Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  “Phone your wife. Tell her that something’s come up. That you’ve got to work late. Don’t give her any details. And don’t mention my name. Or Pat Todd’s” he added as an afterthought. Goodwin had already made a similar call to his own wife from the office and he listened intently as Morris spoke, checking every word that he said. He sounded numb, but to be honest, he often sounded like that. His wife would be used to it. Goodwin was happy enough with the call.

  It took them two changes on the tube and a ten minute walk before they arrived at Tommy’s flat. The journey was completed in total silence. Heir lack of communication only served to re-emphasize all of Goodwin’s worst fears and draw them back, barely concealed as they had been, right back to the surface. Both men knew exactly where the flat was, they had been here before. Morris had been invited to a party when Tommy had first moved in. He had left when it had started getting a bit too raucous and he had missed the local police turning up to calm things down. Goodwin had been there on more than one occasion when they were setting up the infiltration plan, keeping things just between themselves, away from prying ears in the office. Bellini’s influence stretched far and insidiously, they were both only too well aware of that.

  The house was tall and imposing. A mid Victorian terrace, tastefully converted in flats. The area was a good one too. Not the sort of place who’s residents brutally murder or are brutally murdered. But, then again, where is that sort of place? Tommy had been a lucky man to live there. The rent hadn’t been cheap and he didn’t have a great deal left over from his sergeant’s salary at the end of the month. Not until he went onto Bellini’s payroll. At first, the money was properly recorded, registered and handed over at the Yard, but as more and more of it came, and more and more of it was spent on smack, he became a little less meticulous about his accounting.

  Goodwin ran up the small flight of stone steps, careful not to touch the railings. He delved into his pocket and pulled out Tommy’s key ring, the one that Pat Todd had entrusted to him over an hour before. He looked down at the key ring, as he stood there, illuminated from the light within creeping out into the night through the opaque glass panels of the door. West Ham United Football Club. You won’t see them promoted this year, old son, he thought and felt a sudden but bitter pang of regret. There would be plenty time for that later, he promised himself, but at the moment he could not afford himself the luxury of emotion. Now was the time to get down to business. He turned the key in the lock and heard the hinge of the old door creak loudly as it swung open. All those people living here, it struck him, and not one of them can be bothered to put a drop of WD40 on it. He closed it gently behind them and Morris followed him up to the second floor. Outside of flat 6, Goodwin handed Morris a pair of disposable rubber gloves, the sort that are standard police issue for scenes of crimes. They both pulled them on and went in, entering Tommy’s private world for the first time since he had left theirs. The flat was self contained and nicely appointed, if none too tidy. Tommy could not have been accused of being a fastidious man and there was no wife or live in girlfriend to make sure that he kept it in order. His front door opened into the living room. Off that was a small shower room and an even smaller kitchen. The bedroom was to the rear and that’s was where Goodwin turned his attention first.

  The duvet was hanging off the bed, where Tommy had left it and the sheets were pulled half off, too. It didn’t look like Tommy had got too much sleep on his last night alive. Goodwin kicked the bed back. As he had expected there was a distinct dark brownish blood stain which had seeped through the black plastic sack his clothes had been stashed in. There was no visible signs of any other blood on the floor or on the bed itself. Goodwin was quietly relieved. He didn’t need to make the place water tight – as long as there was nothing obvious, and as long as Morris kept his mouth firmly shut, the boys from forensic would have no need to ever go there.

  “You take care of that” he indicated the bloodstain on the carpet to Morris, who nodded, laid down his carrier bag and went to the kitchen to fill a bowl of water. As he did Goodwin called to him “I’ll check the bathroom and have a look around.”

  He drew back the shower curtain. Tommy had spent most of his last night alive in the shower and all that Goodwin could see was a few minute traces of blood around the metal plug hole. He went back into the bedroom, where Morris was scrubbing frantically, maniacally even, as if his life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. Goodwin didn’t say anything to him but delved into the carrier bag they had brought and pulled out a plastic spray container of all purpose anti bacterial cleaner, one of the abrasive scouring pads and the bottle of beach. He returned to the shower room and set to work. His, unlike his colleague’s, was light work. The few remnants of Ashworth’s blood were quickly wiped away and half the bottle of bleach was liberally splashed around to exorcise its memory for ever.

