Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  “I’m diplomatic.”

  Eddie took a breath. “I stopped drinking two years ago.”

  “Really?”

  “What? You’re asking me a deeply personal question, so have the courtesy to listen to my answer.”

  Jeffery nodded, “Go on.”

  “I bought a bottle of brandy only last week. Metaxa, Five Star. Lovely stuff.”

  Jeffery sighed, went and sat in his chair, deflated it seemed, but maybe a little relieved that they’d hit the wall now rather than in a few months’ time.

  “And I poured it down the toilet. I bought a fine bottle of Glenfiddich the week before. It went down the kitchen sink. Yesterday, I bought a six-pack of Tetley’s. I drank two tins, and I put the rest in the fridge. I can take it or leave it.”

  “Then why buy it in the first place?”

  “To show me who’s still in control. I am in control.”

  “Eddie—”

  “I am in control. I don’t have a drinking problem, Jeffery. I didn’t have to tell you the control freak part, did I?” He held out his hand. “Steady as Mount Rushmore.”

  “And how’s the leg?”

  “Fuck’s sake! Go have a word with Chris at divisional CSI, have a look through my personnel file. Check it for mental stress, sickness absence, hidden bottles of tequila… whatever you want. You’ll find I’m firing on all cylinders, and despite my lack of enthusiasm for the human race as a whole, I think you’ll find I too am a diplomat.”

  “I already checked.”

  “Knew you would’ve. You checked it before you even came around to my house to offer me this job. So you knew back then I didn’t have a drinking problem anymore.”

  “True.”

  “So why ask me in front of Westmoreland?”

  Jeffery stared at him.

  “You asked me in the hope it would scare her off; hoped she’d take back the offer.” He paused, returned the stare. “Based on how I was when we last worked together, I can understand that. But you’ve seen my file, and you know I’m clean; so what have you got against me now?”

  Jeffery raised a finger and was about to respond when the office door opened and Westmoreland bounded in with a smile on her face and rain in her hair. “Morning, Jeffery.” She turned to Eddie. “Eddie! Great to see you,” she held out a slender hand, “so glad you finally decided to join us. I was behind you at the gate, I beeped my horn.”

  “Oh, the Vectra, yeah, sorry,” Eddie shook hands, “I was busy with the receptionist.”

  “Ah yes,” she laughed, “Miss Moneypenny, wasn’t it?”

  Jeffery shook his head, and Eddie smiled shyly.

  “Don’t worry, she liked it.” She turned back to Jeffery, “What were you discussing?”

  “Eddie’s pension rights; they’ll carry on as if employment was continuous.”

  “Yes, super, super. Come on, let’s get you out there. We’ve got a desk for you.” She looked at Jeffery, “We did clear Kirsty’s desk?”

  “We did, yes.”

  “What happened to Kirsty?” Eddie asked.

  “Come on, let’s get you settled in.”

  — Three —

  Westmoreland walked with Eddie out into the office, cast an arm wide and declared she loved working here. “There are some super people here,” she enthused.

  Jeffery, trailing behind, mumbled something.

  “It’s one big family in MCU. Over there are the detectives, headed up by DI Taylor who sits in the end office next to mine. This area is where the DSs and DCs work; they’re all exhibits-trained. You’ve been in Jeffery’s office – he coordinates jobs coming in through the DIs or though divisional CID, and Crime Division, and sometimes the National Crime Agency.” She turned and pointed to a triangular desk with a bank of six monitors in their centre. “That’s where our clerical support sits. Craig and Melanie are on today. They’ll sort out any queries you have; they update some of your computer work. And beyond my office is crime division. First is DCI Cooper…” She turned to Jeffery, “Have you explained the stores and stock floor?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, well, I’m sure Jeffery can fill you in on the rest.” Westmoreland extended her hand to Eddie again, “But if I can help you, just pop in and see me, okay?”

  Eddie nodded, shook hands.

