A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (3 page)

“It wouldn’t look good for his promotion if you complained he was harassing you.”

Weston shook his head. “It would draw more attention to me.”

The man stubbed out his cigar. “So you need to use action.”

“At last, the penny drops. I’m losing business because of him.” And then he growled, “I’m losing
money
.”

“Shouldn’t live so rich, Colin. It gives the game away—”

“My money, my lifestyle.”

The man tipped his empty glass. “Touché.”

“I want him out of the way; if he ever gets proof, I’m finished. And just because I bluffed ‘em once, don’t mean they’ll never investigate again.”

Mac coughed, placed two pints on the table.

“Seems you have another problem, then,” the contact said.

“Only one?”

“You’ll have to supply the metal and meet with the kid yourself. I’m in Manchester for the next ten days or so. Leaving tomorrow.”

“Marvellous. Some help you are.”

The man shrugged, watching Weston fidget. “Listen, I’ve got you a man, you provide the metal and the target. Job’s a good ‘un.” He sank back into the shadows. “Anyway, it’s good that you see the business from the sharp end for once. You barely get your stubby little fingers dirty these days.”

Through a defeated sigh, Weston said, “Gimme details.”

“Beaver. Thursday. Noon. Don’t be late.”

“Where?”

“Final RV, stable.”

Weston nodded.

West Yorkshire Police Headquarters on Laburnum Road displayed a classical decorum lacking anywhere else in the Force. It was a huge brick-built monolith that boasted private gardens and silver service in its own restaurant; a place where visitors were shown the hub of police management. This was where the Senior Officers made the big decisions and this was where Chris Hutchinson now found himself. Like Roger before him, he was under scrutiny again by his Head of Department, Denis Bell, as part of a four-week promotional trial initiated by the death of Charles ‘Lanky’ Richardshaw of heart failure five months ago.

Chris was Roger’s colleague at Wood Street. They shared the same office and had developed a close friendship. Thanks to Lanky, things were about to change.

In co-operation with Bell, the Personnel Department had put eight prospective candidates for Lanky’s job through a series of role-playing scenarios that lasted a full day. Four of those scored high enough to qualify for an interview. Out of those four, only two made it through to the final stage. Chris and Roger.

Already friends, they were now rivals. And while each had congratulated the other and said
May the best man win
, Chris had said it with his fingers crossed. In another two weeks, Bell would decide which of the friends gave the orders and which acted on them.

On this particular Saturday afternoon, Chris was one of nine sitting around a polished mahogany table in the Old Library, listening to Bell ramble. The others were Supervisors within the Scenes of Crime Department, in charge of up to fifteen SOCOs, and responsible for providing forensic cover within their own Divisions, their own particular segment of the West Yorkshire County.

Chris twisted the gold wedding ring on his finger, then rested his chin on his fist.

All significance leaked out of Bell’s voice as it sank into a monotonous drone like listening to a conversation through a brick wall. The audience’s attention drifted; in particular, Chris’s mind wandered back to the promotion race, the promotion
fight
, and his impending victory.

 “…refresher course at Durham, Chris?” Bell waited. Bell coughed.

Chris’s chin fell off his fist. “Sorry, Denis.”

“I trust you will take more notice of me in future Supervisors’ meetings. Should you be lucky enough to have any future meetings.”

“Sorry, Denis.”

“Mr Bell, to you, Chris. Mr Bell.”

Chris sat up straight. “Right. Mr Bell.”

“I want a list of those who qualify for a refresher course.”

Chris nodded.

The meeting, the
lecture
as Chris now thought it, lingered for a further ten minutes before Bell thankfully wrapped it up. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, any other business before we leave?” He loitered only briefly. “Wonderful. Well, thank you for your attendance and don’t forget if there’s anything I can do for you, my door is always open, blah blah.”

Everyone stood to leave.

“Chris, a word, please,” Bell muttered.

“I’m really sorry about—”

Bell hushed him with a stare and moved towards the door.

Silently, Chris followed him along a series of corridors, absorbed by Bell’s short legs jabbing each stride as though stretching them any further would release whatever was clamped between his arse cheeks. He smiled at the image.

