A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (37 page)

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—”

“Too late, Roger. I saw what happened. Just leave it.”

“It was…” Chris looked up at Roger.

“What?” Roger bent lower.

The room stood in silence.

Chris’s eyelids flickered. “You’ll never be as good as…” His eyelids stopped moving. The blood from his neck slowed to a rhythmic trickle that spattered into a growing puddle. A final exhale sounded like bubbles in thick liquid. The shakes stopped and Chris’s bloody hand fell to his side.

Roger slumped, body spent, hands shaking.

“Fuck,” said Firth, “he likes neck wounds, doesn’t he?”

“Get downstairs, Lenny. Now.”

Firth offered no argument, he turned and something crunched. “Are these your glasses, Roger?”

“Lenny!”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

From the landing, a timid voice asked, “Is he… dead?” Then there was a loud thud and more voices as officers tried to revive the fainted colleague.

Trying to scrape blood from his eye with a knuckle, Roger made it to his knees. “I need to—” He stood, tilted and fell again.

“You need to do nothing,” Shelby said. “Stay there a minute.”

“Graham, I… we fought and he was mad he was crazy and he—”

“Leave it, Roger.”

“He tried to kill me, and then—”

“Shut up, Roger.” Graham Shelby stepped around the body and revealed a doorway full of peering faces. Radio traffic belched. He crouched at Roger’s side and tried to help him stand. “Save it all for later. Come on, eh?” He called to the officers who remained on the landing, “You lot, clear a path. And get me a blanket or a spare coat or something.” He said to Roger, “You’re shaking, mate. We need to have you looked at.”

With Shelby’s help, Roger stood and then stumbled into the overturned desk. That’s when the desk lamp illuminated it.

“Wait,” Shelby said, “what’s that?” He shone his torch, leaned closer and inspected the desk’s contents. He smiled up at Roger. “Need a change of underwear?”

The peering faces stepped smartly aside for Roger and Shelby who left Chris’s body to the inevitability of a forensic examination. Roger stopped, cocked his head. He heard running water.

Shelby turned into the bathroom, “Never use the facilities at a bloody scene!”

Firth waited for them at the foot of the stairs. “You okay, Roger?”

Roger pulled his twisted glasses back on, and swung a fist. Firth landed in the heap of noodle pots.

“Hey, hey, come on, Roger, that’s enough! We don’t need any more fucking paperwork.” Shelby grabbed Roger by the shoulders, and then to Firth, said, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Shame. Now call a fucking ambulance.”

“I said I’m okay.”

“Not for you, tit. For him.”

“I don’t want an ambulance,” Roger said. “I’m okay.”

“I don’t care, I’m having you looked at.”

Roger faced Shelby. “When are you going to start listening for a change? I don’t want a bastard ambulance!”

“Okay, okay, have it your own way.”

“Hallelujah.”

“But I’m having the police surgeon look you over back at the nick.”

“Wrong. I’m not going back—”

Their eyes locked. “You want a tenner on that?”

“I’m not a gambling man.”

“Maybe not, but you’re still under arrest until I say otherwise. We have procedures to follow.”

“But
he
did it. Chris killed Nicky Bridgestock.”

Shelby said, “He also killed Sally Delaney.”

Roger froze.

“Found his prints on a fifty pound note in her diary,” said a voice by the back door.

“Paul?”

“Did I do well, or did I do well?”

“What’re
you
doing here?” Shelby shouted.

“I think I’ve earned the right.” And then to Roger, “Fuck! Your face…”

“Don’t worry, couple of cuts and bruises, that’s all.”

Blue lights stabbed the lounge window. Police running, shouting into their radios, curtains twitching.

“You wanna do a scene while you’re here?” Firth rubbed his chin. He saw Shelby glare at him and stayed back.

“Why? What do you mean?” No one answered. “Roger, what’s he—”

“Chris’s dead.”

“Roger, you didn’t—”

“No, he didn’t,” Shelby said. “Though who could’ve blamed him.”

Roger looked stunned, didn’t feel Shelby’s grip tighten until it stopped him falling over. He leaned against the kitchen doorframe until the dizziness left him, and after a moment, began laughing.

Shelby looked at him, curiosity in his eyes, and concern too.

“Look over there,” Roger laughed louder. Paul leaned in, peered towards the bin where Shelby’s torchlight settled.

“What are we looking at?” Shelby asked.

“The shoes,” Paul said. “They’re Hush Puppies.”

As they walked out to the car, Roger stopped and faced Shelby. “I have to ask you something.”

“I should warn you, I am not in a good mood. I have a feeling Chambermaid will want to do something horrible to me when we get back.”

“Yvonne. I want to go see her.”

Shelby was shaking his head before the request left Roger’s mouth.

“Why?”

“We could bring her to the nick,” Firth offered.

“She ain’t well; you’re not taking her anywhere.”

