A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy)

by Andrew Barrett

  “Come on, Graham. You’re saying your friends were innocent of taking backhanders, mine’s guilty of murder! No comparison.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Bad analogy. But I also had friends I’d worked with for years exposed as rotten – and I never suspected a thing! Somehow, it turns your perception of the world upside down. It sends the black-and-white way that we see good versus bad into something grey and hazy where no one’s really sure anymore. It’s shitty when the good guys – aren’t.”

  “Shit,” was all Chris said as he stood up, ready to leave.

  “Well, you know what I’m going to ask now, don’t you?”

  “I think I probably do, yes.”

  Shelby rose and stretched out a hand, his big round chin shaping his mouth into a pleasant smile. “Well, thanks for everything you’ve done, Chris. I can see why they call you the Professor; you’ve been a fantastic source of knowledge.”

  — Three —

  Chris tried to distance himself from the dregs of the enquiry. He found himself perched on a plastic chair in the canteen. It was getting busy. Growing cold in front of him was a shepherd’s pie and chips. He ignored it and sipped from a cup with the West Yorkshire police crest on its side.

  Behind the counter, Kay, one of the kitchen staff, prepared food for the prisoners in the bridewell on the ground floor. She stacked the plates up in a pile of four using metal plate dividers, before backing out of the kitchens and heading for the lift.

  Around him sat uniformed officers, CID and support staff, chewing the cud and chewing the fat with each other. Their mellow banter and occasional raucous laughter went unheard by him.

  Over in the corner, the TV showed a sombre news reporter. His lips moved silently before the picture cut to an equally sombre Chamberlain, mouthing some silent plea before the camera panned down to a key ring, phallus and all, the same plea they ran on yesterday’s news. A few of the officers in the canteen jeered at Chamberlain and laughed at the fob. As the Incident Room hotline flashed onto the screen, Chris wondered how the West Yorkshire police attained its straight-laced image with arseholes like this working for it.

  “Still not found the key then?” Micky pulled up a seat and encroached upon Chris’s space and thoughts.

  “Don’t know. And even if I did, which I don’t, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve been sworn to secrecy by Shelby.” He watched the news, hoping Micky would get the hint and leave, or at least eat his meal in silence.

  “Oh yeah?” Micky scooped up a shovelful of potato, “Must have someone in mind then?” He asked the question bluntly, not even hinting. It was Micky’s way.

  “Watch this space.”

  “So you do know what’s going down then?”

  He tutted. “I know nothing.”

  “Well,” Micky looked around to make sure all those in earshot were engaged in their own conversations, “I’ve heard that it’s someone close to home. Very close to home.”

  “Who?”

  “Dunno. I was kind of hoping you could fill me in with that one.”

  “Can’t. Sorry.” He sipped more coffee, saw the queue forming at the counter. At its head was a tuft of hair he recognised. Stick around, Micky, you’re about to be filled in. Chris watched Roger pay for his meal, gather a knife and fork and then walk into the centre of the melee looking for a friendly face with whom to sit. He approached Chris.

  Chris’s stomach heaved. He thumbed the crest faster.

  Roger seemed unaware of the net closing in all around him, the ‘drawstrings’, Chris thought.

  He pulled up a seat and sat opposite. “Look, Chris, about the Quasar job, I—”

  Chris waved a hand. “Forget it. It was a stupid request in the first bloody place.”

  “You sure?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “So how’s the investigation coming along then? Any news?”

  “He’s keeping stumm,” chirped Micky. “I think he knows, but he’s not saying.”

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Must be someone close or important then.” Roger began to eat, but his eyes never left Chris.

  Chris’s head dropped.

  “Micky, have you, er, have you spoken to Helen recently?” Roger asked.

  Micky ignored him.

  “Thought not. I think you should; she feels abandoned—”

  “I didn’t abandon her, she abandoned me!” Micky paused, and then his angry eyes softened. “It’s not my fault she’s a fucking psycho.” He put down his fork, and sighed. “Maybe I’ll talk to her, see if we can get back on track.”

  Roger nodded, smiled reassuringly. “She’d like that,” he said. “She misses you.”

  “She said that?”

  “Oh yes. She’s so depressed these days. She mopes around in the office so much that we’ve rechristened her the Olympic torch.”

  “Why?” Micky asked.

  “Because she never goes out,” Roger laughed.

  Micky stared at Roger with a blank face.

  Chris didn’t find it amusing; in fact he thought Roger, despite being close to Micky, was being intrusive. He couldn’t wait to get away from both of them.

  Only a few minutes passed before Roger’s plate was empty and he slurped orange juice from a polystyrene cup. “Are you okay, Chris?”

  “Tired.”

  “Not hungry?” Micky asked.

  A group of three strangers entered the canteen, looking around their unfamiliar surroundings. They were CID officers from another division who Chris recognised from the briefing. They spoke to diners at the first table they came to. The diners searched and then pointed in his direction. This is it, thought Chris.

  “Chris?” Roger said.