  “Super,” Westmoreland headed towards her office.

  Eddie looked to Jeffery, who simply nodded and began walking.

  Eddie’s new desk was beside the window and the photocopier. The copier was larger than a small car and probably just as expensive. The view out of the mirrored window was nothing to get the watercolours out for, he thought; it showed the car park and it showed the green spiked gate and a small yellow post canted at a strange angle.

  “Information pack I printed for you.” Jeffery waved a wad of paper at Eddie then dropped it on the desk.

  “Gee, thanks. If I ever get bored—”

  “You won’t.”

  “Who am I working with?”

  “In it you’ll find your shift rota—”

  “I thought you didn’t work shifts here? You told me you—”

  “Calm down; you work days, and you work nights when operationally required. Also weekends on a rota system – it’s in there,” he pointed to the pack.

  “You made this place sound so appealing. But I’ve walked from the frying pan—”

  “Shut up.” Jeffery stepped closer. “You’ve been here half an hour and already you’re pissing me off.”

  Eddie shrugged. “So I’m a little rusty.”

  “You’re lucky to have a job at all—”

  “Okay, stop there. If you want a deep and meaningful – and I’d say you’re itching for it – let’s go back to your office where I can shout at you without disturbing people.”

  It was by then a little too late to worry about disturbing people. They’d already stopped work and were looking at Jeffery and Eddie, some with consternation on their faces at having their work interrupted, others got comfortable in their chairs and waited for the show to begin.

  Eddie stared at Jeffery.

  Jeffery looked at the onlookers, and he swallowed. “You’ll be working with Ros initially; she can get you acquainted with the place, how it works here, where things are; she’ll sort you out with a van and some kit,” he said, rather more quietly than before. “And when you’re up to speed, I want you out with James Whitely. He needs someone with experience; he hasn’t been here long.” He stepped closer to Eddie, “But please, show him the ropes, don’t show him your bad habits.”

  Eddie smiled. “Jeffery. I don’t have any bad habits.”

  “Quite,” Jeffery turned to leave.

  “Oh, one last thing before you abandon me to find the coffee machine all by myself. What happened to Kirsty?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Wait,” she said, “where are you taking me? My car’s that way.” She looked across at him, wearing a half smile in case this was all just an innocent misunderstanding; no point over-reacting. The Spinney Nook, remember?”

  “I want to show you something. No need to worry.”

  The car bounced off the main road and onto a rutted track between two fields. The indicator self-cancelled and the underside of the car hit the edge of a pothole. Long grass and nettles brushed paintwork; the wheels kicked up small stones, and a lazy cloud of dust formed in their wake. The sun was in her eyes, almost kissing the horizon, and nervously she swallowed.

  She looked across at him still, studying his face, waiting for the smile she’d so admired to surface. It didn’t.

  “Blake,” she said, “this can wait, I have to get back home; I told—”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” And now he did glance across at her, and there was a smile but it wasn’t in his eyes. His eyes were cold.

  The car rounded a bend, and the long grass gave way to tall, thick shrubs, and the noises of the road behind them vanished almost instantly. She could hear birdsong.
And still he didn’t stop as shade crept over the car and a sudden chill brought goosepimples to her bare arms.

  This was spontaneous. She didn’t do spontaneous. “Blake—”

  “Nearly there.”

  She clutched her bag tighter, almost unconsciously. He was going to show her a wonderful view or something, that’s all. Those feelings you have inside are just rumours thrown up from a worrisome mind. They gave you some good advice at work; take it! They said get out more, live a little, enjoy other people’s company; you’ve got a week away from here, they said – go and do something with it. And she had – wait, no, that’s not right, she thought. She was trying to. She was beginning to. It was a trust thing–

  And then the car stopped. “See,” he said, already opening his door, “didn’t I tell you this was worth seeing?”

  “Well, I—”

  “We should have brought a picnic!”

