She smiled, “Go on.”
“You show me where the fucking coffee machine is.”
— Two —
Eddie took a right and walked straight into Benson. Benson dropped the Mars bar he’d just unwrapped, and both looked at it, saw little crumbs of chocolate scatter into the dirty carpet.
“Twat,” Benson said.
Eddie squinted at him, then stood on the Mars bar and twisted his foot. “Now I’m a twat,” he said and walked away.
“Stop.”
Eddie stopped, and he wondered if now would be the right time to run. “What?” He thought he’d done a reasonable job at masking the utter disbelief at bumping into him. Here of all places. He’d shown no surprise because he didn’t want to see Benson grinning. In fact, he didn’t want to see Benson at all.
“What are you doing here?”
“At the moment,” he said, “I appear to be talking to an arsehole.”
“I expected you to be on dialysis by now. If not dead. Dead would be better.”
Eddie turned and walked back, stood just in front of Benson – a little farther away than he normally would have on account of Benson’s larger gut. Other people were on the corridor, and they avoided the two, giving them a wide berth as though sensing these two were polar opposites, as though they feared fists flying any time soon.
Benson continued, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sober before.”
Eddie laughed. “Shouldn’t you be out there arresting the wrong man?” It was a throwaway line; always good for annoying coppers with, but for Benson it resonated like a church bell, and there was a slight twitch in his eye that made Eddie feel warm all over.
“Since MCU have lowered their standards to accommodate those who frequent gutters,” he smiled, “that means you, Collins, I think we should come to some arrangement.”
“You ignore me and I’ll pretend you never existed?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Should be easy enough,” Eddie turned and walked away, “apart from the fucking smell.”
“Oi!”
Eddie stopped again. “Now what? I’ve got evidence to fabricate! Oh no, wait, that was you too, wasn’t it?”
“A quid.”
“You having a sponsored silence? I’ll give you a fiver, mate.”
“For the Mars bar. A quid.” He held out a hand.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Benson stared, hand still held out.
“Eddie?”
Eddie turned and saw Ros at the office door. Despite their earlier chat, she didn’t look very happy, but Eddie was getting used to it by now.
“Just give him a quid, and let’s get on.”
Eddie fumbled in his pocket and could see Benson almost pissing himself with glee. “Fifty pence do?”
“Eddie!”
“Alright, alright.” He flicked a coin at Benson and walked after Ros.
* * *
“Eddie?”
It was Jeffery. Eddie sighed and walked across the office, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. “Yes, boss.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been to lots of places; want to narrow it down a bit?”
Jeffery took a breath and then folded his arms. It was his customary stance whenever he felt prickled by annoyance. “From the scene.”
“I took Ros to McDonald’s.”
“How chivalrous.”
“I was desperate to show her their new McFlurry. They do a Toffee Crisp one now!”
“Well at least you’re honest.”
“You knew about the Toffee Crisp one?”
“I mean about going to McDonald’s. We have trackers in each van, just in case you weren’t aware.”
“And you’ve been glued to some screen watching the fucking van all day? You should get a hobby. I heard Sudoku is good. Always been a Spider Solitaire kind o’ guy myself.”
“Eddie… I understand that things must have been difficult between you two. It’s fine.”
Eddie blinked. “Really?”
Jeffery nodded.
“Thanks, Jeffery. We had personal things to sort out.”
To his credit, Jeffery smiled. “Okay, really, it’s fine.”
Eddie walked away, feeling cautious. He kept looking back to make sure this wasn’t some wicked joke, that Jeffery wasn’t running after him. This was like going to sleep in a children’s playground and waking up with the adults. It was quite a shock, and it skewed Eddie’s perception of Jeffery somewhat. And that was a good thing, except it made him a little nervous; he’d have to redraw the battle lines, maybe even cut him some slack.
* * *
Eddie sat next to Ros. “So where’s all the fancy gear then?”
“Gear?”
“Yeah, the touch screens and the subdued neon lighting.”
