A Long Time Dead

by Andrew Barrett

  Haynes bowed his red face. Chamberlain did not move, Chris noted.

  The room was again silent. Shelby paused, daring any dissension. He removed Nicky’s photograph from the machine, and a new rectangle of light barely had the chance to dazzle the audience before another picture took its place. “This may seem funny to you,” he continued in a calmer vein, treading across the creaking floor and back again, “but that girl could have been your sister, or your cousin. I don’t want to preach or prophesise on natural law, but in my opinion, she was the kind of girl who shouldn’t have died like that; she was the kind of girl who should have been given a chance. She was clean.” Shelby cleared his throat again.

  Smiling and youthful, the photograph on the wall. An image of Sally Delaney.

  He paced again, hands clasped behind his back. “We found fingerprints at the scene yesterday and they’re on a Fingerprint Expert’s desk at the bureau as we speak. I’m having FDL out to the scene today. Though they don’t know it yet. Chris Hutchinson, there,” he nodded at Chris, “tells me there could be valuable fingerprints on the walls, and we can get them using some kind of laser tool. It all sounds very Star Wars to me, but I’ve heard of startling results from it before, so we’ll be trying it here.” Shelby stopped pacing and gathered his thoughts. “After that, we’ll use, er...help me out here, Chris.”

  Everyone turned and looked at him.

  Chris tapped a pen on the desk and in a quiet voice began, “We’ll use the Quasar first of all, because it’s non-destructive.” The pen slipped and fell on the floor; he felt the weight of the room on his shoulders. “Using a high intensity light source, we can cause the contaminants within a fingerprint to fluoresce and then we photograph it. Simple. Its only real drawback is that it takes a long time, perhaps five or six hours to cover only a few rooms.” He pulled at the cuffs of his grey cardigan, and continued more confidently, “If Quasar produces no satisfactory results, we’ll decide whether to move up to iodine or ninhydrin treatments. These methods don’t take so long to apply, only a couple of hours, but they may take a day or two, depending upon ambient temperature, to finally show any marks up.”

  “Want me to arrange the Quasar, boss?” Firth asked.

  “No Lenny, leave it to me, please. I have a feeling that it’ll be a bit sticky asking them for at least one member of staff for a full day, and then I’ve got to organise a fingerprint expert to view the marks and that’s like prising a limpet from the arse of the Titanic.”

  “And a photographer,” Chris reminded him.

  “Yes, and a photographer,” Shelby added.

  “If it takes these chemicals a day or two to work, boss, are we keeping the scene guarded?” Clements asked.

  The spotlight off him, Chris licked his lips and retrieved the pen.

  “We might not need the chemicals yet, but if we do, I’ll arrange uniform cover with Inspector Weston. Chris and I are also arranging a similar kind of laser device to examine the body, hopefully this afternoon, again depending on staffing levels at FDL and Scenes of Crime. Are you all aware that on Nicky’s right hand—”

  “Left, boss,” Firth corrected.

  “Sorry. On her left hand, we found smudges of blue ink that may be letters or figures of some description. Well, we’re hoping to decipher them this afternoon and with a bit of luck, we’ll have something to tell you at the five o’clock briefing.” He paced the floor, hands behind his back, studying the walls, thinking. “Lenny, I want you to arrange a recent reverse phone subscriber history from BT.”

  Firth made notes.

  “Gez, have you managed to contact the neighbours from No.76 in Wales yet?”

  Gerard, one of the more timid of the assemblage, said, “No, not yet, boss, but we have a lead on their last whereabouts. A local sergeant is on with it and he’ll let me know when he’s made contact.”

  “Keep me posted. Lenny, anything of value from PNC or DVLA regarding cars parked on Barnstone Road that night?”

  “No, boss. They all check out.”

  Shelby circled the room. “Have we visited all the local taxi firms yet, Lenny?”

  “Clive Worrall’s still on with that.”

