A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (27 page)

“Oh, no, no, no,” Firth wagged a stern finger. “That’s part of my job. In fact, after I’ve been to OHU, and got this Section 18 search warrant authorised, that’s just where I’m heading.”

“Shelby working you hard, then?”

“I can handle it.”

“I’ll be out of your way before you get there,” Chris said, about to leave.

“No you’re not—”

“Come on, Lenny, give the woman a break. She’s not well. Let her hear the news from someone she knows and trusts. I’m their
friend
. I—”

“No!”

The Indexers and HOLMES Sergeant looked around at them.

Chris lowered his voice, “I promise I won’t ask her any questions or give away any of your information, I just want to be the one who tells her. I’ve known her for years. Anyway, you won’t even know I’ve been.”

“I can’t let you do it, Chris.”

“You owe me, Lenny,” he whispered.

“How the fuck do I owe you?”

“I bagged you a bloody killer, didn’t I?” His whisper grew menacing. “And anyway, I’m off duty myself soon; are you going to stop me popping in there for a coffee?” He smiled reassuringly at the Indexers. They went back to work.

Lenny gave it some thought. “Okay,” he conceded, “but if you find any sniff of evidence, or she tells you anything of interest, firstly you get out of there, and secondly you tell me. Understand?”

“Deal.”

“You say nothing about—”

“I’m not about to piss on your bonfire. I won’t give away any operational secrets. I simply want to be the one to tell her. We’re good friends, you know.”

“Okay. Like I said, I’ll be paying her a visit myself later, but maybe you’re right; it would be a good idea for a friendly face to see her first. What’s wrong with her, anyway?”

“Arthritis.”

“Ouch. My gran had that; nasty business.”

“Yeah, nasty,” Chris said.

It was Friday. Beaver’s big day. He had ‘borrowed’ the pool car from an associate, and then he stole a Wakefield street atlas.

The car, an old Escort, was on false plates, used illegal red diesel and ran out of tax about the same time its tyres ran out of tread. It hadn’t seen an MOT station in years. Water dripped onto Beaver’s skinhead from the so-called sunroof. The wipers worked when they felt like it.

He drove through town, past French-style cafes, the trendy wine bars and then out of Wakefield, up Leeds Road past the drive-through chippy, past the video and hardware stores and pulled into a lay-by so he could double check the map. Nervously, he chewed gum. He turned to the page he’d folded over, found his location with a dirty nail-bitten finger, and made a mental picture of the directions to follow on foot.

“Wedgwood Grove. Next left, left again and then right. Next left, left again and then right,” he repeated. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.” If there were any witnesses to the killing, they would see him leaving the scene dressed in a red coat and blue jeans. He planned on turning the corner and reversing the coat, pulling it inside out, so black showed, giving himself sufficient time to get back here at a leisurely pace. He climbed from the car, slammed its door and crossed the street.

Beaver took his first left and almost fell onto the baby as a pushchair took his feet from under him.

“Sorry, sorry,” said the young mother. “I’m lethal with this thing. I haven’t passed my test yet.” She smiled shyly at him, waited for a jovial response.

Beaver glared. He regained his balance, and carried on walking, glancing back over his shoulder. Clumsy fucking bitch! How’s that for blending in, he thought.

He took his next left and then crossed diagonally over the quiet suburban street, turned right where kids threw ball and cycled around in the rain, where dogs barked at the fun and where elderly neighbours stood chatting beneath golfing umbrellas, plumes of hurried breath pulsing out of their gummy mouths. The sun was twenty minutes from being dead, and high in the third quarter of the sky, a translucent half-moon dangled in a solitary patch of clear sky.

Beaver kept on walking, the wind in his face, watching the house numbers roll by. He looked at the smudged number written on his hand: thirteen; unlucky for some, he mused.

Thirteen came slowly up on his left side.

He continued walking, taking several lengthy glances at the house. He could see no one through the lounge or hall windows, he could see no one upstairs, and the drive was empty except for a few oil stains and a ragged cat taking shelter under a handmade wooden bench. He decided to continue his walk for another hundred yards and maybe select a vantage point from which to view the house without being the centre of attention himself. He spat out the gum and fumbled through his pockets for more.

