“I’m begging you! Trust me one 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.
Roger crouched at the fence and peered through a knothole into the neighbour’s back garden. It, and the kitchen window, was clear, no one about. And on the line near to the fence, within grabbing distance, was a black t-shirt. Shame there were no trousers.
He pulled the damp t-shirt on, mouthing an apology for the theft, and then ripped the white arms off his suit and stuffed them under the overblown fence. The icy breeze bit instantly. A few minutes later, he returned to the car, unable to risk waiting out here any longer.
* * *
Roger parked the car in the gloom of an alleyway behind a snooker hall, an Italian restaurant, and a used car pitch. The heater was on full, trying to dry his damned shoes out. No foot traffic and no vehicular traffic so far. All quiet. And when he turned off the headlamps, a deep blackness descended, only a crack of light showed from the restaurant’s door. The wind threw twisting sheets of dirt at the car. A smell of rotting vegetation wafted in shortly after each gust.
The force helicopter swept over him once, but Roger guessed that the pilot would have to know exactly where to look. Ten minutes passed, tapping the steering wheel, fidgeting, before the idea struck.
From the passenger seat, Roger took Micky’s phone, pressed call, and listened to the dialling tone.
“Paul Bryant, Scenes of Crime.”
“Paul, don’t say my name. Are you alone?”
After a considerable pause, Paul answered. “What the hell’s been going on? The whole station’s seriously freaking out. There’ve been red faces and raised voices all afternoon around here. It’s fucking crazy. Where are you?”
“Listen, Paul, I have something important to ask you. But before I do, I want to know who you’re going to tell about this conversation.” There was another moment where white space filled the earpiece.
“You came that close to me hanging up then, you know that, don’t you? That close!”
“Great. I’m glad you were offended.”
“I could be in big trouble just for talking to you.”
“Where’s Jon?”
Paul glanced at Jon’s desk. “Out. Gone home. I don’t know.” There was a scribbled note on the floor below Jon’s chair; it began: ‘Chris, Denis Bell wants you—’. Paul ignored it.
“And Helen?”
“I think she’s out on a job. Why?”
“I’m pleased you chose not to hang up. I need a favour.”
“Why did you run, Roger—”
“Paul! Don’t mention my name, dammit. You don’t know who could be listening.”
“Okay, sorry, sorry.” He whispered, “Tell me, then; why did you run. If you’re innocent, I mean, why leg it?”
“It’s because I’m innocent that I did run. Weston’s stitched me up tight, and I could see where it was all heading. Straight to jail.”
“And that’s where I’ll go if this favour you need is crooked.” Paul’s voice tightened.
“It’s not—”
“I know what you’re going to ask,” he continued to whisper, “and if you’re wrong about Weston, I seriously could go to jail right alongside you.”
“I’m not wrong, Paul. I’d risk everything on it.”
“Even me, you’d risk me?”
Roger held his breath. “I’m not wrong.”
“Where are you, anyway? Rumours are flying that they’ve got you cornered, that you’ve taken a hostage, that—”
“What! Now stop there,” Roger said. “Calm down. You’re more nervous than I am – and I’m the one they’re chasing! I haven’t got a damned hostage.”
“I heard—”
“No one has caught up to me yet. I’m not cornered, and I definitely haven’t taken anyone hostage, okay? I thought coppers weren’t supposed to jump to conclusions.”
“No, this is from the girls at CJSU. Think they’re running a book on you.”
Roger though for a moment. And then he just said it. “So what’s your answer? Do you fancy some overtime?”
— Two —
The call from Roger was over, had been for ten minutes or more. But Yvonne sat in shadows at the kitchen table staring at the phone, tapping the dead girl’s house key on the table. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
The front door banged and Yvonne jumped, dropping the key onto the table.
Chris stood on the doorstep all nerves and twitchy feet, with eyes that flicked only briefly at her.
“Come in,” she said, peering up and down the road. She led him through into the kitchen, and turned the light on. There was still a pile of dirty laundry on the floor by the machine in the utility room, its door stood open. The key was on the table.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yvonne…”
“He called,” she said, “not long ago. He said they’d arrested him for her murder. Nicky Bridgestock. Have they?” She sat at the table, fumbled with the key.
“Yes, they have.”
“Jesus,” she sighed. “Do you think he did it, Chris? Do you think Roger is capable of killing a young girl?”
Chris leaned back against a worktop and folded his arms. “We found things at her house that suggest he had an involvement, yes.”
“But—”
“It’s for a jury to decide, Yvonne. Whether I think he did it or not doesn’t matter a damn.”
“It matters to me,” she said.
“Where did you find that?” he nodded at the key.
