Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  Over the door was a small hand-painted sign proclaiming, AAB Bookkeeping Services. He wasn’t sure if he should knock, but he went straight in, forcing himself to look hopeful and happy, instead of hopeful and vengeful. It was a tough act.

  A middle-aged woman stared at him from behind a wide old teak-effect desk.

  “Help you?”

  “Oh, my name’s Blake and I wondered if Charlie was about.” He made no effort to conceal the flowers.

  She looked at him sideways on. “Charlie?”

  “She does work here, doesn’t she?”

  “No one by the name Charlie works here.”

  “Angela, her name’s Angela.” He smiled but it was painful.

  “Then why did you call her Charlie?”

  Tyler let the smile go; it was just too much work. “Does anyone called Angela or Charlie work here? Female.”

  “No.”

  By the fifth attempt, he was about ready to go home. Only Slade’s face kept him in the game; that, and the fact that the odds had now increased to thirty-three per cent.

  He parked outside a rather more upmarket establishment than those before it. This had a full-length plate glass window with Williams and Collins Accountancy and Bookkeeping emblazoned across it in a fine gold font.

  — Two —

  “Kill me.” Deep inside it was all black. There was no pain any more but the blackness was cold, not comforting. The sparkle had withered and fizzled, and then it had died. It would never come back. The man had raped her and he’d taken away the sparkle too. She had been a shy but bubbly kind of person two days ago, even a little dizzy at times, she would have admitted; but now she was a husk of blackness with no thoughts and no plans and no concept of life outside of the blackness.

  Nothing really mattered any more.

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  She had waited down by the stream until darkness had swept across the land, and then she had waited some more. Not for anything in particular, she was just afraid to leave her nest of bracken and the soft lullaby of the nearby stream.

  She had watched his motionless figure as it had slowly become invisible against the darkening hillside on which it lay; the light had faded and the body was still there though she couldn’t see it. And she grew cold. And she became hungry and thirsty. And she was in pain. But she waited. Scared to move. She had walked back through Garforth and all the way to The Spinney Nook to her car at nearly two in the morning.

  And now she was home again, but it didn’t feel like home. It didn’t feel like anything. She had lain in bed for almost a day and a half, although she wasn’t keeping count. Her head peered over the quilt, saw the daylight fighting through the curtains, and wondered again if she’d locked and bolted the front door. Somewhere near her feet, Panda kneaded the quilt and purred incessantly.

  Charlie kicked out and the cat fled.

  Charlie cried again, and her stinging eye, the one she couldn’t see through properly, flared up with a raging heat again as the tears rolled. Her nose was bust, and flaking blood had set in the creases of her skin, and more of it lay in her bed; a reminder of the not so happy times with her one and only date in sixteen years.

  This was all Michelle’s fault. If she hadn’t told her to try a dating site, none of this would have happened; if she’d kept her damned mouth shut and her nose out of other people’s business, this pain she swam in wouldn’t exist. She would be planning what to do with the rest of her holiday from work instead of wondering if twelve paracetamol was enough to kill herself with.

  She didn’t think it was. And the tears came again. There was no cure for this.

  “I even drove to a pub. I wouldn’t let him know my address.”

  It wasn’t fair.

  How long would it take to die?

  — Three —

  Ros had looked so gaunt this morning that it was scary. “You’re a bit early for Halloween,” Eddie said. Truth be told though, he didn’t exactly feel like a million bucks himself this morning either.

  “Up yours,” Ros said.

  Eddie slid his chair across to Ros’s desk. She sighed and shoved aside the briefing notes for today’s fun and frivolity. “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

  “What do you want, Eddie?”

  “I wondered if you were okay.”

  “I’m okay. I’m fucking wonderful. Now leave me alone.”

  “Wait, wait, hold on a minute.” Eddie came even closer, bowing his head, elbows on the desk. “I thought we sorted out our troubles yesterday. What’s bothering you today?”

