A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy)

by Andrew Barrett

  “He mentioned that, but said it would be quicker this way.”

  “He’s a funny bugger, is Chris. He really is an old Professor, and old fashioned too; I mean, you wouldn’t catch me using black powder here.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the paintwork looks sound, it hasn’t oxidised; nice flat surfaces, not too many blemishes. It would hold good fingerprints,” he said. “I would’ve gone straight to aluminium powder and lifted. Quicker, easier. No messing about. And anyway, if you apply black powder incorrectly, you can damage the mark, even rub it out altogether; black powder fingerprints need a one-brush application, any further brushing will just smear them away. Now with ali, you can bring the mark up with your first application, develop it and then clean out the ridge detail with an empty brush. What could be simpler?”

  “Well, yeah,” Paul leaned against the lounge doorframe. “I thought that.”

  Roger rested against the coffee table. It was wooden with a glass top. On the glass was a fine layer of black fingerprint dust, almost unnoticeable; but in the centre of the glass top was a cleaner circle, about the size of a tumbler. Next to it, a coffee ring. He looked past Paul, and through into the kitchen. “Well, let’s go through her last moments. Were there any signs of forced entry?”

  “No. Everything was as it should be.”

  “Right, then; Weston picked her up, and she brought him back to her house – though God knows why, he must be twice her age. Anyway, they’re here, alone. She invited him in. We know she came from Wakefield town centre, from the nightclubs, so he probably picked her up there. Okay so far?”

  “Sounds fine. Go on.”

  “She’s drunk, or she’s tipsy—”

  “More drunk than tipsy. Toxicology said so.”

  “You’ve seen the pathology report?”

  “Heard of it, more like.”

  Roger tugged at the stitching. “What’s the first thing a newly introduced couple do when they get here?”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Roger. I mean, he might have knocked on her door after she got home—”

  “Any taxi firm come forward to say they remember her?”

  “Don’t think so,” Paul said. “But I’m not sure.”

  “Was any request made to examine a taxi, you know, for fibres, hair?”

  Paul shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

  “Okay,” Roger stared at the coffee ring, “you’re right; I’m assuming a lot. But it changes nothing really. Nicky came home with Weston, probably with the intention of spending the night with him. Let’s say they’re both in here, in the lounge; she’s drunk, he’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he’s about to kill her, Paul. You’d want to be sharp if you’re going to get away with murder. And I’d also guess that you and Chris found almost nothing? Right?”

  “Only evidence that you killed her.”

  “Another good reason to stay sharp then. And that alone should tell you it’s a premeditated attack; there was no bloodbath, no signs of disturbance, no signs of a fight.”

  “Quite the opposite. She was seriously naked on her bed.”

  “There you are, then.” He gently dabbed a gloved finger at the coffee ring. It was still tacky. “So, back to our scenario. Let’s assume Weston brought her home; what’s a good hostess do first?”

  “Drink?”

  “In one, Paul. A drink. They have a nightcap.”

  “No, that’s wrong, we only found one glass.”

  “Did anyone check in there,” he nodded, “in the kitchen?”

  Paul thought for a moment. “Not really. I remember Shelby took a step inside and said it looked completely undisturbed, and Chris agreed.” He shrugged, “I’m just the hired help. I do what I’m told.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Roger said. “But it stinks. Just because a room looks like it’s come straight out of Ideal Homes, doesn’t mean it’s isolated from a major crime scene. They should know better.”

  “Chris wouldn’t even let me have a glass of water from it. I was seriously parched.”

  “Good. At least he got that bit right. You can’t use the—”

  “Facilities in a murder scene. Yeah, I got that lecture a couple of times. So did Shelby.”

  “Apart from Shelby’s step inside, no one went in there? No one at all?”

  “No,” Paul said. “Not unless Shelby sneaked all the way in while we were upstairs.”

  “Shelby can’t sneak, it’s impossible.” The coffee ring stared back at him. Roger got to his feet. “Okay, you seem to have covered the rest of the house, now let’s cover the only room no one touched.”