“What?”
“I thought working at MCU would be like stepping into CSI Miami.”
“Think again.”
Eddie looked despondent. “This is just another bog-standard divisional CSI office isn’t it? Pre-war computers with a permanent egg timer. Second-hand desks, and chairs with dodgy castors.”
Ros sighed, put down her pen.
“I mean, look; you’re even using a pen. I thought it’d be—”
“Well it’s not. Get used to it.”
“It’s like I never left,” he whispered, and slid across to his own desk. “How do I log on?”
“Eddie; this is still part of West Yorkshire Police. Nothing is different when you get back to the office.”
“We still have the same non-functioning computer programs?”
She nodded. “I have work to do, and I want to be home before midnight.”
“Still have the same old guy in IT called Geoff, who smokes a pipe and wears tank tops, and thinks Space Invaders is at the cutting edge?”
“Eddie!”
“Sorry.” He hit the computer’s power button. “It’s like déjà vu. What with you and Jeffery, and now that knob-head Benson. What’s he doing here, anyway?”
Ros put her head in her hands.
Eddie looked around and Jeffery was standing there with his hands on hips – another favourite pose, like Man at C&A was still in existence. He nodded to Ros. “You know Ros,” he said, “she can sleep anywhere.”
Ros looked up, “Jeffery.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I was just—”
“Have you uploaded the photos yet? I’m keen to show them to Westmoreland and Benson.”
“Why Benson?” Eddie asked.
“He’s doing the death warning later this evening.”
“I’d like to be a fly on that wall,” Ros said. “Just on with them now.”
“I can imagine it won’t be pleasant.”
“Have you told Jeffery about the note in his wallet?”
“There was a folded scrap of paper that said ‘Black of Rose’ or… No, ‘Black by Rose’.”
“What’s it mean?”
Eddie and Ros both shrugged.
“Okay, Eddie get your photos done too, Ros will show you our dedicated Dropbox feature, and then we have a briefing in half an hour, okay?”
Eddie’s face screwed up. “A briefing? Do I have to?”
“And tomorrow I want you back at Tony Lambert’s scene.”
“What? That scene’s a week old now. And anyway, I’m sure James—”
“He did a thorough job.”
“Then why do you want me to go back? To clean the powder off?”
Jeffery pulled a chair across and sat between Ros and Eddie. “Keep this to yourself, but DCI Cooper is desperate for something else, something that James may have missed.”
“Like what?”
“A name.”
“Basil Fawlty,” Eddie said. And then, “I told him to swab the dead guy’s wrists for low copy. No joy?”
“No joy.”
“What about the woman’s throat? Was that swab
bed?”
Jeffery stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes drifted away.
“I promise it wasn’t a trick question.”
“I’d have to check Kirsty’s notes; she accompanied James.”
“Meant to ask,” Eddie said, “what happened to Kirsty?”
“If you sent her,” Ros said, “then it probably didn’t get done.”
There was a tightness to her voice, so much so that Eddie turned and looked at her. She appeared fine, but something was awry.
“If she didn’t, then it’s too late now,” Jeffery said.
“Why wouldn’t she—”
“And no one is saying James did a bad job, quite the contrary, he’s very capable, but we need someone of experience to have a thorough look. Cooper’s desperate to find the murderer.”
Eddie said, “If James is so capable, why not send him back?”
“Don’t be a tool, Eddie,” Ros said. “You know you’d never spot something second time around – especially if you’re going to be looking as hard as James would do.”
“And it’ll do his confidence no good either,” Jeffery whispered.
“Okay. But who’s to say there’s anything more to find?”
“Won’t know unless we try.”
“But if you’re worried that James may have been too inexperienced to look close enough, why the hell didn’t you replace him on the day, or least get him some help?”
“We did get him help.” Jeffery stood and pushed the chair back. “Ros, you can go with him, keep an eye on him.”
“She’s a bad influence, Jeffery.”
