A Long Time Dead

by Andrew Barrett

  Chris relaxed.

  “How would you feel if Roger got the job and you had to take his instructions?”

  Chris blinked.

  “The thought had never even occurred to you before, had it? Are you so convinced of your own case?”

  “I have more experience than he does. They even call me The Professor; I’m respected,” he smiled. “Surely you wouldn’t...” Chris nipped at the stitching around his cardigan’s elbow patches. “I could take his orders, of course I could, and don’t get me wrong, he’s no fool, he won’t foul up, so there’d be no need to put him straight, which of course I’d be happy to do, you know, to help out where I could.”

  Bell laced his fingers. “I think you’d struggle taking orders from him.”

  “No, no, that’s wrong, Den— Mr Bell. I respect him, I could take orders.”

  “The successful candidate would have to be a good all-rounder, be an approachable manager and yet be forceful but tactful with those above and below him.” There Bell paused and analysed Chris’s reaction.

  Chris’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What’s with all the messing about? I mean, how come...” Below the level of the desk, Chris curled both hands into fists. He teetered on the edge of his cheap fabric seat. “Do I stand the remotest chance of getting this promotion? Am I here just to... why am I here? Mr Bell, tell me why I’m here?”

  Bell glared. “You’re here to make my job of selecting the right man easier.”

  Chris bit down on his tongue hard enough to make his eyes water.

  “Look,” Bell said, “I don’t know who’ll get promoted yet. But you’re going to have to raise your game. You need to study interpersonal techniques.”

  “What?”

  “Things have moved on since your interview for SOCO, and now we look at every nuance of behaviour; better get used to it.”

  “Whatever happened to scene skills? Don’t they count?”

  “We’re looking for a more rounded personality, someone good at interpersonal skills. You know the kind of thing, like speaking to your Head of Department with some respect.” After a pause, Bell said, “They call this four-week period a trial, I believe. Think of it like that; think of it as a test.”

  Chris’s head bowed; bowed to shield his tightening lips and the colour rising in his cheeks; bowed to hide the hatred in his face.

  Bell leaned forward again. “One more thing.”

  Chris didn’t look up, didn’t see the point.

  “The mobile phone you were given. It is not for personal use.”

  Now he did look up, struggling to think of a plausible excuse. “I’ve had a problem with my landline. I’ve tried to sort it out but...”

  “A problem with your landline?”

  Chris nodded, but couldn’t maintain eye contact.

  “The mobile phone is for when you are on call or for when you need to make calls of a business nature.” He raised his considerable eyebrows. “Understood?”

  Chris stood and left, closing quietly the office door behind him.

  — Two —

  In Wood Street Police Station, officers busied themselves in the Report-writing room, and next door to that, the Casebuilders and File Prep’s office buzzed with the chatter of bored transcribers and harassed Witness Liaison Officers.

  Farther down the corridor, tranquillity briefly touched the Scenes of Crime Office. Roger was trying to write a statement for court that covered his examination of one particular burglary scene he’d attended last month, one of sixty-nine burglary scenes he examined last month; a scene that yielded fingerprints good enough to implicate two youths and start the Casebuilders preparing a file for court. This statement was part of that file. His mind was on Weston though. If only he’d barged out into the traffic... but the bastard would have seen him for sure.

  Like a block of well-weathered stone, Helen Gardener nestled in the darkest corner of the office.

  Paul Bryant sat nearby, head propped up on a hand, CID6 crime report already written, waiting to update the Crime Information System with the results of his fire scene examination. He was frustrated; those around him seemed competently engaged in their tasks.

  Jon Benedict, twisted by cynicism and tainted by a disregard for authority, had beaten Paul to the steam-powered computer, and was trying to upload his day’s work. A sticker on the monitor read, ‘Year 2000 Compliant’. Below it, someone had stuck a note: ‘Year 1999 Incompliant’. It had frozen again, and Jon banged his head against the grimy screen. “Pissin’ thing,” he said. “Hey Roger, you got any spare coal?”

  Tranquillity vanished.