  Goodwin was thorough, he checked the floor, the toilet bowl, the cistern even. There was nothing out of place in the mirrored cabinet, just the usual stuff; shampoo, shaving foam, deodorant, an opened packet of condoms. The sink looked OK too but he gave it the once over with the cleaner just to make sure. He opened the small white fronted cupboard door below the sink and from behind the spare toilet roll he pulled out a transparent plastic bag. Oh, shit, he thought. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. It contained a couple of hypodermic syringes and a small quantity of a brownish substance that Goodwin instantly recognized as heroin. Oh, fuck. If Tommy was using this stuff, that would explain a lot. The autopsy would reveal any narcotics in his body and it wouldn’t take a Dr. Quincy or a Professor Ryan to identify any track marks. This was all he needed. There was nothing he could do about it now, he realized forlornly. Hopefully if Tommy was only an occasional user, they might be able to write it off to Bellini’s boys screwing him up so they could execute him in a public place without him trying to retaliate. That would be the best case scenario. Any more regular use would be harder to explain and he’d just have to try and deflect the questions that would obviously arise, and try to lay the blame for it all obliquely at Ashworth’s feet – she had been the one who was running him on a day to day basis. Surely it was better if Tommy was revealed as a smack head rather than a cop killer.

  He flushed the heroin down the toilet, waited for the cistern to refill completely and flushed once more. The syringes went into a small white pedal bin liner that he found in the kitchen cupboard and he tightly tied a double knot at the top. In the kitchen itself there was nothing untoward. Nor in the living room. He searched the place thoroughly. It was something he hadn’t done for many years, almost like revisiting his youth and in different circumstances he might have almost enjoyed it. He flicked through the half a dozen trashy novels that were stacked on the shelf to make sure that nothing was concealed between their pages and he took each video out of its box and examined it carefully. There were one or two that he wouldn’t mind taking a look at himself. Dirty little bastard, that Tommy. A bit near the knuckle but nothing that looked actually illegal so he just returned them to their cases. There was nothing down the back of the sofa and chairs, or beneath them either so he sat down on the floor, in the corner of the room, by the bulging expanding wallet that served as Tommy’s filing system and went through it letter by letter, A to Z. Nothing incriminating in there, a few bills, his passport with the photo that made him look more like a ginger headed Reg Kray than a copper, that sort of thing. There were only the phoney bank statements, too. His real ones had been re-directed to Scotland Yard before he went undercover.

  Goodwin floated back into the bedroom. Morris was still furiously scrubbing at the carpet and he didn’t even seem to notice the guv’nor’s presence. He opened the wardrobe door and scanned the contents, bringing every item of clothing out into the light, one thing at a time and feeling inside the pockets. He examined the shoes on the floor. They were all clean enough and there seemed to be nothing tucked inside any of them. Next he went through the contents of the wicker laundry basket
. It was full to overflowing. Didn’t he ever do any washing? But there was nothing in there that seemed incriminating. Everything that he had been wearing had gone into that bin liner. Finally, he turned his attention to the chest of drawers. Everything there seemed kosher too until he arrived at the bottom drawer. Underneath the folded shirts he felt a thick wad of cash. All used notes, all fifties. There had to be at least ten grand there he thought. Maybe more. Tommy, you stupid, stupid bastard. He turned around towards Morris. He had his back to Goodwin and was still so engrossed in the strenuous, numbing banality of his work that he was thankfully oblivious to the world around him.

  This would be the final straw, he thought to himself. If Morris saw this, he would go ballistic and within ten minutes, he’d be hammering on the Commissioner’s door. No – he had to keep it to himself. He didn’twantthe money but it wouldn’t be safe to do anything else but keep it. He could always give it to charity later, he thought. Or something like that. He divided the money into four roughly equal sized piles, for even distribution, so that they would not be noticed and put one in each of the two inside and two outside pockets of his jacket, making sure that the flaps were properly pulled down and that he looked quite inconspicuous.

  “That’s enough, Dave ….. You can stop that now.” His words didn’t seem to register with Morris. “Stop it, Dave. Stop it” he commanded. Morris was so obsessively focused that Goodwin almost had to physically restrain him but he began to gradually come back to his senses. Judging by the state of his knuckles, Morris looked to be about to add his own to the blood already on the carpet and despite all his strenuous efforts, the brown stain was still clearly visible to the naked eye.