  Shelby stood still, facing the white board and then, as if on a parade ground, spun on his heels and gazed at the meeting, making sure he had their attention. “Key,” he said. “Missing. I want a top priority Action raising for Nicky’s house key. Joan Philip—”

  “Joanne Philips, boss,” Firth butted in.

  “Joanne Philips, Nicky’s colleague from the bank, says her key fob was quite distinctive. It was a small naked man, with a hard-on a little disproportionate to his stature.” A giggle, of a volume acceptable to Shelby, spread across the room. “Made of pink rubber, it is a small, three-dimensional figure measuring approximately an inch and a half in height. The figure, that is, not the hard-on.”

  Shelby continued to walk the floor. “Unfortunately, no one seems to have a bloody clue where or when she bought it. If indeed she did buy it, it might’ve been a gift or whatever. Anyway, it seems that the fob is very rare, certainly everyone I’ve asked has never seen one, and obviously if anyone has knowledge of a single Yale key with such a fob attached, it could produce another lead.” He stopped. “Did I say ‘another’?”

  His audience giggled again, even quieter this time.

  “I want an Action to find such a fob.” He stared intently at the Incident Room Sergeant and the two female Indexers, “I want as many resources throwing at this as you can spare. Check out the card shops, the little gift-type places in the Bull Ring and the markets, whatever you think. Just get me a bloody fob like it, get SOCO to photograph it and then get the negatives to HQ Studio asap.”

  He turned to the Press Liaison Officer, “By lunchtime today, I want a picture of that key fob on local television news and I want the local radio stations to broadcast a description. Mr Chamberlain’s holding a press conference-come-appeal at lunchtime.” He smiled at the SIO, “Fame at last, sir.” The room giggled, though Chamberlain did not. Shelby hastily continued, “He’ll display the fob and appeal for any witnesses from the town centre nightclubs to come forward. Gez, I’m putting you on this one as well. I want results. Go see Inspector Weston; he’ll help out with manpower.”

  “Inspector Weston’s not here today, boss.”

  Shelby appeared puzzled, “Okay then, speak to Inspector Banner.”

  “What about the girl’s clothes, boss? Shall I get them to the lab?” Firth asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Right, I’ll get SSU authorisation.”

  “Bugger the Scientific Support Unit, just get them there yesterday. I’ll authorise it.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “And take that pubic hair with you, too.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Fast-track ‘em all.”

  “Okay.”

  Shelby strode with determination around the room, barking instructions, his voice commanding and receiving the focus of everyone’s attention.

  “Anything to add, sir?” Shelby asked of Chamberlain.

  Chamberlain, shaking his head, stood to leave.

  “Right, listen up, you lot. H2H Sergeant, Management Team Sergeant and Search Team Sergeant, stay behind please, I need to check your progress. The rest of you... what’re you still doing here? Go on,” he shouted, “get on with it.”

  Just as the officers prepared to leave, Shelby yelled over their mumbling voices, “Oh, just one more thing.” There was a brief flash of light. “Look here.” Chris’s photograph, from the PM, showing Nicky’s half-open, glazed eyes and her seeping neck wound, greeted their attention. “Just a reminder of why we’re doing this.”

  — Two —

  Shelby was still on the phone to FDL, trying to secure the services of the Quasar and an operator. He told Chris that normally he delegated this kind of job, but the pressure was bearing down on him like a lead weight, so now he was using his own weight to get results. Today the
Fingerprint Development Laboratory was receiving some stern words.

  Sitting on an easy chair in Shelby’s office, facing the big man, whose complexion was decidedly ruddier of late, Chris punched buttons on his mobile phone, but continued to watch Shelby with concern. Shelby was struggling, and he would jump at the chance of an imminent arrest.

  Shelby laid into the technician on the other end of the line, telling him that he would be at the scene by 11.45 or he could start looking for alternative employment – he would see to it personally. And no, he didn’t care what workload he had, nor what he would have to postpone in order to furnish Shelby’s request, and no, he certainly didn’t give a shit how much hot water it would land him in with his line manager. Regulations regarding job suitability and grading could go to hell.