“Okay, listen to me,” Shelby said, still holding Roger’s arm. “You are still formally under arrest for murder, and listen closer, I don’t mind slapping cuffs on you just to get you back; I will if I have to, Roger. You are,
were
, an escaped prisoner—”

“My turn, dammit. My wife thinks I killed someone, and if I get out by teatime tomorrow, I’ll be lucky. Please, I’m begging you, Graham, let me see Yvonne. Just for a couple of minutes, to reassure her, to tell her I’m innocent—”

“Alright, alright, I give in. Just a minute or two, mind, that’s all.”

“That’s all I need.”

“I’ll get a patrol car to follow us,” Firth said.

“No need,” Shelby said. “I don’t think you’ll do a runner again, will you Roger?”

“I won’t. It’s sorted now, isn’t it, Graham? I’m in the clear, aren’t I?”

Shelby stared. “We won’t need the cuffs.”

“See you back at the nick, Roger.” Wearily, Paul waved and walked through the small gathering of people to his van.

“Paul?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, thanks, mate. You did
seriously
good.”

On the journey home, Roger said, “Have you any idea how pissed I am at you?”

“I can imagine,” Shelby said. “But we did nothing wrong, Roger. We followed every lead and we acted on evidence found by a SOCO at a murder scene. That is what we do, that is how we solve crime; the enquiries lead us to the suspect. You follow the evidence and you get what it gives you.”

“And now the evidence points to Chris Hutchinson.”

“Yup, it does. And you know what,” Shelby turned in the passenger seat so he could see Roger. “The Professor made mistakes. For someone with his capability, he made some serious errors.”

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed.”

A noise similar to a laugh fell out of Shelby’s mouth. “Lucky for you he wasn’t as perfect as he thought he was.”

“Lucky for me I had a chance to dig deeper.”

“You took a risk with Paul; could’ve got him into some serious shit.”

“It still could. Depends how Bell’s feeling when he hears.”

“Depends how CPS sees it all in the light of day,” Firth said. “They could sack you for beating Weston up. And you can expect a disciplinary hearing at the very least for breaking out of custody.”

“If I hadn’t broken out of custody, Lenny, you’d still think I was a murderer!”

“Still broke out.”

“I could have you for false imprisonment—”

“No you couldn’t—”

“Alright! Shut up, you two,” Shelby said.

Roger took the t-shirt off, found a clean part of it and dabbed at the blood, which had curtained the right side of his face. Firth stopped at a petrol station, and bought a packet of wet wipes to help clear the worst of the crud off Roger’s face and from his hair.

Shelby checked him over, tutted at the gash in his cheek and the slice across his nose. “You’ll live,” he said. “Hold that wipe over it though, ‘cause it’s pissing blood out everywhere. You need stitches, Roger; it’s a fucking mess.”

A pile of red-stained wet wipes was on the seat beside him. “How’s Weston doing?”

“You’re worried about that tosser?” Shelby said. “He’s earned an over-nighter in Pinderfields. Concussion, that’s all.” And then, “Don’t see what he achieved by letting you go though.”

“He didn’t let me go,” Roger said. “We had a fight and I legged it. He was out cold when I left.”

“No, he told Clements he was conscious the whole time.”

“I hope he gets the sack for this.”

“Don’t think so,” Shelby said. “He’s already mentioned how he relieved Ellis Coldworth, and when he checked on you, you smacked him and escaped.”

“But that’s not true!”

“What goes around comes around,” Firth said.

Roger stared at him, cold. “I’m out to get him. I’m going to catch him red-handed; I’m going to prove that he’s dealing in weapons—”

“I’d steer clear of him,” Firth said. “He’s fucking mad.”

“Steer clear of him because he’ll have you for harassment if you don’t. Understand, Roger?” Shelby warned.

Roger chose not to answer, there was no sense arguing. He’d sort Weston out once everything returned to normal.

Firth pulled up outside Roger’s house on Wedgwood Grove. Roger and Shelby got out. Yvonne was at the lounge window, staring out at him; her hand over her mouth and mascara streaks down her face.

“Hope you’re going to back me up, here.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“Hmph, don’t worry.” They walked through the darkness up the drive, and Roger said, “Sally Delaney and then Nicky Bridgestock. I remember him saying that he was motivated, but…”

Shelby tucked his hands into his pockets, and changed the subject. “This promotion, I think it’ll suit you—”

Shelby didn’t get a chance to finish before the shot came. Following it was a flash like lightning and then a fierce crack like a whip. They both turned and ducked at the same time. The bullet whizzed off the brickwork. Roger threw himself to the ground. And then another shot rang out. Shelby tripped and fell against a wooden bench.

A scruffy youth with a skinhead ran across the street aiming a gun at them.

There was a screech of tyres.

Another two shots flashed as Firth ran the CID car into the youth.