Eeny Meeny

17

The incident room was a buzz of activity. Pictures of Amy and Sam were being pinned up on the board, alongside maps covering their route from London to Hampshire, diagrams and photos outlining the design of the abandoned pool, lists of friends and relatives and so on. Sanderson, McAndrew and Bridges were hitting the phones following up potential witnesses, whilst computer operators inputted the pertinent details into HOLMES2, cross-referencing the particulars of this abduction with the tens of thousands of crimes stored in the vast police database. DC Grounds stood over them, diligently scanning the results.

Mark hovered in the doorway, unable to step inside. His head pounded, he was assailed by wave after wave of nausea – the sheer busyness of the room made his head spin. He was tempted to turn and run, but he knew he had to face the music. He stepped inside, heading straight for Charlie’s desk.

‘Just in time,’ she said brightly. ‘Team briefing starts in ten minutes. I was going to bluff through it, but now you’re here…’

Mark really liked Charlie on days like this. Despite his wretched behaviour and general lack of professionalism, Charlie never judged him. She was always supportive and loyal. Mark felt a pang of remorse for having let her down.

‘Why don’t I grab you some coffee? You can freshen up and get ready to bang some heads together,’ she continued.

Charlie was climbing out of her seat to do just that, when Helen’s voice rang out loud and clear.

‘DS Fuller. Nice of you to join us.’

Mark’s heart sank. His reprieve had been short-lived. Turning on his heel, he took the long walk of shame to Helen’s office. The team acted busy, but everyone had one eye on the condemned man.

Mark shut the door behind him and turned to face Helen. She didn’t offer him a chair, so he remained standing. She clearly wanted him to be visible to the rest of the team. Mark’s shame ratcheted up another notch.

‘I’m sorry, boss.’

Helen looked up from her work.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For missing our meet. For being unprofessional. For…’

Mark had prepared a speech on the way to the station, but now it eluded him. He racked his brains for it, but it danced away out of reach. His head pounded harder, his dizziness grew – he just wanted to be away from here.

Helen was staring at him, but her expression was hard to read. Was that anger? Disappointment? Or just boredom?

A long silence. And then finally she spoke.

‘So.’

Mark stared – uncertain what she wanted from him.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’re late. You’re drunk. For a young man, you look like shit.’

There was no arguing with that, so Mark remained silent. He knew from experience not to interrupt Helen when she was in full spate.

‘I know you’ve had a tough time, Mark, but I’m telling you now that you’re a whisker away from blowing it here. Whittaker would love an excuse to get rid of you, believe me. I don’t want that to happen, so tell me what’s going on. We’re up against it and I need my deputy here both in body and in spirit.’

‘I went out and had a couple of drinks -’

‘Try again.’

Mark’s head pounded faster, harder.

‘Ok, a lot of drinks, but I was meeting a couple of mates and -’

‘Try again. And if you lie to me once more, I’m going to pick up the phone and call Whittaker myself.’

Mark stared at the floor. He hated the harsh spotlight on his drinking, could sense the disapproval. Everyone knew Helen never drank, so how to admit that he was smashed every night without appearing completely pathetic?

‘Where did you go?’

‘To the Unicorn.’

‘Jesus. And?’

‘I drank there from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. Lager, whisky, vodka.’

There it was – out and on the table.

‘How long?’

‘Two months. Three maybe.’

‘Every night?’

Mark shrugged. He couldn’t actually bring himself to say ‘Yes’, though it was obvious that that was the answer. It was clear now – to Helen as well as Mark – that he was well on his way to alcoholism. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass wall behind Helen. In his mind’s eye he was still the handsome guy of a year ago – tall, rangy with thick curls – but he was in a deep pit now and it showed. His skin was lifeless, his eyes dull. An unshaven, shambolic mess.

‘I don’t think I can do this any more.’

It just came out. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t wanted to say it. But he really needed to talk to someone. Helen had always been fair with him. He owed it to her to be honest.

‘I don’t think it’s fair to you or the team to drag this out…’

Helen regarded him. For the first time today, Mark noticed a softening in her expression.

‘I know how you feel, Mark, and if you want some time off, that’s fine. But you are not quitting on me.’

There was a steely determination in her voice.

‘You’re too good to throw it all away. You’re the best DS I’ve ever worked with.’

Mark didn’t know what to say. He had been expecting derision, but her tone was kind and her offer of help seemed genuine. It was true that they had been through a lot together – solving the Paget Street murders last year had been the highpoint of Mark’s career – and a close professional bond had grown between them over time. In many ways her kindness was worse than a bollocking.

‘I want to help you, Mark,’ she continued. ‘But you’re going to have to work with me here. We are in the middle of a murder enquiry, so when I say I want you somewhere at 9.30 a.m., you’d bloody better be. If you can’t do that – or don’t want to – then I will get you transferred or suspended. Do you understand?’

Mark nodded.

‘No more vodka breakfasts,’ Helen continued. ‘No more lunchtime trips to the pub. No more lies. If you trust me, I’ll help you and we can get through this, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?’

Mark raised his eyes to meet hers.

‘Of course I do.’

‘Good, then let’s get on with it. Team briefing in five minutes.’

And with that she resumed her work. Mark left her office, wrong-footed but relieved. Helen Grace never failed to surprise him.