A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy)

by Andrew Barrett

  Paul hadn’t messed up. The mark itself, labelled 9, did indeed have blue gloss paint sandwiched between the adhesive lift and the acetate. Shelby quizzed Paul; flapped the fingerprint lift constantly in his face, almost had him in tears, but it was Paul who remarked how much like ‘police station blue’ it was. And from there, it didn’t take him long to lead Shelby and Firth to the doorframe in the Scenes of Crime office – the only natural conclusion.

  Though the doorframe had been cleaned of its black powder, the physical fit of the paint was unmistakable. “But it’s your handwriting on the acetate,” Firth said, “with Nicky Bridgestock’s address.”

  “We both did the fingerprinting in the house, we both lifted and mounted marks, but I wrote them all up as mine to save time and inconvenience. This was an exercise,” he pointed to the doorframe, “a test, so I knew how to handle the fingerprint camera when the time came.” His eyes flicked from Firth to Shelby and back again. “I remember seeing Inspector Weston having a good look at them, the marks on the frame, I mean. He asked me what I was doing.” Paul bit his bottom lip, afraid he’d done some real damage. “And I remember him smiling, seriously weird.”

  “Seriously weird?” Shelby asked. “Can’t you use proper words? What the fuck does seriously weird mean?”

  His fingertips tapped the side of his leg. “I don’t know; he was smiling…”

  “And that’s why your details are on the identity label on the photo of the mark? Because you were asked to put them there by Chris?”

  “It was an exercise,” he shrugged. “Chris asked me to fill in the label as though it were a real scene, he said let’s make it the bedroom doorframe, but then he told me to leave the date blank.” He paused, “Have I done something wrong? Am I in trouble? I’m still on probation and—”

  Shelby said to Firth. “Who owns a late model Ford apart from Roger?”

  “Weston has a motive, boss.”

  Shaking his head, Shelby said, “No, Weston’s drives a flash BMW.”

  “Maybe. But his wife owns a late model Ford.”

  “I’m aware of that. But I’m sure Weston didn’t have access to Nicky’s scene.”

  “Yes, he did. He had access to the scene after everyone left for the night.”

  “That scene was guarded all night. His name wasn’t on the log.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Firth said. “But you know how persuasive he can be.”

  Shelby was about to ask why Weston would do something like this, but he already knew the answer. Hatred. Simple. Hate is hell inside your head. “Send Clements back up to the secure ward. I want some answers from him. I want to know if he went in Nicky’s house at all, I want to know why he took an interest in this black powder exercise. And I want to know why he went into Roger’s cell.” And he remembered Weston taking an unhealthy interest in what evidence they found at Delaney’s scene.

  “Okay, boss.”

  “But, Lenny, most of all I want to know why he went in there twice.”

  “Okay, boss. Oh, shouldn’t we contact D & C about—”

  “Lenny!”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Firth backed away up the corridor, nodding at each new aspect on Shelby’s list of requests. Shelby sighed. He knew what Firth meant, and he knew he had precisely four hours left in which to contact Chief Inspector Cuthbertson at Discipline and Complaints – soon to be renamed the Professional Standards Unit – and hand over all the information he had concerning Weston and his… transgression of duty and the resultant effect his actions had on ‘the status of a prisoner’. But that was for later.

  Shelby turned to Paul, even had his finger pointing ready to lay into him, when down the corridor at a dangerously fast pace bounded Barry Goodwyn.

  Paul’s face melted with relief.

  “Oh, what now?” Shelby asked.

  “I’ve found a match.”

  “Didn’t know you smoked, Barry.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind. Go on.”

  “I’ve found a match for the marks on the mug.”

  “What mug?” Shelby asked.

  “The mug from the kitchen.” Barry looked between Paul Bryant and Inspector Shelby.

  “Did you go there alone, Paul?”

  “I can explain, Inspector Shelby,” Paul said awkwardly. “But listen to Barry first.”

  “There are two phrases I hate, Paul, and ‘I can explain’ is one of them.”

  “What’s the other?” Barry asked.

