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.
“Okay, 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 eight p.m. to eight 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 anymore.”
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 arenotquitting 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 high point 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 inquiry, so when I say I want you somewhere at nine thirty 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?”
