A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy)

by Andrew Barrett

  He tried to swallow, but his throat clacked.

  For the last time he entered her bedroom, folded the plastic bag inside out, used it as a sheath to withdraw the penknife from Nicky’s neck, closed the blade, and pulled the bag the right way out again. With care, he slid the face cloth in and his first pair of dripping, bloody gloves, followed by the tweezers and the paper. Then he pulled off his current soiled gloves, pushed them in also and sealed the bag’s end. Nicky’s blood smeared his right thumb and the bag’s inner surface.

  Without blinking, he put his third and final pair of latex gloves on. Everything then went inside the black cotton bag. He smoothed out the creases on the bedclothes where he had laid his instruments, looked around to make sure he had left no traces of himself behind and then exited, turning off the light with a nudge of a gloved finger.

  Quietly, he lumbered back down the threadbare stairs, being careful not to trip during his unsteady descent. For a while – it must have been at least a minute – he stood in the lounge, aware that he was alone, but strangely sensing a companion of sorts, a dead companion, maybe.

  Should have brought a smock, he thought, noticing fine droplets of blood on his shirt. But how could he have unfolded it and put it on in silence, he reasoned, without her hearing him.

  It had all gone according to plan, just as he’d imagined it would in all the rehearsals in his mind.

  He put the black cotton bag and its scarlet contents on the floor, stepped into his shoes and took the gloves off so he could tie the laces. Next, he put his coat back on and was about to bend and retrieve the black cotton bag and the gloves, when he saw the mug. He allowed himself a brief moment to calm down, slurped a drink of warm coffee to moisten his parched mouth and his clacking throat, and then carried the mug into the kitchen. He knocked off the light switch with his elbow and poured the remainder of the coffee down the sink, using the light from the streetlamp outside to see by. He used a tea towel to cover his left hand and turned on the tap, rinsed out the mug, and still using the towel, opened a few cupboard doors, found the correct one and put the mug away.

  As he entered the short hallway, he noticed the heating thermostat and though it wasn’t in the original plan, he switched on the heating to warm the place up. He knew this would extend the window of error surrounding her estimated time of death by making the body cool down slower than it would naturally.

  Before collecting the black cotton bag from lounge, he removed his glasses, folded their arms and tucked them away into his breast pocket. And then he stopped, had a last look around, found Nicky’s keys and let himself out. The air was refreshingly cold and he felt pleased to note that things out here were still quiet, quieter even, if that was possible. There were no police cars, no barking Alsatians slavering all over his Hush Puppies, no helicopter overhead, its searchlight pinning him to the doorstep. It was as dark as a power cut and quiet as corpse. The sky was an endless black. Orion peered down on him.

  And when he turned, closed and locked the door, the security light over Nicky’s door clicked on and saturated the driveway with a white brilliance. He walked away, taking the long route back to his car. He laughed as he walked.

  At last, he was sitting in the tepid warmth of his car beneath the willow tree, looking at the passenger seat and retracing the route his eyes had taken as they trailed over her curves earlier that night.

  He started the engine, checked his rear view mirror, indicated, and pulled out onto the road.

  At 02.15 on Wednesday morning, he closed his garage door and prepared a small bonfire. The plastic bag and its gruesome contents joined his coat, trousers and shirt in the flames. At three, he extinguished the smouldering ashes and, clad now in an old boiler suit, packaged the charred remains into an old shoebox. Then he brought his car into the garage, vacuumed the foot wells and seats. Finally, he cleaned the offside and nearside external and internal surfaces of the car, being careful not to forget the seat belt buckle.

  After all this, he locked the shoebox in the boot of his car. On the way to work, he would visit at a restaurant or some other establishment with large wheelie bins outside, and dump his ever-so-private waste in there.

  Business attended to, he thought.

  At four o’clock, he climbed into bed and slept until six.

  Chapter Eleven

  At 6.10am, Yvonne could stand the pain no longer. In frustration she threw back the covers and bit down on a scream as her skinny legs tipped out of bed; and she gradually stood upright, reluctant to let go of the bed, looking like a woman testing to see if the floor would take her weight. Part of the scream escaped anyway, but Roger slept through it. During the night, her right knee had locked solid, and the pain had increased with every thud of her heart. She knew that when eventually the knee cracked free, it would be as if someone had taken a swing with a lump hammer.

  She saw herself reflected in the mirrors on the wardrobe doors. The frown, the narrowed eyes, the bags beneath them. “Not pretty. You look like shit,” she said, and then her image drifted out of focus. Into focus came Roger; his uncontrollable mop of hair sprouting from the quilt. An arm floated over the edge of the bed.

  They had an arrangement: when he anticipated being late home, he would ring and leave a message on the machine. Should she wake up at three or four in the morning worried by the unusual amount of space she had, she would check the machine for messages. But last night she didn’t need to check the machine because last night she didn’t sleep; the ceiling and the gentle swaying of the curtains entertained her mind, as did the luminous clock on Roger’s nightstand and the incessant throbbing in her knees.

