A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy)

by Andrew Barrett

  “Thanks Hobnail, but you can’t remember where—”

  His hair had blown about his dirty pate in thin wisps. “No, no idea. All I know is the man what I couldn’t see says to Weston, ‘Final, Harvey’s table’. Now, maybe it’s in a restaurant or…” he shook his head, “I don’t rightly know.” He’d shrugged. “But I remembered you sayin’ he was bent, this Weston, that I should steer well clear of ‘im—”

  “You should, he’s dangerous.” He had thanked Hobnail and paid for another liquid lunch.

  Then he saw Weston, and gasped. He froze, didn’t know what to do.

  He remembered the last time Weston caught him. He’d snarled at Roger and said next time he would pull his innards out through his arsehole. Roger swallowed hard, fingertips trembled.

  Weston was fifty yards further into the woods, striding unheard ever inwards, wading through the undergrowth as though struggling through a deep snowfall. The wind tugged at his hair and pulled his coat out behind him and then threw it back at him; the wind came from everywhere all at once, and its noise in the dense trees was massive. Roger moved to his right, slipping down a shallow, muddy embankment and lost sight of Weston. He stood, craned his neck and then scrambled back up, mud and wet foliage slick between his cold fingers. He took a couple of strides closer, and Weston’s fawn coloured coat came back into view.

  His heart raced, and he tried desperately to close the gap between them down to something the camera could comfortably handle. Oh, for a telephoto lens. Weston had stopped in a small clearing, the wind making him squint, as was Roger, against the onslaught of spinning leaves and twigs. His gold bracelet looked bright against the darkness of the trees behind him.

  He seemed to be looking for something.

  Roger continued to move closer; he took out the camera, turned the power on and felt, but could not hear, the lens motor working. He was forty yards away, and he almost cried out as Weston spun a full 360, quick as a gyroscope, scanning the woods for… well, for spies, Roger guessed.

  He panted. Had Weston seen him?

  There he was standing out in the open for all to see; might as well staple a neon sign to his head that flashed on and off: I’m here! I’m here! Even so, Weston hadn’t stopped to scrutinise; he carried on turning, didn’t flinch. So maybe he hadn’t seen him.

  But Weston had seen him.

  And now Roger crouched breathless behind a wide oak, his back to the wet bark, and waited, taking the opportunity to clean smears and specks of mud from his glasses. Roger needed to catch his composure. It was nothing to do with fear, he told himself, he wasn’t the least bit worried about Weston, possibly armed, finding him in the same stretch of woodland. No, not worried at all. But he might have been holding his breath. And his fingers may have trembled slightly.

  Roger was about to pull the camera up to shooting position. But he didn’t get the chance.

  — Two —

  She had been right; the pain was like someone hitting her knee with a lump hammer. Yvonne screamed and flopped onto the hallway floor with a sickening crunch. She screamed even harder and beat at the carpet with feeble fists as her eyes screwed shut against the pain.

  Agony ruptured the bubble that Yvonne had created to hold her breath in. Another scream exploded into the hallway. This one caused by a torture as bad as she could remember, and suddenly her head hit the carpet and her fingers dug in.

  Five minutes later, or it could have been fifty-five minutes later, Yvonne held her breath again and pulled herself into the lounge with fingers the nails of which lay in tatters in her wake. Her makeup had run in great black streaks down her face, the trace of blue mascara looked like a four-year-old had applied it with a pasting brush. Her lipstick was on the hall floor, though a streak of it remained in the cleft of her chin.

  Dignity, Roger. That’s why. “Couldn’t you see it?” It didn’t matter. What mattered was the phone. And there it was, on Roger’s table next to his easy chair. It was close, only a few yards away. Another few minutes…

  — Three —

  He pressed ok.

  “Yvonne?” It was a shout, but in this wind he supposed it was more like a whisper. His wet hair whipped about his head, and his coat collar was like a very small boat’s sail, how it flapped against his neck as he crouched behind the oak, exposed knees tucked up, rain dancing on their shiny sodden surface.