  “Who went with you?” Shelby’s temper was getting thinner.

  “Who is it?” Paul asked Barry. “Who?”

  “It’s strange,” Barry began, “they belong to—”

  “What mug?” Shelby looked at Paul.

  “I can explain, Inspector Shelby,” Paul said.

  “They match the fifty pound note from the Delaney murder,” added Barry.

  Shelby stopped dead, finger still poised. He turned to Barry. “Are they identical?”

  “I’m having an expert verify them now. But I think they’re good enough for court, yes.”

  Shelby started walking. “Barry, my office now. Paul, bring coffee, lots and lots of coffee to my office in ten minutes. Right?”

  “Right, Inspector Shelby.”

  Barry set off down the corridor, trying to catch up with Shelby. He turned around to Paul and apologised, “Sorry; dead end,” he said, “the marks from your mug belong to an attending officer.”

  “Who!”

  “They belong to—”

  “Come on, Barry!” Shelby roared.

  — Six —

  Tappy and his owner ambled back past the front window. The old man peered in as he walked, didn’t bother to conceal the fact; he craned his neck, saw Roger’s silhouette and even waved.

  It was freezing in here. He shivered and rubbed his bare arms. Rain hit the window with the tic-tic sound that a cheap pen makes as it writes. Roger saw the old man disappear, and then followed his torchlight up the stairs, eager to be away from the lounge, and needing to relieve himself anyway.

  The bathroom looked like a bizarre altar. There were candles everywhere. On each corner of the bath, another two on the windowsill, and next to a filthy shaving brush and a pack of Bic razors, was a pile of dead matches, three cans of deodorant and a bottle of strong aftershave. Roger laid the torch down, took off the t-shirt, unzipped the suit and sat on the toilet, phone in his hand. He tried the office number again, not expecting it to pick up now, at this time of night, whatever this time of night was. But it did.

  “Paul Bryant, Scenes of—”

  “Paul, Paul,” he said, “it’s me, Roger.”

  “Oh, Roger. We’ve seriously blown out on the fingerprints.”

  “Fuck.” Roger closed his eyes. “Go on, give it to me.”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “What, Paul! Just fucking tell me!”

  “They’re a no go. They belong to an attending officer. We’ll have to hope the footwear brings us more luck.”

  He stopped dead. A noise came from down the landing. A creaking.

  “You still there, Roger?”

  He listened. Heart racing.

  “Roger?”

  “Noises in here.”

  “Is Chris there?” Paul asked.

  “Hurry up, Paul,” he swallowed. “The marks, who do they belong to?”

  “When you see Chris, tell him he’s in line for a Golden Brush.”

  Chapter Thirty

  — One —

  It was only a short landing, but walking along it took an age. Every floorboard creaked. His suit crackled as he put one foot in front of the other. Even his hand, guiding him along the wall, seemed to scrape loudly like someone dragging a shovel over a concrete floor. He ran his tongue over his swollen lip.

  The door at the end of the landing stood slightly ajar, only endless grey beyond it. Roger pushed and it swung silently open. A smell of alcohol and sweat wafted out from the shadows.
It was colder in here than in any other room, and as he stepped inside, not bothering this time to search the wall for a light switch, he wondered why Chris hadn’t yet returned home. He wasn’t back at the office either, Paul had said so.

  Roger’s nerves pulled tighter. He crept forward and the yellowing torchlight fell upon an old school desk. On the desk was a large angle-poise magnifying glass with a lamp around the lens’s periphery. A strange item for a junk room, surely? Also on the desk was an open ream of A4 paper, and next to it a glass beaker with a clear liquid inside. Surgical spirit. Why would Chris want a beaker of surgical spirit, and why would Chris keep a pair of stainless steel tweezers in it? Roger’s concern grew. There was a scalpel, more tweezers and a black cotton bag. At the back of the desk, a box of latex gloves and a box of 3M masks.

  “Roger.”

