Blue Murder

by Staincliffe, Cath

  *****

  Paula didn’t touch him. Stopped just far enough away. No smile, no kiss.

  ‘Dean.’

  ‘D’ya get lost?’

  ‘One-way system. Parked miles away.’

  ‘Go for a drink?’

  She shrugged. An awkward moment like they’d lost the script. There was a pub round the corner.

  Douggie had given him fifty quid to tide him over. He bought himself a pint of lager, a sparkling water for Paula. The pub was dead. Just a couple of guys drinking alone, wishing the afternoon away. One of them had a thin cigar, the rich smell mixed with the yeasty aroma of beer. The barmaid was bored rigid, eyes locked on the TV.

  Dean and Paula sat in an alcove, out of sight and earshot of the other customers. Dean took a long swallow of his drink. Placed it carefully on the beer mat. Licked his lips. His throat felt tight. Like someone was squeezing it.

  ‘Have you rung the police?’ She kept her voice low, looking sideways at him. Straight for the balls.

  ‘Why not?’

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. Groped for words. ‘I can’t.’

  She turned on the bench seat, swivelled round till she was facing him. ‘But if you don’t talk to the police they’ll come after you Dean, it makes you look guilty, dunnit?’

  He sighed, stroked at his throat and over his Adam’s apple. Could hardly breathe. ‘Paula …’ but nothing followed.

  ‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you?’

  His eyes stung. He blinked.

  ‘That’s why you disappeared. That’s why you haven’t rung the police.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Paula.’

  ‘You’re keeping things from me. I want the truth, Dean. What’s going on?’

  ‘And if I tell you, then what?’ Suddenly furious with her, frightened by her insistence.

  Music started over the loud speakers, lifting beat, Cheeky Girls, Touch My Bum. She shook her head, the beads moving, a noise he loved.

  Dean stalled, picked up his drink and downed half of it.

  ‘What you’ve done … is it like before?’ she said quietly.

  ‘No. I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t done anything wrong. Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘Why should I? You won’t tell me. And the police aren’t gonna believe–’

  ‘You see if I do tell–’ he clammed up.

  ‘How long do you think you can hide for?’ Her eyes shone hard and brown. -

  ‘They might not believe me. It looks bad. I …’

  He didn’t want to say anymore. So much blood. And the guy’s insides showing. Like last time.

  ‘Dean, it’s not about that murder, is it?’

  He said nothing, stared at his knuckles.

  ‘Dean.’

  He took a look at her. Her eyes were filling up though her voice was steady. Oh, Paula. He wanted to let it all go, all the words and the thinking and just hold her. But he knew better than to make such a move.

  She shook her head and stood quickly.

  ‘Paula, don’t. Paula.’

  She left him.

  He sat there for a while. Finished his drink. Went and got another and a whisky chaser, a double. Drank them. He felt raw, like someone had peeled his skin off or turned him inside out. He should never have agreed to see her, just stuck to the story about Douggie. She didn’t know what the police could be like, the sneaky way they asked about things, mixing you up and trying to catch you out, the way they kept on and on, working away at you. She’d no idea.

  Nothing mattered much now. He drained the last of the whisky and went to the gents. Left the pub and crossed to the bus station. The sun was too bright after the muted light inside, hurt his eyes. He leaned against the bus shelter to wait. His chest ached like someone had thumped him. It couldn’t finish just like that, could it? With a row in a poxy pub in Oldham? Best thing he ever had, blown away. That couldn’t be the end of the story, could it?

  *****

  Butchers was having another go at Mr Eddie Vincent.

  ‘I don’t see as there can be more details,’ said the old man querulously. ‘I’ve told you what he looked like and what he was wearing and what he did. What else could there be?’

  ‘Maybe nothing but if you don’t mind we’ll go over what you’ve already said and see what comes to light.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  DS Butchers took Mr Vincent through each item of the description; height, weight, build, clothing. ‘Tell me again what he did.’

  ‘He came down the path, he was running, that’s why I noticed him in the first place. Then he stopped at the gate. He looked about,’ Mr Vincent cast his own head from side to side. ‘He looked … petrified.’