  “I need you,” she said.

  He buried his finger in his spare ear, and said, “Speak up, what did you say?”

  She told him that she had fallen. Yes, she said, it was serious, how the knee seemed to grind as she hit the bottom stair, and how “I’ve never felt pain like it, Roger. I’m in agony!”

  “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “No!” she shouted. “I’ve freed a seized joint, Roger, that’s all. Hurts like a bitch, but it’s not worth getting them and hospitals involved.”

  “You sure, sweet?”

  “Please, just… Soon, Roger.”

  He closed his eyes, dragged a wet hand down his wet face and stared off into the woods, back the way he had come, and he watched eddies, trainee whirlwinds, throw leaves around, trying to screw them into the woodland floor. How the naked branches were tossed about by the wind like blades of grass to a child’s sigh; and they were clashing, having a thousand simultaneous swordfights.

  Roger had a choice. Stay with Weston, wait for him to find the site, wait again while Weston checked and made sure all was okay, perhaps take out a cigar and have a smoke while he assured himself no one was around. And then he had to wait for Weston to bring the gun out into the open, whether this involved him digging the thing out of the earth, or reaching inside the hollow trunk of dead tree, he would have to wait and see…

  But there was the problem. That one word: wait.

  He couldn’t wait. Even if he were sitting inside his van at this very moment, it would take him twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes to get home. If he waited until Weston got his shit together, he would be here at least another half an hour. And that alone put waiting out of the equation. He wouldn’t leave an injured pet in agony for over an hour, so why would he leave Yvonne?

  Roger turned the camera off, threaded it back into his pocket and then hooked the phone back on his belt and zipped his coat up against the infernal wind. “Next time,” he sighed. “There’ll be a next time.”

  He fixed his eyes on a point in the woods; a far off red painted marker, one of the Estate’s nature trails, and he’d seen it on his way in. A man throwing sticks for his Labrador was over there, oblivious to the conditions, one of life’s outdoor people. Anyway, the red marker, that was his trail of string, it was his way back out of here, and he focused on it as he stood and strode unheard away from the oak.

  Weston watched him go.

  — Four —

  He got home at 10:15; Christ knew how, he thought. It was as though someone had fitted a turbocharger to his van while he was ensconced in the woods. Anyway, Yvonne was suffering, smeared makeup right across her face told him that as soon as he entered the lounge.

  But he restrained himself. He thought he acted with perfect etiquette but with the required amount of familiarity thrown in too. He had promised to stop treating her as a cripple, and he achieved it, though it tore tiny shreds off his heart to do it. He sat shivering on the edge of the bath as it filled, rain still dripping from his hair, toes and fingertips that were fresh out of the freezer. He got a handful of colourful drugs together in a small plastic pot, and offered her a glass of water. He then turned on the radio for her.

  “How come you’re wet through and plastered with mud?” she asked. “Someone been mugged while potholing?”

  There was disappointment on his face and a distinct lack of a smart response.

  “You’ve followed him again, haven’t you? Inspector Thingy.”

  Roger shrugged.

  “You should leave it alone, don’t get involved.”

  He kissed her.

  “I
t’s not healthy. I mean, throwing darts at his photo? Following him around? Come on, Roger, you’re a bit old for playing James Bond, don’t you think? Anyway, it’s not your problem; you did the right thing, now it’s up to them to sort it.” She stared him right in the eyes. “Okay?”

  “It’s about time I just dropped it, eh?”

  She nodded. “Good. I’m glad that’s sorted.”

  Roger towel-dried his hair, pleased the subject was closed and he hadn’t agreed to anything.

  Yvonne wanted to have the bath and come straight back downstairs. “I have jobs I need to get done,” she said.

  “I’ll cancel squash and I’ll do the jobs when I get home after work.”

  “I want to do them. And I want to do them today. Thank you.” Steam dulled the bathroom echoes and her face grew red and moist, her hair clung in ringlets to her damp forehead. “I love you, Roger.”