  She climbed out and stood there against her open door, watching him stride away up a slight incline towards the beginnings of some woodland about 200 yards away. From her right, the dying sun speared between boughs and glinted off the roof; somewhere far off crows cawed, and closer by, starlings screamed with aerobatic delight. She saw a squirrel dashing up the trunk of an oak. It was beautiful. It was alive, and she felt good. Maybe spontaneity wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Did he qualify for a second date?

  Perhaps home could wait, she thought. And maybe they were right; maybe she should enjoy other people’s company and stop being so scared. She closed the door, grinning at her own personal piece of nature; and she trotted after him, looking forward to sharing a little time with him, towards the sound of what turned out to be a brook in a shallow valley crowned by weeping willows and oak. “Blake,” she laughed, “wait for me!”

  “Down here.”

  She ducked beneath the gently swaying low branches of an oak, and almost danced towards the trunk. She could see the brook hopping over stones in its path, lapping at delicate shores; and subdued light played on the water’s surface. When she reached the trunk he appeared and punched her hard in the face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  — One —

  “Does it always work like this?”

  “Like what?”

  Eddie sighed, stared at her. “You get a job and you’re given a briefing.”

  “Yup. You need an overview of what you’re dealing with.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “It is. No volume crime to deal with, only major stuff. So you have to know the background.”

  Eddie laughed. “Background? A kid found a body near a stream?”

  Ros didn’t laugh. “The car nearby belongs to Blake Crosby, he’s one of the main men in Leeds. He’s one of the Crosby gang that MCU are investigating.”

  “And?”

  Ros shook her head and drove.

  “Nice weather we’re having—”

  “Eddie, shut up!”

  Eddie was never one to think too deeply when people told him to shut up; he was used to it. But when Ros told him to shut up, and on their first working day together, it rattled him. Things that unnerved him speared through his mind. Things like, why is she talking to me like this? Does she hate me? Why did she invite me to come and work with her, then?

  But the worst thing his mind conjured up was: here we fucking go again! What possessed me, not only to come back to forensic work, but to think that things could ever be the same between us?

  Of course “the same” was a very loose theme. There never had been a “the same” before. They had been friends, and she had supported him when no one else would. She had been wonderful. And then, if he remembered correctly, she had been in love with him, or at least slightly besotted with him. And he could do nothing about it; he was still married at the time. Though he admitted he had certain feelings towards her.

  But now?

  Ros turned off the main road and immediately ran into the outer cordon. She wound down her window at the approaching officer and began to give their details.

  Eddie was in a world away from this one. “You ever eaten Ben and Jerry’s rum and raisin ice cream?”

  Ros wound up the window and waited for the officer to lift the barrier tape so she could drive beneath it.

  “No.”

  “The first time I ate Ben and Jerry’s rum and raisin ice cream I almost fainted, it was so good. I practically had a hard-on.” He looked at her, she was unresponsive. “It was a few years till I had it again. I was really looking forward to it, you know because I’d remembered it was soooo good.” Still nothing. “And when I took that first spoonful… it was just rum and raisin. Nothing special. Bit of a let-down, actually.”

  “Really.”

  “It’s true.”

  Ros pulled up at the inner cordon and switched off the engine. She turned to him. “I want you to start with general photography of the vehicle while I arrange recovery. When you’re done, get suited up and start peripheral photography of the body without going closer than ten metres. We’ll use stepping plates if we need to when the time comes to get up close.”

  Eddie stared at her. If he hadn’t seen her with his own eyes, he’d say she was a different Ros. He didn’t much like this Ros, and he wanted his old friendly Ros back again. “Yes, boss.” Eddie climbed out and slammed the van door.

  He slid open the side door and began prepping the camera as Ros reached by him for a clipboard. “My point is,” he said, “no matter how much you’re looking forward to your next Ben and Jerry’s rum and raisin ice cream,” she looked at him and his face turned icy, “nothing’s ever as good the second time round.”

