and it wobbled her jowls. Lisa’s frame was wrapped tight in a lilac dressing gown, the cord round her middle tied in a small bow that peeked beneath her interlocked hands. They were stood out in the hall of a block of flats well known to Lucy – and to any police officers who had worked the area for any length of time. Called Phoenix Court, it was originally the Phoenix Hotel, built as a large, cost-effective square box in order to offer cheap hotel rooms to the holiday-makers drawn to the famous Margate coastline. But the steady decline in that demand had seen it bought up by the council as a cost-efficient way to house some of their more ‘demanding’ tenants. Far from its sunny and bright beginnings, it was now a place for the forsaken, the last place on offer. It was rammed full of petty thieves, drug addicts, prison releases and people with mental health issues who really needed a more settled or secure environment but had somehow fallen between the cracks. Rock bottom; the place where sorrows came to be drowned.
‘There is no one else,’ Lucy said. She had brought her key. At the time of getting it cut she had questioned why she was bothering. This was the first time she had known the door to be locked – most of the time it was swinging open. There was nothing inside worth stealing; even the occupant had no value to anyone. And yet when the call had come at 2 a.m., Lucy still couldn’t find the strength to say no.
‘DAD?’ she called out from where she had pushed the door open but stayed on the threshold. The interior was dark. She could see far enough into the hallway to make out closed doors. The living room was at the end; there was no door to that, just a block of darkness. It wasn’t the lack of light that was holding her from moving forward, but the smell that had rolled out like an uppercut the moment the door had been pushed in. It was damp, putrid. Stale air mixed with body odour, detritus and tobacco smoke. Every time she pushed that door in, the smell was the same. And every time she braced herself for when it wasn’t, for when it was the unmistakable stench of putrefied flesh, for when her father’s liver had finally pickled to the point of no return and he had died alone, to rot until the stench could leak out into the corridor and begin a process that would inevitably end with Lucy standing over him.
‘DAD!’ She bellowed louder this time. It was gone 3 a.m. but she had no concerns about disturbing the other residents – whoever was playing Duran Duran at full volume on the floor above was winning that battle. She stepped in and found a switch, snatching her hand back to her side the moment the dull yellow light revealed filthy walls.
She heard a groan. It was from down the hall, from the living room. No surprise there. This tiny little flat had somehow been manipulated to contain two bedrooms, but both were stacked from floor to ceiling with rubbish. There had been a clearing in one of them for a mattress once, a place for her dad to sleep, but even that had become consumed by discarded clothing, bags and boxes – none of them his. Now the living room was his bedsit. The sofa a Swiss army knife of modern living, the do-it-all tool for the down-and-out. A place to sit, to sleep, to inject, to drink and smoke. And no doubt to die.
‘Dad, Jesus!’ He was laid out on the floor and on his front. Lisa worked the light switch this time and again it revealed a sight that made Lucy snatch her hand back: a dried puddle of vomit, arcing out from her father’s mouth like a comic-book speech bubble. The smell hit her now, like it had been waiting for the light so all of her senses could be assaulted at once. She had been crouching but now stood up. There was another groan, and his arms appeared from under him, flailing and knocking bottles that clanged together as he lifted his face towards the light source.
‘What the fuck!’ he managed.
‘Dad, it’s me,’ Lucy said.
‘What the fuck are you doing here? I didn’t call you here, I don’t WANT you here!’ Anger always came first. It always had. Before any conversation could happen she would always have to wait out the anger. It was why he had no friends left, why he was so despised by the police. He was an angry little man. No one else waited him out, to see what was behind what first presented. And why would they?
She made eye contact with Lisa then stepped past her, pushing open the door to the bathroom. The bath ran along the right wall. There were more clothes, more bags, a new-looking rucksack of the type a hiker might use, still stuffed full of something. Her dad was no hiker – but he was a thief. An opportunist – and because of his health, the opportunities were becoming fewer and fewer. Stealing bags was just one of his MOs, mainly from parks or public transport, anywhere he could sit down and wait. They were what cluttered his bedrooms, piled up high enough to block the natural light; a lot of them were unopened because he had been so out of it that he would open the door and just throw them in. His whole attitude towards other people that walked this planet with him summed up in a single action. He took what he could when he could and from whoever he could – to then discard it in a forgotten room.