Bell unlocked his office door, admitted Chris and closed it behind him.

“Sit down.”

Spotlights illuminated a bookcase containing manuals of
Forensic Science Case Studies
,
Post-mortem-
and
Scene Examination Best Practices
,
ACPO DNA Recommendations
and several management manuals, all of which appeared unread. The office smelled of old men in green corduroy trousers; warm and dank.

Bell sank into his leather chair. He had cholesterol-ringed eyes and dark yellow teeth. “Paul settling in okay?”

Chris sat opposite on a cheap fabric chair, and prepared himself for the game – ‘the mind-fuck game’ as he called it, a delving session where the Old Man would prod his brain and assess his suitability for the post. He looked past Bell’s counterfeit smile and saw the contempt in his eyes.

“He’s doing fine. I think experience will—”

“What are you going to do to convince me to promote you instead of Conniston?”

Chris’s mind was blank. “Well, Roger’s a good man, Denis—”

“You’re supposed to be scoring points for yourself not the opposition.”

“Well—”

“And it’s Mr Bell, Chris. You’re not there yet. Don’t forget it.”

The barriers in Chris’s mind rose quickly.

Bell continued, “I have to say that you’re bordering on the Fail-to-Impress side of my desk. I’ve heard good things about you over the years and it’s why you’re here now, but you have to move up a level, a
distinct
level, in order to fulfil the role of Supervisor. And daydreaming in a meeting is not a quality I admire.”

Chris struggled with a vision of himself flying across the desk and wrapping his hands around Bell’s neck, squeezing until his fingers met his thumbs. He looked away, gathered himself.

“How would you feel if you got the job and Conniston had to take your instructions?”

Chris flushed with anticipation. “It would be an honour. And Roger? I wouldn’t treat him differently to anyone else on my staff. I think that’s important.”

“I think you’re right.” Bell leaned forward.

Chris relaxed.

“How would you feel if Roger got the job and you had to take his instructions?”

Chris blinked.

“The thought had never even occurred to you before, had it? Are you so convinced of your own case?”

“I have more experience than he does. They even call me The Professor; I’m respected,” he smiled. “Surely you wouldn’t…” Chris nipped at the stitching around his cardigan’s elbow patches. “I could take his orders, of course I could, and don’t get me wrong, he’s no fool, he won’t foul up, so there’d be no need to put him straight, which of course I’d be happy to do, you know, to help out where I could.”

Bell laced his fingers. “I think you’d struggle taking orders from him.”

“No, no, that’s wrong, Den— Mr Bell. I respect him, I
could
take orders.”

“The successful candidate would have to be a good all-rounder, be an approachable manager and yet be forceful but tactful with those above and below him.” There Bell paused and analysed Chris’s reaction.

Chris’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What’s with all the messing about? I mean, how come…” Below the level of the desk, Chris curled both hands into fists. He teetered on the edge of his cheap fabric seat. “Do I stand the remotest chance of getting this promotion? Am I here just to… why
am
I here? Mr Bell, tell me why I’m here?”

Bell glared. “You’re here to make my job of selecting the right man easier.”

Chris bit down on his tongue hard enough to make his eyes water.

“Look,” Bell said, “I don’t know who’ll get promoted yet. But you’re going to have to raise your game. You need to study interpersonal techniques.”

“What?”

“Things have moved on since your interview for SOCO, and now we look at every nuance of behaviour; better get used to it.”

“Whatever happened to scene skills? Don’t they count?”

“We’re looking for a more rounded personality, someone good at interpersonal skills. You know the kind of thing, like speaking to your Head of Department with some
respect
.” After a pause, Bell said, “They call this four-week period a trial, I believe. Think of it like that; think of it as a test.”

Chris’s head bowed; bowed to shield his tightening lips and the colour rising in his cheeks; bowed to hide the hatred in his face.

Bell leaned forward again. “One more thing.”

Chris didn’t look up, didn’t see the point.

“The mobile phone you were given. It is not for personal use.”

Now he did look up, struggling to think of a plausible excuse. “I’ve had a problem with my landline. I’ve tried to sort it out but…”

“A problem with your landline?”