  Eddie took the camera and left her staring into nothing.

  — Two —

  It only took half an hour for the rain they had left behind in the middle of Leeds to catch up with them, turning the infinite blue of a wonderful sky into a grey and turbulent bruise that stretched right across the horizon. It was very light rain, the kind that settles on your clothing like tiny silver balls rather than soaking in. Wood pigeons and chaffinches provided the tunes, an accompaniment to the stream and the slow rustle of a million leaves caressing each other.

  Ros watched Eddie work. He was unusual in his approach to crime scenes and it was nothing that could be taught; his was definitely a home-brew method. And the impressive thing about it was that he was thorough in a seemingly haphazard way. She supposed those who taught scene examination techniques would frown at him because he didn’t work to a protocol. Not their protocol, anyway. He stood still a lot of the time, and he looked; appeared to be daydreaming, and she’d asked him about it when they worked together before. All he said was that he was looking. Small answer for a big definition. He wasn’t just looking, he was seeing, and he was gathering the feeling of the place. It wasn’t witchcraft and it wasn’t spiritualism. It was just Eddie, listening and absorbing.

  Just Eddie.

  Until last week when she’d found the courage to go and seek him in the church where his wife and son were buried, she hadn’t seen him for two whole years. The last time she’d seen him, he had kissed her and then driven off in her car. Circumstances had split them up, and a murderer had stabbed her and almost split them up forever. And she had asked that Eddie not be told she was still alive – no, it went one step further than that; she had asked he be told she was dead.

  And that was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Even harder than finding him in the church had been. Things had happened to her since those days – good ol’ days, she now called them – when Eddie worked scenes with her. The worst of it was she now blamed him for those things. Each time she thought of him, the voice inside her head would begin with, If only… Not fair really. On him. It wasn’t his fault. And if she thought about it deeply enough, it should be him giving her a hard time, not the other way around. But she couldn’t bring herself to shed the burden. Part of her wanted him to suffer, and it was the lead part right now.


  “…from the body.”

  Ros snapped awake, looked at Eddie. “What?”

  The body was on a slight incline between a big old tree and a stream. Another ten feet or so and it would have been on a very steep incline, where it could have rolled down the embankment and ended up in the water. It was maybe 200 yards from the car, and not visible from it. The foliage was thick, the ground a mixture of compact, dusty soil, moist black earth and woodland floor covered with flora.

  Eddie trudged up the banking towards her, pulling the mask down to nestle in the stubble below his chin. His eyes didn’t sparkle like they used to. And she felt sad; it was her fault. Everything was her fault.

  “I said there’s another scene about twenty yards from the body.”

  “Right, we’ll—”

  “You think this is a gangland murder?”

  She shrugged. “Haven’t had a chance to formulate a conclusion yet.”

  “I’m not asking for conclusions.”

  “I’m not ready—”

  “Fine! I’ll go look at the disturbance. When you’re ready we can formulate together.” He marched away to get more stepping plates. “Won’t that be fun?”

  “Eddie?”

  Eddie stopped; he seemed to deflate before turning around.

  She looked at him, and then the words she wanted to say ran away and hid. “Nothing.”

  Ros made her way towards the body, being careful to negotiate the banking without falling on her arse. Eddie had placed a stepping plate a foot further downhill, away from any disturbance but within easy reach of the corpse, and it gave them something safe to stand on.

  Already the flies were gathering, their constant drone an annoyance she could do without. He wore a dark blue shirt and black slacks, shiny shoes and black socks. He was no oil rig worker; his hands were clean, nails short and clear. He lay face down and a slender ribbon of blood had run from his ear to pool into the soil below his cheek. He looked like a business man trying to engage with nature; and the shiny Range Rover up there being recovered right now, fitted the stereotype perfectly. And then she saw it. Upper right back, a tiny hole in the cloth of his shirt, its edges blackened and ragged. A gunshot wound.