A Long Time Dead

by Andrew Barrett

  “Hurry up, Lenny; I don’t have time for 20 questions.”

  Firth calmed down, took deep breaths. “They found another hair. The lab, they found a second hair in the body tapings from the scene.”

  Shelby stuck out his rounded chin, stood upright for a change instead of slouching under the weight of a lopsided investigation. Wait till Conniston hears this, he thought. Plant indeed. “And?” he said.

  “Oh yeah, she lied to us.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Alice Taylor! She’s been telling us porkies.” Firth was excited about his ‘find’. “I called around at OHU to speak to her again, and of course I got chatting to the secretary, Melanie.”

  “Lenny—”

  “Just a second, boss. Melanie told me she thought it was common knowledge that Alice and Roger were shag— were having an affair; they certainly didn’t keep it a secret from her. She says how bad she felt for Alice when Roger came round to try to patch things up. Said Alice was close to tears that morning because Conniston had his wicked way with her the night before and then broke the relationship off in the very next breath!”

  “That’s—”

  “Then, after Roger left OHU, Alice called for his file.”

  “Are you saying we have a witness who can testify to Alice Taylor’s evidence being a sham?”

  “I am indeed, sir.”

  Shelby exhaled like a man smoking his last cigarette, and he closed his eyes, trying to think. Bitch, he thought; Alice Taylor was a liar. But he would keep it to himself for the time being.

  * * *

  Shelby retook his seat in the interview room and continued where he’d left off.

  Little over half an hour had passed and there was a knock on the door. “Sir,” said Firth, “can I have a word?”

  Shelby grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and ceased the interview formally. “Time for a break anyway. You’ve got about thirty minutes, Roger.”

  “I don’t want a break.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “No, please, let’s just keep going.” His wide eyes flicked between Firth and Shelby.

  “We’re taking a break.” He summoned the custody sergeant, and Roger was escorted back to his cell.

  “What’s wrong now, Lenny?”

  Firth watched Roger go. “What’s the matter with him, not wanting a break?”

  “Who knows. Now tell me.”

  “You asked for the DNA results from the pubic hair.”

  “Get on with it, Lenny.”

  “It’s Roger Conniston’s. Probability of one in fifty-thousand.”

  Thank God for that, Shelby thought. “I’m glad I didn’t count my chickens.”

  “I got the statement from Melanie, too, boss. Apparently, this isn’t the first affair Alice has had. For want of a more appropriate way of putting this, sir, she’s the OHU bike, and everyone with a problem and a dick qualifies for a ride.”

  Shelby’s hopes took a nosedive and the slouch reappeared. “I see. Thank you, Lenny.” Then he banged a fist into the interview door.

  Firth walked away. Shelby called him back, and with spittle flying from his lips, said, “I want you to get straight onto Discipline and Complaints, hear me? I want her arse in a sling and I want her P45 in the fucking post. First class. Got it?”

  “Right, boss, I’ll get onto—”

  “Are you still here, Lenny!”

  Firth trotted away, his ankle regaining the limp it had only recently lost, and Shelby left the cell area and walked up the corridor over to the front counter, where he beckoned old Sergeant Potts over. If anyone knew anything of interest, illicit comings and goings, it was always the desk sergeant.

  Potts smiled, “Sergeant Shelby.”

  “I’m an Inspector now, James.”

  “Oh that’s brill news, is that. Congratulations.” Potts held out a hand.

  “I’ve been an Inspector for... oh forget it.”

  Potts appeared confused, as though he’d missed the punch line but would work it out later in private.

  “Just out of interest, have you noticed anything strange about Roger Conniston over the last couple of months? You know the kind of thing, skulking out of the office, looking flustered, that kind of thing?”

  Potts thought for a moment, pursed his lips. “Who?”

  “Roger Conniston? The SOCO?”

  “Oh yes, I know who you mean.”

  “Well?”

  “I get messages,” he raised his eyebrows.

  From the dead? Shelby wondered. “What kind of messages? Who from?”

  Potts came closer, lowered his voice. “Bookies. He comes out here and places the odd bet, even has his friends from the bookies show up sometimes. I don’t mind, really, I mean if he wants to keep his private life a secret from—”

  “Roger Conniston, James? You sure?”

  “Oh yeah, the cardigan man. I never understood why folk wore cardigans with them silly elbow patches—”

  Shelby closed his eyes and sighed. “Thanks, James. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  — Four —

  “You’re not planning on taking a break just yet, are you, Ellis?”