  “Now I’m confused. Why would you want to examine a kitchen that no one else thought worth the trouble?”

  “She gave him a drink, Paul. The murderer put his cup back. Weston put it back.”

  — Two —

  After Chris left, only a few minutes passed before there was another knock at the door. The dead girl’s key was still on the table. There were key-sized indentations in the wood all around it. Yvonne let the doorbell ring a second time before dropping the key into a drawer, and heading towards the front door.

  There were two of them; Lenny Firth and another, larger man, whom she didn’t know. Both appeared serious, preoccupied even. “Yes?”

  “Yvonne,” Lenny Firth said, “how are you? Haven’t seen you—”

  “Have you found him yet?” she asked.

  Firth looked at Shelby. “Yvonne, this is Detective Inspector Shelby, my gaffer. May we come in?”

  She opened the door wide, and stepped back into the lounge.

  “We won’t keep you long, Mrs Conniston,” Shelby said. “My name’s Graham, by the way.”

  “Take a seat, Graham,” Yvonne said. “Lenny, you too. Can I get either of you a drink? Tea, coffee?” And then she remembered the kettle was out of service.

  “Thank you no,” Shelby said. Firth closed his mouth, deflated. “You’re aware of Roger’s predicament, Mrs Conniston?”

  “Which predicament are you referring to?”

  “I take your point; Mrs Conniston—”

  “Yvonne. Please call me Yvonne.”

  “You know he’s missing from custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he been in touch with you?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “When did he call?”

  “I said he hadn’t been in touch.”

  “You are lying, Mrs Conniston.”

  “I…”

  “When?”

  She played with her fingers. “About half an hour ago, maybe three quarters of an hour.”

  “Where was he calling—”

  “He never said.” Yvonne glared right at Shelby. “I think you’ve got the wrong—”

  “Doesn’t look especially innocent to me,” Shelby said, “not after he half killed a police Inspector to break out of custody. Not the look of an innocent man, isn’t that.”

  Yvonne’s jaw dropped open. Then it snapped shut.

  “What did he tell you, Yvonne?” Firth asked.

  “He said you’d arrested him. For Nicky Bridgestock’s murder. He said you had it all wrong. He said he broke out of custody.”

  “Did he say what he was planning to do now?” This from Shelby.

  “No.”

  Shelby sighed.

  “It’s true,” Yvonne said.

  “He rang to pass the time of day?”

  “Breaking out of custody after having been accused of someone’s murder is hardly passing the time of day, Inspector, is it?”

  “I can’t believe he would ring you, tell you all that, and not elaborate; not tell you who he planned to see or where he planned to go.”

  Yvonne said nothing.

  “You know, when this is resolved, Mrs Conniston, the courts may take a very dim view of your reluctance to cooperate.”

  “When this is resolved correctly, Inspector Shelby, there will be no need of
a criminal court.”

  Shelby pulled his head back, the threat of civil proceedings obviously not lost on him.

  “Will that be all, Inspector?”

  Shelby stood. “Goodbye, Mrs Conniston. Hope to see you again soon with more news.”

  Lenny Firth remained seated for a moment longer. “Has Chris been over, Yvonne?”

  “He kindly broke the news, yes.”

  “Did he arrive here before or after Roger rang?”

  “Before.” Yvonne cleared her throat.

  “You sure?”

  “Goodbye, Lenny.”

  “He didn’t mention anything to you except news of Roger’s arrest and escape?”

  “He said nothing of Roger’s escape, Lenny.” Yvonne bit her bottom lip.

  “Did he say anything else to you other than news of Roger’s arrest, then?”

  “No.”

  “Yvonne,” Firth began, “you’re not doing Roger or yourself any favours—”

  “Get out please, Lenny.”

  “Perhaps you ought—”

  “Perhaps you ought to leave, unless you have the proper authority to be here.”

  “Mrs Conniston,” Shelby said from the hallway, “we are the police, investigating a murder and an escape. Believe me, that alone gives us authority enough. But we’ll be back later with a warrant.”

