A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (13 page)

Chris arrived early at the office. Today he felt fine. Today, he felt in charge.

A rape had come in overnight and officers were still guarding the scene. He allotted the job to Jon who expressed his dislike by slamming the office door in Chris’s face. Tough, he thought, someone has to do it.

Now it was time he got to know his new member of staff a little better, and he told himself it had nothing to do with Roger quietly suggesting he had a talk to him and reassure him. “Bring your coffee over here, Paul. Come on, pull up a pew and have a chat with your boss.” He rolled the sleeves of his grey cardigan up, creasing the brown suede elbow pads.

“Have I done something wrong, Chris?”

“I don’t know, have you?”

“Well, not as far as I know. I mean, I began to fingerprint some recovered property before I’d photographed it, but seriously, I think that’s about all.”

“Well then, you’ve done nothing wrong. And,” he sipped his coffee, “if you
had
done something wrong, we’d talk about it, help you avoid the same error again.”

“I know. I guess I’m just a worrier.”

“I don’t like errors, it must be said; I demand a high standard from my team and that includes thoroughness and accountability beyond reproach. There’s only one way of doing that: be professional. Tell me, if something comes along and you’re not sure how to handle it, do you have a go, or do you seek help?”

“Well, I think I—”

“Think? Come on, Paul. What
would
you do?”

He tugged at his purple tie. “I’d follow my intuition. I’d do what I thought was right.”

Chris saw something spark in the lad that impressed him. He was enthusiastic. “Good. So would I.”

Paul’s relief was evident. His hand went to his tie again.

Chris aimed to make himself approachable to Paul, but spoke firmly, laying down his own methodology and expectations. It was important that he had Paul on side, important that he could take orders, but think for himself too. “Right, sit back, sit back and tell me your worries, your aims or whatever else you want to talk about.”

Paul thought for a while and then said, “I’ve set certain goals for myself. I thought I’d encounter these things fairly quickly, but—”

“Like what?”

“I want to do a post-mortem. I want to photograph a nighttime RTA. And there’s all the complex stuff: murders, rapes, you know. I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“I have a feeling that you’ll do just fine, Paul. I like the zest you have. Wish more people had it. And I wish you’d mentioned the rape earlier, you could’ve gone along with Jon.” Maybe not, he thought. He banged the coffee cup on his desk, “How about a fresh one?”

Paul nodded, stood and reached for the cup.

“No, I’ll do it,” Chris said. “Fair’s fair.” He grabbed the cups and then asked, “Is there any piece of kit you’re not sure of? The ESLA perhaps, or the fingerprint camera?” The fingerprint camera was difficult to use – and it was guaranteed that new staff would struggle with it.

“Ah, yeah. That was a nightmare, awful thing, that. Couldn’t grasp it.”

“Go get it from the van. I’ll fix the drinks, and we’ll practise. How’s that sound?”

They found a scrunched up newspaper in the bin, and taped it to the floor around the office doorframe, put masks and gloves on. Chris stood back with his arms folded, “Go on then, let’s see your technique.”

Using black powder and an old squirrel brush, Paul examined the office doorframe, and developed a quantity of marks. Black powder fell in clouds onto the paper, onto the surrounding floor and all across Paul’s shirtsleeves. “That’s it, apply it liberally,” Chris boomed. “Okay, get a clean brush and gently – you know how fragile a black-powder mark is – brush along the ridge detail, just try to clean the mark up a bit before we photo it.”

Paul took off the gloves and under Chris’s guidance, loaded film into the cumbersome fixed-focus fingerprint camera, and then prepared some blue labels. The labels had spaces for information that should be caught on film alongside the mark it was meant to identify: the name of the SOCO, the mark number, its location and the date.

“Let’s add a touch of realism here,” Chris said.

“How do you mean?”

“Okay, you’re at a rape scene, you’re all suited up, the pressure’s on to bring home some top-notch evidence. The SIO is tapping his fingers waiting to see what you find. Imagine this is a lounge doorframe, or a bedroom doorframe. Yes, a bedroom doorframe. Er, let’s say you’ve photo’d another eight marks so far, we’ll make this one number nine,” he said, and Paul wrote out the label. “Okay, good. Don’t bother with the date for this exercise, but up in the top right hand corner, yes, that’s fine, write B/W.”