  He was about to bend and kiss her, when she said, “There is just one thing you can do for me before you go back to work.”

  “I don’t have to go back, Yvonne.”

  “I’d like you to get my makeup bag and the small hand mirror and put it on the kitchen table on your way out.” She still looked at him. “Yes. I think I’ll do it there. Make things easier, I suppose.”

  “Makeup bag,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s the blue and white—”

  “I know, I know.” He stood up to leave. “I’ll do it. Sure there’s nothing…”

  She was already shaking her head. “That’ll be just fine, Roger. I’ll have a meal ready for you about 4.30. So if you could be home for then.”

  * * *

  After a hurried change of clothes, he was back in the office for 11.00, and as if by the magic of television, it felt like he’d never been away. Roger dived for the phone book, thumbed through it looking for a restaurant or a pub called Harvey’s Table. He knew Weston was destined to meet someone there at noon to sell a weapon, and Roger wanted to be there too. But there was no such place, he even rang the Force’s directory enquiries but had no luck there. Resigned to defeat on this occasion, Roger sank into his chair when there was a knock at the office door.

  The desk sergeant, Sergeant Potts, poked his head into the office. “Chris, can you photo a bloke’s injuries for me, please?”

  Roger looked up, scanned the office, and then gazed at Potts.

  “What’s up?” Potts asked.

  “How long have I known you, James?”

  Potts’ eyes rolled up. “Dunno, ten years?”

  Roger nodded thoughtfully. “Wheel him in, James, I’ll do it now.”

  “He’s at the front counter; I’ll nip and get him.”

  The man had been punched in the face and then glassed. He had a bruise over his closed-up eye the colour of an overripe plum and a gash across his nostril you could park your bike in. Distractedly, Roger took the photo in seconds, walking around him to make sure there were no further injuries. He squelched as he walked.

  “Just one punch,” the man said, listening to the noise, confused by it.

  “Really,” Roger said. And then, as though realising how rude he sounded, “You’ve seen a doctor?”

  “Eh,” said the man. “Don’t be a fucking nonce!”

  Roger’s mouth fell open. “Right,” he said. “Nonce.”

  “Come on, Mr Nesbit,” Sergeant Potts held an arm out to guide him to an interview suite for a statement, “I’ll lead you back out.”

  Mr Nesbit walked from the office like a guerrilla, looking back over his shoulder. As he rounded the corner, Roger heard him ask the sergeant, “Why’s he got fucked-up hair?”

  Roger closed his mouth.

  He removed the film from the camera and sat down to write the paperwork that would accompany the film to Headquarters Studio for developing. He filled in his CID6 book for the appointment and then dumped it in the wire tray labelled ‘Lord Lucan Files’.

  * * *

  After Sergeant Potts left, Roger opened his sandwiches, took a bite and then removed his shoes, the ones he had worn while following Weston that morning, the ones that were still wet, and turned them upside down on top of the mildly warm radiator, padding around the office in his socks, and leaving a trail of damp footprints on the linoleum.

  The office felt quiet, and again he was alone with a problem that followed him around like a hyena tearing at his heels and giggling as it scurried out of reach: Weston. He was so damned fucking close today that it was cruel.

  He fixed a coffee and sipped as he munched, tutting at the aluminium powder floating among the bubbles. The ringing phone diverted his mind from Weston. “Conniston of Wood Street,” he croaked. Then, “Chris, what’s up?”

  “I need you to come down to the scene on Potter Lane and help out with the Quasar when it finally arrives.”

  Roger looked at his watch; it was 11.15. “Do you want me to give Paul a ring and ask him to come to you instead?”

  “Why the bloody hell do you think I’d want him? I’m asking you, aren’t I?”

  “Chris, I’m due off at two and I’ve got a stack of paperwork to do.”

