Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  “Coffee?”

  Westmoreland shook her head, and sat down in one of two small arm chairs separated by a circular table. “Definitely suicide, is it?”

  Cooper shrugged. “He was found by a neighbour.” He closed his old man’s eyes and dropped into his own seat behind an empty teak-effect desk. “This could fuck up two years’ work.”

  “Local CSI are already on it so I’ve sent my CSI out there to take over. We’ll soon know if it really is a suicide. I can’t spare more than one right now—”

  “Better hope it is. A suicide, I mean.”

  “I presume he had family?”

  Cooper nodded, “A wife. No kids. She miscarried a week ago.” He looked at Westmoreland and said, “Even if it’s not suicide, we tell everyone it is until I can contact the others.”

  “Where’s the wife?”

  “Not heard anything about her yet. I just hope… Well, right now I don’t know what to hope.”

  “How many others are out there?”

  Cooper shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

  “I have to know, Francis. If you want me to help you then you’re going to have to start sharing.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Bollocks. Share or I pull my people off it right now and you can go cap in hand to Serious Organised Crime, see if they can spare a scene examiner. Or let the locals back in there. And I guarantee it’ll be in the media within—”

  “Eight. Three of them deep.”

  “How come he was at home? On leave, what?”

  “Look, there are some things I’d rather keep—”

  “You pulled him in, didn’t you?”

  Cooper sighed. “He was stressed out. Because of the miscarriage. He took his eye off the ball, got slack.”

  Westmoreland raised her eyebrows.

  “And I swear, Lisa, if any of this gets out—”

  “What do you take me for—”

  “If any of it gets out, I go to the ACC with details of this meeting.”

  “Fair enough.” She could see Cooper was stressed out too. Operations like this could turn you sour; and if things started to go wrong – unplanned things, like miscarriages – then it could put lives at risk. Then the whole game of cops and robbers turned really nasty. “Things like that have a habit of screwing with people’s brains, so maybe chance is on your side; it most likely is suicide.”

  “I hope it is. He was well inside a Leeds crew and they’re not renowned for being pleasant with people who’ve crossed them.”

  “Have you got suppression orders in place?”

  “First thing this morning. Even if it is a suicide, if the press shows a picture of him on the news, it’ll spook the crew – they’ll know we had someone on the inside.”

  Lisa shuffled in her chair; she felt uncomfortable with this. All this cloak and dagger stuff wasn’t in her job description. Of course she had secrets, anyone in her rank had, but playing about with publicity versus playing inside gangs that weren’t averse to heavy violence was a tough act to balance, especially when there were policies and procedures and laws on disclosure to bear in mind. Especially when there were real people, people with families, to bear in mind too. “I can see you’re twitchy; but you have thought about getting the others out until you know for sure this is a suicide?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it. Can’t do it though. There’s more work still to be done—”

  “But you might—”

  “The pisser, the real pisser about all of this is that I had a missed call from him last night. I always keep my phone switched on and near me. Always. But I put it on silent last night.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed. “Can you believe I went to the flicks.” He looked almost ashamed. “Of all the nights to have a fucking social life…”

  “Your call, but you should make them aware at least.”

  “My boys stay out there until I say so.” Cooper looked at the clock ticking on the wall above Westmoreland’s head. It was the only feature; nothing else broke up the monotony of magnolia walls. “I have to know one way or the other as quickly as possible, Lisa. And whoever examines that scene has to be 100 per cent sure.”

  — Two —

  Westmoreland made the call to DI Taylor from her own office. “Alan, it’s me. Keep everything close to your chest, but I want you to get down to the Alwoodley scene now and make an assessment for Cooper.”

  Taylor sat up in his chair. “What kind of assessment?”

  “I need to know the cause of death.”

  “I thought it was a suicide.”

  “It needs confirming. Urgently please.”

  “I’ll ring the CSI.”

  “No, don’t ring him; go see him. I want accuracy, no Chinese whispers. And take Jeffery with you to interpret the findings. Now.” Westmoreland hung up.

  — Three —

  They turned into the estate, drove around a BBC outside broadcast van and almost collided with a man crossing the street with his head down, shoulders slumped. Following him was a well-dressed woman. Jeffery slowed, peered in the mirror and saw the man. It was Eddie Collins, he was sure of it. Looked like he was talking to the press. Jeffery mumbled something under his breath.

  He found a spot to park in and cut the engine. “I don’t see what’s so important about this job.” Jeffery unbuckled and looked across at DI Taylor.

  “Is that a question?”

  “It’s a suicide. And yes,” he said, “it’s a police officer. Regrettable, I admit. But I don’t see the significance of a trip down here when James is perfectly—”

  “I can’t say too much. I need to know for Cooper.” He climbed out of the car and left Jeffery staring blank-faced at the steering wheel as though expecting it to perform a trick.

  Together they walked to the cordon, spoke to the PCSO and awaited James Whitely.

  “Our Cooper? Crime Division Cooper?”

  Taylor nodded.

  “This one of his lads then?”