  There was no call, no message. And seeing how there was no sleep either, Yvonne elected to call him at the office and then on his mobile to see how he was doing. And was she surprised when he didn’t answer? Well, yes, she was, at first. Suppose he could’ve been busy or had left his phone in the van but…

  When he finally did come home, smelling of perfume, she solved the puzzle.

  Yvonne made it to the bathroom and then downstairs. On her way through the lounge, she stopped in front the 10x8 of their wedding day. How pretty she looked back then without the need for makeup, and how… young. No bags, legs in fine working order. How much in love she was. All smiles, all love, all promises.

  All broken.

  In the kitchen, she grabbed the kettle, almost threw it into the sink and wrenched the tap on. Water sprayed off the lid, soaked her nightie and splashed across the floor. “Fuck!” she yelled.

  * * *

  Roger woke as downstairs the kettle switched off.

  He noticed Yvonne was up already, and then headed for the bathroom. He sat on the toilet seat, waiting for the bath to fill. He added bubble bath, sat down again and sighed. The Fleetwood Mac song from last night floated around his mind.

  The bath filled, he checked the temperature and then turned off the taps.

  “Coffee, Roger!”

  “Coming.” Dressed in boxer shorts, he scooted down the stairs and entered the lounge as Yvonne struggled into her seat.

  “Bath’s ready.”

  “Coffee’s in the kitchen.” She didn’t even look up, merely dropped her makeup bag on the floor beside her chair.

  He went back into the lounge, sat opposite her, rested his coffee on a convenient shelf in the bookcase and nervously ran fingers through his hair.

  “Got a bit rough did she?”

  “Sorry?” And then his hand went to his cheek. “Oh, this. I told her if she did it again I wouldn’t pay her.” He grinned, rubbed his glasses on the leg of his shorts.

  “Roger, my body may be disabled, but I promise you my eyes and my mind are still in good working order.” Her stare remained hard. “Please, don’t lie to me, and whatever you do, don’t patronise me.”

  “Yvonne, I… I was only kidding, for God’s sake.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh come on; since when could I afford a prostitute?” He could
n’t help it; he burst out laughing.

  Yvonne did not. “Careful, now.”

  His laughter settled, and eventually stopped completely, about the same time that he stopped looking at her and started looking at the carpet. He continued rubbing his glasses. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about, Yvonne. I was at a burglary where the intruders had broken a kitchen window, see.” He sipped the coffee and began miming. “You would have laughed – well, maybe you wouldn’t – I powdered the outside and then put my head through the broken window to look for…”

  Yvonne folded her arms. “Now, is this a lie or are you patronising me?”

  “Neither!” His reaction was so good that he almost convinced himself.

  “Carry on.”

  “Well,” he became unsettled and tripped over his words. “I, well, as I was saying, I poked my head through… and there was this piece of glass protruding from the frame…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, that’s about all really. I cut my cheek on it.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  She still appeared unimpressed.

  Roger grew desperate. “That’s how I cut my fingers, remember, lifting broken glass?”

  “And since when did you use your face to lift broken glass?”

  “Oh, how droll.”

  “Where was this burglary?”

  “Why?”

  “Where?”

  “Castleford. Just a domestic burglary in Castleford.”

  “You’ll rub the lenses through to nothing if you don’t stop now.” She stared at him. “Did you know, apart from cleaning powder off your glasses, you only ever clean them when you’re lying?”

  “Hmph.”

  “Hmph, indeed. Maybe it’s so that you can’t see properly, so that your eyes don’t give away the fact that you’re lying.” She smiled at him, but it was surgical. Knowing.

  He put his glasses back on and folded his arms, still not looking at her.

  “What time was this?”

  He picked up his coffee again, needing to hold something. “I don’t know, half-one, two-ish. Why?”

  “Such an urgent job was it? Couldn’t leave it for the day staff?”

  “No, well, you see, they wanted to board it up—”

  “I see. So, let me get this straight; you’re definitely not lying to me, and…you’re definitely not patronising me?”

  “Yvonne? What’s the matter? Your bath will be getting—”

  “Sod the bath!” She threw the plate of half-eaten toast at the wall next to his chair. It shattered, and both stared at the fragments. The toast clung to her needlework stretched taught on its wooden frame. She scowled at him.

  “You were not at the office after one-thirty last night. Your mobile was switched off after one-thirty last night. A simple domestic burglary would have been left for the day staff. Should I continue?”

  Roger looked stunned. Couldn’t think of a reply. His jaw hung slack.

  “Even you wouldn’t be so clumsy as to cut your face on glass. And anyway, am I to assume that expensive perfume had been sprayed around these premises? To be even more patronising,” she said, “should I assume that on the way back to the office, perhaps, you were accosted by several females who needed a flat tyre changing and one of them happened to work in a cosmetics shop and just happened to have a free sample on her which you thought you’d try out to see if I cared for the aroma, and so rush out this morning and by me thirty fucking pounds worth!”

  Roger thought for a moment. “Now you’re being silly, Yvonne.”

  “I might’ve run out of plates, Roger, but I still have a cup in my hand.”

  “You’ll get tea on your tapestry.”