  “Look, I’ve bent over backwards to help you recently; I can’t be in two bloody places at once, I’m needed here at the scene and down at the mortuary. Now how do you suggest I accomplish that little feat?” There was a pause, “I want you here please, Roger, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Anger sharpened Roger’s drowsy eyes. “I’m not coming down to the scene; I’ve been on duty since six. Quasar-ing a house will take the best part of five or six hours and I’m not working a thirteen- or fourteen-hour shift when there’s other people available. And they’d be fresher than me, and they could do the sodding job just as well!” He suddenly realised that his voice had risen to a furious climax.

  When Roger realised his outburst was leading him towards disciplinary action, he quietened his trembling voice. “And then I suppose the house will need treating with ninhydrin, would you like me to stay for that too?”

  “Forget it,” shouted Chris, “I’ll do it all myself. You and I will be having a discussion.”

  “Fine,” Roger hung up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  — One —

  The briefing was due out of the blocks at eight, but it was twenty-past before everyone hushed and Shelby cleared his throat. He stood at the head of the room in his customary weathered brown suit. Chris, who overslept, had held up the procedure. He told people he hadn’t heard the alarm, and it was a fair excuse, he had worked long and hard yesterday, and everyone seemed to accept it without doubt.

  Of course, it was untrue, Chris never overslept: the job first, sleep second. At the breakfast table, already dressed and ready for work, he had mulled over the evidence they had so far, the implications of that evidence, and how the investigation was likely to proceed. He thought of his performance too; thought he’d done rather well, but spared little time congratulating himself. Instead he dreamed of the top slot.

  Now he sat in the briefing, noting how accurate his ‘mulling’ had been.

  The grey-painted room was the size of an average classroom, lit with banks of twin fluorescent tubes. An overhead projector pointed like an accusing finger at the whiteboard, and on the table next to it was a projector of the kind that casts a picture of a photograph or plan, rather than a transparency. Yesterdays briefing saw it used for the scene photos now lying on Shelby’s desk.

  Around the remaining three of its four walls, the investigating officers sat, with more standing at the back of the room, arms folded, leaning against the wall and each other. Maybe thirty people in all, chewing pencils, doodling, or reading previously gathered statements, propped on small arm-desks. Most of them seemed relaxed; gassing with their neighbour, sharing jokes and snippets of gossip, but some were edgy, preparing themselves for the time when they would be speaking to the team, to Shelby, to the SIO – Detective Superintendent Chamberlain.

  Not all of them were field personnel. A
few were charged with indexing the process of the investigation, collating information, producing Actions, updating HOLMES 2, keeping Nicky’s brother informed, and liaising with agencies within the Force and external to it. Each had a vital role to play in solving the riddle, in catching the killer.

  Behind Shelby, sitting at a small teak effect desk, was Chamberlain, a man who rarely ventured further than his office door and a man who reputedly never ventured more than ten minutes away from his next cigarette. What an honour then, that he should be here at all.

  Chris didn’t like him, had never spoken to the man; he thought Chamberlain was shifty, slimy. Detective Sergeant Lenny Firth, Shelby’s right hand man, had been relegated to the peripheral chairs.

  Shelby sought a nod from Chamberlain before commencing. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. First things: turn any mobiles onto silent and turn your radios down. Right, I don’t have to tell you how important this case is. I shouldn’t have to tell you how important this case is. But I’m going to.”

  As if wanting to illustrate his point, Shelby turned the projector on. All eyes looked at the rectangle of white light before it vanished, replaced by a picture of Nicky; young, smiling and happy.

  “Nicky Bridgestock lived alone, as we ascertained yesterday. It’s become apparent, through OIS and PNC checks that she’s never had cause to be involved with the police.” His tone suggested that this was a ‘bare facts’ briefing, nothing revelatory to follow. “As we know, she was a typical girl-next-door who did not partake in the misuse of drugs, was not a member of any criminal fraternity of any description, was not a known member of any religious sects, or subscribed to any extreme political persuasion. She didn’t even have a boyfriend. She drank rarely, seldom partied and kept herself very much to herself.”

  “What convent did she go to, boss?”