Definitely Dead

by Kate Bendelow

  ‘I’m not a police officer – I’m a SOCO – scenes-of-crime officer – or CSI if you prefer the Americanism,’ she explained.

  ‘Wow, really?’ Maya caught a flash of dimple as he smiled at her. ‘That must be really interesting. I bet you see all sorts doing your job. So, you’re a forensic expert then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, no. I prefer to think of myself as a Womble. Someone who collects other people’s rubbish; fingerprints, DNA, body parts or whatever.’

  ‘So,’ he said, smiling at Maya, ‘do you come here often?’

  ‘Do you get arrested often?’ she countered. His laugh echoed around the bar. It sounded unnaturally high, suggesting that, despite his apparent bravado, the raid had unnerved him.

  ‘Honestly, no. This is my first and last time. I’ve done nothing wrong. I promise you. I appear to be a victim of circumstance.’

  ‘Another one.’ Emma sighed cynically.

  ‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ he replied. ‘What do you think?’ he said, turning to Maya as he gave her a rictus grin. ‘Do I look like a guilty man to you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s talk about you instead. You haven’t even told me your name.’

  ‘No, I haven’t, have I.’

  ‘Oh, okay. So, I don’t have a name, I know what you do for a living and I guess you’re local because of your accent. What else?’

  Maya had dropped onto a chair and was concentrating on her camera settings. ‘That’s on a need-to-know basis and you don’t need to,’ she retorted without even looking up.

  ‘Oh, you’re feisty. I like feisty. I reckon you and I would get on well. Don’t you think we make a cute couple, Emma?’

  ‘I’m not getting involved,’ replied the police officer sensibly.

  ‘Hey, how about, when Emma here realises I’m innocent and releases me from custody, you take me out for a drink and then you can get to know me better?’ He feigned a cheeky smile.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather put shit in my hands and clap. Now, how about exercising your right not to say anything?’

  He clutched at his chest as he made a mock swoon. ‘You are harsh. I think I’m in love.’ Maya appraised him with a death stare that would make most people shut up. It had the opposite effect on the suspect as he attempted to talk to her again.

  Suddenly, Cliff emerged into the bar area and nodded towards Emma. ‘The van’s here. The custody suite is ready to accept this one. Can you do the honours and go with them and get him booked in,’ he instructed.

  ‘No problem, Cliff. Come on, Romeo.’ Emma took the suspect by the elbow and helped heave him up from the couch.

  ‘Bye for now then. Hope to see you around again sometime.’ He grinned and tried to give her the best wave he could, despite the handcuffs. Maya couldn’t help but smile back. He was quite a character.

  ‘Bloody idiot!’ Maya muttered to no one in particular as she followed Cliff through the pub.

  ‘I’ve met worse,’ Cliff commented.

  ‘Oh, so have I, much worse. But not one as annoying as that for a long time.’

  With a flick of her hair, she dismissed any further thoughts of the arrested man. She concentrated on the task in hand and proceeded to take a series of photographs of the property before the search teams moved in to systematically tear the place apart. Watching the police dog, an eager spaniel called Bailey, sniff around for traces of drugs, cash or firearms, Maya was filled with a renewed sense of exhilaration and a love for her job. Her satisfaction was marred by the underlying knowledge that her dream career was balancing precariously on a lie.

  7

  Within twenty-four hours after his arrest, Spencer James was accompanied out of Beech Field police station. The custody detention officer waved him off as he pressed the exit button to the custody suite. Spence sighed with relief as he pushed his way through the weighted door. The whole experience had left him in a state of shock.

  His detention at the police station had been excruciatingly slow and stressful. He had requested a duty solicitor, even though he was quick to point out that he had done nothing wrong. He had been left to stew in a cell until the solicitor arrived. A reedy, exhausted-looking man with bad breath and stale sweat patches under his arms, seemed all that lay between Spence and his freedom. The solicitor advised Spence to provide a no-comment interview, but he had declined. He remained adamant that he had nothing to hide and that by telling the truth, the situation would be resolved. At least as far as he was concerned.