  Every time Jon cursed, Roger paused and let the noise settle before his hovering pen returned to the statement.

  Jon stabbed the reset button. “Know anything about computers, Helen?”

  “They’re like men,” she snapped. “Untrustworthy.”

  “That helps.”

  Paul bumped his chair over the linoleum to Roger’s desk.

  Roger put down his pen, resigned to finishing the statement another day. He crossed his feet on the desk and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his burgundy waistcoat. “What’s bothering you?”

  Paul whispered, “I took a glass sample from a burglary scene yesterday. I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “It’ll come,” Roger headed for the kettle.

  “If I can’t handle a burglary, what will I do at a major scene? Seriously. What if I can’t remember something, what if I screw up or I find myself—”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Roger said. “Don’t let it faze you. No one’s going to throw a major scene at you and walk away. Well, maybe Jon would.”

  “Oi,” said Jon.

  “Drink, Helen?” Roger asked.

  She ignored him.

  “Well, if you’re sure.” He turned three mugs the right way up.

  “Will you see him again today?” Paul asked.

  “The Professor?” Roger slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “He’s at a Supervisors’ meeting. Probably go straight home.” The kettle boiled. “And that’s where I’m going soon.”

  “Thought you were playing squash,” Jon said.

  “In a couple of hours.”

  Paul asked, “So you won’t see him tomorrow?”

  “Hope not. I’m on nights tomorrow,” Roger handed Jon a mug of tea. “Won’t see him unless he’s called to a major incident that I happen to be covering. Something you need help with?”

  In a hushed voice, Paul said, “I wanna know how I’m doing. I’m still on probation and—”

  “I remember asking Chris for some constructive criticism years ago when I didn’t know the pointy end of a squirrel brush from the furry end.”

  “So what’s new?” Jon spilled tea on the floor.

  “He told me I was shite,” he said, “and that sort of broke the ice. He helped me begin learning the job rather than simply being afraid of it, or even worse – being afraid of never understanding it.”

  “What do you think of Chris? I’ve heard he can be a bit harsh,” Paul asked.

  Jon interrupted. “If he gets Lanky’s job, I’m putting in for a transfer.”

  “You should make up your own mind,” Roger sipped coffee. “He’s not so bad.”

  “Who died and made you boss, Conniston? Oh, yeah, I forgot, Lanky did.”

  Helen didn’t move until the phone rang. She whispered into it, nodded, and then asked, “Anybody free to photo a gun?”

  Jon’s head sank into his shoulders.

  “Jon,” Helen held the phone out, “stop ignoring me. Go photo the gun.”

  He looked hopefully at Roger.

  Roger shook his head, handed Paul a coffee. “I’m off duty. Anyway, guns frighten the crap out of me.”

  “Come on,” Helen raised her voice. “Officers are waiting at the scene.”

  Jon snatched the phone, and the lacklustre curtain of hair fell again over Helen’s face.

  “What’s so scary about
guns?” Paul asked.

  Roger put his index finger to his lower lip and looked at the ceiling. “Er, they fucking kill people. Have you seen the mess a bullet makes of flesh and bone?”

  “Only in photos.”

  “Next time you see a story on the news where some kid has been shot dead, think about it. Don’t just sit there waiting for the sports news to come on; really think about it: what it does to the family, what are they going to do with his bedroom, his belongings, who arranges the funeral, who tells the school and the doctors and the clubs he was a member of? Who tells the grandparents...” Roger stopped.

  Paul was staring at him. Even Helen raised her head, looked intently at him.

  “I’m lecturing, aren’t I?”

  “Tell him,” Helen said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I didn’t lose anyone to a gun if that’s what you’re thinking; nothing quite so drastic. But it ain’t nice when a round flies so close to your ear that you can feel the heat coming off it and hear it purr before it sinks three inches into a breeze block wall. It can make you a tad nervous of them. Makes you really think.”

  “Someone shot a gun at you?” Paul sat forward, made himself comfortable.

