If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) by Matthew Frank Read Free Book Online

struggle. Fran seemed to hold some kind of seniority. Perhaps she’d been a DS longer; that was how it usually worked in uniform.
    They were shown the victim in the intensive-care unit, bandaged and horribly bruised. He looked old and frail. A machine next to him was monitoring his vitals. He was being kept unconscious so they hadto settle for a photo on Harper’s phone. The poor old sod didn’t exactly have a best side right now.
    A doctor appeared. ‘Police?’
    Harper flashed his warrant card. ‘How’s he doing?’
    ‘Not good. Half-a-dozen broken ribs, cheekbone, collarbone. One of the ribs requires surgery to reposition, as will the cheek in time, but there’s nothing we can do till his vitals improve.’
    ‘Will they improve?’
    ‘Maybe. There’s a risk of internal bleeding and kidney damage. Scans also indicate possible swelling on the brain but we won’t know unless he wakes up. If he was ten years younger, better nourished, I’d be more confident. Do you know his name?’ Harper shook his head. ‘I don’t know whether this will help, then – it was tucked into a pocket.’ A faded black-and-white photograph in a palm-sized tarnished silver frame: a young woman, smiling, in her prime.
    Stark carefully opened the back but found no name or dates written anywhere. ‘Should we leave it with him, Sarge?’ suggested Stark. Harper shrugged, uninterested, and took a photo of it.
    ‘I’ll call you if his condition changes,’ said the doctor. ‘We’ll just have to see what fight he’s got left in him.’
    What fight he’s got left in him, thought Stark. Not much, by the look of him. What fight had he been able to put up last night? Had they even let him out of his sleeping-bag or just kicked him halfway to death like a badger in a sack? The thought made Stark so angry he had to force his mind elsewhere. It was an irrational anger, way beyond proportion. He’d experienced it many times before, been coached in how to step away and dial it down. Even so, he was still simmering dangerously when they got back to the station.
    None of the shop CCTV had much to offer. The traffic camera at the nearby junction picked up kicking-out time at the Meridian and one group crossing the street into the lane leading to the park, but it was too far away for any hope of identification. Fran sent Dixon and Stark to question the landlady, who picked out photos of several Ferrier Rats, including Kyle Gibbs and Nikki Cockcroft. They were regulars, she admitted, and Sunday nights were relatively quiet. No she wasn’t aware some were under age. They’d been in all evening and reluctantto leave, becoming abusive. She’d had to threaten to bar them, for the hundredth time.
    Stark glanced at the notice on the bar declaring that company policy was to demand identification from any customer who might appear under age. And any landlord worth their salt would not just threaten to bar repeat troublemakers – they would do it. ‘Why didn’t your door staff just throw them out?’
    ‘Doormen? In this quality establishment?’ The landlady smiled at her own irony. ‘Our area manager says it’s not right for our corporate image. Or his financial spreadsheet, more like.’
    Stark frowned. ‘My mistake.’ Then he recalled that some of the group on the traffic camera had been holding carrier-bags. He asked if she sold takeout beer; she said not. That made it more likely the bags had contained the lager cans. She didn’t recall whether the gang had brought bags in with them.
    Outside, Stark asked Dixon where the nearest off-licence was. A quick survey established that of the handful of nearby mini-supermarkets only one sold Tennent’s Super, but they had no recollection or footage of Gibbs and Co.
    ‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ suggested Stark. ‘I’m still learning my way around. Presupposing Gibbs and Co. are our perpetrators, that they fled the park after the assault and that they would have headed for home, which