Chris nodded, but couldn’t maintain eye contact.

“The mobile phone is for when you are on call or for when you need to make calls of a business nature.” He raised his considerable eyebrows. “Understood?”

Chris stood and left, closing quietly the office door behind him.

In Wood Street Police Station, officers busied themselves in the Report-writing room, and next door to that, the Casebuilders and File Prep’s office buzzed with the chatter of bored transcribers and harassed Witness Liaison Officers.

Farther down the corridor, tranquillity briefly touched the Scenes of Crime Office. Roger was trying to write a statement for court that covered his examination of one particular burglary scene he’d attended last month, one of sixty-nine burglary scenes he examined last month; a scene that yielded fingerprints good enough to implicate two youths and start the Casebuilders preparing a file for court. This statement was part of that file. His mind was on Weston though. If only he’d barged out into the traffic… but the bastard would have seen him for sure.

Like a block of well-weathered stone, Helen Gardener nestled in the darkest corner of the office.

Paul Bryant sat nearby, head propped up on a hand, CID6 crime report already written, waiting to update the Crime Information System with the results of his fire scene examination. He was frustrated; those around him seemed competently engaged in their tasks.

Jon Benedict, twisted by cynicism and tainted by a disregard for authority, had beaten Paul to the steam-powered computer, and was trying to upload his day’s work. A sticker on the monitor read, ‘Year 2000 Compliant’. Below it, someone had stuck a note: ‘Year 1999 Incompliant’. It had frozen again, and Jon banged his head against the grimy screen. “Pissin’ thing,” he said. “Hey Roger, you got any spare coal?”

Tranquillity vanished.

Every time Jon cursed, Roger paused and let the noise settle before his hovering pen returned to the statement.

Jon stabbed the reset button. “Know anything about computers, Helen?”

“They’re like men,” she snapped. “Untrustworthy.”

“That helps.”

Paul bumped his chair over the linoleum to Roger’s desk.

Roger put down his pen, resigned to finishing the statement another day. He crossed his feet on the desk and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his burgundy waistcoat. “What’s bothering you?”

Paul whispered, “I took a glass sample from a burglary scene yesterday. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“It’ll come,” Roger headed for the kettle.

“If I can’t handle a burglary, what will I do at a major scene? Seriously. What if I can’t remember something, what if I screw up or I find myself—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Roger said. “Don’t let it faze you. No one’s going to throw a major scene at you and walk away. Well, maybe Jon would.”

“Oi,” said Jon.

“Drink, Helen?” Roger asked.

She ignored him.

“Well, if you’re sure.” He turned three mugs the right way up.

“Will you see him again today?” Paul asked.

“The Professor?” Roger slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “He’s at a Supervisors’ meeting. Probably go straight home.” The kettle boiled. “And that’s where I’m going soon.”

“Thought you were playing squash,” Jon said.

“In a couple of hours.”

Paul asked, “So you won’t see him tomorrow?”

“Hope not. I’m on nights tomorrow,” Roger handed Jon a mug of tea. “Won’t see him unless he’s called to a major incident that I happen to be covering. Something you need help with?”

In a hushed voice, Paul said, “I wanna know how I’m doing. I’m still on probation and—”

“I remember asking Chris for some constructive criticism years ago when I didn’t know the pointy end of a squirrel brush from the furry end.”

“So what’s new?” Jon spilled tea on the floor.

“He told me I was shite,” he said, “and that sort of broke the ice. He helped me begin learning the job rather than simply being afraid of it, or even worse – being afraid of never
understanding
it.”

“What do
you
think of Chris? I’ve heard he can be a bit harsh,” Paul asked.

Jon interrupted. “If he gets Lanky’s job, I’m putting in for a transfer.”

“You should make up your own mind,” Roger sipped coffee. “He’s not so bad.”

“Who died and made you boss, Conniston? Oh, yeah, I forgot, Lanky did.”

Helen didn’t move until the phone rang. She whispered into it, nodded, and then asked, “Anybody free to photo a gun?”

Jon’s head sank into his shoulders.