  Taylor turned to Jeffery. “It is.” He frowned, “Please, no more questions.”

  Whitely came down the driveway to meet them, walking from the shade into the sunlight, squinting like a pit pony freshly released. “Jeffery,” he nodded. “Mr Taylor.”

  “How far have you got, James?”

  “I’m still on with the photography. Is there a problem?” He looked from one to the other.

  Jeffery came in closer, stretching the scene tape, and whispered, “Is it a suicide? That’s what we need to know.”

  James bit his bottom lip. “I thought it was.”

  “But?”

  “I took over from a CSI called Collins. He’s convinced it’s a murder.”

  Taylor and Jeffery looked at each other. “Why?”

  “I was going to ring you, but Eddie Collins just came back to offer some help.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s not a suicide. It’s a murder. In fact it’s a double murder; his wife is in the bedroom, asphyxiated.”

  “Fuck,” Taylor said.

  “Why is he so convinced?”

  “You want to come in? I could show you.”

  “No,” Jeffery said, impatience gathering, “just tell us, will you.”

  — Four —

  Jeffery thanked Chris, pressed end, and dropped the phone into his jacket pocket. He shook his head, and then wondered why he was surprised by anything Eddie Collins did these days. Once through the doors of the Major Crime Unit, Jeffery and Taylor headed straight for Westmoreland’s office, knocked and entered, then closed the door.

  * * *

  Westmoreland asked, “How well do you know this Collins?”

  Jeffery took a deep breath and exhaled a long sigh, “Well enough.”

  “And? Jesus, why is everything like pulling teeth today?”

  “He’s an alcoholic. Or at least he was the last time I worked with him. A leopard never changes its spots, they say.”

  “That it? He’s an a
lky?”

  “As we pulled up to the scene, I thought I saw him. A reporter was following him across the road.”

  Westmoreland stared.

  Jeffery shrugged. “I don’t know if he was talking to her or not.”

  “I’ll have him in court if he’s said anything.” She stared at the carpet, bit her lower lip, and then asked, “Apart from that?”

  “You want to know if what he told James Whitely makes any sense, don’t you?”

  “Well of course I bloody do.”

  “Yes, it makes sense. And Eddie Collins is just about the best crime scene examiner in West Yorkshire. He has a knack, an eye for detail that no one else does.”

  “You still sound doubtful of him?”

  “I’m just wary of him, that’s all. He’s got a temper, and he’s not good at taking instructions.”

  Westmoreland smiled. “All artists are extreme, Jeffery. But it shows some kind of dedication if he’s prepared to come back to a scene he’s been unceremoniously released from to make sure it’s done correctly after he’s resigned.” She thought about her words. “Passion.”

  And Jeffery thought about them too. He wondered why Collins had given in his notice and then just picked up his coat and left. Chris at the CSI office was unable to shed any real light on it, citing Collins’s dismay at statistics and examination times as the main reason. But Jeffery suspected Peter McCain was high on Eddie’s list of reasons too. “I wouldn’t place too much weight on his abilities in this case though; James would have worked it out soon enough.”

  “I don’t share your optimism, Jeffery. Sounds to me as though Collins convinced him it was a double murder. And people tend not to have open eyes about things, let alone open minds.”

  Jeffery looked away, knowing the open minds remark was aimed at him directly.

  “Okay, I need to see Cooper with the bad news. And while I do that, I want you to contact the CSI office again. Find out Eddie Collins’s address.”

  Jeffery raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I want him.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “There are a lot of people in the main office out there, and in Crime Division who used to work with him, and—”

  “Benson, you mean? Ruffled his feathers a bit did he?”

  “There was a big falling out a couple of years ago, and it was more than feather-ruffling. There’ll be hell to pay if you bring him here.”

  “No there won’t. If I want him, he comes; Benson – and whoever else you’re referring to – had better put the past behind them. I know what happened back then, but if people had done their jobs correctly, a lot of nastiness could have been avoided. And yes, before you ask, I’m talking about Benson and his demotion.”

  “But there’s—”

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and see Cooper.”

  Jeffery cleared his throat. “It’s my decision who is employed as an CSI, Lisa, not yours.”

  “Then make the decision to hire him. Right, Jeffery?”

  “What about following procedure? What about advertising the post?”

  Westmoreland moved closer. “We have a vacancy, don’t we?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Advertising and interviewing… two months, minimum. You happy with that? Will your overworked staff be happy with that?”

  “I know all that—”

  “And when we follow procedure, human resources give you someone like James Whitely. Don’t they?”

  “He has potential.”

  “Potential is good. For the future. Right now we need experience.”

  Jeffery sighed. Game over.

  “Just do it. Please.”

  — Five —

  When Westmoreland left, Cooper sat back in his chair, one leg perched on the top of his desk, a certain resignation creeping through his body.

  He wondered if this was the beginning of the end of the operation. Tony Lambert had been a massive source of information concerning Slade Crosby and his Chapeltown gang. Everything from dates and times of jobs to snippets of intelligence he’d gathered about the other Leeds crews. He had been in among them for nine months, and was well trusted.

