Simon Kernick - The Business of Dying

'Maybe he has.'

'He doesn't have a job, Dennis. He would never have been able to raise a lot of money,' she stopped for a quick sniff, 'unless he's involved in something. You know, something criminal. That's what I'm worried about. You know what he's like. It would break my mum's heart if anything happened to him again, especially after all that stuff before. And now with Dad gone.'

'Look, I understand you're worried about him. It's only natural. And I know he's had his brushes with the law, but he hasn't been in trouble for a long time now.' Malik was looking at me quizzically now, but I waved him away, intimating that it wasn't business. Not police business, anyway. He stood up and walked off. 'I don't think you should let one drunken phone call get you too concerned. Seriously, Jean.' 'You still see him sometimes, don't you?' 'Yeah, occasionally, but not as often as I'd like.' 'You know, whenever we speak, which I know isn't that often, but whenever we do, he always talks about you. I think he looks up to you. Would you do me a favour? Please. I understand what you're saying about not getting too worried, but would you go round and see him, just to check things out? See that he's OK.'

This was all I needed. 'I really think you're worrying unduly. Danny's no fool. He's done his time. He won't make the same mistake again.'

'Please, Dennis. I'm sure you're busy, but it would mean a lot if you could just check up on him.'

'OK, I'll see what I can do, but I'm sure it's nothing.'

'Thanks. I really appreciate it.' And it sounded like she did.

I took her number in Leeds and said I'd get back to her one way or another in the next few days. We talked for a few moments longer, but the conversation was stilted and uncomfortable. Far too much water had passed under the bridge, and I was happy to hang up. Jean Ashcroft had been a good-looking girl once upon a time, and good company too, but now she was nothing more than a half-forgotten part of my past. Danny had really fucked up by talking to her. He'd seemed fine the other night at the pub quiz. We'd had a few drinks, a few laughs, and had even come a close second to the winners, and when I'd left him he'd been OK. Not exactly full of the joys of spring, but OK nevertheless. It was clear, however, that being cooped up at home for much of the time, with just himself for company, was making him seriously paranoid, and that was dangerous. Fuck knows what he'd do if they ever really got close. I was going to have to give him a good talking to. Knock some sense into him. Get him to calm down.

What was it that American president once said?

The only thing we have to fear is fear. Well, Danny feared fear, and it was beginning to make him a liability.

At 11.55 that morning the results from the lab came back confirming that hair samples found on the shirt belonged to Mark Wells, and that it could safely be surmised that the shirt belonged to him.

At 12.10, the questioning of Mark Wells by DCI Knox and DI Welland recommenced. The suspect still denied any involvement in the crime and became hysterical when told of the new evidence against him, at one point attempting to assault both the officers present. He had to be physically restrained before questioning could continue. His solicitor then requested some time alone with his client to discuss these new developments, and this was granted.

At 12.35, the questioning once again resumed, Wells's solicitor sticking to the position that his client had had nothing to do with the murder of Miriam Fox. However, neither he nor Wells could offer any realistic explanation as to why the shirt had been found so close to the murder scene covered in the victim's blood. Wells suggested that it must have been stolen.

At 1.05, twenty-seven-year-old Mark Jason Wells was formally charged with the murder of eighteen-year-old Miriam Ann Fox. For the second time that day, he had to be physically restrained from attacking his interrogators. During the ensuing altercation, his solicitor was accidentally struck in the face by Wells and required medical treatment for a bloody nose. In a rare moment of wit, DS Capper later claimed this to be a double result for the Metropolitan Police.

At 2.25, still a little sleepy from my canteen lunch of lasagne and garden vegetables, I was called into Knox's office.

Knox was sitting behind his spotless desk looking serious, which surprised me a little under the circumstances. 'Hello, Dennis. Thanks for coming in. Sit down.' He waved to a seat. 'You've heard the news, then?'

'About charging Wells? Yes, sir, DI Welland told me.'

'DI Welland's had to go home, I'm afraid.'

'He didn't look too good, sir, I have to admit.'

'He isn't, I'm afraid. In fact, he hasn't been his best for some time.' I didn't say anything, so he continued. 'He went for some tests a couple of weeks ago and he received the results this morning.' I felt a mild sense of dread. Knox sighed loudly. 'He only told me after we'd charged Wells. I'm afraid DI Welland has prostate cancer. There's going to be an official announcement this afternoon.'

'Jesus.' What a day. 'I knew something was wrong but I didn't think it would be anything like that. How bad is it?'

'Well, it's cancer, so it's bad. As to whether it's terminal or not, I don't know. Neither do the doctors. A lot depends on how he responds to treatment and his overall attitude.'

'There won't be anything wrong with that. The DI's a fighter.'

I suddenly felt like crying, which is something I haven't done in a long, long time. It was the injustice of it all. Here was a man who for thirty years had been trying to do the right thing and he was repaid with a life-threatening illness, while there were criminals and politicians out there who'd spent just as much time trying to line their own pockets and were as healthy as a new heart. The moment passed, and I asked Knox if he minded if I smoked.

'No one should really be smoking in here, especially under the circumstances, but go on then.' He watched me light up and told me that I ought to stop. 'It won't do you any good, you know,' he told me sternly, which was a statement of the obvious if ever I'd heard one. That's the problem with health fascists. They never understand that you know as much about the facts as they do.

'A man's got to have some pleasures,' I said, which is my standard defence in these sorts of matters.

'Perhaps. But anyway, I digress. I didn't bring you in here to discuss any bad habits you might have. I wanted to speak to you because, at the very minimum, DI Welland's going to be on sick leave for three months, and I suspect it will be considerably longer. It might even be the case that he never comes back. So we have a temporary vacancy.'

I felt as though I ought to say something at this juncture but, because I couldn't think what, I kept my mouth shut. I was beginning to get the first stirrings of interest, though. The DI's position. I could handle that, even if it was only temporary.

'Obviously we want to promote from within the CID at this station, as that'll give us the continuity we need, and it'll give DI Welland the chance to slot back in, when and if he's able to return to duty.'

'I understand.'

'And it's for that reason we've decided to go with DS Capper as the acting DI.'

And to think I'd been getting optimistic. I fought hard not to show my disappointment at being passed over in favour of an idiot like Capper, but it was difficult.

'I wanted to tell you first before we announced it so that I could explain our reasons.'

'Which are?'

He gave me the usual management waffle about how Capper had more experience at plainclothes level (there was about two months in it); was better qualified (he'd been on more training and awareness courses than I had, most of which were about as useful as suntan lotion in a snowstorm); and had a more positive attitude towards certain aspects of the job (such as kissing arse).