  “Fuck!” Roger leapt backwards into the desk, knocking the beaker onto the floor. The beaker shattered and surgical spirit splashed across the carpet. The lamp rocked and then steadied. “Fuck,” he shouted again. “Chris, you bastard—”

  “Sorry, Roger,” Chris said, getting to his feet from a chair in the darkest corner of the room. He removed a large overcoat and slung it over the chair. Its silk lining shimmered in the torchlight. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He grunted; his feet cracked as he stood, and like an old man disturbed from a long sleep, he lurched forward, hands behind his back. “The lamp works, it’s battery powered. Go ahead, turn it on.”

  Roger kept the torchlight in Chris’s face as he fumbled behind him for the lamp and its switch. The light came on.

  “Would you mind turning your torch off, or at least taking it out of my face? It’s very uncomfortable.”

  “What’s going on here?” Roger asked. “Why no mains?”

  “Someone made a mess of your face, Roger.”

  He looked at Chris’s cardigan, at the stain there, and at the new blood-shiny beard that had grown on his chin. “Could say the same,” Roger said, an edge of caution in his voice.

  “Yvonne said you needed me.”

  “I did, but it’s sorted now.”

  “Really?” Chris’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oh yes. I got it covered.”

  “She also said that Bell gave you the promotion.”

  Surprised, Roger asked, “You didn’t see him? I thought you were having a meeting with him.”

  Chris shrugged as he inched closer. “One of those things, I suppose; he forgot to send for me.”

  “I’m sorry about that. It’s—”

  “Never mind. I wonder if he’s had to re-schedule our meeting anyway, since you’re not now eligible for the post.” He smiled gently, “Looks like I got the job after all.” Chris’s shadow loomed on the far wall.

  “I examined her scene, Chris.”

  “Whose scene?” he whispered.

  “Your victim’s scene. Nicky Bridgestock.”

  Chris stopped walking. “Aw, shit. Roger, you just said the wrong thing.” He looked away. “I’ve been waiting for you a long time. Hours. I’ve had time to think; had a sneaking suspicion you might do that.”

  “And I just had some really interesting news from Paul.” He tried to see into Chris’s eyes, but they gave nothing away, his face blank. “There was me thinking it was Weston all along. You going to tell me why you did it?”

  Chris eventually smiled and resumed his steady advancement. Glass crunched and pierced his feet. He didn’t flinch. “How did you know?”

  “You were always the Professor. All of us in the office looked up to you when it came to tricky scene examinations. You always had the answer, regardless of what the question was. You deserved the title we gave you—”

  “How?”

  “You made an error, Chris. Fingerprints. On the cup inside the kitchen cupboard.”

  Chris closed his eyes and an ironic smile touched his lips.

  “I’ve known you all these years,” Roger said. “I can’t believe you would kill someone. Why!”

  “And I can’t believe I made such an elementary mistake.”

  “Why make it look as though I killed her!”

  “I thought I’d done a thorough job. I considered every detail—”

  “Except your habit of keeping cups open-end down.”

  “I should never—”

  “Why blame me, Chris? What did I ever do to you?”

  Chris considered the question. “Take a look around. Does my standard of living impress you? I’ve had no electricity for a month, and no phone for three months; I’ve got no food other than tins, which I can’t cook properly. I can’t even have a cup of bastard tea.” A strand of grey hair fell across his damp forehead. With deftness, he pulled it aside and continued. “I siphon petrol from the vans. Did you know that? I’m trying to sell the house too. Going cheap if you’re interested. And all because I owe seventeen grand to people who snap legs for fun.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say something? Christ, I would’ve helped!”

  “You condescending prick. You don’t have the faintest idea how hard it was asking people for money to bail me out of a mess I got myself into. Would you have lent me seventeen fucking grand?”

  Roger said nothing.

  “No. You wouldn’t.”

  “The promotion—”

  “The promotion was my way out.” He jabbed a finger towards Roger, and his face flooded with colour. “I’m the Professor, remember.” He waved his arms around. “The Supervisor’s job was mine, had my name all over it. But he gave it to you. He was always going to give it to you.”