  Cooper had pulled Tony out of the crew last week, on the pretence of a family tragedy in Ireland, just so he could be at home with his wife, who naturally was feeling depressed about the miscarriage. Depending on how quickly Tony resurfaced, he had every intention of sliding him back into the crew to resume his duties.

  It seemed as though the crew had other ideas though.

  Somehow they’d found out he was a police officer. Somehow they’d found out where he lived. And then they’d killed him and his wife. It sent a message: it said they had become brave these days, it said they didn’t tolerate this underhand way of prosecuting them for illegal activities.

  The most startling thing was they had disguised it as suicide. They hadn’t gone in there and shot Tony and his wife, or just bludgeoned them to death. They’d thought it through, kept scene disturbance to a minimum, trying to deflect suspicion away from murder. “Why?” he whispered to the empty office.

  The obvious answer was that the police would begin looking for the murderer in the Crosby gang. And gangs these days knew the police granted them a certain amount of latitude. Not a stalemate as such, more of an unofficial status quo: we’ll leave you to do your stuff so long as it isn’t child sex offences or terrorism, but step over this invisible line and we’ll have to call on you. Sorry. That’s how it was these days: a battle for psychological territory.

  But a gang who capped an officer and his wife and didn’t sufficiently cover their tracks were going to collect a heap of shit from the law. One thing the police were famous for was looking after their own when tragedy struck. They would pursue the responsible gang relentlessly; there would be zero tolerance (a term Cooper detested, but it had its place) and their activities would be shut down.

  So why didn’t the police do that anyway? Because another gang, one foreign to the neighbourhood, one that didn’t know the very personal culture of the district, might step in and take control. And then the police would be right back to square one – no intelligence on anyone. There would also be a period of elevated violence that would negatively affect residents and businesses – very bad for stats and satisfaction survey results.

  And to hound a gang as endemic as the Crosbys, who’d leached into the community, would prove fantastically resource-heavy, and time consuming. But Slade Crosby had overstepped that mark, that invisible line.

  Cooper slid his leg off the desk and sat forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, head in hands. This was turning into a very difficult situation for him. He had a hand to play, and he had good cards too; but he couldn’t afford for the gang to think they’d won.

  The slaying of a copper and his wife was wonderful underground PR for the gang, a real status boost. If Tony’s picture went public, and the press reported the event as a double murder, the gang would see it. They’d know their attempt at disguising it as murder-suicide had failed and they’d try to cover their tracks. And that’s when things would become dangerous for all other police officers, covert and overt. Play those cards close to your chest, he thought, and the gang remains unaware of our progress, and they leave themselves open to arrest.

  But arrests would be later, much later. For now, Cooper wanted to concentrate on the big event, and pursuing those responsible for Tony’s death had become an integral part of that effort. Slade Crosby’s days were numbered.

  Cooper was beginning to think that Benson might be right, that any way to take Crosby down was acceptable. Any way at all.

  Chapter Ten

  He had thought of stopping at the graveyard on his way home; it wasn’t really out of the way. And sometimes it helped, to talk to her and to little Sam. He didn’t know why, but sometimes it made things clearer; and sometimes it made it harder to forget them both.

  But the
painful truth was that most of the time he couldn’t even recall their faces anymore. That was something he’d never admit to anyone because it sounded as though he didn’t give a shit about them; it sounded as though he never really cared for them. And that was a lie. He loved them.

  But he didn’t go to the graveyard because today he decided he was a grown up. What was the point in looking at a piece of sinking earth and spilling tears into it? Because that’s what would happen – always did. It really wouldn’t help. It would only have upset him, so he’d driven home. Via the off-licence.

  * * *

  Even before he’d unlocked the front door to the cottage, he could hear the damned phone ringing. He closed the door and locked it as the first drops of rain landed, and thudded through into the house just as the phone rang off and the machine picked up.

  He stood still and listened, watching the red digital display tell him he had three missed calls already. No one ever rang Eddie. He wasn’t Mr Popular, and that suited him just fine.

  But today, apparently, he was Mr Popular.

  “Eddie,” said the phone, “it’s Chris from work,” Eddie closed his eyes and sighed. “Mate, can you give me a ring. Pretty urgent. Erm, yeah. Cheers.”

  Eddie stood the bottle of Metaxa on the sideboard and took hold of the phone and its base in one hand and then he walked to the kitchen. Even when the line between the phone and the wall socket tightened, he kept on walking until the plug twanged out of the wall and hit him in the back. Then he opened the bin and threw the whole lot inside.

  “Hello, Chris,” Eddie mocked as he walked back into the lounge. “No I can’t ring you. Piss off.”

  This was something new for Eddie. He had never been out of work, except for a spell of a few months three years ago, and even then it had been sick leave, so not strictly out of work. And this didn’t feel like a week of leave either, it felt different, very strange as though he was his own man, could do anything he wanted, and wasn’t beholden to anyone, cut free. Because even if you have a week off, or two weeks, or even a month, you know you’re going back to it; and you know they’ve still got you by the balls.