Dead or Alive (3 page)

‘He's having an epileptic fit, sir,' said a uniformed sergeant. ‘We need to put him in the recovery position and put a cushion or something under his head to stop him injuring himself.'

‘Epileptic fit?' said Sep. ‘Oh, bloody great! There's no mention of epilepsy in the report we've got on him.'

‘That's definitely what it is, sir. My nephew's epileptic. I've seen him in this state a few times.'

‘Right, do your best, sergeant. With him being an MP, we've been ordered to treat him with kid gloves … which we have up to now.' He added the last bit as he looked around at the circle of his subordinates and waited for them to nod their agreement, which they all did.

The sergeant and two constables struggled to place Johnstone in the recovery position. Sep took off his coat, folded it up and put it under the MP's head. Johnstone continued to gurgle and convulse.

‘If he hasn't come round in five minutes,' said the sergeant, ‘we need to call an ambulance. Apart from that there's nothing we can do. He'll probably come round in a couple of minutes, sir.'

Johnstone was now having difficulty breathing. His skin had turned pale. This worried Sep.

‘A couple of minutes? Are you sure, sergeant? He's not looking so good.'

‘I only know about my nephew, sir.'

Sep bent down and took Johnstone's pulse. ‘His heart's racing like mad. Better get the duty doctor here … quick!'

Even as he spoke Johnstone gave a great shudder and stopped moving. His body went limp. No noises came from him now. Fearing the worst, Sep checked his pulse again.

‘Is he OK, sir?'

Sep shook his head and looked up. ‘Not really, sergeant. I think he's dead.'

S
uperintendent Ibbotson was sitting at his desk, his uniform immaculate as usual. Sep was standing opposite him, looking less than immaculate. He was wearing a tweed sports jacket with a pen in the top pocket and a regimental badge in the lapel, grey flannels and an open-neck rugby shirt. It was an outfit that fitted the bill of a man not wanting to look like a plain-clothes copper. The leather patches on his elbows made him look more like a Geography teacher. He'd been summoned there to be brought up-to-date on the investigation regarding the death-in-custody of the MP. That was what he'd been told, but he had good cause to feel pessimistic about the outcome. The superintendent studied him.

‘You could do with a haircut. Senior officers have to maintain standards.'

‘I know that, sir, but this case I'm working on requires that I'm not known to be a copper.'

‘You're not undercover as far as I know.'

‘Not officially, sir, but the people I'm currently dealing with don't know that.'

‘You're an unorthodox man, Sep. Sometimes this goes against you.'

Sep shrugged. ‘I am who I am, sir. It seems to work for me.'

‘According to the IPCC investigators your colleagues aren't being very helpful to you.'

‘So I believe, sir.'

The superintendent frowned and sat back in his chair, rubbing his mouth with the palm of his hand in the manner of a benevolent doctor trying to diagnose a patient with a mystery illness.

‘Any idea why not?'

Sep gave his answer a few seconds' consideration. He knew his boss wouldn't like it, but it was the truth so what the hell?

‘The new man who came up from the Met last month is adept at stirring up malcontent.'

‘You mean DI Cope?'

‘I do, sir. I believe the Met are carrying out a big internal investigation to root out corruption down there. I do hope we haven't imported some of it up here.'

‘That's a serious accusation. Do you have anything to substantiate it?'

‘Only common sense, sir. For the last week he's been advising my colleagues not to contact me or associate with me or they might find themselves under investigation themselves, which is nonsense, sir.'

‘Why would he do that? He barely knows you.'

‘My point exactly, sir. The minute he comes up here he begins to stir up trouble for an officer he barely knows. But I know him – or rather I know
of
him from a friend down in the Met who believes Cope applied for a transfer up here the minute he caught wind of their corruption investigation. My friend is of the strong opinion that Cope isn't above a bit of corruption, sir.'

‘That's your friend's opinion is it?'

‘It is, sir, and I value his opinion quite highly.'

‘Do you now?'

