Case One (3 page)

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

The only pockets Holly could find were in the cardigan the girl was wearing. In the left-hand one she found a small leather purse, but before she could open it Blanche returned with the spinal board, and when the two paramedics started the procedure to move the girl Holly stood up and backed out of the way.

For the first time since she'd arrived, Holly looked round. Apart from Oz and Sergeant Stafford there were two more uniformed regs in attendance now and the crowd of onlookers had been moved back from the roadside. Under their gaze Holly suddenly felt exposed, and because she wasn't sure what else to do now she opened the girl's purse to look inside. There were a few loose coins and a laminated bus pass. The photo it carried wasn't very good but it was clearly the injured girl. Her name was printed underneath: Ashleigh Jarvis.

“All right, Holly?” Sergeant Stafford had approached while she was still looking at the bus pass.

“Yes, Sarge,” she said, trying to make it sound as positive as she could. “I found some ID. Her name's Ashleigh Jarvis.”

She handed the purse and bus pass to Stafford who looked at them, then nodded. “Good. Means we can find her family. She'll be going to the Vic, so I want you to go with her in the ambulance. I'll send a reg down as soon as I can but we need to deal with the scene. All you have to do is stay on hand and if there's any significant change in her condition let me know, okay?”

“Yes, Sarge,” Holly said.

The stretcher was in the ambulance now and as Blanche closed one of the back doors she called out: “Eddie?” She was ready to go.

Stafford looked, then gave a wave. He turned back to Holly. “Okay ­– gob shut, ears open, and don't get in their way. Got it?”

“Yes, Sarge,” Holly said, and she ran to get in the ambulance.

5

“Yeah, it's me,” Drew Alford said into his phone as he emerged from the stairwell. He was alone now. Tyler lived two floors below.

“That thing you wanted. It's done… Nah, it was fine, we just did what you said… Yeah… When?… Okay, I'll see you then.”

He rang off as he reached the third door along the landing and took a worn Yale key from his pocket. He shoved it into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open as he did so.

Inside the flat Alford looked into the sitting room, then the double bedroom. Both were empty as he'd known they would be as soon as he'd walked in and not heard the telly. Gone down the pub, probably. Well that was okay. It suited him.

In the kitchen he went to the washing machine and squatted down to look inside. There was a pile of wet laundry in the drum, washed but not spun. He thought about it for a beat, then opened the door and pulled the damp clothes out onto the cracked vinyl floor.

Standing up, he stripped off the clothes he was wearing, pushing each item into the machine as he took it off: trainers, socks, jeans, T-shirt, hoodie. He put his mobile, fags, lighter and a small amount of loose change on the worktop.

When he was down to his pants he searched the cluttered and untidy worktop for the washing powder and couldn't find it. He swore, then squatted and searched the cupboards underneath, finally locating the box under the sink.

Without measuring he poured powder into the dispenser drawer of the washing machine and rammed it home. Then he took off his pants, chucked them in with the rest of his clothes and set the machine to its highest and longest setting. For a moment nothing happened, but then there was a click and a hum and the sound of water under pressure.

Alford waited there, naked, until he was sure that water was filling the drum, then he padded barefoot to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The spray head was old and only half the jets worked. While he waited for the water to warm up he looked at himself in the mirror.

He examined his lean body from different angles, checking that there were no marks. He'd been pretty sure there wouldn't be, but it was as well to make certain.

To his own eye he reckoned he had a good body; pretty bloody decent. So it was just a shame it'd had to be that way. She didn't know what she'd missed. Fucking shame.

He chuckled when he realised he'd made a pun and turned away from the mirror. The shower was making steam now, so he opened the door of the cabinet and stepped inside. Then he started to wash himself down. Thoroughly.

6.

STARLIGHT MINIMART
FIRSLEY ROAD
19:19 HRS

Inside the minimart, TPO Sam Marsden examined the three starburst fractures in the window. It was hard to believe that none of them had actually smashed through the glass but only filled it with jagged cracks.

