A Long Time Dead

by Andrew Barrett

  “Oh thanks a lot, Lenny.” Ellis put Weston in something approaching the recovery position, and then he scuttled back to the phone behind his counter, grimaced at the blood on the handset and called the ACR. “Yeah, it’s Sergeant Coldworth from the cells at Wood Street— what? Yes, just listen, will you. We have an escaped 10-12— yes, dammit, are you fucking deaf?” And then he stopped. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to— yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m very sorry. He’s called Roger Conniston...”

  * * *

  Firth told Shelby, and after he calmed down, Shelby gave the order to the patrol sergeant. Moments later twelve police officers dashed along the corridor towards the car park, pulling on their body armour. Firth flattened himself into the wall to avoid the stampede. “Oh, Christ,” Firth said, and walked down the corridor to where Shelby stood, eyes blazing, jaw pulsing.

  * * *

  If ever Shelby wanted to thump someone, it was now. He knew it wasn’t Firth’s fault but that didn’t matter. Right now, Shelby wanted to beat the living crap out of someone, anyone, and Firth was the nearest. Only the fear of Firth hitting him right back, stopped him.

  “I found these,” Firth held out a stack of credit cards and a brown leather wallet. A Gold MasterCard on show with Weston’s name on it.

  “So they’re in the cells,” Shelby said, “they have a fight, Conniston wins, takes Weston’s wallet and uses his ID card to get out, right?”

  He looked at the MasterCard, “These were in the transit bay, sir, so yes, we’re supposing so.”

  “You’re supposing so! What was Weston doing in there in the first damned place? Oh, don’t tell me, I can guess. And now Conniston’s gone.”

  “Long gone.”

  “How long, Lenny?”

  “Custody camera says he went at 1644.”

  “Great. He’s got a quarter of an hour on us.”

  “Weston’s got concussion, and he’s—”

  “Whoa, Lenny. Hold it there. You’re under the impression that I give a sideways toss about Weston.” He glared at Firth. “I don’t want to know. Okay?”

  “Sir.”

  “Right, get a guard at Weston’s bedside. And do it now. I don’t want him doing a bunk as well. He’s got some serious shit coming his way.”

  “There’s er, there’s something else too, boss.”

  “Am I going to want to hit you for this, Lenny?”

  Firth nodded. “I think so, boss, yeah.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Weston’s patrol car keys are missing.”

  Shelby closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath and held it before saying, “I hate this job sometimes.”

  “I know—”

  “Get the fleet number. Contact the Radio Custodian and ask him to disable the radio in that car, I don’t want Conniston to know what’s happening.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “And then get a car outside Weston’s house,” Shelby screamed.

  Lenny stood there, stunned.

  “Lenny?”

  “Boss?”

  “You’re still here?”

  * * *

  Shelby knocked quietly, hoping Chamberlain wouldn’t hear him, and he could creep away off the face of the earth.

  “Come in.”

  He groaned and entered Chamberlain’s smoke-filled lair for the hundredth time during this enquiry. He felt the heat prickle on his face as he stood at his desk while Chamberlain stubbed out a cigarette and opened a window.

  “Sorry about the smoke,” he said. “I thought it too chilly to open a window. Now I can barely see my desk,” he giggled. “Suppose I’d better get cold, eh?”

  “Sir,” Shelby said.

  “You seem pensive, Graham? Is everything in order with the Bridgestock case? Haven’t come to beg more staff, have you, because if you have—”

  “No, sir. I haven’t.”

  “Has he admitted to Delaney’s murder yet?”

  “Well, sir, I’m still—”

  “Never mind,” Chamberlain waved a hand, “put it in the report and we’ll convene a meeting on Monday.”

  “Sir—”

  “I’m on with the Home Office paperwork now, Graham, so I trust your report will be forthcoming before the end of tomorrow?”

  “About the report, sir—”

  “Interview strategy working the way you hoped?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Good.”