“B/W?”

“Yeah, it’s just to let the Photographic Studio know we’ve used black powder so they can make a diapositive.”

Paul sighed and gave away his ignorance.

“When you powder with aluminium or white powders, they can simply photograph the mark and ship it through to the Fingerprint Bureau as it is for them to search, but when you use black powders, or sometimes when you photograph marks in grease or in blood, they have to make a double negative so as to correct the troughs of the fingerprint into peaks and visa versa. Get it?”

“Yeah, I think so; I wish it would all just click into place, though.”

“It will, it will. Anyway, that’s a diapositive.”

“Shall I do the honours?”

“Be my guest.” Chris put his reading glasses on and studied the developed marks carefully, checking them with a pocket magnifying glass, and pointed to the ones he deemed good enough to warrant all this trouble; those marks where he could see sixteen clear ridge detail characteristics. “It’s a standard imposed by the courts. Find sixteen,” he said, “and no one can challenge that fingerprint – it belongs without doubt to the suspect.”

Paul stuck the blue label alongside the ridge detail of Chris’s selected fingerprint. “It’s just strange that there’s no viewfinder on this thing.”

“The beauty of fixed focus. Get the mark and the label inside that metal framework, and you’ve cracked it. “Okay, got it on f16, 125
^th
shutter speed?”

“Yup.”

“Go on, then. Go on.”

He pressed the shutter release. The small flash popped, the camera clicked and Paul waited for some sign, some kind of approval. Chris eventually nodded and Paul relaxed.

“Well,” said Chris, “what exactly was so tricky about that?”

“That was good. In fact I quite enjoyed it.”

“Good. Right, I’ll develop it and we’ll see how well it worked, shall we?”

“Fancy another coffee?”

Paul sat before the computer, watching as the Open Incidents screen unfolded real life, real-time stories of domestic violence, damage to motor vehicles, minor road traffic accidents, and reports of theft, shoplifting, and burglary. He was so engrossed by what he saw that he almost screamed when the door banged open and a police officer stormed into the room like a truck with no brakes.

“Where’s Chris Hutchinson?”

He had skew-whiff eyes, Paul noticed. “Er, in the darkroom.”

“Who was on late turn last night? As if I need to ask.”

“I don’t know. I’d er, I’d have to look at the duties.”

“Look at the duties!” he barked. “Don’t you know your duty roster by now, lad?”

“Well,” he quivered, “I’ve only been here a few weeks—”

“So look at the damned roster, then,” the officer snarled at Paul.

Paul leapt from the seat, circled wide around the office, nervous of the officer and his uncoordinated eyes, and quickly thumbed through the roster trying not to look at all that gold jewellery. He must be the Bulldog I’ve heard them all talking about, Paul thought. “It was…it was—”

“Conniston?”

Paul looked at him, “Yes, it was Roger. He was on duty until—”

“Two. At least he was
supposed
to be on duty until two.” The Bulldog marched to the corner of the office and banged on the darkroom door. “Chris? How long you going to be?”

“Give me a bloody minute, will you!”

Paul stood perfectly still, hands behind his back, avoiding the Bulldog’s eyes.

“What exactly are you doing here?”

“Well, I work here—”

“I mean with the black powder, stupid.”

“Training exercise. Chris is developing the negatives now.”

The officer’s eyes skimmed the blackened doorframe, and then he looked closer. He bent over and he looked very close.

Chris held the film up to the light. Water cascaded down the strip of celluloid and then slowed to a casual drip from his fingers. He moved the film along, glancing at- and then studying each frame closer. The results were satisfactory. Each one had developed perfectly, bore superb ridge detail and more importantly, each one had a completed label on it.

Paul had done well.

Between his fingers, Chris squeezed as much water from its surface as he could before hooking it, weighed down at the bottom, into the drying cabinet next to another strip of negatives. Eventually, he opened the door to the office and flooded the small hot room with the dazzling white light. Before him stood the Inspector Weston, arms folded, agitated – as usual.