  “No. I don’t think so. Someone once told me that this job’ll find out your lies, and when it does, it’ll spit you out like gristle. If you want something, my friend, you have to want it for the right reasons.” Roger shook his head, “Money ain’t the right reason.”

  “I’m not your fucking friend, Roger. And I don’t go for sanctimonious bollocks like that. If you want something, you go out there and you get it any way you can.” Chris smiled again in the weak light. “I taught you well. Congratulations on spotting my little ruse.”

  Roger’s free hand curled into a fist. “You can’t call murder a little ruse, Chris. It’s like saying the Titanic was a fucking trawler. It’s like saying Mars is a short walk away.”

  “Don’t preach to me—”

  “I can’t believe you killed a girl for promotion. We’re talking a girl’s life. You’re fucking sick!” Roger swung a fist towards Chris’s face but he moved aside with remarkable speed.

  “Hunger makes a man quick, Roger. It makes him do all kinds of stuff.”

  “You wasted a life! Why didn’t you just kill me if you needed the job so bad?”

  Chris almost laughed, “You would have volunteered?”

  “Why were you so hostile towards me?”

  “Because it was easier to hate you. Easier to kill Nicky if I didn’t like you.” Chris’s face looked ruined, old and weathered; his voice a croaking whisper. “Killing a stranger’s easy, Roger. Easier than I thought it’d be. After years of seeing victims, I think I became immune to a stranger’s death anyway. But I think if I’d known my victim,” he shrugged, “I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I thought it would do wicked things to my head.”

  “And?”

  Chris took a slow step forward. “And now… My priority is staying out of prison. I don’t think I could survive in prison. I think it would do wicked things to my head. Anyway, killing you...” He stared at Roger sideways on, a curious look in his eyes. “It won’t be so difficult.”

  Roger felt his legs shaking. “It can all be over, Chris.”

  “Really? Stand aside then, and let me walk out of here.”

  “I despise you. I know people who have literally nothing, nothing, but they don’t—”

  “Hobnail hasn’t got the fucking wits—”

  “He’s got pride though.”

  “Are you going to let me pass, Roger?”

  Roger shook his head. “I
’ve never let a killer walk free yet.”

  Chris lunged. They hit the floor, the torch crashed through the doorway and died. The desk toppled, the lamp fell, but stayed lit. Silence exploded with screams.

  Roger felt a weight heavy on top of him and then a scalpel was at his face. It slashed.

  He felt hot blood down his cheek. “Get off meeee!”

  Chris slashed again.

  Roger turned and the blade sliced across the bridge of his nose and tore the glasses off his face. They rattled against the door. Now his attacker was ill-defined, a fast moving blur. Blood ran into his eye.

  Roger caught Chris’s wrist and smacked his hand into the desk leg. He threw a punch at Chris’s chin. He missed, struck Chris’s throat.

  The scalpel fell and so did Chris, rolling onto his back and holding his neck, struggling for breath. His fingers searched the carpet in a frenzy.

  Roger began to panic, hands flapping around, scrambling to where he thought the door was.

  Chris grabbed his arm.

  Downstairs a door banged. Glass smashed.

  “Quick!” Roger called. “I’m up here.” And then to Chris, “They’re coming, you twisted fuck.”

  Chris’s fingers found the scalpel.

  “Hurry up!” Roger screamed.

  The footfalls were on the landing.

  Chris brought the scalpel up.

  Though blurred, Roger saw it glint in the lamplight for a fraction of a second. But by then it was too late.

  “Noooo!”

  Torchlight blinded him; incoherent voices like mini thunderclaps attacked him. Confusion. Everything was a hazy blur. But he saw the scalpel plunge into Chris’s neck. Flowing redness swamped the blade and the handle, engulfed Chris’s fist. His eyes blinked rapidly.

  “You bastard!” Roger yelled, “Don’t you dare die!” He looked at the torches, “Do something, for fuck’s sake, don’t let him die.” Roger reached for the scalpel handle.

  “Stop!” Shelby grabbed Roger’s arm. “Leave it. It’s done.”

  “I have to stop him; I can’t let him die—”