  Shelby closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  Chamberlain retook his seat, folded his arms. “But something is wrong, Graham. I can tell, because you are not creeping around me. Do you have a telephone directory down the seat of your trousers in preparation?” Chamberlain smiled. Then he gripped the desk, “Conniston has hanged himself hasn’t he? I knew—”

  “He’s escaped custody, sir.” Shelby braced himself.

  It took a while for Chamberlain to react. From his drawer, he pulled a packet of cigarettes. He lit one, breathed deeply, exhaled and then screamed, “How?”

  “We’re not entirely sure yet. Inspector Weston was found unconscious in Conniston’s cell—”

  “What on earth was he doing in there? He’s not a gaoler!”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Don’t know? Why don’t you damned well know, Inspector Shelby?”

  Shelby shifted his weight. “Weston’s patrol car is missing, sir.”

  Chamberlain spat smoke out and broke into a coughing fit. Shelby moved to slap him on the back and then thought better of it. Instead he stood uncomfortably still until his senior officer stopped coughing and his colour approached normal again. “You are trying to get me into medical retirement, Shelby, aren’t you?”

  “No, sir—”

  “Now you listen to me, man.” Chamberlain stood up and pointed aggressively, “You get me Conniston. Summon the Chief’s Reserve, get them involved, get... get everyone involved.” Chamberlain appeared unwell, eyes red, face green. He kicked his chair aside and marched around to Shelby.

  Shelby twitched but stood his ground.

  “What have you done so far?”

  “We have a team at his home address and we have four patrols – all our available early turn staff – and three CID officers on the road searching.”

  “What about the helicopter?”

  “In the air now, sir.”

  “Now let me be clear about this; you find Conniston before this gets out.” He stepped closer. “If the press gets hold of this, Shelby, I will do my best to have you looking for another job within a month.”

  “But it was Weston who shouldn’t—”

  “Stop passing the buck, man!” Chamberlain sucked on his cigarette, turned abruptly from Shelby, stood by the open window and said, “That is a sincere warning. Now get out.”

  Shelby got as far as the door.

  “I expect you to report back in two hours. Let the news be good.”

  Shelby stepped onto the carpeted corridor and reached all the way to the double swing doors at its end before he breathed out. He felt like putting his fist through the glass. He took his jacket off, slackened his tie and wafted his shirt against his hot skin. “Firth!” he called as he reached the CID office. “Where’s Firth?” The three people left in the office all replied, “Toilet.”

  Shelby waited outside, teeth grinding together.

  Firth stepped out and almost collided with him. “Get the helicopter up, Lenny,” he said. “Broadcast the ID number of Weston’s car. Then get me the Chief’s Reserve. I want Wakefield crawling with uniforms. Understand?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Then get back to me quick. I’ll be in the canteen preparing for my nervous breakdown.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Are you waiting for that in writing, Lenny?” Shelby watched Firth trot out of sight. It was 1710hrs. Dark outside.

  — Two —

  Shelby replayed Chamberlain’s words and especially the threat that he was more than capable of
fulfilling. But he couldn’t really blame him for the outburst; it was a shitty situation.

  His chubby hands caressed a mug of black tea, and he considered the evidence. Roger’s version of events, of it being some kind of elaborate set-up, had begun to gain credence – until he ran away, that was. And if that was the case, that it was a set-up, who would have cause to do it and why, were the extremely big questions.

  The fibre evidence from Nicky’s clothing finally came back as late model Ford; Roger drives a late model Ford. But so did half the bloody population, Shelby knew. And really, even a trainee barrister could pick holes in the name and number evidence; they could be there merely as pointers in the wrong direction.

  He could imagine Chamberlain’s reaction to a ‘wrongful arrest’ suit. Oh yes; he would kick Shelby’s head around his office for a few hours and then play golf with his testicles. And all that before sacking him.

  “Sir?”

  Shelby jumped. Firth walked toward him alongside a man he didn’t recognise. “Lenny, just give me ten minutes to think through my bloody strategy, can’t you?”

  “Boss, this is the Fingerprint Expert who checked the scene marks.”

  “Did you do as I asked, Lenny?”