  He explained how he had returned home from Spain where he had been living and working for the last seven years. After a failed business venture and a subsequent disastrous romance, he had decided to return home. Before leaving Spain, he had put an appeal out on Facebook for anyone who knew of any jobs going in the bar or restaurant trade. An old school friend, Ryan Johnson, had messaged him about a bar manager’s job at The Farmhouse. Spence had jumped at the opportunity and emailed his CV to Ryan, who had then passed it on to the owner, Aiden Donnelly.

  Spence had had a brief telephone conversation with Donnelly, who had offered him the live-in position there and then. With hindsight, he should have questioned why he had been offered the job without even asking for references. But Spence had been too grateful for the opportunity to question it. Three days later he had arrived back to England on a late flight. He had hired a taxi to take him straight to The Farmhouse where he had met Donnelly. It had been past midnight, so he had pretty much been shown to his room with the assurance that he would be shown the ropes the following morning.

  Spence had only been asleep a few hours when he had been rudely woken by the arrival of armed police. The smashing of doors and sudden arrival of what looked like storm troopers had been nowhere near as scary as Aiden Donnelly’s reaction. He had fought against the police who tried to arrest him. Even when the taser officer had red-dotted him, he had continued to lunge at the cops. Swinging out at whoever he could reach.

  Fortunately, the taser had subdued him long enough to get him handcuffed. It had taken six police officers to sit on him until leg restraints were applied. They carried him still thrashing and threatening to the police van. Then he had turned his anger towards Spence. He had screamed accusations, blaming Spence for setting him up and threatening to kill him.

  Spence had breathed a sigh of relief when Donnelly had been dragged away to the waiting police van. The heavy police presence had felt like a weak line of defence against Donnelly’s wrath. He desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to meet him again any time soon. He believed every one of the threats made against him had been genuine. Even in custody, Donnelly had continued to bang around in his cell, screaming Spence’s name and promising he was a dead man. He was still shaking now despite being away from the confines of the police station.

  Despite the entire surreal and terrifying experience, Spence smiled to himself as he recalled the SOCO he had met. His heart had skipped a beat the moment he laid eyes on her. And it wasn’t just because she was beautiful, there was something special about her. He cringed as he recalled their conversation. He knew he had come across as arrogant. It had been a long time since a woman had had such an effect on him. The shock and embarrassment of the raid and arrest had caused him to ramble on cockily and incessantly. Spence would do anything to undo that conversation. To undo the first time they met and be able to start again. To be able to show her the real him.

  Now, he was in a quandary. He had no job and no home. He had his savings, of course, but he was astute enough to know that once he started dipping into them, they wouldn’t last. Years of conscientious hard work would run like water through his fingers with nothing left to show for it other than an empty bank account. Going back to Spain certainly wasn’t an option. He had far too much pride to go scuttling back to his ex with his tail between his legs, begging for scraps.

  Plus, the police had pretty much told him not to leave town. Whilst in custody he ha
d phoned his sister who had agreed he could stay with her for as long as he needed. She was married with a young child and he was conscious of outstaying his welcome and intruding on their family life. So much for a fresh start. He was in trouble with the police, had lost his new home and job and received death threats from a renowned criminal. With his future so uncertain, Spence began to wonder if he’d made a mistake coming home.

  8

  Jim Baron wore his squalid armchair like a shroud. He was watching Terry Brewer warily as the man unpacked his shopping bags. Although they had known each other for decades, there was no trust between the two.

  ‘Change,’ grunted Jim as he extended a clammy paw towards Terry. The armchair groaned with exertion as he shifted his expansive bulk forward. Jim was a grotesque man in every sense of the word. His squashed face resembled a toad. He habitually licked and smacked at his lips; a lack of teeth causing him to dribble, so he resembled an oversized baby, but without the cute factor.