  * * *

  “The next time he calls her,” Shelby said as they climbed into the car, “I’ll have the bloody thing on tape, and with luck, I’ll have a location. Mobile or landline.”

  “How can you get a location if it’s a mobile phone?”

  “Triangulation. They can pinpoint a signal between three masts, apparently.”

  “Right, I see,” Firth said.

  “I know what I meant to ask you,” Shelby said as he turned the ignition, “do you know if Roger had any underwear stolen from the locker room last week?”

  Firth looked confused. And then his eyes lit up. “Yeah, I do. Someone taking the piss.”

  “No. He says they were taking the pubes,” Shelby sighed. “Wish you’d told me before.”

  “You never asked before. I mean, I expected to see them flying half-mast on the flagpole the next day.”

  “Lenny, I have to say that sometimes you are a grave disappointment to me.”

  “Why’s that then?”

  “Because you can be tactless, you are flippant, you didn’t consider one of the largest pieces of evidence in the damned case. Roger’s pubes? And how that might go hand in hand – so to speak – with a pair of missing underpants.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “Like I said, I thought it was a prank.” He shrugged, “And then it just left my mind. I didn’t expect them to be the centre of a murder investigation.”

  “Exactly. It never ‘clicked’, did it? And that’s why you disappoint me, Lenny. You always have to be told, or you have to be shown. You never take it on yourself to find something out, do you?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You tell me, Lenny. Where are we going?”

  Lenny looked out the side window and chose to ignore Shelby.

  — Three —

  “Can I ask you something?” Paul said.

  “Go for it.”

  “Why do you always wear a red waistcoat?”

  Roger and Paul stood side by side in the kitchen doorway, looking into the small but orderly room. A large window looked out onto the sodium-lit road, facing a row of quiet houses. Framing the window were dark green curtains tied back onto gold-coloured hooks.

  Paul waited.

  The sink was clean, tea towel neatly folded on the empty draining board. Around the far side of the kitchen were sand-coloured worktops, equally empty of clutter, only a kettle, a toaster and a microwave oven, all gleaming and bright. A pair of fluorescent tubes lit the room.

  “It’s like a fucking show house,” Roger said.

  “Well? You going to tell me?” asked Paul.

  “I always wear a red waistcoat because I don’t like blue.”

  “Don’t give much away, do you.”

  “To tell you the truth, I wear it because it looks smart.”

  Paul smiled.

  “Well I think it looks smart. Plus, I only need to iron the sleeves of my shirts.”

  “Crafty.”

  Around the room, more worktops shone. A porcelain duck with stainless steel utensils poking out the top, and next to it, a stainless steel bread bin tucked squarely into a corner. Above and below this final stretch of worktops were fake oak-fronted cupboards, eight of them. They too were clean; no dark areas on the edges of the door, no dirt in the grain.

  Nicky had pictures on the walls, framed prints of Pooh Bear and a dog with drooping eyes that reminded Roger of Weston. There was a corkboard with fast-food fliers and menus pinned to it. An Eeyore clock ticked on the wall next to it.

  Only a few chips of white painted doorframe littered the otherwise clean floor. Like the fake cupboard doors, the floor was oak effect; a pearled finish. “Okay, what’s the first rule of scene examination?”

  “Photography.”

  “Good. But wrong. Think, Paul.”

  He did, but shook his head. “I don’t know, then.”

  “Look, that’s all. Nothing special, nothing scientific. Just look. Take it all in.” Roger crouched in the doorway. “Pass me your Maglite.” He focused the torch beam into a pencil point and swept it across the floor, gliding it slowly from side to side. The chips of wood cast long shadows, and hairs stood out brightly alongside chewed fingernails and crumbs of food near the edges of the floor. There was also a fine, almost indiscernible covering of normal household dust. Not as clean as he first thought. Roger passed the torch over again, and this time he saw it, narrowed his arcs until the light rested on a small area of floor in front of the sink. “Bingo.” The light picked out signs of recent dust disturbance. “You got any ESLA?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Gel lifters?”