  ‘I want you to try and picture him there, at the gate, looking about. Try and keep him in your mind. What’s he look like?’

  ‘Like I said. And he was out of breath, panting a bit, from running.’

  ‘Any sign of blood?’

  ‘Didn’t notice any. But the clothes were dark.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘Yes, in his hand.’ The old chap sounded surprised.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can’t tell, it’s like a bag.’

  ‘What sort of bag?’

  ‘Plastic bag, like from the shops. He wasn’t holding it by the handles, not like a bag full of shopping, it was wrapped up and he had it in his hand.’

  ‘Small enough to carry in one hand?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Now, I want you to have a look at these photographs. See if he’s there.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He complained.

  Butchers spread the six mugshots out on the table.

  ‘Need your glasses?’

  ‘I don’t wear them,’ he retorted, ‘nothing wrong with my eyes.’

  Butchers rolled his own. ‘Anyone you recognise?’ Mr Vincent looked at them. He took his time, wanting to do a fair job of it. Studied every face even though his eyes had fallen immediately on the one he knew. ‘This one,’ he tapped his forefinger beside one of the photos in the middle. ‘It’s this one.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Butchers. Eddie Vincent had picked out Dean Hendrix. ‘And you’d be prepared to come to court if the case went to trial?’

  He sighed. ‘How long would that take? For them to have the trial?’

  ‘All depends. Few months, can be a year or more.’

  Mr Vincent grunted.

  ‘What?’ Butchers asked.

  ‘Well, I mightn’t be here.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Butchers feeling uncomfortable at the plea for pity, ‘you’ve years in you, yet. But you’d have no objections to attending, if you were able?’

  ‘Righto, I’ll take these,’ said Butchers, eager to get back with the news, wipe the smile off Shap’s face. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’

  *****

  Megan had gone for her tea. Jade was having chicken nuggets and oven chips. Mam said she didn’t want any but she had quite a lot of Jade’s when she was putting it out.

  ‘Can I take it in?’ Jade said. ‘Neighbours is still on.’

  ‘If you spill any …’

  ‘I won’t, Mam. Honest.’ Jade loved Neighbours. And EastEnders. And Casualty. If she didn’t end up as a pop star she was going to be an actress. Some people did both. The nuggets were hot so she cut them up to cool them down. Neighbours finished and the news came on. Boring.

  When Jade looked up the lady was on telly. Asking people to help. Another lady said something about a knife and then the really pretty one looked like she was going to cry. Jade thought she seemed terribly sad. Jade hated it when grown-ups got upset. When Mam cried it made her feel all fumy inside like everything had gone wrong and it would never come right again. And if Jade had been different maybe Mam wouldn’t be the way she was.

  ‘We don’t want this on,’ Mam said. Then she shouted ‘Jade!’

  Jade looked down and her plate was leaning over and a
ll the chips and nuggets were sliding off the edge and onto the chair.

  ‘Take it in the kitchen.’

  Jade cleared it up and took it through. If Jade went to confession then she’d be forgiven. Every Tuesday you could go from school to church next door, there was a weekly Mass, confession first. Jade hadn’t been for a while but it was good if it was wet play. She went all the time when she had done her first holy communion but then it got a bit boring. She bet Megan would go with her. Megan’s granddad was dying and Megan went loads to pray for him. Her chips had gone cold and spiky so she put them in the bin. She had a look in the cupboard to see if Mam had bought any biscuits or Coco-Pops. There was nothing new in.

  ‘Mam, can I go to Megan’s?’

  ‘Straight there and back for eight.’

  They always had biscuits at Megan’s house.

  *****

  Janine was trying to shift some paperwork, her mind circling around Tom and Michael, when Richard sought her out in her office.

  ‘What did I do?’ he said without preamble.

  ‘Frighten the children?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Last night we were getting on fine, today I’m pulling a shift with the Ice Queen.’

  ‘Richard,’ she straightened a pile of papers, ‘can we discuss this some other time?’