  His hair was ‘styled’ in a greasy, greying comb-over. It was longer at the back, giving him an uncharacteristically feminine appearance, which added to his curious bad looks. The only small thing about him was his bloodshot, piggy eyes, which were a dull, watery grey.

  ‘All right, all right. Give me chance,’ Terry grumbled as he handed over a black zip-up purse. ‘Receipts are in there, so you can check if you want. Which you always bloody do.’

  ‘Nowt personal. Where’s me pork scratchings?’

  Sighing, Terry sifted through the bags and threw a packet towards the armchair, making oinking sounds as Jim tore at the packet. He shook his head at the repulsive sight, barely able to remember the Jim of his childhood. Back then, Jim had been small for his age; stick-thin with undernourishment. This meant he could easily squeeze his way through the smallest of openings, or scuttle like a rat up drainpipes, so he could enter premises through first-floor windows.

  He had started his criminal career at the tender age of nine, when his father had taken Jim out burgling with him. Jim was a natural and infamously evaded prison until nineteen. He was spotted clambering out of a local magistrate’s rear bedroom window by an eagle-eyed probationer constable. It wasn’t just the burglary that Jim was sentenced for, but also a vicious attack on the constable who was so badly beaten, he was left partially sighted in one eye and with a ruptured spleen.

  Jim enjoyed his first stay in prison. Most of the inmates knew the Baron family and Jim’s reputation had preceded him. He was notorious for having a criminal career which had lasted long before his first capture. The fact that he had severely beaten a police officer raised his popularity amongst his fellow lags. It was whilst serving this first prison sentence that Jim’s criminal education continued, and he left Strangeways with a cast-iron plan to commit armed robbery.

  He procured a firearm and began to make plans. Jim was greedy for money and was adamant that his next job would bring him a payday of hundreds and thousands. Jim’s lucky streak lasted for years as he meticulously planned and executed several successful robberies at bookies, off-licences, and post offices. He decided that when it came to co-conspirators less was more, so he worked alone other than with the assistance of his old cellmate, Terry.

  ‘Did you get me mag?’ asked Jim through a mouthful of scratchings. His watery eyes pooled as Terry passed him a copy of Escort.

  ‘Don’t know why you bother. Bet you can’t even find it, let alone get it up.’

  Jim ignored the retort as he flicked through the magazine, pausing briefly to show a page to Terry. ‘Here, look at this one. Reminds me of the tits on that bitch from the travel agents.’

  During that previous armed robbery, Jim had taken a fancy to one of the younger female members of staff. After emptying the contents of the safe and ripping watches and jewellery from the cowering hostages, he had made the young girl pull open her blouse so he could ogle her breasts. She had been terrified as he had pawed at them with one meaty hand, while the other pressed the gun against her temple. As she sobbed and trembled in sheer terror, he found himself more and more aroused.

  He would have liked to have toyed with the young woman longer, but common sense prevailed, and he knew it was time for him to get away. Before he fled the scene, he had buried his head between the pert young breasts, sucking and biting at them, causing huge ugly red welts to rise angrily on her alabaster skin.

  A combination of new and upcoming DNA profiling techniques, as well as the comparison of dental records was all the evidence the police needed to convict Jim Baron to a very long stretch. As the National DNA Database grew from its infancy, those same profiling techniques improved, and old crime-scene stains from other robberies, which had previously been undetectable, now revealed the truth. Jim Baron was found responsible, causing his release date to be extended further. He was eventually released on his seventieth birthday.

  Now, five years on, Jim’s ulcerated legs caused him mobility issues. He was stuck to the confines of his one-bedroomed, housing association flat. Still, after having served so many years at Her Majesty’s pleasure, the flat was a luxury in comparison to his old prison cell. Jim relied heavily on Terry’s support. For a regular fee, he brought Jim his shopping and anything else he wanted.