  “Watch it, Roger. Don’t be flippant.”

  Any thought of approaching this with humour finally keeled over and died. His face straightened.

  And that’s when Yvonne put down her tea and stood. She limped over to the 10x8 wedding photo. Roger opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out as she took the photograph down. She stared at it for a brief moment and then walked to the kitchen door.

  “Yvonne?”

  She bent down, grunting and puffing, and carefully placed the picture, smile side out, upright against the doorframe.

  “What are you…?” Roger stood and he almost managed a step towards her before she took the edge of the door in both hands and slammed it. Glass exploded, gold-painted wood splintered and the door bounced back, its handle banged against the wall.

  Yvonne turned, staring at him. “Tell me,” was all she said.

  “That,” he pointed, “it was our—”

  “I know what it was,” she shouted, “and if you don’t tell me, I’ll put your nuts in there next time!”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Take a wild fucking guess. What do I want you to say! Hell, Roger, the bastard truth might be a good place to start. What d’ya think?”

  “I’ve broken it off.” The words just tumbled out of his loose mouth.

  Her eyes sparkled at the discovery. Or was it the beginning of hatred? “Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. So, you’re starting at the present and working your way cautiously into the past, am I right?”

  “Yes, Yvonne. You’re right!” Defeated, he flopped down in the chair. “This cut on my cheek… I’ve broken it off. She was none too pleased.”

  “Were you going to leave me for her? Is she married and was she going to elope with you?”

  “No, I was not going to leave, and I can’t answer for her.”

  “She was, wasn’t she? She was disappointed; that’s why she came at you.”

  “I don’t know, no, yes. I don’t know.”

  “How long has it been going on for? And I want, no, I need to know the truth, Roger.” Yvonne looked at the broken glass, then turned and hobbled back to her seat.

  “Three months or thereabouts.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “No!”

  She actually laughed at him. “Why so astonished, I do know police officers, Roger. Sometimes some of them even stop here for a cup of tea.”

  “I know they do. She’s not a police officer.”

  Yvonne drained her cup. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m not going to throw it at you. I merely wondered if you would fill it up for me.”

  He grasped the cup, but she did not let go. Their eyes met, and she held his gaze this time.

  “I knew you were lying.”

  “I… You said already: the glasses, right?”

  “And because you stopped reminding me to take my tablets.”

  Just for a moment, Roger Conniston wanted to be someone else, anyone else, just as long as he didn’t have to endure this awful feeling any longer. He felt like a drunk who just ran over some kid’s puppy.

  “I think you should leave, Roger.”

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  But I haven’t made your cup of tea yet, he thought, and then hated himself even more. He stared at her for a long time, and noticed she’d already put makeup on again. “I’ve been stupid. I’m truly ashamed of myself, Yvonne.”

  * * *

  Even though he wasn’t on duty until ten o’clock, he showered and dressed ready for work, selecting one of three identical pairs of navy blue slacks, a blue shirt with crisply ironed sleeves and a crumpled torso, his only tie, faded grey with aluminium powder embedded in the material, and his burgundy waistcoat. He was coming down the stairs when Yvonne shouted for him to take his toiletries and spare clothes with him. He stopped on stairs, rocking, nearly falling forward with the impact of the words.

  No humour occurred to him now.

  Nothing would ever be the same again, he thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  — One —

  Chris arrived early at the office. Today he felt fine. Today, he felt in charge.

  A rape had come in overnight and officers were still guarding the scene. H
e allotted the job to Jon who expressed his dislike by slamming the office door in Chris’s face. Tough, he thought, someone has to do it.

  Now it was time he got to know his new member of staff a little better, and he told himself it had nothing to do with Roger quietly suggesting he had a talk to him and reassure him. “Bring your coffee over here, Paul. Come on, pull up a pew and have a chat with your boss.” He rolled the sleeves of his grey cardigan up, creasing the brown suede elbow pads.

  “Have I done something wrong, Chris?”

  “I don’t know, have you?”

  “Well, not as far as I know. I mean, I began to fingerprint some recovered property before I’d photographed it, but seriously, I think that’s about all.”

  “Well then, you’ve done nothing wrong. And,” he sipped his coffee, “if you had done something wrong, we’d talk about it, help you avoid the same error again.”

  “I know. I guess I’m just a worrier.”

  “I don’t like errors, it must be said; I demand a high standard from my team and that includes thoroughness and accountability beyond reproach. There’s only one way of doing that: be professional. Tell me, if something comes along and you’re not sure how to handle it, do you have a go, or do you seek help?”

  “Well, I think I—”

  “Think? Come on, Paul. What would you do?”

  He tugged at his purple tie. “I’d follow my intuition. I’d do what I thought was right.”

  Chris saw something spark in the lad that impressed him. He was enthusiastic. “Good. So would I.”

  Paul’s relief was evident. His hand went to his tie again.

  Chris aimed to make himself approachable to Paul, but spoke firmly, laying down his own methodology and expectations. It was important that he had Paul on side, important that he could take orders, but think for himself too. “Right, sit back, sit back and tell me your worries, your aims or whatever else you want to talk about.”