“Oi,” Ros kicked his chair.
“Briefing. Thirty minutes.” Jeffery was about to leave, when he paused, bent low towards Eddie and said, “Protect the lad’s pride; don’t mention your re-attendance to him.”
— Three —
DCI Lisa Westmoreland headed the briefing which, Eddie noted, took place in a room similar to those used for briefings in 24; all glass and chrome, polished wooden table and a posh phone in the centre. “Blake Crosby’s PM results show massive cranial damage consistent with being hit with a rock, or by one being dropped from a tree.” She lowered her spectacles and peered at Eddie. “That right, Eddie?”
Eyes turned to face him, and he could feel himself going red, despite there being only ten people in the briefing. Eddie didn’t like being the centre of attention. He nodded. “That’s right.” Keep it short, he told himself. And don’t smile; she’s less likely to ask you anything else.
“Did you find anything on that rock?”
Shit! “Hair, belonging, we think, to Blake. Bit of blood too, probably his.”
“Super. What else did you find?”
“It’s all in the report,” he mumbled.
“For the benefit of the briefing.”
“Erm, contact blood. On the tree. Some more in the grass.”
Benson shook his head at Eddie. Eddie swallowed.
Jeffery cleared his throat. “May I, Lisa?”
Thank fuck for that. Jeffery, I’ll never spit in your coffee again.
Jeffery went on to give the account that Eddie had come up with, and to Eddie’s surprise, he did it very well; concise and with a little flair. His account went well, and there was a lot of nodding.
He sat near the back in the briefing. Benson was right next to Lisa Westmoreland, looking around the room as though he owned it, which, in Westmoreland’s absence, he probably did. He was The Big Cheese, and he knew it. Not, as it transpired, quite as big a cheese as he used to be, having being demoted and shipped out of CID for negligence two years ago. Everyone knew about it, but it seemed no one dared bring it up in conversation. They were likely to get stamped on if they did.
Eddie would keep that little nugget for future use.
Benson kept looking at Eddie, and Eddie returned the stare, not blinking, not looking away. Whatever power Benson had in this place, Eddie was prepared to match it, despite feeling intimidated by his bulk (mostly fat, thought Eddie), and eyes as cold as a dead man’s.
Jeffery was sitting to one side, his shirt sleeves rolled up over skinny arms, and he continued to speak well, covering the gunshot wound that Blake Crosby had acquired, before moving along to the white fibres Eddie had found.
And then there was Ros, sitting a few chairs forward of Eddie. When he wasn’t in a staring match with Benson, that’s where his eyes settled. There was still something bothering her. Yes, he knew a lot could happen to a person in two years, and he’d accounted for that; but there was something causing her to be on the defensive all the time. Maybe she was afraid of something. Eddie didn’t like the thought of her being afraid.
“And then he was shot in the back. Standard 9 mm round recovered, so we have no idea, other than it was a handgun, what weapon she used. The firearm wasn’t recovered, by the way, so be careful if you do come across our suspect.” Lisa Westmoreland moved along to the rest of the PM results, including the internal and external penile swabs which indicated recent sexual intercourse. The swabs were winging their way to the lab, as she poetically put it. “Results due in a day or so.”
She nodded to Benson beside her. “Tom will be giving the death warning to the family… have they rung in yet, Tom?”
“Not as far as I’m aware. The Crosbys tend not to keep their members on a tight rein though; and anyway, the last thing they want is plod floating around asking them awkward questions.”
There was a light titter in the room and when Benson looked at Eddie, Eddie winked. Benson’s smile hit the carpet, and Eddie almost laughed.
“And we’ll be locking Blake’s house down pending a POLSA search, but I want his computer soon as possible, Tom.”
Benson only nodded.
“Okay,” Westmoreland continued, “Team One, get onto all county hospitals and check for recent female admittances with vaginal or anal injuries, also liaise with Topaz and see if they have anything outstanding they can share with us.” She turned to Jeffery, “Anything from the car?”