“Boss, boss.” Firth closed the cell area gate and walked down the corridor to meet Shelby as he came out of the toilet.

“Can’t I even have a leak without—”

“Two bits of news.”

“Hurry up, Lenny; I don’t have time for 20 questions.”

Firth calmed down, took deep breaths. “They found another hair. The lab, they found a second hair in the body tapings from the scene.”

Shelby stuck out his rounded chin, stood upright for a change instead of slouching under the weight of a lopsided investigation. Wait till Conniston hears this, he thought. Plant indeed. “And?” he said.

“Oh yeah, she lied to us.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Alice Taylor! She’s been telling us porkies.” Firth was excited about his ‘find’. “I called around at OHU to speak to her again, and of course I got chatting to the secretary, Melanie.”

“Lenny—”

“Just a second, boss. Melanie told me she thought it was common knowledge that Alice and Roger were shag— were having an affair; they certainly didn’t keep it a secret from her. She says how bad she felt for Alice when Roger came round to try to patch things up. Said Alice was close to tears that morning because Conniston had his wicked way with her the night before and then broke the relationship off in the very next breath!”

“That’s—”

“
Then
, after Roger left OHU, Alice called for his file.”

“Are you saying we have a witness who can testify to Alice Taylor’s evidence being a sham?”

“I am indeed, sir.”

Shelby exhaled like a man smoking his last cigarette, and he closed his eyes, trying to think. Bitch, he thought; Alice Taylor was a liar. But he would keep it to himself for the time being.

Shelby retook his seat in the interview room and continued where he’d left off.

Little over half an hour had passed and there was a knock on the door. “Sir,” said Firth, “can I have a word?”

Shelby grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and ceased the interview formally. “Time for a break anyway. You’ve got about thirty minutes, Roger.”

“I don’t want a break.”

“Well,
I
do.”

“No, please, let’s just keep going.” His wide eyes flicked between Firth and Shelby.

“We’re taking a break.” He summoned the custody sergeant, and Roger was escorted back to his cell.

“What’s wrong now, Lenny?”

Firth watched Roger go. “What’s the matter with him, not wanting a break?”

“Who knows. Now tell me.”

“You asked for the DNA results from the pubic hair.”

“Get on with it, Lenny.”

“It’s Roger Conniston’s. Probability of one in fifty-thousand.”

Thank God for that, Shelby thought. “I’m glad I didn’t count my chickens.”

“I got the statement from Melanie, too, boss. Apparently, this isn’t the first affair Alice has had. For want of a more appropriate way of putting this, sir, she’s the OHU bike, and everyone with a problem and a dick qualifies for a ride.”

Shelby’s hopes took a nosedive and the slouch reappeared. “I see. Thank you, Lenny.” Then he banged a fist into the interview door.

Firth walked away. Shelby called him back, and with spittle flying from his lips, said, “I want you to get straight onto Discipline and Complaints, hear me? I want her arse in a sling and I want her P45 in the fucking post. First class. Got it?”

“Right, boss, I’ll get onto—”

“Are you still here, Lenny!”

Firth trotted away, his ankle regaining the limp it had only recently lost, and Shelby left the cell area and walked up the corridor over to the front counter, where he beckoned old Sergeant Potts over. If anyone knew anything of interest, illicit comings and goings, it was always the desk sergeant.

Potts smiled, “Sergeant Shelby.”

“I’m an Inspector now, James.”

“Oh that’s brill news, is that. Congratulations.” Potts held out a hand.

“I’ve been an Inspector for… oh forget it.”

Potts appeared confused, as though he’d missed the punch line but would work it out later in private.

“Just out of interest, have you noticed anything strange about Roger Conniston over the last couple of months? You know the kind of thing, skulking out of the office, looking flustered, that kind of thing?”

Potts thought for a moment, pursed his lips. “Who?”

“Roger Conniston? The SOCO?”

“Oh yes, I know who you mean.”

“Well?”

“I get messages,” he raised his eyebrows.

From the dead? Shelby wondered. “What kind of messages? Who from?”