Turning to look at the rest of the shop, Sam thought it looked as if some kind of natural disaster had struck – a hurricane, maybe. There was an acrid smell of vinegar from a broken bottle and down both aisles the contents of shelves and racks were strewn across the floor. At the far end of the shop the wife of the owner, Mrs Walker, was bending down to pick up tins, placing them back on the nearest shelves, seemingly at random.

Now that he'd seen the full extent of the damage, Sam picked his way carefully back through the spilled crisps and packets of biscuits towards the till where PC Yvonne Dunlop was talking to the owner. Yvonne was in her early thirties, as tall as Sam, with high cheekboned good looks. It was as well not to be distracted by that though. Yvonne Dunlop had a reputation for telling it like it was and she didn't take shit from anyone.

“What about the CCTV, Mr Walker?” she said, and gestured to the camera attached to the ceiling above the counter.

The shop owner shook his head. “Doesn't work. It's just a dummy.”

“Right. Well, maybe you should think about getting the real thing. It might help prevent something like this happening again.”

“You know how much it costs to put that in? Be about two months' profits. We might as well pack up now.”

“You've had trouble before though, right? Just after Christmas?”

Mr Walker nodded, but it seemed to Sam that there was some reluctance to the admission.

“So was this the same people?”

“I dunno, do I?” the man said. “They had hoods – hoodies ­– I couldn't see who they were.”

Yvonne made a note. “Any idea how old?”

“Teenagers.”

“White, black, Asian?”

“I dunno. White, I think ­­­– look, I told you, it was all too fast to tell. One minute there's nothing, then the next they're steaming in, shouting and yelling, stuff going all over the place…”

“Did they speak to you? Did they demand money or try to get into the till?”

“No, nothing like that. They just wanted to trash the place. One of them had a hammer and he went straight for the window.”

Yvonne paused in her writing, then looked directly at the shopkeeper. “So why would they do that do you think? Why would they want to trash the place rather than try and take anything?”

For a moment it seemed as if Mr Walker might say something about that, but only for a moment, then he shook his head. “I dunno. Look, it's kids, right? Probably think it's a laugh or something.”

“You haven't had anyone making threats, demanding money?”

“No.”

“You sure? Cos to me it looks like that's what this might be about.”

Mr Walker shook his head again, resolute. “No, nothing like that.”

Yvonne held his gaze for a moment longer, then let it go. “Okay,” she said. “We'll need statements from both you and your wife.”

“I'll get her,” Mr Walker said and moved out from behind the counter as if he was glad of the excuse to leave.

Yvonne watched him go, her expression less than impressed, then she turned to Sam. “You can take Mrs Walker's statement. She's not going to tell you any more than her husband so don't waste any more time than you have to. It's going to end up as NFA whatever.”

NFA was No Further Action and Sam was coming to realise that it was a common fact of life in a lot of cases like this: small scale, no arrests.

“I don't get it,” he said. “I mean, why bother to report it if they don't want to tell us anything?”

“Insurance,” Yvonne said flatly. “Can't claim unless they've got a case number.”

“So you think they
do
know who it was?”

“Maybe not who the youths were, but I'd bet they know who sent them. They're not going to say though, cos that'd only make things worse.” She gestured at the dummy CCTV camera. “Even a real one of those doesn't stop someone trashing the place, so what're you going to spend your money on – CCTV or the guy who can stop it happening in the first place?”

Before Sam could frame an answer his radio came to life. It was Sergeant Stafford's voice. “
Six-One-Four from Nine-Five, receiving?
”

“Six-One-Four, go ahead.”

“
How long before you finish at your current location?
”

Sam looked to Yvonne for guidance.

“Ten minutes,” she said.

“Nine-Five, we'll be free in ten minutes,” Sam told Stafford.

“
Okay, soon as you are I need someone for a notification of an accident and a ride to the Vic. Name of Jarvis.
”

7.