  “OK, OK. Time for plan two. Dave, you go and get a bin liner. There are some in the kitchen, in the cupboard under the sink.”

  “OK” he responded curtly. As far as Goodwin could remember, it was the first time that Morris had spoken since the phone call to his wife; perhaps he was coming back to his senses at last. This was not what Goodwin had hoped for. He had almost convinced himself that there would be no mess and that their trip would merely prove to be an un-necessary precaution. He didn’t really have a plan two but he was hastily forming one. Reaching into his outer jacket pocket and, careful not to disturb any of the cash concealed there, he retrieved his pocket knife. It was a Swiss army penknife, with a blade less than three inches long and it was none too sharp. It wasn’t designed for cutting through thick carpets and it was only with considerable effort that he could get it through at all. Morris stood and watched as Goodwin strained and perspired, the sweat dripping from his brow onto the carpet below. He wasn’t used to such excesses of physical exertion and, once or twice, he thought he would have to give up. The muscles in his right arm were straining to their limits and his hand was burning with the pressure of the force he had to apply to cut through the tough material. But he persevered, although it took time. It seemed like an eternity to him. It had taken, in fact, the best part of twenty minutes to hack his way through it, and by the time his work was done he had freed a piece of carpet that was roughly eighteen inches by ten inches but it covered every last drop of the seepage of blood. He swayed backwards with a sigh of relief. His back felt like that it was about to break at any second and he felt sick and dizzy. He was no spring chicken, a little light gardening that was more than enough exercise at his age. The heavy work he would happily leave to younger men. When the giddiness passed, he turned his attention back to his handy work. The back of the carpet was soaked with a combination of the Ashworth’s blood and Morris’ water and detergent. The rubber underlay, too, bore traces of blood but when he cut this away, Goodwin was relieved to see that nothing had permeated through it. Both this and the carpet fragment were thrust deep into the recesses of Morris’ bin bag and by way of an additional insurance, Goodwin himself scrubbed the now exposed area of floor boards although they appeared to yield up nothing incriminating.

  “I think we’re about done here, Dave” he said. “Well done. Give me a hand to move the bed back” he felt suddenly very weak and very old. It was a struggle for the two men to slide the bed back into position even though it was quite light and the legs were on castors. “Let’s get everything packed away and get out of here.”

  They stashed the cleaning equipment and Goodwin made a final cursory check to ensure that everything was in order. Morris uncomplainingly carried both the bin liner and the carrier bag of cleaning materials. Goodwin put the small white pedal bin liner under his jacket, taking care to ensure that neither of the needles was exposed before he did so. He buttoned it and kept his left arm close to his side to make sure that it didn’t fall to the floor.

  As they made their way down the stairs, they stopped politely to allow an elderly lady to pass.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” She was small and well spoken and clearly still took pride in her appearance, despite being more than a little stooped with the ravages of time. “Thank you very much.”

  “Good evening, madam. It’s our pleasure.” Goodwin was a stickler in his own good manners and admired politeness in others. He didn’t extend it to people like Bellini and Loader, of course, they didn’t deserve it. Nor was it ever much in evidence to his junior officers. But to people like this elderly woman – no, lady – it still mattered and he liked the feeling that he made a contribution to the occasional little oases of civilization that can, even today, be found in the sprawling, spewing metropolis. He wished that he wore a hat as he would have liked to raise it to her. That would have been, he felt, quite fitting. He relished moments like this, tiny other-worldly pleasures that spoke volumes about times gone by and manners and mores sadly lost. It almost made him forget the rest of the world, just for a moment.

  The night was a pitch, deep black and a chill had descended on the air. “Right,” Goodwin spoke, “we’ve got to dump all of this, and then I’m going to buy you a drink. That’s an order.” He smiled but didn’t really mean it.

  They picked up the tube and, at the first stop, Morris hopped off onto the platform, as he had been instructed and forced the bag of cleaning materials deep into a bin. He just had time to get back on before he was told, one last time, by a metallic voice to “mind the gap” and as the doors closed with their sibilant hiss, he dropped back into the seat next to Goodwin.

