A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (32 page)

The foil’s trade name was
Mylar
film. On one side it was shiny; chrome-shiny like kitchen foil and just as thin, 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.”

Paul laughed, “So my hair would—”

“Would look just like mine, yeah, yeah.” Roger waved the torch over the
Mylar’
s dust-covered surface and found a series of footwear marks. The static created by the
Pathfinder
attracted loose dust particles like iron filings to a magnet. There were obvious stiletto shapes, obvious slipper shapes, and bare feet too – even their ridge detail was visible. And then he saw the footwear mark from near the sink; a perfect negative of a, “Hush Puppies.”

“Hush Puppies? Jesus, Weston’s seriously gone down in my estimations.”

“He couldn’t get lower in mine,” Roger said. “But even so, Hush Puppies?”

“You want me to gel lift it?”

“Okay, yeah. Then we’ll check the rest of the floor and see where he’s been. If we find anymore, we’ll just gel them. Forget ESLA, it’s taking too damned long, and I have to get to Chris’s and lie low. I want him to go and see Shelby with these results.”

“What about a plan?”

“Plan?” Roger laughed, “I’m making this up as I go along.”

“I meant a plan of the floor.”

“Hey, good point. Okay, tell you what, that’s my job. You crack on with the gels and I’ll sketch.”

Paul peeled the clear plastic sheet away from the gel lifter. Like the
Mylar
, it was jet black on one side, but was self-adhesive across its fifteen-inch length. Its reverse side was white rubber. Paul used a small roller to adhere the gel to the floor and ensure no air bubbles were trapped. He left it in place for Roger to measure and sketch, and used the torch to find another four
Hush Puppies
impressions.

“They go right up to the cupboard,” Paul said, staring at the lifters and then up at Roger. “And then they go back out of the room again.”

“Okay,” he said, “open it.”

“You sure you don’t want to do it? It’s your—”

“Please, the fucking suspense is killing me; just open the damned cupboard.”

“Can you see anything?” Shelby walked around the back while Firth cupped his hands to the cobweb-covered garage window. It had a dull silvery sheen right across it. He tried the handle.

“I think he’s got curtains up in there or a sheet across the window.”

Shelby looked at Chris’s back door, flipped the handle. He peered in through the kitchen window.

“Why are we here?”

“There you go again, Lenny. Letting your mouth go off on one all by itself.”

“Is it ‘Pick on Lenny Day’ today?”

“Yes it is.” Shelby turned away from the window. “Mrs Conniston said Chris had called round. Didn’t she?”

Firth said nothing.

“Lenny, that was a question. It’s traditional to provide a response after a question.”

“Yes, she said that, yes,” he sighed, squinting into the drizzle.

“Good. Then that’s why we’re here. They’re good friends those two, Conniston and Hutchinson. Thick as thieves sometimes.”

“You think he’s hiding Roger?”

“Well, I don’t know. Seems a bit strange that he should want to tell Mrs Conniston of her husband’s misfortune, her husband’s arrest, I mean.”

“I’ll double check round the front.”

“They’ll be together somewhere.” Shelby followed at a more leisurely pace, giving the garage another cursory glance. “Best friends share no secrets, Lenny.”

Where are you, Roger?

Chris turned off the engine, sat in the car brooding, listening to the cooling exhaust ticking in the darkness of the garage. After three quarters of an hour, it stopped ticking. Cool. Cold. He waited patiently.

How could Bell give Conniston the promotion? For fuck’s sake, he still had another two weeks of acting-up to do. They were all square in the role-plays and the interviews. So how could he do that? And then, the real insult came when Yvonne Conniston told him the news. Bell didn’t even have the fucking courage to tell him himself!

“‘You’ll have to work on your interpersonal techniques…’ you fucking knew all along that Conniston would get it, you slimy bastard, didn’t even have the decency to let me finish acting-up, didn’t have the guts to give us a fair fight, a fair competition. I’d win then. Oh, you’re damned right I would.”

Chris froze. He saw someone through the corner of his eye at his garage window. A silhouette peered in, hands cupped to the glass, talking to someone else.

Burglars! They tried the garage door and Chris’s heart lurched to see the handle flick up and down all by itself. For some stupid reason, he held his breath.

No, no, not burglars. It was those bastards from the bookies. Tony Paxman Bookmakers on the Bull Ring were fine bookies; great at extending credit, no problem, Chris, you’re a good customer, they said. Hey, you can’t do too much for a good customer. They were good lads who popped in here to see him once a fucking week regular as a clock with the trots, to collect their dues. Chris swallowed. He was going to disappoint them again. And he wondered how far they’d take it this time. He closed his eyes. Waited. Apparently, you
could
do too much for a good customer.

He listened to the voices, and thought he recognised them.

No, those voices didn’t belong to Paxman’s men, didn’t even belong to Paxman himself; one of those voices belonged to Terry. Terry had no second name. But he came into the station every now and then to pay his respects to Chris personally, just to make sure Chris didn’t forget him. Chris never had, though he’d been fifty quid short once. And that hadn’t gone down too well. Luckily, only embarrassment gave him a red face that time. Next time would be worse. Nice man, Terry. He carried a shiny chrome knuckleduster for late payers. Chris had seen it, and being in this job, he knew what it could do to a mandible. The results were frightening. Terry always got his money before anyone else. Terry liked it like that.