‘Yes, sir. I mean Cope's a Londoner, born and bred. Why would he want to come up here? Does he have family up here, sir?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘No, nor me, but I know he has family down there, sir.'

‘As far as I know he's a single man.'

‘He wasn't very single down there, sir. He led a very full social life according to my friend. Up here he seems to have cut himself off from everything. He was also a great theatre lover.'

‘Leeds has theatres.'

‘Only one to match the ones in London, sir, and even then we only get the regional theatre actors, none of your big stars. He likes the big stars does Cope; knows a few of them as well. He also likes the London nightlife. In Leeds, the nightlife only caters for people under thirty, not middle-aged coppers. He'll be like a fish-out-of-water up here, sir.'

‘You've checked on him have you?'

‘I keep my eyes and ears open, sir, as you know. To me, him trying to distance himself from the Met's investigation is the only thing that makes sense. My informant also believes he might have followed Vince Formosa up here, sir.'

‘Vince Formosa! Oh my God! Now you are in the realms of fantasy. Formosa's been up here five years.'

‘And he's been running rings around the police for five years. Not a single arrest. My informant reckons Cope was in Formosa's pocket down there, sir.'

‘Anything ever proved?'

‘Of course not, sir, which is why he's still a serving police officer.'

‘Well, there you go. If the investigators need to question him they'll drag him back down there soon enough.'

‘Possibly, sir, or possibly he's working on the out-of-sight-out-of-mind theory. Who knows?'

‘Not me that's for sure,' said Ibbotson, ‘and in the light of no concrete evidence of your suspicions I have to assume his reason for coming up here was for a change of scenery to God's Own County.'

‘I don't know of any Londoners who have that opinion of Yorkshire, sir. The Met looks upon us as provincial plods. It's usually our lot who have ambitions to join the big boys in the Met.'

‘Have you by any chance made this suspicion of yours known around the station?'

‘I've mentioned it to one or two, sir.'

‘Enough for your views to have got all round the station and back to Cope no doubt. No wonder he's got it in for you.' Ibbotson leaned forward on his desk. ‘I assume you're aware that the investigation into Cyril Johnson's death is an independent investigation and that the Independent Police Complaints Commission only conduct investigations into incidents that cause the greatest level of public concern – for example, deaths in or following police custody.'

‘I'm aware of that, sir.'

‘Is it true that you threatened to kick him in the bollocks?'

Sep didn't answer. He was annoyed that his colleagues had blabbed on him to this extent, although he knew who'd put them up to it.

‘I'm also aware that his nickname was the BFB … the Big Fat Bastard. Are you aware of this DI Black?'

‘Yes, I was aware of it but there wasn't much I could do about it, sir. What I wasn't aware of was that he was epileptic. I should have been told this at the beginning of the investigation against him, sir.'

‘I'm not sure anybody knew.'

‘So, how was I expected to know? It wasn't in the file we had about him.'

Ibbotson shook his head. ‘And are you aware that even if the IPCC find you not guilty of any misconduct, the media will be down on us like a ton of bricks, accusing us of protecting our own?'

‘I'm aware that I'm about to be made a scapegoat to protect the police's reputation.'

‘Not quite, another matter had just arisen that doesn't help your cause.'

‘What's that, sir?'

‘Your wife has just accused you of assaulting her. She's in St James's hospital right now with facial injuries – injuries she displayed to the whole station when she came in to report the matter earlier today.'

‘What?'
said Sep, shocked.

‘She says you assaulted her.'

‘I did no such thing. My wife and I are currently separated.'

‘I wasn't aware of that.'

‘It's not a permanent thing, just a bump in the road as far as I'm concerned. When's this supposed to have happened? She was fine the last time I saw her, which was last night when I dropped my daughter off at home.'

‘She's not fine now, and what's more the whole station knows about it. If you need any of them to speak up for you to the IPCC, I'm afraid you're out of luck.'

‘I think I'd like to go and see my wife, sir. Find out what this is all about.'