  “What?” His eyes didn’t leave the approaching men. The three CID men discreetly circled tables, moved apologetically around diners, but headed this way still, concentrating on Roger’s back.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “I’m fine,” Chris mumbled, knowing Roger wouldn’t push any further.

  Roger’s concern was evident, but he changed the subject. “How’s Paul getting along?” he asked, unaware of the men approaching only a few paces away.

  “Roger Conniston?”

  Roger stared up into the strong face of a very tall but equally thin grey-suited detective from the Criminal Investigation Department who leaned ominously over him. “Yes,” he answered, waiting for some kind of punch line.

  “Would you mind accompanying me and my colleagues to a more private area?”

  “Why?” he asked, now on the defensive, but now also worrying about Yvonne for no logical reason.

  “We have some matters to discuss.”

  “Look,” he began, “if it’s about a job—”

  “It’s nothing to do with any job.”

  “Then what’s so important it can’t wait until I’ve finished my meal?”

  “We would prefer to do this in a more—”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Do what, exactly?” Around him, the room grew quieter and stiller. People began to stare.

  Chris watched the TV.

  “Please, Roger.” The suit used his Christian name. “All will be revealed. But can we please go elsewhere?”

  “No.” Roger faced front.

  Micky stopped eating.

  “Mr Conniston, I shall ask you once more to step into a more private atmosphere.”

  Roger ignored the suit and drank his orange.

  Two of the three detectives hauled him out of his seat.

  Chris saw a couple of uniformed officers rising to their feet, unsure of what was going on, but they were unwilling to see a much liked friend being upset by three unknown officers. Others among them pulled them back into their seats, saying it was none of their business.

  Roger’s shouting increased in volume and ferocity. Chris saw him look at Micky for support, but all Micky could do was sit there, dumbfounded; he recognised heavies when he saw them.

  �
�Roger Conniston, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Nicky Bridgestock…”

  “What!” cried Roger. “You can’t do this. I never…”

  “You do not have to say anything...”

  “…even met her. I don’t even know where she lives.”

  “…but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”

  “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. Chris, tell them!”

  Chris sipped his coffee.

  “Micky, you know me, I wouldn’t—”

  “Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  To Chris he looked afraid, had the big wide eyes of a cow being dragged into the slaughterhouse.

  “Get off me!”

  They pulled Roger through the crowded canteen. The silent, staring canteen. Officers made way for the struggling CID men and their newly acquired 10-12.

  “Fucking get off me!”

  The double doors swung shut and Roger’s shouting died away in the same way a prisoner’s shouting dies away when the cell door slams shut.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Micky asked.

  Chris said nothing, thumbed the crest again, slower this time. The room hummed into life as gossip rose to a crescendo.

  “Why didn’t you tell him, why didn’t you go with him? You could’ve helped him, Chris; you could’ve saved his face,” he scowled, “instead of having half the nick watch—”

  “Shut up, Micky.”

  “There’s been a fucking mix up, Chris. It’s obvious, it happens all the time. He didn’t kill anyone. You can’t let him go through all this shit and not stand up for him; he’s your friend, you Muppet!”

  “Fuck off, Micky!” Chris threw the empty cup at the TV. The cup shattered. The room hushed again as Chris stood. Before he left room, acknowledging no one, he said to Micky, “The man is a murderer.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  — One —

  “You okay?” Shelby asked.

  “Take a wild guess,” Roger replied.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Really? What are you sorry about? Are you sorry that I didn’t get to finish my meal break or are you sorry that your imported gorillas hoisted me in front of the whole fucking station?” He calmed slightly when Shelby didn’t respond.

  The Custody Sergeant’s fingers prodded the keyboard, a pen clutched between his teeth, busy booking a prisoner out.

  Roger continued, “Graham, I’ve always liked you, you know I have; but I’m going to put you in a fucking sling for wrongful arrest, for unlawful imprisonment, and anything else I can stick on you!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  The prisoner looked across, smiling.

  “Piss off!” Roger shouted.

  The prisoner looked quickly away.

  Shelby addressed the Custody Sergeant, “Book him in, Ellis,” and then Shelby walked away. Roger watched the CCTV monitor by the sergeant’s side. It showed the car park, only yards away in reality, through that gate and then an outer metal door that led to the van dock and freedom. Roger inched closer to the desk, peered at the buttons on the console, less than a foot from the sergeant’s right elbow. Roger licked his lips.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Roger whirled around and came nose to nose with Inspector Weston. “Fuck!” he yelled.

  “Indeed,” said Weston. “How nice of you to visit us.”

  “Put him Number 6 for us, Colin; I’m a bit stretched here,” the sergeant said.

  “Pleasure.” Weston pushed Roger down the corridor. “I might pop in to see you in a bit. If you don’t mind.”

  A shiver ran up Roger’s back and the thought filled him with trepidation. Roger said, “You stay the hell away from me.”

  “Hey, it’s no bother. I’d like to make sure you’re settling in.”

  They reached the cell and Roger didn’t even have the time to ask for water before he found himself skidding across the tiled floor on his belly. The cell door slammed and the locks turned.