The piles of bags represented the times when he didn’t get caught, but his arrests ran into the hundreds and theft was only one reason.
‘I got a call. Lisa was worried about you. She heard a big bang and then you didn’t respond,’ Lucy called out.
‘Lisa’s a fat, nosey bitch!’ He had rolled onto his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where a guitar solo seeped through. ‘That fucking dog!’ he yelled, then pushed himself to his feet, a little unsteady at first, and Lucy got to see what condition he was in. He’d lost more weight somehow and his clothes hung off him as if he were a scarecrow made of a cross of sticks. His shirt fell open, revealing that his chest was covered by an ugly bruise that ran up the whole of the right side. Lucy had spent the last ten years amazed that he was still alive and standing, but death itself finally seemed to have him in a choke-hold.
‘Lisa’s worried about you. You’re not looking after yourself.’
The fact that Lisa was right there didn’t seem to register. He set off, walking so unsteadily that he bumped into the door surround as he stomped out of his own front door. Lucy didn’t have the energy to go after him. There was no point – he would be back. Instead she turned her attention to emptying the bath of clutter. Lisa still hung in the doorway, her eyes swollen with grief.
‘He doesn’t mean it. You know what he’s like. He gets embarrassed and lashes out, when it’s not you, it’s me,’ Lucy said to her.
‘I don’t know why I bother. I just … I don’t like seeing anyone like this. Not anyone.’
‘I know that. You’re a good person, Lisa. It’s always the good people he goes for. I’m sorry, and he will be too when he realises what you do for him.’ Lisa nodded, her lips now pursed together. She stepped out of the way as Lucy moved a handful of bags and winter jackets from the bath to throw them into the bedroom across the corridor. She was quick to close the door before any of the stacks fell towards her. ‘I don’t suppose you have any soap? Anything he can use …’ Lucy was looking around but there was nothing. Not even a toothbrush. She used to buy him toiletries, regularly, but had soon worked out there was very little point.
Lisa suddenly brightened. She snapped her fingers and spun away. Her flat was almost directly opposite and she was back in under a minute.
‘“Relaxing Meadow”.’ Lucy read the name of the bubble-bath as she took it, and as her eyes met Lisa’s they both burst out laughing. The hot taps gurgled, spat and hesitated; the first run was rusty red in colour.
‘How long since he’s run these taps?’ Lucy was talking to herself. Lisa answered.
‘I guess he’s not a big fan of the bath.’
‘Well, there’s no alcohol content, is there?’ Lucy said.
‘Alcohol? What now?’ Her dad was back. He swaggered into view, his shirt still open, dried vomit still caught in the hair on his belly. He was swigging from a can of strong lager too and Lucy noticed that the music had stopped above.
‘I’m running you a bath,’ Lucy said. ‘Where did you get that from?’
‘The Black Dog. Turns out he was having a bit of a party and didn’t think to ask me up. If I ain’t invited I don’t want to hear the fucking music, do I? I took a beer for the road. He didn’t have a problem with that.’
Black Dog. Another name familiar to the police. Lucy didn’t work this area but she had people who kept her up to date with what her dad was up to and even she knew that Black Dog was a man by the name of Malcolm Arnold. A talented professional once, by all accounts, but serious bouts of depression and other mental health issues had seen him lose all control of his life. As part of his early battles with depression, Malcolm had referred to it as a ‘black dog’ visiting, referencing Winston Churchill, who had coined the phrase. Unfortunately the nickname had stuck around, unlike any hope he had of a return to his former life.
‘Lisa got you some soap, Dad. Have you got any clean clothes?’
‘What do you mean?’ Her dad lifted his hands up like a toddler who’s just spilt their juice down their front. ‘These are clean, ain’t they?’
‘You’ve been sick on yourself. You need a bath.’
He mumbled a curse then balanced his beer on the edge of the bath. He tugged at the buttons of his jeans then plunged them to his ankles. He wasn’t wearing any underwear.
‘Jesus, Dad!’ Lucy said. She spun away. Lisa was bright red.
‘I’ll let you … I’ll leave you to it … I’m glad you’re OK!’ Lisa stuttered. She was already crossing the corridor to her own flat. Lucy bade her good night, lingering to take a deep breath before she turned back towards her dad.
He was in the bath, his modesty now concealed under a mound of bright, white, scented bubbles that seemed out of place in the filthy surroundings. His hair was slicked back, two streams of dirty water appearing to run from his temples and meet under his chin and drip.