Potts came closer, lowered his voice. “Bookies. He comes out here and places the odd bet, even has his friends from the bookies show up sometimes. I don’t mind, really, I mean if he wants to keep his private life a secret from—”

“Roger Conniston, James? You sure?”

“Oh yeah, the cardigan man. I never understood why folk wore cardigans with them silly elbow patches—”

Shelby closed his eyes and sighed. “Thanks, James. Sorry to have troubled you.”

“You’re not planning on taking a break just yet, are you, Ellis?”

The custody sergeant ignored him and let go of him as they were half way up the corridor, and Roger dejectedly wandered into his cell and he stood there as the door closed behind him, the lock turned and footsteps echoed down the corridor. He wondered when Weston would appear. Butterflies smacked against his ribcage.

He cradled himself on the wooden plank, knees tucked up, lying on his side rocking slightly, waiting.

And then he heard it. He held his breath and listened. There it came again, a sort of hissing noise, a whining. And then he saw the eye at the peephole; and the noise stopped. The peephole cleared, the flap swung shut and the door lock banged open. Roger’s heart kicked and his fingertips tingled right along the line of scars. Weston stood in the doorway, arms folded, and hissed the same hiss, the sound a chuckle makes when forced through clenched teeth.

“Fuck off.”

“Now, now, let’s not be like that,” Weston said. “I relieved Ellis for ten minutes so we could have a little chat.” He cracked his knuckles and the rings gleamed again.

“I’m onto you. I nearly had you this morning,” Roger’s eyes were slits, he wanted this piece of shit to know that they might have closed the file on him, but it was still very much open as far he was concerned. He sat up.

“That right?” Weston smiled in return.

Roger gawped. Not the kind of reaction he hoped for.

“You stood out like a karaoke singer in a fucking opera. If you want to come and see where I take my country walks, that’s fine by me.”

“It won’t work, you know.”

“What’s that then?”

“They’ll find you out, Weston. They’ll find the evidence.”

“You’re off your fucking trolley, you piece of shit.”

“They know you framed me for murder, Weston.” Roger smiled nervously. “They’re working on it right now.”

“Eek, I’m scared.” Weston let his arms drop. “Don’t be like that,” he crept into the cell, away from the open door, “don’t be hasty with this ‘framed me for murder’ shite.” He laughed again, quieter this time, “You don’t want to go blabbing things like that around; people might start to believe you,” he laughed, “and then those people might commence investigations. Tut-tut. We can’t be having that now, can we?” His shoes creaked as he stepped further forward. “Anyway, Shelby already thinks you did it, you know that, don’t you? And do you know what clinched it, do you know what made him change his mind about you?”

“Change his mind?”

Weston said, “he thought you were innocent when it all began, but you’ve succeeded in changing his mind for him; he now
knows
you’re fucking guilty.” Weston came closer, eyes peering at Roger like he was a strange exhibit in a museum. “Protesting your innocence like that did it; you know, when you scream someone’s name the way you did, and especially when the name you scream belongs to the bloke we all know you hate, that’s when people begin to see people like you as… what’s the term,
unstable
, I think,” he winked. “They think you’re a fucking nutter, a man full of sour grapes, out for revenge.” His black eyes sparkled in the meagre light.

“Bollocks.”

“Sounds like you’re going through hell in there with Shelby. I’ve been listening. Hope you don’t mind.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” He contemplated the question for a while, seeking the answer in the cream-painted ceiling. “What do I want? I want to see you squirm, you cock-sucking piece of civvy shit.” He flicked change in his pocket. “And I want to see what your face looks like when I tell you who else thinks you’re guilty of murder.”

“Just turn around and go away.”

Weston asked, “Not interested, huh?”

“No,” he lied. “Now fuck off.”

“I know where your boss has gone.”

Roger said nothing, only looked at the walls.

“He’s gone to visit your wife. Yvonne, isn’t it?”

Roger paid attention now.

“That’s right. He’s gone to tell her the good news. You won’t be home for tea; for about fifteen years.” He laughed; the sound echoed around the cell. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t slip her a length while he was there.”

Roger kept quiet.

“She’d probably be glad of it too; make a change from seeing a shrivelled dick like yours—”