  “I got the helicopter—”

  “Just a yes or no will do, Lenny. In fact, just a yes, forget the no.”

  “It’s a yes, boss,” and he added, “I think you ought to hear what he has to say.” Firth turned to the man who waited patiently in the background.

  Shelby stood and shook his hand. “More tea, Lenny, please. Would you join me...?”

  “Barry Goodwyn, sir. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago. And yes, please, I’d love one,” he said to Firth, “white, no sugar.”

  “Right, what have you got for me?”

  “One of the marks from the scene, the one matching Roger Conniston, has traces of paint on it.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Well...oh thank you.” Barry took the tea and moved aside to let Firth sit between them. “Sometimes, when fingermarks are lifted, unsound paintwork can also come off with the mark. I’ve often said we use tape that has far too strong a tack value—”

  “Barry, please, I don’t have time for riddles. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  Barry blinked. “The paint on the lift is blue. I discussed this with Gareth, who used Quasar at the scene, and he insists categorically, that all the paintwork in Nicky Bridgestock’s house was white.”

  Shelby absorbed the news. Then, “What? You’re saying the mark is foreign to the scene. Are you telling me it was planted?”

  “Well... I don’t see how blue paint could—”

  “Fuck!” Shelby stood, knocked the table and Barry’s teacup hit the floor with a wet thud. “Get that new SOCO here now, Lenny. He’s fucked up somehow. And then get that mark across from the bureau. Now!”

  Shelby stormed out of the canteen and hurried to the SOCO office on the ground floor. He barged through the door and found two people in there. Helen had her head down, studying the grain on her desk it seemed, and Jon, eyes buried in a newspaper.

  “Where’s Paul?” Shelby asked.

  Helen didn’t move. Jon took his feet off the desk, thought about the question, and answered, “Don’t know. Must’ve gone home.”

  “Thanks for all your help.” Shelby slammed the door and shouted at James Potts on the front counter, “Put a call out for Paul Bryant. Tell him to come to the front counter immediately. Okay?”

  There was no answer to the Tannoy, and Shelby excused himself, unable to tolerate James’s incessant chatter. Firth had no luck in any of the men’s rooms or the CJSU office. He found out Paul’s address and was about to send a unit from Killingbeck in Leeds to call at Paul’s home. But Shelby commandeered him first.

  “Lenny, come with me.”

  “But, I—”

  Shelby pounced into the SOCO office again. Jon’s newspaper remained obstinately before his eyes. “Jon, what car does Paul drive?”

  “Aston Martin Lagonda.”

  “Right,” Shelby said. “Do you know the... Are you taking the piss?” The newspaper dropped, Jon’s smile died as Shelby snatched for his neck with fingers like claws. “You think this is funny?”

  “What,” Jon pushed his chair backwards. Shelby followed still reaching forward. “Do I think what’s funny?”

  Helen looked up only briefly.

  Shelby grabbed Jon’s shirt, and yelled, “What fucking car does Paul drive, and what’s the fucking number?” He lifted Jon part way out of his seat. The newspaper fell to the floor.

  “I think it’s a VW, a white VW Golf.”

  “It’s a Polo,” Helen said.

  “Number?”

  “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  Shelby dropped Jon and dragged Firth back out into the corridor. “I want you—”

  “I know. You want me to check the car parks for a white VW Polo.”

  “So exactly what are you bloody waiting for?”

  “Boss.”

  “And when you’ve finished, back to my office, sharpish. And check with the patrol sergeants, I want an update from their search.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  — One —

  Roger was half way to Weston’s house when he stopped at the side of the road and forced himself to think. He knew that Shelby would put men on his house, but he’d probably put them on Weston’s house too. And he’d do that because he knew Roger would go there, he knew Roger wouldn’t be able to keep his nose out of the investigation.

  The metal streetlamps wobbled in the wind, illuminating horizontal rain. The wipers screeched across the screen and rush-hour traffic flowed past. Roger immersed himself in thought.