EMERGENCY DEPT
QUEEN VICTORIA HOSPITAL
19:43 HRS

Holly had almost had to run to keep up with the paramedics as they wheeled the stretcher from the ambulance into the ED. She'd caught bits of the rapid-fire exchange of medical terminology between the hospital staff who swooped in as soon as they entered the building, but it was too fast and too full of abbreviations to make sense of. All she did know was that Ashleigh Jarvis's condition hadn't improved on the fifteen minute, siren-wailing journey to the Queen Victoria Hospital.

And again – because she'd been following the stretcher – Holly had noticed the girl's bare feet. Something about them wasn't right, but for a moment she couldn't work out what. Then she'd realised: they were dirty. It was possible that the girl had lost her shoes when the truck hit her, but if so, why were the soles of her feet so dirty – as if she'd been walking barefoot
before
the accident?

When the stretcher bumped through the doors into Resus Holly was left outside, but she watched through the window as Ashleigh was transferred from stretcher to exam table. A doctor shone a torch in the unconscious girl's eyes, but he had to hold her eyelids back to do it. Then a nurse pulled a screen into place and that was it: show over.

A few moments later Blanche and Sancho came out of Resus. Blanche was on her radio but Sancho spotted Holly and came over to where she was standing.

“That's us,” he said cheerfully. “Hump and dump.”

“So what'll happen to her now?” Holly asked.

Sancho shrugged. “They'll do an assessment, get her stabilised and decide on treatment. They'll probably want a CT scan to see how bad the head injury is too.”

“Is she still unconscious?”

Sancho nodded. “Don't think you'll be talking to her today.”

“Sanch?” Blanche called along the corridor. “Possible  stroke at Stockton.”

“'Kay.” Sanch waved and to Holly he said: “I was you, I'd get a drink and have a sit down while you've got a chance. Grab it while you can. See you later.”

And then he was off.

Once the paramedics were gone Holly felt that her only real connection to the case had been cut. No one else would know that she'd ridden in with Ashleigh, or that Sergeant Stafford had told her to keep him updated. It left her feeling unsure about exactly what to do next, so after another glance through the window she moved to sit on a red plastic chair with a view of the Emergency Department doors.

From her stab vest she took out a pen and a green pocketbook, found her last entry and then started to write below it. This wasn't an official record ­– anything that might be called on as evidence had to go in a different, red book – but this pocketbook was part of her practical assessment. What she wrote here would be reviewed by her college tutors as part of the process of showing that she was capable of seeing and recording pertinent details of the situations she came across on patrol.

Under the date, time and location she wrote:

Attended RTC with PC Sitwell, Gatemead Road. Sgt Stafford i/c.

Victim: teenage female (13-14?). Unconscious. Head injury, laceration to arm. Struck by lorry. Driver present at scene.

Possible victim ID = Ashleigh Jarvis. Bus pass + purse in pocket.

Weston Ambulance Service attended. Accompanied victim to Queen Victoria Hosp. Still unconscious at 19:45.

She paused, trying to think of anything else and when she did, she hesitated before writing it. But in the end she added:
Victim has no shoes. Feet dirty.

Then the door to Resus opened and the doctor who'd examined Ashleigh emerged. He headed towards the nurses' station and Holly jumped up to catch him.

“Doctor…?”

The doctor looked round and Holly caught up.

“Doctor, I'm TPO Blades from Morningstar Road Station. I came in with the female victim of the RTC. Can you tell me how she is?”

The doctor looked her over. He was about thirty-five, tall, with a thin face. “Is there another officer with you?” he asked, glancing round.

“I'm waiting for someone else to arrive, but my sergeant asked me to keep him updated. Can you tell me how she's doing?”

The doctor ignored the question. “You're a trainee you said?”

“Yes, but—”

The doctor shook his head. “Her condition could be life-threatening so I think you'd better get a regular officer to come in. Ask a nurse to page me when they arrive: Dr Scobie.”

Without waiting for a response he started away and Holly could feel herself flush red. For a moment she almost started back to her seat, but the way he'd dismissed her so casually really rankled, and after a second she pushed back her shoulders and went after him.