‘When was the last time you had a bath, Dad?’ Lucy said.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know, love, if you want the truth. And you lot, you always want the truth. Nothing but the truth, ain’t it?’ He smiled. It was laden with mischief. He couldn’t smile any other way.
‘That’s right, we do.’
‘How’s it going, on the force, like? You nicked anyone recently?’
‘We got a murderer in, last job out.’
‘A murderer!’ His eyes lit up. ‘That’s a proper criminal, that is! My girl, out there nicking murderers. You threw the book at him, I hope? Gave him a lifetime locked up?’
‘I don’t think he’ll be coming back out. One of his victims was just a kid.’
‘A kid!’ Her dad’s face hardened. ‘Tough life behind that door, a lot tougher for the nonces. They’ll tear a man like that apart. Good riddance. I’m proud of you, my Lucy, you know that?’
‘I do,’ she said, thinking better of pointing out her dad’s error.
‘That means something too. I remember my old man, I never was able to make him proud. Worked the mines his whole life, no job I could ever do was gonna be as hard or as honest as that. I stopped trying in the end. Look where that got me.’
‘You said.’ He told the same story every time.
‘I messed up. I should have worked it out when you came along, there you were, all wrapped up and beautiful, like. I should have said to myself that there was someone to make proud, someone who really mattered. Finding your old dad like this, running him a bath like he’s not capable.’ He tutted, his head shaking. ‘Not what any man wants,’ he said. Lucy listened. Just like she always did. She was out of things to say in reply, and she didn’t like wasting her breath. ‘I’m getting out of this place.’ He made eye contact with her, intensity in his gaze like he was reading her for a reaction.
‘Moving?’ she said, her tone carrying her surprise.
‘Moving. I been onto the council and they can do it. My quack started it off. They listen when you got a doctor doing the talking.’
‘You go to the doctor?’ Lucy’s surprise was stronger still. Her dad smiled.
‘I need to start looking out for myself. This place, I don’t want it to be it, to be the last of me. There’s enough chemicals and the demon drink between these walls to kill a million men. I need to get away from it, I need to do something different. You know I ain’t nicked a bag for three weeks?’
‘I try not to think about that, to be honest. I certainly try not to listen when you talk about it.’
He laughed. The bastard actually laughed. ‘Nightmare, eh? Having a dad like me. That’s what this was all about, you know – tonight, I mean. I’ve been on the wagon, you see.’ He had his can of beer back in his hand again now, his eyes locked on it as he swung it in front of his face. ‘Tonight I fell off it.’
‘You’ve stopped drinking before, Dad. We both know that.’
‘I have and always because other people were telling me to, telling me it would keep me out of prison or it would stop the women in my life walking out of it again. So I tried, I gave it a good try a couple of times. But it was never gonna work while it was for the wrong reasons.’
‘And this time is different?’
Her dad shrugged. ‘This time it makes me feel like shit. It might have always done, to be honest, but some days I can barely get up off the floor. I’m an old man, an old man made older by this shit, and with nothing to show but a room full of someone else’s stuff and hands that shake. I might be too old for much to change but if I kick the booze then who knows. It also means …’ He faded out. He shook his head slightly and crushed his can in its middle, the contents spewing out to show it had been far from finished. He threw it down in disgust.
‘Also means what?’ Lucy prompted. Her dad stayed staring at the crumpled can.
‘I can be a dad. I know you don’t need it, I know you might not even want it, but you came to see me, to talk to me when you lost your girl, so maybe it’s not too late to be something to you.’ He moved his focus back to Lucy. ‘When you’re here I’m not just a pisshead bloke with a room full of other people’s stuff, I’m a dad. A dad that can talk to his daughter about her life, a bloke who can listen and try and make sense of it all. You’re the only thing I’ve got to show for my life and I’m proud as punch. Somehow you turned out all right.’
‘Just all right!’ Lucy said, swallowing a sudden emotion as she did. Her dad always had a way of catching her out. It was probably a lifetime of seeking his approval, his love, that meant that just a snippet of it could have such an impact.
‘How have you been, since … well, since we talked? I know you took it hard. I could see she was the girl for you, you got that twinkle when you talked about her. That’s what happens: when life takes something away it does it like a sticking plaster, rips it right off your skin.’