  The police strongly suspected that Jim had thousands of pounds of cash still squirrelled away, but had never been able to trace it and, to all intents and purposes, Jim lived like a pauper. If he still had access to the money he had stolen over the decades, he certainly wasn’t using it. The only thing that betrayed the fact he liked the finer things in life was his huge bulk. Other than the ‘wage’ he paid Terry every week to fetch and carry for him, Jim’s only indulgence was food and drink.

  He had been a heavy smoker most of his life but had been forced to quit due to a crippling diagnosis of COPD, a progressive lung disease, which left him floundering and gasping for breath at the slightest exertion. Jim was reliant on a nebuliser and inhaler to control his condition.

  Meanwhile, the community nurses, who had to change the dressings on his legs, were known for drawing straws to choose whose turn it was to visit the despicable character. In the five years since he had been released from prison, Jim barely lifted his arse from his old, yellowing armchair, unless it was to drag himself to the kitchen or toilet. He barely used his walk-in wet-room facilities and had given up on dragging his bulk from the living room to his bedroom, choosing instead to sleep in his chair.

  ‘Right, I’m off. See you next week.’

  ‘Right then.’ Jim didn’t so much as look up as Terry left. He was too engrossed in his mag, noisily slurping his way through a bottle of super strength cider.

  Terry left without locking the front door, something which Jim never bothered about. He preferred to let Terry and the nurses come and go without having the bother of letting them in. He reasoned that nobody would dare try and enter his flat without his permission, and even if they did, they would never find anything worth stealing. His cash was too well hidden.

  He never had any other visitors. The neighbours steered well clear and it wasn’t the type of area where the local Jehovah’s Witnesses would come to call. So, it came as a shock to Jim on that stifling Sunday afternoon, an hour after Terry had left, that there was a persistent knocking at the door.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he croaked, angry at the unwanted intrusion. His irritation was soon replaced with intense curiosity as the knocking continued. Eventually, he heaved himself up to see who was there. He’d flatten Terry if it was just him pissing about. His slippers scuffed against the linoleum. He waddled awkwardly, using the wall for support. He swore, vowing it would be the last time he would get up to answer the door.

  9

  Maya considered the warrant at The Farmhouse to have been a success as well as great experience. Aiden Donnelly had given a no-comment interview and been remanded in custody pending a trial. It was hoped that the prospect of a lengthy prison sentence would be enough to encourage him to start talking. The Operation Chr
ysalis team needed enough evidence to carry out further arrests and bring the rest of the gang to justice.

  Maya had worked the following two weekends after the warrant. Her mid-week rest days allowed her the time to catch up on cleaning and shopping, as well as a couple of trips to the gym and some much-needed time out on her bike with her motorbike group. The weekends had been busy. She had investigated an arson scene and a serious Section 18 assault. She’d also worked with social services on a neglect case and photographed the home of a six-year-old girl who had been diagnosed with gonorrhoea. The implication of sexual assault was horrific enough, but the sheer squalor in which the poor girl lived was heartbreaking.

  Maya and the social worker were forced to suit up to protect themselves from fleas. A mixture of human and cat excrement meant the place smelt worse than Karl Gorman’s, which was saying something. The fridge and cupboards were empty other than an abundance of alcohol. A handful of Happy Meal collectables were the only toys present. A collapsing flatpack wardrobe housed a pitiful amount of threadbare children’s clothes. Typically, the parents’ room lacked nothing including a state-of-the-art flat-screen TV with expensive surround sound. Clearly the child benefit had paid for something and the thought caused Maya’s blood to boil.

  Fortunately, it was now Saturday night. Maya had the promise of a long weekend off ahead of her. She could afford to forget about work, kick back and relax. She was more than ready to have some fun with her two closest friends.

  Donned in a floaty summer dress and wedges which accentuated her willowy figure, Maya headed to the pub. The colour of the dress flattered her honeycomb skin. She wore her hair down, her thick corkscrew curls bouncing as she walked. Maya pushed her way through the throngs of drinkers in The Brown Cow. She made her way to the far corner of the pub and the table next to the jukebox, where she and her friends usually sat.