Still sitting inside his car, afraid to make a noise, he wound the window down an inch and put his ear to the gap. The voices faded, and some moments later, they returned. One of the voices he knew well. And it wasn’t dear old Terry at all. It was Shelby. The other voice belonged to Detective Sergeant Lenny Firth. He said, ‘You think he’s hiding Roger?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Seems a bit strange that he should want to tell Mrs Conniston of her husband’s misfortune, her husband’s arrest, I mean.’

‘I’ll double check round the front.’

‘They’ll be together somewhere’. Shelby’s voice said. ‘Best friends share no secrets, Lenny.’

Chris bit down on his lip. Blood landed in his cardigan.

He waited another half an hour.

“You’re right, Graham; best friends share no secrets. Me and Roger, we share everything. Everything. I gave him my promotion. I gave him my knowledge too; he’s damn nearly as good at the job as I am. But no match in a straight fight. He couldn’t hack it at a major scene.” He waved a pointing finger angrily at the air. “Not Roger. And what did Roger give me? Fuck all, that’s what.”

He got out, closed the door, and locked it. “What does Bell think Roger would do at a major scene, huh? When he’s the one giving the orders and taking the shit from idiots like Shelby? Conniston would fold in ten minutes flat. He would, or he’d ask around, get a consensus of opinion!”

Where are you, Roger?

Chris unlocked the small wooden garage door and slowly stepped out, peered around in case Shelby and Firth were being cunning for a change, then locked it after him. The hinges creaked annoyingly, loudly. He tiptoed through the rain, across to the house.

He unlocked the back door, stepped in, locked it and kicked his shoes towards a pile of others. They missed, thudded the wall and knocked the bin over. He took off his jacket; let it fall on the floor. It was dark in here but he didn’t turn on any lights.

He sat in the lounge, folded his arms against the cold, and thought of the absurdity of it all. He thought about Conniston, about how he had ‘acquired’
his
promotion. And he was galled.

Still no sign of Roger.

Chris’s toes hurt. In the darkness, he looked down to see his feet curled into the foot-equivalent of a fist. They dug into each other and they dug into the floor. His arms were still folded achingly tight across his chest. Like his toes, his fingertips hurt, and so too did his ribs.

He leaned back again in the chair, in the gloom, in his cold house, with his feet curled into fists, and another drop of blood soaked into his cardigan as he waited. He waited for Conniston, because his bitch of a wife – who tried to give him the dead girl’s house keys – can you fucking believe it – who tried to pass him incriminating evidence – said that Roger Boy wanted a favour, old bean, old pal.

“Oh, I’ll do you a favour alright,” he mumbled.

The lounge was black. A putrid, meagre light came in through the window and glanced off the
Lucozade
bottles on the floor. People walked by, looking in, some peering in. Nosy bastards. “Fuck off!” Chris threw two fingers. Eyes front, the passers by passed by quicker.

I could go to Shelby. When Roger gets here, I could tell Shelby. I could yell it, I could yell ‘Shelby, I have your escaped murderer here in my house, take him away before…’

I’d get it then, the promotion. Bell would have no choice, would he? Chris smiled again, retrieved his jacket, and stuffed it behind the settee. He stood in silence, bit his nails and spat them across the floor before climbing the stairs, feeling his way. He paced the landing. Back and forth, back and forth. Wondering. Thinking. Cursing.

A thought bounced around his mind as though it were inside a pinball machine. It scored over a million before he could nail it down: it’s all falling down around my ears.

But it’s not.

It is.

No, you are the new Supervisor. Congratulations. Terry and Paxman will be pleased.

But be careful, Roger’s an escaped murderer! And you know what? He could easily kill again. The bastard could turn at any second, at any provocation. You gotta be careful. You might say the wrong thing; you might end up fighting for your own life. Who knows what might happen then. There’s always self-defence, Chris. Always self defence.

Come on, Roger.

Paul stood aside and let the cupboard door swing open. They both stared inside, expecting some great revelation to announce itself. Then they looked at each other in despair. “No blood,” Roger said. “Would have been nice to have a little blood, just a bit. A fingerprint in blood would be perfect…”

“How about if I try LMG or a KM protein test on the cupboard door handle?”

Roger sank to his knees. “Nah,” he said at last. “You’re bound to find traces of protein here, it’s a kitchen. Not all protein means blood, does it. So not all positive reactions mean blood. And anyway, unless we were lucky enough to find a
fingerprint
in blood, what have we got? Nicky Bridgestock’s blood in her own kitchen: proves nothing. Good idea though, keep trying.”

“I’m sorry,” said Paul. “I was just—”

“Hey, don’t you be sorry; it’s good that— Wait a minute!”

“What? What?”

“What’s the first rule of scene examination?”

“Phot— No, no; look. The first rule is observation.”

“Don’t use posh words;
look
will do,” he smiled at Paul. “Go on then,
observe
.”

The cupboard was nothing special, and that’s why nothing remarkable stood out at first. There were two shelves, both covered with flowery lining paper; the lower one had glasses in it, tumblers, wine glasses and even flutes. The top shelf was reserved for cups and for mugs. All sorts, a mixture of comic faces, mugs twisted into incredible shapes,
Purple Ronnie
mugs,
Pooh Bear
mugs, and then at the front were a row of plain utilitarian, sandy-coloured mugs. Six of them. All standing on their bases.