  ‘I don’t like being messed about.’

  Janine felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘Steady on.’

  ‘Put me straight, then.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sat back, took a breath. ‘You and Wendy. You made out it was like Pete and I.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wendy chucked you out, didn’t she? After numerous affairs.’

  ‘What’re you getting at?’

  ‘Did she?’ she challenged him. ‘Numerous,’ he stalled, ‘what’s numerous mean?’ Janine said nothing, waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, she chucked me out. You chucked Pete out, didn’t you?’

  ‘He had a choice.’

  ‘You gave him an ultimatum, though. Her or me.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ ‘You’ve lost me.’ ‘I wish,’ she muttered. ‘No. Explain.’ ‘You like to play the field.’ ‘I have done,’ he said.

  ‘Seen anyone else you fancy since you got back?’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he protested.

  ‘Last night, what was I? A warm-up?’

  ‘No!’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t mind, Richard. Three kids and one on the way. I was surprised I was on your list in the first place!’

  ‘List!’ He exploded. ‘List. Right! I’ll cross you off my list, then!’

  ‘Right!’

  He shut the door without banging it.

  ‘Good,’ she shouted after him. She felt like throwing something. She was smarting from the encounter even though she’d made her point. The prospect of working with this tension between them was daunting. But, she stapled a report together, she was a professional, wasn’t she? And she’d just damn well act like one.

  *****

  Dean had been back maybe ten minutes. Feeling like crap and having to watch Douggie acting like a kid at Christmas. Good day at the office, nudge nudge.

  Douggie had dropped something and was out of his skull.

  ‘Where’s Gary?’ Dean asked.

  ‘Out,’ said Douggie. ‘Getting petrol. Busy week.’ Dean wished he hadn’t asked. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dean looked in the kitchen. Found tins of tomatoes, a tin of tuna, some spaghetti. Reckoned he could rustle something up. He was searching for pans when someone started banging on the door, braying at the top of his voice.

  ‘Open the door! This is the police!’

  ‘Dean,’ he heard Douggie shriek. Saw him fly upstairs. To his stash.

  Dean couldn’t think. How did they find him here? No one knew he was here. Had they followed Paula? Picked him up in the centre of Oldham and trailed him back? There could have been a regiment of them in full kit following him and he’d not have noticed. Too gutted.

  More hammering. Dogs barking. Dean ran upstairs. Douggie was tipping stuff down the bog, ripping the plastic open, gasping like he’s going to collapse.

  There was more shouting. So much noise.

  ‘Take this, Dean,’ he shoved a roll of notes at Dean, ‘put it in the tank.’

  ‘Dead clever that, they’ll never look there, will they?’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ screeched Douggie. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Trying to get the toilet to flush. Downstairs they were threatening to use force to gain entry. Dean’s stuff was in the cellar but there was nowhere to put it even if he had time to reach it.

  He looked at the wad of money. Ran into Douggie’s room. Wardrobe, chest of drawers, bed. If they were going to search they’d find it any of those places. Dean looked up, giving up. His eyes landed on Douggie’s Chinese parasol; upside down, used for a lampshade. Dragons and flames on it. Dean lobbed the roll up and it landed, a cloud of dust puffed from the shade but with the light off there was no telltale shadow to draw attention. Cool.

  Dean ran back to Douggie. There was a splintering sound from downstairs. Dean heard the door give with a loud crack, the sound of wood ripping and the tinkling crash of breaking glass.

  ‘Here.’ He grabbed the bags that were still on the sink and stuffed them into the airing cupboard as far back as he could behind the hot water tank.

  The police came up the stairs and in the bathroom like the SAS. ‘Freeze,’ one guy barked. Watching too much NYPD Blue, thought Dean. There were loads of them. Dogs too. And when one of them read out the warrant and cautioned them he realised that it was a drugs bust. Not about him at all.

  They put them in separate rooms. Dean in the kitchen, Douggie in the lounge. They were looking everywhere; methodically emptying the fridge, checking all the containers in the cupboard, peering under the sink. That was where the pans lived.