  Ros took a breath and turned to him.

  Her eyes were puffy; a thin film of water seemed to shimmer across them. He’d taken the piss before with the Halloween comment, but actually, she did look horrific. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t sleep too well last night.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Anything I can do—”

  “Okay, listen everybody, please.” Everyone looked around to see Jeffery standing in the middle of the floor. “New assignments for some of you today.”

  Eddie groaned, Ros sat still and stared through her monitor, elsewhere it seemed. Across the far side of the desk, James Whitely and the old geezer, Duffy, stared at him; James with his marine’s haircut that was, frankly, so unnaturally perfect that it must have been moulded that way and glued on, and Duffy resting his chin on a fist, eyes hovering somewhere near where Jeffery stood, but with no interest in them at all. Each blink, Eddie noticed, was longer than the previous one, until it seemed as though he were taking really short naps.

  “Gang shooting in Harehills. Indoor and outdoor scenes. And one vehicle scene. It seems to have centred around a cash machine robbery within a Turkish tearoom. When the gang exited, another gang was waiting for them, and they opened fire.

  “Outside the back of the premises, local CSI have found a vehicle in which there is a body. They also found a second dead male near the van, just outside the back entrance to the teashop, but I managed to convince them to tent it and walk away.

  “Around the front of the premises is a further scene. No body though because ambulance found a pulse and took him to St James’ where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

  “I couldn’t keep hold of the tearoom scene: that’s down as a burglary and so falls within divisional CSI remit. However, under Operation Domino, we have the van and the two bodies. Needless to say, if OSU finds anything of value as they search the surrounding area, I want us to be their first port of call for evidence, okay?”

  James nodded enthusiastically. “I’m on-call tonight, Jeffery, but count me in.”

  Jeffery smiled. “Ros, I want you to process the body in the van, then have the van recovered; James and Duffy will take the second body. When you’re done there, get round the front, I want shots of that scene.

  “Lisa Westmoreland will keep us posted of any developments, and I expect you to do the same. I have my phone if you need me for anything. DI Taylor and his designates will be exhibits officers. And I want full Niche compliance when you get back – we have to link in with division on this one.” Then he looked directly at Eddie, “You’ll be on the other scene we spoke of yesterday, okay?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “You okay with that, Ros?”

  She just smiled at Jeffery, and that was all the response she gave.

  Then Jeffery stepped up to Eddie, leaned in closer. “There’s intelligence to suggest that the Crosbys killed Tony and his wife. The two brothers did it personally.” He stared into Eddie as though making sure the penny had dropped.

  “Leave it to me, Jeffery.”

  — Four —

  Considering this was MCU, Eddie was shocked at how blasé they were about security. It wasn’t this slack even out at division. He walked along corridors and down the stairs into the foyer, looked at Miss Moneypenny for a second, and then turned left towards the stock room and stores. He passed half a dozen people along the way and no one asked who he was or wh
ere he was going. His ID card was jammed in his back pocket; he hated wearing it around his neck on a lanyard; damned thing kept banging into him, generally being in the way and annoying the shit out of him.

  Eddie took a right, slurped coffee from a flask and found the door marked “Store”. Next to it was a serving hatch, and a small bell. Eddie peeked inside. All the lights were on, but there was no one at home. “Hello?”

  He waited, pushed the bell. “Hello?” Nothing.

  He tried the door but found it locked.

  “Fucking great.”

  Eddie checked his watch. Almost ten, and he wanted to crack on with the scene, not stand here all frigging day looking at the carpet. He looked up and down the corridor, then he placed his coffee down on the counter and scrambled through the hatch like a burglar through a transom.

  In under three minutes, Eddie had found the aisle he needed, found the plastic storage box he needed, and found the property he needed. All courtesy of a property number and a decent filing system. There was still no sign of a storeman when he got back to the hatch. So he climbed back through the hole, grabbed his coffee and returned to the office to collect his stuff.