  “Coming right up. You found a footwear impression?”

  “Yup.”

  “Type?”

  “Don’t know yet, can’t make out any detail from here.” Roger turned off the torch and stood. “Are you okay with this?”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “This is your scene, Paul.”

  “But—”

  “Remember me telling you that I would never throw you in at the deep end and leave you alone? I meant it. But you have to learn how to do this. It’s important.”

  “Exactly,” countered Paul, “it’s fucking important. I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. Get it right here,” he said, “and it’ll be a breeze forever.”

  “Yeah, but get it wrong and I could seriously balls things up for you.”

  “You’ll do just fine,” Roger smiled. “Seriously.”

  Paul photographed the kitchen. “Non-destructive evidence gathering,” Roger said. “This is what the jury will see; they have to know the layout of the house, the layout of the kitchen, where the evidence came from, see?”

  “You think we’re going to find anything?” Paul loosened the knot of his tie.

  “Wrong attitude, Paul. You don’t go to a burglary or a rape thinking you won’t find anything, do you? You have to look for it, if it’s not there, move onto something else. There will always be something. But you have to work hard for it.”

  “You actually want me to ESLA the damned floor?”

  “Problem?”

  “I haven’t ESLA’d since training school.”

  “Bit rusty? And the longer you leave it the rustier you’ll be, and then you’ll reach retirement having never used it, always wondering if you could have used it if push came to shove. Well,” he leaned toward Paul, “I’m shoving you. Now unpack the zapper and the foil.”

  The foil’s trade name was Mylar film. On one side it was shiny; chrome-shiny like kitchen foil and just as th
in, and on the reverse side it was an endless jet black. And like kitchen foil, it came on a roll. “So just wind off six or seven feet,” Roger said, “and roll it out across the floor.” With the torch, Roger highlighted the area Paul had to aim for.

  Paul unrolled the film, and seemed relieved when it was laid out on the floor. It was like a mirror, but all ripples and dimples that reflected the white ceiling and fluorescent tubes in a distorted fashion.

  “Good, now for the zapper.”

  Paul cringed. “I’m going to get a belt off it, I know I am.”

  “You’re not, don’t worry.” Roger took the zapper out of its packing.

  It was a black box with its trade name, Pathfinder, emblazoned across it. Pathfinder was slightly bigger than an outstretched hand, had an on/off switch and a dial surrounded by a series of LEDs, going from green, through amber and ending with red. The zapper had what appeared to be three metal feet protruding from the base by a quarter of an inch, only they weren’t feet at all, they were electrodes: one positive, two negative.

  “Here, take it. Put the earth plate near the foil, but not touching it. Now put the zapper down so its electrodes are touching the foil and the earth plate.”

  He did, hesitantly.

  “Good, nothing to worry about. Flick the on switch and turn the dial into the orange section.”

  All the green LEDs illuminated, and two orange ones. The film buzzed and as the power increased, it hissed, sucking down onto the floor as though attached to a vacuum cleaner. The ripples and dimples tightened up. “Now ease it up into the red.” The film became a mirror, was sucked flat onto the floor, and became a truer reflection of the fluorescent tubes and the ceiling. The Mylar film hissed as static electricity chased the remaining air bubbles out at the sides, popping with relief.

  Paul stopped breathing, and Roger nudged him. “It ain’t going to bite you, Paul. Go on, turn it off, leave it a few seconds to discharge and then lift the zapper away.”

  “Why do they call it a zapper?”

  Roger shone the torch and inched across the floor, keeping away from the film, seeing in the oblique light that he wasn’t destroying any other footwear marks. “Go on, take a wild guess.” When Paul lifted the machine away, the Mylar film relaxed, seemed to sigh as the ceiling reflection rippled into distortion again. Together they turned the film over so the black side faced up. “Because if you don’t wait for the discharge, it’ll sting you like you just poked your fingers in the mains socket.”