  Weston whistled a merry tune as he walked away.

  * * *

  Roger sat alone in the cell, staring at the plate of crusty food on the wooden bench beside him. He sipped a cool brown liquid that could have been coffee, and listened to the banter echoing up the corridor from the desk. He’d been photographed, had his fingerprints and DNA taken and then faced the indignity of having his outer clothes seized. He now wore a white suit similar to those he used at major scenes. His shoes were outside his cell.

  Above him, a meagre light, shrouded by thick glass and further protected by a wire guard, almost begrudgingly spat a little light into his dark world. He surveyed the scratched cream walls, the damaged plank he was supposed to lie on, and the shiny but sticky tiled floor beneath his bare feet. In the corner was a stainless steel potty. On the floor, surrounding it, white alkaline stains of old piss.

  It stank.

  He thought about consequences: both of them. He thought about Yvonne, about how she’d just regained some of her faith in him… and he thought about his hard fought-for promotion, and how all this just blew both to shit.

  The peephole in the door opened and a squinting eye peered at him. The peephole closed, and it took Roger a while to establish that the eye wasn’t squinting at all, but was laughing. Laughing at him. His hands shook, and the coffee in the polystyrene cup rippled. His heart pounded and he felt sick. The lock turned and Roger’s heart kicked up a gear. In the doorway stood Inspector Weston.

  Weston checked up and down the corridor and then took a stride into Roger’s very private space. He inched the door closed, and then stepped closer.

  “Does the Custody Sergeant know you’re in here?”

  Weston shook his head, “Helped myself to his keys. I thought I’d have a little chat with my old mate.”

  “Well now you’ve had your chat, you can piss off and leave me alone.”

  “Not very friendly.”

  “Shock, horror.”

  Weston stood straight, shoulders back, neck swivelling, smiling, taking in the surroundings of the cell as though it was the luxurious lounge of a new show home. One of Weston’s eyes focused on Roger, and then the other joined it. “No more following me, eh,” he lifted his eyebrows and laughed like someone was tickling his feet. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m so fucking happy you got your just reward.”

  “I am not a murderer.”

  “Couldn’t care less. You’re here and that makes me happy.” A large gold bracelet thudded against a gold watch. “You see, they do say that everything comes to those who wait. They do say that, don’t they? I’ve waited a long time for this. And they also say what goes around comes around.” He looked away, thinking. “Never really understood that myself, but I should think it means those who are slimy little wankers, such as you, will eventually share a shower with a slimy little wanker.” And then he inhaled deeply as though taking pleasure from sea air. “Oh, I think they’ll love having you in prison. I mean, they’ll love having you, if you see what I mean.” He came closer. “I er, I got friends in prison.”

  “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Weston twitched at that. “I think I’ll get in touch with them, let them know you’re about to come and live with ‘em. I’m sure they’d welcome you.” He stepped even closer, leather shoes squeaking, the smile elongating to a grin. “Ever since that firearms job that you stitched me—”

  “I did not stitch—”

  “That you stitched me up for,” he continued undeterred, “I’ve longed for the day when you fell foul of the system. Really longed for the day.” He whispered, “My life will be so much easier again, now that you’re in here.”

  “When I get out of here, I’ll fucking hound you so much you’ll think you’ve grown a second shadow.”

  “Only way you’ll get out of here is when you go to court.”

  “They’ll release me by nightfall. And when they do—”
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  “If they do,” Weston warned, “you’ll be dead by daybreak.”

  And those words stopped him dead, as the slap from Alice had. But he couldn’t let Weston see how shocked he was. His mouth continued all by itself. “You’re lucky that you’re not in the next cell.”

  Weston laughed, “Lucky? I don’t believe in luck. I believe in planning. I believe in planning so much that I have every eventuality covered. And I believe I hate you more than I have hated anyone before; you started the enquiry that put me in an awkward position with people who depended on me. And I never forget them who cross me.” Then he stood back as though admiring something of his own making. The sovereign rings on his club-like fingers caught the cell’s light. “Bet you’re pissed off now, eh? No more promotion, no more ‘cruising’.”

  “How did you know—”

  “You fucking sicko.”

  “If you don’t get out of here now, I’m—”

  Without warning, he slapped Roger across the right cheek. Then he swung a backhand across his left cheek. One of Weston’s gold rings caught Roger’s lip and blood flicked across the graffiti. Coffee splashed onto the floor and his glasses landed in it. Before Roger could react, Weston rammed a fist into his testicles, and scraped a boot down his shin. The man was crazed.

  Weston glared at him, loathing in his dark eyes. “Nearly there,” he said, “nearly there. One way or another.” He reached the cell door and said, “Back in a bit. We can talk some more if you like.” Then he just left and locked the door behind him. His shoes squeaked down the corridor.

  Ten minutes later, the custody sergeant came in, already equipped to wipe the blood off the wall. Without looking Roger in the eye, he dabbed the blood from his chin. Then he mopped up the coffee with paper towels, and turned away, carrying the tray of crusty food. He never said a word.

  “Ellis? Ellis, why are you doing this?”