  * * *

  Eddie had been given a blue Vivaro van. It wasn’t his own, but he was the only one who was ever going to choose it. And he chose it because it looked like a beaten-up piece of old shit that had escaped from a scrapyard. The aircon worked, and one of the electric windows did too, so it suited him fine. There was no police radio fitted, the tax disc was a real one, and the number plates were real too, not like the usual undercover police vehicles that still had the tell-tale signs. In the logbook, kept hidden in a tray under the driver’s seat, Eddie could see no one had driven this old girl in more than two months. And that more or less settled it for Eddie. This was his van. He liked it because no one else seemed to; a kindred spirit.

  It was kitted out in the back as an obs van; seats, blacked-out windows, and a small desk. In between it and the meshed off cab area was his kit storage space, accessed by a sliding door. It had his forensic kit, camera, laptop, foul weather gear, and most importantly of all, coffee making facilities.

  Eddie climbed aboard and opened the window. He slid his shades on and lit a cigarette.

  Eddie hit the road, heading for Alwoodley on the north eastern tip of Leeds, in the heart of his old CSI division.

  — Five —

  Tyler made sure his tie was straight, and walked into the office. It was the size of his dad’s living room, with three desks pushed against the wall and a mirror over the far side that reminded him of the old westerns where the town saloon always had a mirror over the bar. Except this one didn’t proclaim Jack Daniels as the new medicine, this one was a replica of the plate glass window. Next to it were twenty or so awards and certificates from some guild or another, telling potential clients what safe hands their accounts would be in.

  Still, he thought, it was a league above the last couple of dumps he’d been in.

  “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

  Her name badge proclaimed the ginger-haired woman who sat behind a new-fangled desk with two flat-screen monitors obscuring the best bits, as Michelle.

  “Well,” he smiled his best smile, a cross between I-know-what-I’m-doing and I’m-very-shy-and-humble. It said, I am safe! “I wonder if I might ask if Angela works here? Angela… goes by the name of Charlie.” He looked hopefully at her. Made sure she could see the flowers.

  Her eyes lit up. “Charlie, oh yes, Charlie works here.” She trailed off, eyes full of pink ribbons and yellow flowers and green bits, “Are you…” she looked around and then leaned a little closer, smile on her face, “Are you the new boyfriend?”

  He smiled in return, “Well,” he blushed, “I am, yes. This is quite embarrassing really—”

  “No, not at all—”

  “I lost my phone,” he whispered, as though disclosing something horrific. “It has Charlie’s details in it, so I couldn’t ring her.”

  Michelle smiled at him, almost falling in love with him herself.

  “I knew she worked as a bookkeeper… So, well I thought I might leave these here for her.”

  “Or you could just take them round to her.” Michelle leaned forward to get a closer look at the bouquet.

  “No, he couldn’t.” In the archway that led to a small staircase beyond the back of the shop, presumably to an upstairs series of offices where Scrooge and Marley worked, stood a short, dumpy woman who looked like she’d been stung by a whole nest of wasps.

  Tyler’s mood swung low as she stepped forward. Michelle shrank back into her seat.

  “You may leave them here, and we shall contact her.” She stared at Tyler, and then gave a quick reproachful glance at Michelle. It was like a slap; Michelle turned quickly away.

  “Ah, that’s very kind of you. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Nonsense, hand them over.”

  “Did you enjoy your date?” Michelle dared to speak.

  “Oh it was wonderful, thank you yes. She’s a fantastic lady.”

  “She is! I knew you’d like her,” Michelle stood again, broad grin taking up her whole face, hands clasped together as though in prayer. “And her hair, did you like her hair?”

  Fuck, thought Tyler. Whatever you do, don’t ask me what colour it was. “Absolutely.”

  “And the colour, what did you think of the colour? I chose it for her.”

  “Well, what can I say. It was beautiful, but I confess,” he smoothed his hair, “I was admiring her face.”