  “I went to a scene like the one Jon’s going to. Straightforward photography job. Nothing snaggy. But before you can photo the weapon, it needs making safe. That means an AFO, an Authorised Firearms Officer, has to empty the thing, make sure there isn’t a round still in the breech, and then sign a label accordingly. To ‘prove it safe’, it’s called.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So, I’m in the same room as the gun, the same room as the AFO and he’s doing the business. He’s gloved up, and I’m on my knees setting the camera up, getting the flash and the scales ready, that sort of thing. Anyway, he’s fumbling with the damned thing when the fucking door behind him flies open and smacks him in the arm.” Roger rubbed the scars on his fingertips. “The gun fired. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor on my back, the tripod’s on top of me and there’s screaming and pandemonium all over the place.” He smiled, as if visiting a pleasant memory. “I soiled myself.”

  Paul dangled between horror and humour. Humour won evidently, and he smiled. “Sorry.”

  “So I think it’s fair to say that guns really do frighten the crap out of me.”

  Paul laughed. Roger jumped as Jon, finally on his way to the job, slammed the door behind him. They could hear him cursing all the way up the corridor.

  “It’s frightening to have a gun go off in your face.”

  Paul became serious again.

  “There’s a flash first, and your instinct is to close your eyes and put an arm up to protect yourself. Of course, what could your arm do against a bullet? But before you’ve got your eyes even half closed, the thing is either rattling around inside your skull or it’s in the wall. If you’re lucky.

  “Then there’s an almighty bang – I mean a crack louder than anything you’ve ever heard and it’s the crack as much as anything that scares you.”

  “What happened to the firearms man?”

  Roger shrugged. “It didn’t do much for his confidence. He’s back on the beat somewhere in Dewsbury, I think.”

  “So what happens if a firearms job comes in, and you’re it?”

  Roger locked his desk drawer. “I put on my incontinence pants and go and do it. But I hate guns.” He looked at Paul, a barely concealed fervour in his eyes. “I really hate them. And I think anyone who uses them, or deals in them, ought to be locked up forever. Anyone.”

  Chapter Four

  — One —

  Despite the freezing temperature outside, Wood Street police station’s Number One squash court was hot as hell, like a sauna but without the steam, and Roger’s t-shirt clung to his body. Sweat matted his spiky hair and trickled down his plum-red face. He scrubbed it away quickly, hovering over Lenny Firth, wondering if he really was hurt.

  “I think it’s broken, Roger,” Firth said through clenched teeth. “Might need an ambulance, mate.”

  “Shit, Lenny,” Roger said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”

  Firth opened one eye, and as he opened his other, a grin framed a sly laugh.

  “You bastard.”

  Firth laughed. “I got you, didn’t I?”

  “Prick.”

  “I did, didn’t I? I had you hook, line and whatsit.”

  “You’re just a sore loser, Lenny Firth; thought you’d bail out ‘cause I was whooping your arse.” Roger opened the court door, and the cool air from the myriad concrete passageways wafted pleasantly over him.

  Firth stood up, scooped his racquet off the floor and limped out of the court. “It does hurt, actually. Twisted it or something. Anyway, that was obstruction.”

  “Bollocks, obstruction,” Roger said. “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint and you can cry into it.”

  Their voices echoed around the concrete stairwell.

  Firth grinned, “I saw Weston giving you the eye on the way down here. And I’d take a wild guess it wasn’t ‘cause we nicked his court.”

  “He’d have a coronary just thinking about playing squash; maybe I should offer him a game,” he laughed. “He only knows where the changing rooms are because they’re joined to the men’s toilet.” As he rounded the next flight, Roger waited for Firth to catch up. “And you know why he’s pissed off at me, Lenny.”

  “Didn’t send you a Christmas card this year?”

  “He won’t speak to me unless he has to, so it’s not all bad.”

  “A man of great taste, then.”

  “Like you’d know taste.” Roger stopped again. “You ever had someone look straight through you?”

  “Part of being a copper, mate.”

  “He looks right through me all the time. There’s something malicious about him that says he’d love to get me alone for ten minutes and beat the crap out of me for exposing his scam.”