‘You are not to go within a mile of her, Black. I order you to stay away from her and find yourself alternative accommodation or you'll be arrested.'

‘I already have alternative accommodation.'

‘Good.'

Sep hung his head in bewilderment. What the hell was happening here? He looked up as a thought struck him. ‘If I assaulted her, shouldn't I be arrested and charged anyway, sir?'

‘Yes, you should, but she hasn't pressed charges as yet and I'm holding the matter in abeyance until I decide on the best way to deal with you.'

‘I'm thinking you've already decided that, sir.'

‘The best way to deal with this is for you to voluntarily resign from the force. That way we can satisfy the media that a man has been punished.'

‘Will the media be made aware of Johnstone's crimes, sir?'

‘Did you call him Johnstone when all this kicked off?'

‘I did, sir. I believe his hyphenated name was just pretentious rubbish. He was just plain Johnstone before he became an MP.'

‘I bet that annoyed the hell out of him. Anyway, the media won't be hearing about his crimes from us.'

‘If I get the boot I might have a story or two of my own to tell them.'

‘In order for you to avoid being prosecuted for his death you will be asked to sign a legal document preventing you from giving such stories to the media. The MP died before he was found guilty of anything. In the eyes of the law, which is us, he died an innocent man.'

‘Sounds like I'm being stitched up well and truly, sir.'

‘Just for the record, Black, I don't believe a word of this nonsense about Detective Inspector Cope being corrupt.'

‘Can I go now, sir?'

‘Yes.'

Sep walked through the station watched by a host of frosty eyes. No one spoke to him. Under normal circumstances the IPCC investigation wouldn't have troubled him overmuch given the witnesses who could testify to Johnstone's accidental demise. He paused in his step and spoke as he concentrated his gaze on the exit door, speaking to them all and yet focussing his attention on the door, ‘My wife says I beat her up. I'm saying I did no such thing. I have no idea why she said it, but I know it was Cope who set you lot against me.' Still with his eyes on the door he shook his head and added, ‘I'm truly amazed he's managed to take you all in so easily. And you call yourselves coppers!'

Without sparing any of them a glance, he picked up his step and left the room. This wife thing had him baffled. Their marriage had had problems; their separation hadn't been a permanent thing – just a couple of weeks or so apart to give each other time and space to think. Sep had harboured hopes of reconciliation, if only for their daughter, Phoebe's, sake. He'd certainly never hit his wife. What the hell was all that about? And he wasn't even allowed to speak to her. And who was looking after Phoebe? She'd presumably be at school right now, due out at half past three. Presumably he wasn't banned from picking her up. Or was he?

He sat in his car within sight of the school gates. It was a distinctive car, a bright red classic 1985 Audi Quattro. Phoebe would spot it straight away and head for it. There was a mass of children and parents blocking her from his vision for a while, then he saw her standing at the gate, looking directly at him. Small for her eleven years and a pretty girl in Sep's eyes, but possibly not in anyone else's. Phoebe was a girl who might well grow into her good looks one day, but that day had yet to arrive. Apart from his mother she was the only female Sep had ever loved, and that included his wife and five sisters.

He raised a hand to acknowledge he'd seen her but she didn't head his way. She crossed the road and got into a late model black BMW which was parked facing him. It set off and passed within a few feet of him; close enough for him to recognize the driver – Detective Inspector Lenny Cope. What the hell was all that about?

Fifteen minutes later he parked outside his marital home. Cope's car was in the drive. Sep opened the front door and went in. He heard Cope shout out, ‘Who's there?'

‘The owner of this house,' said Sep, coming into the living room. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘He stays with us sometimes, Daddy,' said Phoebe. Sep noticed there was no affection in her voice. It was cold, almost on the verge of tears.

Cope got to his feet. ‘Come to take a swing at me have you, Black? It won't be as easy hitting me as hitting your wife.'

‘I imagine it would be a lot easier, but I never touched my wife and you know it.'