  “Oh yeah, anything else?” Michelle was almost, but not quite, cheeky.

  The fat prude cleared her throat, and Michelle recoiled again. “May we do anything else for you, Mr..?”

  “No, you’ve done enough, thank you very much.”

  “I trust she has your details?”

  “Oh yes, yes she does.” His cheeks were aching, and then he looked at the flowers, a frown closing in, giving his smiling cheeks a break, “How long do you suppose they’ll last, I mean before they begin to look second hand?”

  “Difficult to say. I’m a vegetable woman myself.” She stared at him. He felt decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Right,” he said, backing towards the door. “Well, you’ve been most kind. Thank you very much.”

  Tyler turned and headed out of the shop, closed his eyes and took a deep breath once the door had closed behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  — One —

  Ros arrived at the scene by herself. James had tagged along with Duffy and that was just fine by her. Today, all she wanted was to be left alone.

  She’d had precisely no sleep at all last night. It was difficult, she found, with the threat of a knife in your throat. And she wondered how the hell she would ever sleep again. It made no sense; all the stuff Brian ranted on about last night, beginning of course with the almighty punch in her stomach, and ending with him kneeling over her, pressing a blade into her windpipe. It wasn’t like him; he was placid. He was… well, whatever he was, he wasn’t a lunatic.

  Until now.

  Now he was very much a lunatic. And living with a lunatic equalled no sleep last night, and none tonight. None ever again. She shook her head as she pulled up to the cordon, but didn’t get out. Her desire for work today, she had to admit, was less than normal.

  She had to think of something before the shift was out. She had to go somewhere, find somewhere to stay without seeming needy. Nobody liked a needy person; it made them wonder what was going to befall them too. A hotel maybe?

  No, no hotel. Brian will simply come to the office the next day asking awkward questions. And how’s it going to look when you’re having a domestic in reception?

  Almost in a daydream, Ros climbed from the van and, unusually, the first thing she did was get a scene suit out and put it on together with the hood and face mask. The place was heaving with press and TV cameras, and the last thing she wanted was to be someone
’s entertainment for the morning. Anonymity restored, she crossed the cordon and signed in, then walked across to the rusty blue van.

  All around her, shutters clicked and frontmen talked into cameras, holding fluffy microphones before them. This was going to be very awkward due to the press being so intrusive. Across from the van, CSI had erected a scene tent over the exposed body of a dead male, and even that was attracting a fair bit of attention. James and Duffy nodded at her.

  The police had closed Harehills Lane at the front of the Turkish tearoom to carry out a fingertip search by suited members of the OSU, looking for shell casings and such. More press stood at either end of the cordon.

  And the traffic from the closed road was rolling slowly right past her scene. Ros closed her eyes; this was going to be a nightmare.

  She had, on occasion, sought the cooperation of the media by offering them a photo shoot of her performing some mundane, meaningless task that didn’t throw focus on the main job or bring attention to a body or a bloodbath. She scanned the faces; there were just too many of them, and she would get no consensus from them.

  There was a body lying across the seats of the van, and across the far window was a curtain of blood and spattering of brain, and she didn’t want the press photographing that. Yet she had to get to it, had to work through it.

  Then Ros had an idea. She smiled and went to see the OSU sergeant.

  — Two —

  “And it’s got a tracker fitted to it, so no fucking about.” Slade stared at him. “Do you understand me; are we clear?”

  Jagger nodded. “I know asking you to trust me won’t get you to trust me, but… you can trust me, you know.”

  “We’ll see, lad,” Slade said. “Takes years to earn my trust.”

  Monty reached in and handed Jagger a fat envelope. “Harbour master is Geoff Willoughby. Speak to no one else, okay?”

  Jagger nodded. “Geoff Willoughby, right.”

  “And when you’ve collected it, you ring me, let me know it all went smooth, and then get your arse straight back here. No speeding,” Slade warned, “I do not want that boot searching, you get me?”