“In Roger’s work jacket. He said it needed washing, that it had been in a house where there were fleas.” She laughed, it was hollow, depressed. “I suppose he forgot to ditch the evidence, eh? This could nail him for a long time, couldn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Will you take it?”
“Found it in his coat, eh? Good evidence, Yvonne.” He shook his head, even tutted a little. He took the kettle. “Tea?” He held it under the tap.
“No I don’t want tea! I want some pissing answers!”
“They won’t be far behind me, Yvonne, CID I mean. A few minutes, fifteen, maybe. If they have warrants with them, they’ll want to search the house, see if they can—”
“So take the key.”
“Can’t do that, Yvonne.” He looked across at her, glanced at the key. “What else did he say?”
“He’s broken out.”
Chris dropped the kettle in the sink. “What the… why? He can�
�t do a stupid thing like that!”
“He already has. He needs you to help him.”
“Me? What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“He says you’re the only one he trusts; he says you can give him advice.”
“I don’t care what he says, the man’s gone crazy.” Chris stopped. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t. You have to meet him at your house, Chris. You have to sort things out.”
“I can’t aid a…”
“Murderer?”
“Does he know what he’s asking? I should go straight to Shelby with this.”
“You can’t! He trusts you, at least listen to him, for Christ’s sake.”
Chris was silent for a while. He plucked the kettle out of the sink, filled it and stood in the centre of the kitchen. “Okay,” he said at last. “But when Shelby gets here, promise me you won’t mention this to him. It’s my job, Yvonne; it’s my promotion, everything I’ve worked towards.”
She stared at him. “You don’t know?” she said. “No one told you?”
“What? Told me what?”
“I thought you were having a meeting this afternoon—”
“What! Spit it out, woman.”
She shrank back into her chair and quietly said, “Denis gave Roger the promotion. Told him yesterday.”
Chris stared at her in disbelief. “No,” he whispered. “No!” He threw the kettle into the far corner of the kitchen. The bread crock smashed, the lid snapped off the kettle and a shower of water sprayed onto the wall.
Yvonne shrieked, holding her hands to her mouth.
Chris stood perfectly still as though thinking hard. He turned to her and calmly said, “If that’s his decision.” Water dripped.
She stared at the kettle and the smashed bread crock. And then looked at Chris, emotionless. How do you dampen a fiery temper so quickly? “Chris? Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes, I’m okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m okay. Really.” He hovered right over the key. “I’ll go and help him. I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll try, yes I’ll go and help...”
“Thank you.”
“Just promise me, no matter what happens, you’ll say nothing of this.”
She paused, gauging his words. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I promise.”
— Three —
“Get on to North Yorkshire, South Yorkshire, GMP and Humberside; tell them a patrol car’s been nicked. Make sure they have full details, the fleet number, the ID number, everything.”
Shelby paused, listening to the question from Force Control. “Yes, yes. Tell them about him, but… ask them to be discreet.” He hung up and said to no one in particular, “If that’s possible.”
He slid his fingers through his hair, and then dialled Chamberlain. “Sir, it’s Graham; I need RIPA authority for a landline. It’s for Conniston’s home phone.” He listened, slackened his collar and felt the heat in his face. “I realise that, sir; but better late than—” he reached inside his desk drawer, his hand hovering over the whisky glass, and then picked up the forms instead. “I understand, sir. Thanks, I’ll bring the paperwork up.”
Chapter Twenty Six
— One —
It was dark now, but the security light was on, and it illuminated the fine drizzle that fell on the patrol car’s roof. From the back garden, overgrown with weeds, Roger peered along the length of the garage at the car and watched the smoke from its idling engine turn red in the glow from the taillights. Moments later, Paul’s van came into view, turned in the road and halted in front of the police car. Paul climbed out, arched his back and yawned, appearing wonderfully blasé about the task in front of him. The police officer guarding Nicky Bridgestock’s scene met Paul at his van’s rear doors. They exchanged a few words, though Roger couldn’t hear them, and shared a joke.
Paul and the officer looked at Nicky’s side door, and they both walked over to it, shielding their eyes from the glare of the security light. Paul, who knew Roger was watching, didn’t let his eyes roam in search of him. From his stab-vest pocket, the officer pulled a set of Yale keys attached to a large plastic fob with wyp stamped across it, followed by a four-digit number. They deemed the scene important enough to sheet Nicky’s damaged door with a metal skin, and leave an officer guarding it.
With a screech, the metal door opened and obscured some of the police car from Roger’s view. His hand tightened on the fence, unlatched the gate. He saw both pairs of legs go back down the drive to the van, heard the van door open. Then Roger was running. He hit the concrete driveway as the police officer began to look around.