“Put the kettle on, Paul. I believe Inspector Weston takes his coffee black.” He turned to Weston and said, “Colin, social call?”

“The night sergeant left a note on my desk. I don’t like walking into this kind of shit first thing on a morning. A fatal occurred last night, and I think you may be able to help with my enquiries.”

Chris caught his breath. “In what way?”

“I’ve already established that Conniston was supposed to be working last night when this smash came in—”

“Accident? Road accident?”

“Yes, road accident. What did you think I was talking about?”

“Go on with your, er… enquiry.”

“At one-thirty-four, an RTA came in at Lofthouse at which a mother and child died. Despite attempts to locate Conniston, he could not be found. The Traffic sergeant had to turn out another, more reliable SOCO from Morley to do his work. Not only did this cost road-closure time and officers’ time at the scene,
and
recovery garage time, but it made this Division look foolish!” Weston’s well-upholstered jowls reddened and his eyes narrowed to threatening slits, it was only Paul handing him a steaming mug of black coffee, and Chris beckoning him to sit, that calmed him.

“Well, it’s not like Roger to go AWOL. I expect there was a good reason for him not being here.”

“Not good enough as far as I’m concerned.” Gold rings clinked against the mug.

“All I can say is that I am really sorry for any inconvenience. I
really
am; the last thing I want to do is sour relations between our departments, and of course I’ll be asking some searching questions when he shows up this morning.”

“When does he come on?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“I’ll be back when he gets in. I want some input into this meeting.” Weston slurped coffee, grimaced, and then stood. “Next time,” he glared at Paul, “don’t give me coffee with aluminium powder floating on it or I’ll snap your pissing legs.” He stormed out every bit as quickly as he had stormed in, cursing, “Fucking civvies,” as he went.

An uncomfortable silence fell on the office before Paul asked, “Are my negatives ready yet?”

 “I’ll get them.” Chris peered at Weston’s steaming mug. “You should turn the cups upside down after you wash them out. The air’s always full of powder in here. You’ll learn,” he said, walking away. “Second nature to us.” He was about to refill the kettle when he heard his name grate over the Tannoy in Sergeant Potts’ rough voice. Chris stopped dead. He seemed as worried as a man about to have all his teeth removed without anaesthetic.

Paul was about to ask if he was feeling okay, but he daren’t. Chris left the office without a word, and Paul returned to the Open Incidents computer, and had read each story before Chris came back in. And if Paul hadn’t seen Chris’s teeth as he sighed into his chair, he would have said that he
looked
like a man who’d just had all his teeth removed without anaesthetic.

Roger locked the car door, saw the green checked bag on the backseat and wondered how long he would have to live out of it. Like the weather, life was perpetual greyness. He looked around, expecting to see Hobnail waving him over from somewhere near the main gate, but he wasn’t around today; having a sleep-in, maybe. And he wondered if this was how Hobnail had begun his career as a vagrant. It didn’t make him feel any better. But, would anything? He approached the magnetically operated doors and swiped his ID card through the adjacent reader.

As he crossed the threshold into the office, he saw smears of black powder, like deep shadows on the floor by the doorframe. Chris was in his chair, eyes unfocused, staring off into the distance; fingers laced together tightly until the knuckles were white. His face was white too and he looked a dozen years older, slumped in his chair like a man made of rubber. A copy of
The Racing Post
was folded on his desk, reading glasses open on the cover.

What’s up with you, he thought, being Big Cheese leaving a bad taste today, is it? Whatever it is, bet I can beat it, my old pal. He hoped Yvonne was okay.

Paul was sitting at his desk staring forlornly at a strip of negatives and cradling a cup in his hands. There was a nasty edge to the office this morning, and Roger felt like turning right around and leaving again. “Much on?”

“Jon has it under control.” His eyes came back into the office, he blinked and turned to Paul, “Go up to Sunways, there should be a couple of cars that need examining.”

“But—”

“Do as I say!”

Paul set his cup down, grabbed a set of van keys and left.

Roger took off his coat, and slung it around the back of his chair. “I said he needed your guidance, not a—” Chris just looked at him.

Chris said nothing.

“Should I borrow a stab vest?”