“Yes, we have fingerprints galore, tapings and we’ve taken GSR swabs from the glove box, beneath the seats, that sort of thing. Though most of the stuff we have are just controls for when you get our suspect.”
Westmoreland nodded.
“And we’ve had the marks checked out; of course the Crosby clan and some of their men are all over it; but I’m assured there’s a few unidentified ones located around the front passenger side.”
“Right, so our suspect isn’t known to us; she just got very hard to find.”
Eddie breathed deeply. Nothing like stating the bleeding obvious, he thought. And this thought was closely followed by thoughts of coffee and a cigarette. He sighed, folded his arms.
Westmoreland paused – more for effect, thought Eddie, than anything else.
“Get to it.” And then, “Oh, one last thing. We found a scrap of paper in his wallet. Handwritten on it were the words, ‘Black by Rose’. Anyone have any idea what ‘Black by Rose’ refers to?”
Lots of mumbling and shaking of heads ended the briefing and Eddie lunged for the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I want to know where the fuck he is!” Slade threw another glass at the wall and Tyler stood silently in the kitchen, just shaking his head.
Monty came in through the back door and saw how tense things were. He glanced at the smashed glass, then at Tyler, and Slade barked, “Well?”
“No sign at any of the casinos, or his usual haunts. He ain’t been seen since yesterday afternoon.”
“And who saw him yesterday afternoon?”
“Vernon at The Gaping Goose. Blake was doing his rounds. Paid him as usual, he says.”
“Was he acting strange?”
“Vernon?”
“Blake, you idiot!”
Monty shrugged. “Nah, he was okay.”
“Who’s out looking?” Tyler asked.
“Ev’ryone.” Monty grabbed a biscuit. And then another.
>
“Yeah, well better start calling them back in, Monty,” Slade said. “Some of them have a job in a few hours.”
“Will do, chief.” Monty took the biscuits into the lounge, pulling out his phone on the way.
“What do you want me to do?”
Slade looked at Tyler. “Who’s he normally kicking about with these days?”
“No one. Except us, I mean.”
“He got a girl?”
Tyler shook his head. “Who the fuck would have him?”
Slade limped around the room, his hand nervously scraping through his hair, eyes always down. “Fix me a drink, Ty.”
“We should ring Shylock.”
Slade stopped walking, looked at him.
“And Tymo.”
“They wouldn’t fucking dare touch one of my boys.”
“But we should ask the question. And, if they had any sense, they could put their own feelers out.”
Slade thought about it. “Maybe tomorrow. I want this job to go down without a hitch tonight. I don’t want them knowing we’re on our back foot.”
Tyler nodded. “Shall I ring Rachel?”
“No need. He won’t have gone near her. Poison, she is.”
“Chief?”
Slade looked to the lounge. “What now?” He headed out of the kitchen, using the doorframe to steady himself. Tyler followed him.
Through the lounge window, they could see the gates swing open and the row of sunken lamps illuminate down the driveway. A car slowly drove up to the house, and Monty whispered, “I let them in, chief. It’s the law.”
* * *
Benson dried his eyes and lowered the window, reached out and pushed the intercom button and tried to keep a straight face. On the way over here, he had howled with laughter, and the tears had squeezed out of eyes that had seen some of the awful things Blake Crosby had done over the years, things that could never be proved. His stomach ached from that laughter. Benson was delighted that one of Leeds’s biggest baddest bastards was dead. “It was just a shame,” he said to Miles, “that whoever killed him didn’t rip his nuts off first and stick ’em down his throat. Maybe gouge an eye out too. That would’ve been great.”
Miles nodded more sombrely at his side.
They both marvelled at the opulence that being so high up the wrong ladder brought: electric gates, lit driveway leading to an immaculately-gravelled turning circle. Enough top-notch cars to keep Top Gear busy for a series, and a house like an embassy, all illuminated by a dozen or so sunken floodlights.
Black by Rose Page 12