Just as Roger pulled his trailing leg in through the doorway, Paul dropped the camera case and shouted loud enough to reclaim the officer’s attention.
Eventually Paul stepped inside the house wearing a scene suit, carrying the aluminium camera case, the tripod, flash and a Maglite. The officer put his forensic kit onto the hallway floor, and from the lounge, Roger watched his hand pull back out into the brightness of the security light.
“Thanks,” Paul said. “There’s too much shit to carry around these days.”
“No problem,” said the officer. “If you want a loo, the old lass at 69’s pretty obliging. She’ll probably be out in ten minutes with a cuppa. Bless her.”
“Ah, none for me, thanks, I got water with me. And anyway, I really should be getting on.”
“Righto. Leave it with you, then.”
Using the forensic case, Paul wedged Nicky’s broken door closed. He hung a scene suit over the hole where the lock used to be, and turned on the hall and kitchen lights.
“Nice one,” Roger stepped out of the lounge. “We’ll make a murderer’s accomplice of you yet.”
Paul stood up straight, the large purple knot of his tie visible through the V in his scene suit. “Don’t ever joke about that again. If you do, I’ll walk. Then I’ll talk.”
“You’re right. Bad taste. I’m sorry. I’m a bit stressed…” He was suitably chastened. “I should be thanking you for doing this for me, not—”
“It seems you’re important, Roger. The officer out there says Shelby’s paying overtime for off-duty coppers to return to the station and go out looking for you.”
“What an offer; it’s nice to be wanted,” he said. “Listen, before we start, I want to know why you’re doing this.”
“You still don’t trust me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why do you ask that?”
“Because I’m depending on you, that’s why. My future is in your hands, and… and I’d like to think you’re on my side.”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“No, fair enough. Just thought I’d check.”
Paul’s straight face began to soften, and a smile grew. “Because Weston called me a fool, and he threatened to snap my legs after I’d gone to the trouble of making him a drink.”
“What? You’re doing this because—”
“No,” he said, serious again. “I’m doing it because if it’s a choice between you killing a girl or Weston killing a girl, my money’d be on him. Anyway, I figure if you’re guilty, you’d have run far away, you wouldn’t bother trying to prove your innocence. Am I right?”
Roger nodded. “Spot on right.”
“But if this goes wrong, I lose everything, Roger. Do you know what a big deal that is? Everything.”
“I’m there now, mate. I know exactly what you mean.”
Then the tension fell out of Paul’s face. “I see the weather hasn’t improved your hair at all.”
Roger smiled, then glanced around the lounge.
“Nice t-shirt, by the way.”
“Okay, Paul, let’s get started. I want you to tell me what you and Chris did when you got here. It’ll take a while, but I’m patient, so… in your own time.”
“What happened to your face, it’s seriously smashed.”
“Weston happened to it. No
w tell me.”
Paul told him everything he could recall right from stepping out of the MIV. This was his first murder, his first proper body, he said, so his recollection of the details was sharp enough to impress Roger. He remembered Chris in the bedroom, and how he taped the body sheet and the girl’s bare flesh. He mentioned the fingerprint camera, the clouds of black powder, which even now shadowed the carpet they stood upon, as though it was smoke damaged. The drag of feet across the pile signified by clean scrapes.
“What are you— what are we looking for?” Paul asked.
“Would you be annoyed if I said I didn’t know? However, Weston’s not a forensic man, so maybe he’s made a mistake somewhere along the line. And this is the only part of the line I can deal with. We can deal with, sorry.”
“You hope he’s cocked up?”
“If he hasn’t, then I may as well get in that patrol car out there and introduce myself.”
Paul continued his account. He remembered taking control samples of lounge, stair and bedroom carpets, he recalled packaging them, attaching CJA labels, signing them over to DC Clements and then later, more exhibits to Lenny Firth. His memory was accurate and full of details, such as how Clements smelled of some exotic perfume, and how Firth just smelled.
Roger didn’t interrupt, merely listened, sitting cross-legged on the lounge floor, his hands double gloved already, tugging at the stitching around his overshoes. He had questions and theories queuing.
There was that moment, Paul continued, when Nicky’s body lay tied up in the black body sheet; how small she looked, how valueless she seemed. How much like rubbish ready for disposal. Then he explained how Inspector Shelby and Chris talked for a while, before he came downstairs to do the fingerprinting.
“Who did the bathroom?”
“Who fingerprinted it?”
“Yeah.”
“He did. Chris.”
“Any marks?”
“That I can’t remember. Don’t think so. Don’t remember writing them up if there were.”
He stopped tugging the seam. “What? If he did the exam, he should write them up.”
A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) Page 25