  Visiting Weston’s house could wait until later in the evening when full darkness would provide more cover. Weston would be in hospital by now, hopefully with his wife by his side. And later, Roger would find a way into the house around the back, he hoped, out of sight of the guard. So he reluctantly turned around, took back roads out of Wakefield, heading not towards home, but to a safe place that held no connection to anyone involved with this case: a village called Outwood, filled with terraced houses and neat gardens, where the Post Office was also the library.

  It was 1718 when the UHF radio died. Roger couldn’t raise anything except static. He sat in the patrol car, parked around the back of a petrol station in Newton Hill facing the main Leeds Road. His nerves were jagged. Frightened. But angry too. He thought the time spent here alone might clear his head, might produce some inspirational thought that would get him out of this mess. It didn’t happen.

  The rain slackened off considerably, a mere drizzle spitting on the screen.

  Roger picked up Micky’s phone and dialled home, praying Yvonne would answer this time.

  After a while, she did answer by saying, “You’re going to be late again, aren’t you? I said I’d prepare a meal—”

  “Is Chris there?”

  “Whatever happened to ‘hello’?”

  “Please, Yvonne. Is Chris there?”

  “No,” she said, “why would he be?”

  “Okay; he’ll be there soon, Yvonne, and he’s going to give you some bad news.”

  “Why? Roger? What’s happened?”

  “Hey, I’m okay, I’m okay. Really, it’s nothing like that. I’ve... Yvonne, they’ve arrested me.”

  “What!”

  “It’s a bake, Yvonne. Listen, I’ll tell you all about it later, but you have to trust me. Yvonne,” he asked, “you do trust me, don’t you?”

  There was a pause, long enough to have Roger worried. “Yes,” she said at last. Then, “Why have they arrested you?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. But Chris is coming to see you; I need his help, he’s the only one I can trust—”

  “Why’s he coming—”

  “Probably to give you the bad news. Just... please, will you tell him to meet me at his house, I need
his help; I need his advice.”

  “Okay,” she said. Her voice was subdued, a little shaky. “I’ll tell him. Answer me this though, Roger; is it something to do with that dead girl, Nicky Bridgestock?”

  “I haven’t got much time.”

  Yvonne paused, and then said, “I found her house key, Roger. In your coat pocket.”

  “What!”

  “It’s here. On the table. Large as...”

  The bastard. Oh, you’re a clever man, West—

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Roger?”

  “Get rid of it, Yvonne. They’re part of the bake. If they find that key, it’ll make things harder for me.”

  “But I don’t understand why they were—”

  “Planted, Yvonne.”

  “Who the hell would do that? Come on, this is not a soap opera.”

  “Damned right it’s not. It’s real, Yvonne. Weston’s out to get me.”

  “The dodgy Inspector? The one you should have left alone?”

  “I’m begging you! Trust me on this one. I’ve screwed up in the past, I know, but not this time, Yvonne. I’m being straight here. Please,” he urged, “trust me.” Another patrol car passed by. Roger gasped. “I have to go, have to get away from here; they’re out looking for me.” Without giving her the chance to respond, he ended the call and threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

  He started the car and headed for Chris’s house.

  * * *

  It was a newish estate, maybe ten years old; one of those designer dreams where the access road meanders gracefully between the semis and the bungalows, where each bowling green front lawn stands next to its partner with no separating fence, just a row of immature ferns. Roger parked the patrol car close to Chris’s house and climbed out. He jogged past a For Sale sign sticking out of the front border, down the short drive and around the back.

  He peered through the kitchen window, hoping Chris was already at home and that maybe the car was in the garage. He banged on the back door, idly kicking the step, hoping for a response. None came and now Roger suddenly felt vulnerable, isolated and on view in his white plastic suit. Across the back of the garden grew a line of conifers that swayed in the wind. Only Chris’s garage afforded any cover on the third side, and even that was intermittent: there was no fencing fore or aft of it. None standing, anyway. It was horizontal, long grass growing through it, a victim of the winds suffered on Wakefield’s higher ground. And separating Chris’s house from his neighbour’s was a five-foot lap fence. Their rotary washing line, weighed down by clothes, tapped annoyingly on the fence top.