  “We’re nearly there now, Dave. We’ve nearly made it.” Goodwin was trying to be comforting, re-assuring but he wasn’t sure if Morris was even listening. This far out the trains and platforms were really quite empty but when they changed trains and picked up the Metropolitan line it became considerably busier. By the time they reached Piccadilly Circus, even at this time of night, it was standing room only on the train.

  “Come on. We’re getting off here.” He virtually had to pull Morris off the train and for a moment he thought he was almost catatonic. He stood behind him on the escalator and followed him through the automatic barrier as it sucked in their tickets and spat them out again as they passed through. The last set of steps seemed as though it would never end, both men were more than weary, as much from the mental as from the physical exertion. Goodwin was relieved to be free from the underground’s subterranean caverns at last, although, he felt, he was really no less enclosed in the giant neon lit amphitheatre of Piccadilly Circus. They braved the racing chariots and crossed over towards Shaftesbury Avenue without waiting for the green man to tell them that it was safe. At the corner where Denmark Street abuts Windmill Street, Goodwin spotted a builder’s skip set back from the road. On his command, Morris threw in the bin bag, covering it loosely with the debris that had been dumped their that day. Two down. Only one to go, Goodwin thought.

  The two men made their way down Windmill Street, being accosted by ‘hostess’ who worked the door of a ‘night club’ as they passed. Her accent was vaguely eastern European, or perhaps vaguely intended sound eastern European. Her purple dress shined under the red light and split as it was, to the waist and beyond, revealed the
overtly erotic temptation of what was barely concealed beneath. Its upper half was so tight and low cut and her cleavage was so cavernously deep that Goodwin suspected that it must have been painful to breath. She struggled on manfully and told them they looked lonely as she invited them in to meet her beautiful friends inside. Goodwin said maybe later and was, in reality, more than half tempted. He would see how the night progressed.

  They passed on, up the street and turned into the first pub they encountered. The words spit and sawdust came to Goodwin’s mind as he ordered two large Scotches at the bar. It was quiet enough though. There were enough customers for them not to stand out but not too many to prevent them from talking quietly. It was the sort of a place where they wouldn’t remember your face and certainly, nobody knows your name. It would do very nicely. Morris knocked his whisky back in a single draught and Goodwin ordered and paid for two more and carried them over to a table by the door. He whispered discreetly to Morris as they sat down and he slid the thankfully empty ashtray on to his lap, and from there, under his jacket. He stood and looked around for a sign to direct him to the toilets. He found it and followed the stairs to the left of the bar, down into the basement. As he opened the door marked ‘gentlemen’ a man barged out. He looked rather the worse for wear and made no effort to say excuse me or sorry. Bastard. Goodwin walked past the empty urinals and into a cubicle, drawing the bolt securely behind him. He placed the plastic bag from Tommy’s flat on the floor and trod on it, grinding down with his heel, making sure that there were no pieces of syringe big enough to carry a fingerprint. He sat now and struggled with the knot in the bag for a moment. Why had he put in two knots? And why had he pulled then so tight? Eventually, he freed them and felt a strangely pleasant aura of success as he did. Taking a handful of toilet paper he wiped the ashtray clear of any prints and put it in the bag. It would act as ballast. The bag itself he wiped clean as best he could, and, once more using toilet paper as a barrier for his fingers he tied another knot. Standing up now, he lifted the top of the toilet cistern and flushed the handle with his knee. As the water evacuated, he let the bag gently lie at the bottom of the cistern. He watched the ball cock rise with the in-gushing water, just to make sure that it wasn’t jammed and he carefully allowed the heavy china lid to slowly slip back into place. That was all the Ts crossed and the Is dotted, he thought. He glanced at his watch, Pat Todd would have surely got rid of the clothing by this time. He was a good man, Pat. Now there was just Dave Morris to worry about. Hopefully, he could talk him round. He would certainly try. Again. But he had to be sure about him. Absolutely sure. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. And if not ….. Well, that was Dave’s problem. Not his. But it wouldn’t be necessary. He would be bound to see sense. He flushed once more to get rid of the last of the toilet paper he had used and opened the door of his cubicle. The room was still empty. He saw a sign saying ‘now wash your hands’. It looked antique, he hadn’t seen one for years and he felt obliged to comply.