  “It would take an hour or more to beat all the crap out of you.”

  Suddenly the stairwell erupted with voices and hurried feet, and Roger pulled back out of the way as DCI Mayers and his squash partner sprinted past without even a second glance.

  “Sir,” Firth saluted the empty air and waved two fingers at the disappearing blur. “See, I told you people look right through me all the time.” He listened to the retreating voices. “He was involved with it, wasn’t he?”

  “Mayers? He took my report to the ACC.”

  Firth stared and Roger detected a slight shake of the head. “And you can go fuck yourself.”

  “What did I say?” Lenny shrugged

  “Think I should have kept it to myself?” Roger asked.

  Firth didn’t reply.

  “You think it’s okay for a copper to do something wrong and get away with it? Everyone’s accountable, Lenny. Including inspectors.”

  “I just can’t believe you had the balls to go through with it.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong; you’ve got me all wrong. It takes balls to do nothing.” His face was dead straight. “How can I grass on one of my own? That’s what you’re thinking, Lenny. That’s what’s trickling through that shallow little mind of yours.”

  “Fuck off, Roger.”

  “Well, he’s not one of my own—”

  “That’s perfectly clear now. The gap between civvies and coppers just got wider.”

  Roger nodded. “Would you have felt this way if they’d found him guilty?”

  Firth walked on.

  “It’s not my fault they’re incompetent.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Firth turned.

  “They had him under surveillance; don’t tell me you didn’t know—”

  “Yeah, I knew—”

  “And so did Weston.” Roger thudded on.

  Firth laughed, “So, he’s clean then?”

  “And the Pope’s a lesbian drag artist from Venus.”

  Oblique light from the car park flood lamps made it through
the grimy windows and spilled onto the landing. They turned a corner, the light disappeared, and they walked along in a shade that was deep enough to lose sight of your hand in, heading for the changing rooms. They pushed through the double doors onto another corridor, more darkness.

  Firth said, “If he is running guns, he must be worth a fortune.”

  “Seen the gold on his wrist? Never the same piece twice,” Roger said. “And you can’t afford the house and the cars he’s got on an Inspector’s salary.”

  Firth began to laugh.

  Roger stopped, looked back at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “You! I can’t believe how seriously you’re taking all this shit. Christ, Roger, you’re like a Man on a Mission.”

  “Ex-fucking-scuse me,” he said. “He’s bent, Lenny. He’s selling weapons—”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s selling weapons; he’s as good as killing people. I examined his Armed Response Vehicle; the whole job was a bake. How he wriggled out of it I’ll never know.”

  “Okay then, so what made you think it was a bake?”

  “I fingerprinted it. No marks other than his and two of his men showed up – I mean no other marks at all; no smudged marks and not even any glove marks. Two men threatened and beat him, but there was barely a bruise on him. He made it up.”

  Firth shook his head, stood before Roger. “I can see why they let it go. In fact, I can’t see why they put obs on him in the first place. Negative evidence means shit.”

  Roger glared at Firth. “This is bollocks, mate. I don’t know what kick you’re getting out of bringing all this shit back up again—”

  “I’m interested.”

  “In what? It’s over. He won.” Roger smiled, “You just want to know whether you should be seen hanging about with me, eh? Especially in here. Where all your mates can see you; fraternising with the enemy.” He turned away, “Very shallow, Lenny.”

  “Shallow my arse, I’m just—”

  “You got a promotion board coming up? Eh? Worried what the other Inspectors will say?”

  “Hey, that’s not fair, Rog.”

  “Fair? Fair! Two men got away with thirty weapons and all the ammo they could wish for. 9mms, 45s, Glocks, rifles. Allegedly. And any fool knows you’re not supposed to carry weapons and ammo in the same vehicle; everyone knows that, even me. Apparently Weston must have forgotten.” Roger turned and began striding. “None of it made sense. Think about it, Lenny, if you had that kind of firepower in your vehicle, would you stop at a petrol station for cigars on the way to the armoury?”