  Chris pressed call on the phone and heard the tones as it dialled the office number. After a while a mouth full of food said, “Conniston of Wood Street.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Chris, what’s up?”

  “I need you to come down to the scene on Potter Lane and help out with the Quasar when it finally arrives.”

  Shelby put the phone down and groaned, anticipating more problems.

  “Why the bloody hell do you think I’d want him? I’m asking you, aren’t I?” He slid a thumb over the mike and whispered, “I feel a fob-off coming through.”

  Shelby went to fill his recently drained cup.

  “Look, Roger, I’ve bent over backwards to help you recently; I can’t be in two bloody places at once, I’m needed at the scene and down at the mortuary. Now how do you suggest I accomplish that little feat?” It seemed the harder he pressed Roger, the more he dug his stubborn heels in. And that was fine. No, really; that was just fine.

  He covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Shelby, “He’s fucking me off.” He shrugged at Shelby, “I want you here please, Roger, if it’s not too much trouble.” Chris held the phone away from his ear so Shelby could get a feeling for the volume of Roger’s unhappiness.

  “I’m not coming down to the scene; I’ve been on duty since six. Quasar-ing a house will take the best part of five or six hours and I’m not working...”

  He let Roger rant, sighing an apology at Shelby for his disinclined staff. “Forget it, Roger,” he shouted, “I’ll do it all myself. You and I will be having a discussion.” Chris pressed end and threw the phone on Shelby’s desk. “We’ll have to go to the scene,” he began, “start them off there and then I’ll head down to the mortuary and fanny about with the PolyLight.”

  Shelby, unimpressed, slurped coffee.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with Roger these days,” he began. “I know his wife’s ill, but he doesn’t usually act like a prick. He jumps at the chance of working a major job.”

  “I know; I’ve worked with him a lot. Bet he wouldn’t turn it down if he were Supervisor, would he?”

  “Wouldn’t dare.” Chris could feel himself creeping just a little closer to the finish line. Tantalisingly close.

  “Who did he suggest came along and helped instead?”

  “Paul. You know, the lad who was with me yesterday.”

  Shelby slurped.

  “He’s not up to speed yet, I don’t want him getting under my feet really, and he’d be no use at all with the Quasar or the PolyLight, let alone photographing the bloody marks.” It was getting hot in here, and Chris rolled his cardigan sleeves up.

  Shelby slackened his tie. “We’re investigating a top notch stranger murder here. This is a priority one; do I have to organise every fucking thing myself these days? If you want Roger there, Chris, then bloody well order him there!”

  “Calm down, Graham,” Chris said in a smooth, almost condescending voice.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, man. You know the kind of shite that’s falling from above and right now, I don’t need it. I have to produce answers, I have to put a man – a person – at the scene, and I have to prove beyond reasonable doubt that he killed an innocent girl!”

  Shelby stood and began shouting down at Chris. “The papers are going ape-shit about this killing, wondering what the recent hike in Council Tax has produced and suggesting that the police are wasting resources – making comments like ‘This doesn’t happen in America’, and ‘The Feds do it like this’...and...”

  He went to the window, shook his head at people taking photographs of the old Crown Court building and the Barbara Hepworth statues, and watched the flag on the Town Hall thrashing about in the wind. He turned back to Chris. “Chamberlain has ranked this as a Category ‘B’ murder; which means staffing levels are stretched on this side of the line as well as yours. He’s given me a HOLMES Sergeant, two Indexers and six Receivers in the office. How can I manage on that?” He scratched the back of his head, “Still, it’s more than I got for the Sally Delaney murder; they didn’t seem to care a toss about her, she was Cat ‘B’ too but without the heat, you know... But this,” he pointed at the scene photographs strewn across his desk, “they’re going mad over. She was the original angel, just about the cleanest kid on God’s earth and some bastard killed her – on my patch!”

  “I still think you should calm down.”

  “I’ve got two fucking murders running at once, Chris. Not because I want two, but because Chamberlain won’t let me off-load one of ‘em.”

  “He thinks they’re linked?”