  They found the gear upstairs and came down. They told Dean there’d be enough to make a case and it would be better if he cooperated now. Dean said nothing. One of the men went down the cellar, hauling a big Alsatian dog with him. Dean didn’t like the way the dog barked at him. He felt his toes pressing down in his trainers, like he was trying to hold onto the ground. Tried to blank it all out.

  They couldn’t tie Dean to the drugs. No way. Everything’s gonna be all right, he thought. Just like the reggae man says. Take it away, Bob.

  ‘Sarge! Down here.’

  Dean leant forward, head in his hands. He would pray if there was anyone to pray to. A big guy with a Groucho moustache and way too much aftershave came through the kitchen and clunked down the stairs. He could hear others above, moving furniture, opening drawers and tapping on the floor. Outside, Dean heard the chimes of an ice cream van in the distance. Teddy Bear’s Picnic. A surprise in the cellar never mind the woods. The dog and his handler came up the cellar steps, the sergeant behind them. The men were wearing tight rubber gloves. The sergeant was holding Dean’s stuff. ‘This yours?’

  Dean swallowed. If he said no he could be dropping Douggie further in it. Could well be his fingerprints on it. Then it’d be a done deal. To hell with Douggie. Dean was furious. He wanted to crush something. He never should have come here. Some bloody safe house. Chock full of drugs. Douggie and his dealing. All that bull about how careful they were. Douggie wouldn’t know careful if it sat on his face. And he’d be looking at serious time. Whatever happened to Dean, Douggie would be going down. Possession and supply. Class A. Strangeways or Armley. Playing with the big boys. It’d kill him. And it’d kill Dean if they put him in there too.

  ‘Well?’ the man insisted.

  Dean dipped his head.

  ‘Oh dear, illegal weapon,’ said the man. And he carefully withdrew first the flick-knife and next the videotape from the thick plastic carrier bag and placed them all in evidence bags.

  They led them out to the cars. Neighbours stood gawping across the way, an
d a string of Asian kids in bright tunics and trousers watched from their garden wall. A gaggle of lads on bikes looked on in fascination. Douggie was shouting and cursing. Not his usual style. Dean put it down to the pills and the stress. Douggie had probably clocked what was going to happen to him and he was falling apart.

  ‘Don’t effing push me,’ Douggie kept on, ‘I’ll have you for assault.’

  ‘Douggie,’ Dean wanted to calm him down but Douggie didn’t hear or he didn’t let on.

  Later, Dean couldn’t ever get the sequence of things exactly right.

  They were just by the cars, taking them in different ones. Dean was a bit behind Douggie and they led him to the black Vauxhall Omega at the rear. They were putting Douggie in a squad car parked in front. Someone shouted. Dean looked up and saw two things. Douggie bolting down the pavement, back past Dean, legs going like pistons, face rigid with effort and a red car turning into the avenue. A red Nissan Sunny coming round the corner. Douggie running towards it, shouting ‘Gary!’ Gary driving the car.

  Gary swerved trying to avoid Douggie; he must have seen the police and then he was trying to turn the car, make a getaway. He hit the brakes, the noise was deafening. The car ploughed into Douggie who went up, flipped against Gary’s windscreen like a puppet, a grisly crunch as he hit. Gary screeched to a halt and Douggie’s body was tossed onto the road.

  There was a moment of silence. Like the film had stopped. Then commotion as the police started for Gary and the car. He revved the engine in panic, and shot forward, driving over Douggie. Bumping over him, the engine howling.

  ‘Douggie,’ yelled Dean.

  ‘Get an ambulance.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ someone called out.

  A child on the wall started crying.

  Dean stared at the street. At Douggie, Douggie’s body. People moved closer, a police car drove off, mounting the pavement to skirt the little crowd.

  Dean stayed very, very still. He felt very small. If he didn’t breathe, he was thinking, then maybe it wouldn’t be real. His teeth clattered and his knees gave way. He fell against the car.

  ‘All right, son,’ the man by his side spoke, ‘you just get in here, sit in here.’