  “There’s a good chance, wouldn’t you say. Anyway, that means I’m playing mother to two Incident Rooms and... I don’t know my arse from my elbow. But what I’m hoping for is this: solve one murder, and the other solves itself.” He slumped in his seat and rested a leg over the corner of his desk. “I don’t know what’s happened to this Force. I’ve been here twenty-odd years. And back in the old days there was discipline, there was respect for authority. But now it’s all wishy-washy bollocks, where people’s feelings have to be taken into consideration, where solving crime comes second to... I don’t know, comes second to public image. It’s all ‘let’s sit down and have a chat about our corporate performance and where the public thinks we ought to be heading’. Fuck the little chats and fuck the corporate performance, what about reassuring the public, what about seeming to reassure the public? What about catching a murderer?”

  Chris sat there dumbfounded.

  Shelby looked up, his face red. “So stop pissing about, and get Conniston to the scene.” Nicky’s photographs stared up at him. He tried to turn away, but Sally’s photographs got him. A moment passed before he opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out half a bottle of Bells and a plastic cup. “Want one?”

  “No, it’s a bit—”

  “Early?”

  The sadness in his old eyes pricked Chris.

  “You’re right, it’s too early.” He put the liquor back. “We’ll save that for when we’ve got ourselves a killer, eh?”

  “Yes,” Chris whispered, and looked away.

  “Well, are you going to summon Conniston or what?”

  “Nah. He’s got a point. I’m punishing him because he’s good at his job. I’m relying on him too much, when I should be spreading the work around.”

  “There you go again, with your wishy-washy bollocks. If you want him, get him!”

  “No. I can manage. Honestly.”

  “But if you’re worried about overworking him, look at yourself. Look how much you’ve done and you’re the Supervisor. For Christ’s sake, supervise!”

  “I could say the same,” Chris retorted. “You’re panicking over this murder, and it’s only been running two days. The bloody Press have got nothing more substantial than a ‘body’. Whoopee-fucking-doo. Yet you run around like a blue-arsed fly, doing all the bloody work yourself when you, as a Senior Officer, should delegate.”

  Shelby closed his mouth. “Touché,” he said. “Okay, then, if you think you can manage, Professor, then do.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Through go-betweens, the two strangers had arranged to meet at
a derelict farm. Its rutted cart road had a healthy growth of weeds topped with a frost that lingered on the high ground up here north of Castleford. Long ago, vandals had shattered the farm’s windows, the remaining ones clouded by cobwebs; flaking, cracked doors hung from seized hinges and the thin sleet blew unobstructed around the stack yard carried on a biting wind. Rotting wooden gutters spilled water down moss-covered stone walls. The smell of decay hung in the air like a ghost.

  This particular brick shed was dim. It had only one window and a silted-up skylight. It was oppressive. Musty. The lingering smell of cattle and of old diesel oil was choking. A damp odour saturated the air too, seeped from the dirty whitewashed walls.

  “You got a name? They call me Beaver.” He stood opposite the stranger, a rusty waist-high filing cabinet between them, not really knowing if he could trust the man or not; not knowing if he would actually walk out of here or meet his end spitting oily dust with the smell of frozen cow shit in his nostrils. He chewed gum. All he wanted was to get his stuff and be away from here and this creep as quick as he could. Beaver buried his tattooed hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, and tried but failed to see through the man’s sunglasses and get a look at his eyes. He was short, wide as a house, crooked nose like it had been broken several times.

  “I’m not interested in what they call you, or even who they are.”

  “Fine,” Beaver said. “What you got for me, then?”

  “You got a good memory?”

  You bet your arse I have, Beaver thought. When it came to information like this, his memory was spot on. “Just tell me.” Beaver stared at the man, hoping to see some sign of weakness, a long swallow, or the slip of a smile. Nothing; there was no detectable emotion. No weakness.

  “Thirteen, Wedgwood Grove, Wakefield.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  The man’s leather jacket creaked. “He lives alone with his crippled wife; they don’t get too many coach parties dropping by. Shouldn’t be too difficult to work out.”