  The custody sergeant ignored him and let go of him as they were half way up the corridor, and Roger dejectedly wandered into his cell and he stood there as the door closed behind him, the lock turned and footsteps echoed down the corridor. He wondered when Weston would appear. Butterflies smacked against his ribcage.

  He cradled himself on the wooden plank, knees tucked up, lying on his side rocking slightly, waiting.

  And then he heard it. He held his breath and listened. There it came again, a sort of hissing noise, a whining. And then he saw the eye at the peephole; and the noise stopped. The peephole cleared, the flap swung shut and the door lock banged open. Roger’s heart kicked and his fingertips tingled right along the line of scars. Weston stood in the doorway, arms folded, and hissed the same hiss, the sound a chuckle makes when forced through clenched teeth.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Now, now, let’s not be like that,” Weston said. “I relieved Ellis for ten minutes so we could have a little chat.” He cracked his knuckles and the rings gleamed again.

  “I’m onto you. I nearly had you this morning,” Roger’s eyes were slits, he wanted this piece of shit to know that they might have closed the file on him, but it was still very much open as far he was concerned. He sat up.

  “That right?” Weston smiled in return.

  Roger gawped. Not the kind of reaction he hoped for.

  “You stood out like a karaoke singer in a fucking opera. If you want to come and see where I take my country walks, that’s fine by me.”

  “It won’t work, you know.”

  “What’s that then?”

  “They’ll find you out, Weston. They’ll find the evidence.”

  “You’re off your fucking trolley, you piece of shit.”

  “They know you framed me for murder, Weston.” Roger smiled nervously. “They’re working on it right now.”

  “Eek, I’m scared.” Weston let his arms drop. “Don’t be like that,” he crept into the cell, away from the open door, “don’t be hasty with this ‘framed me for murder’ shite.” He laughed again, quieter this time, “You don’t want to go blabbing things like that around; people might start to believe you,” he laughed, “and then those people might commence investigations. Tut-tut. We can’t be having that now, can we?” His shoes creaked as he stepped further forward. “Anyway, Shelby already thinks you did it, you know that, don’t you? And do you know what clinched it, do you know what made him change his mind about you?”

  “Change his mind?”

  Weston said, “he thought you were innocent when it all began, but you’ve succeeded in changing his mind for him; he now knows you’re fucking guilty.” Weston came closer, eyes peering at Roger like he was a strange exhibit in a museum. “Protesting your innocence like that did it; you know, w
hen you scream someone’s name the way you did, and especially when the name you scream belongs to the bloke we all know you hate, that’s when people begin to see people like you as... what’s the term, unstable, I think,” he winked. “They think you’re a fucking nutter, a man full of sour grapes, out for revenge.” His black eyes sparkled in the meagre light.

  “Bollocks.”

  “Sounds like you’re going through hell in there with Shelby. I’ve been listening. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” He contemplated the question for a while, seeking the answer in the cream-painted ceiling. “What do I want? I want to see you squirm, you cock-sucking piece of civvy shit.” He flicked change in his pocket. “And I want to see what your face looks like when I tell you who else thinks you’re guilty of murder.”

  “Just turn around and go away.”

  Weston asked, “Not interested, huh?”

  “No,” he lied. “Now fuck off.”

  “I know where your boss has gone.”

  Roger said nothing, only looked at the walls.

  “He’s gone to visit your wife. Yvonne, isn’t it?”

  Roger paid attention now.

  “That’s right. He’s gone to tell her the good news. You won’t be home for tea; for about fifteen years.” He laughed; the sound echoed around the cell. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t slip her a length while he was there.”

  Roger kept quiet.

  “She’d probably be glad of it too; make a change from seeing a shrivelled dick like yours—”

  Roger edged forward; his body poised for an attack, eyes though, still looking at the black leather shoes.

  “Go on,” Weston said, “go on; give in to it. Lunge man; let’s see how yeller your blood is, eh?”

  “How did you get hold of my fingerprints?” Roger asked.

  “You fucking coward.”

  “Come on, how did you get them into the girl’s house, huh?”

  “Yeah, I can see it now; Chris Hutchinson cuddled up nice an’ cosy on your settee with Yvonne by his side. He slips an arm around her neck, slips a hand up her skirt.” Roger flinched. “She coos at him, and starts groaning as her bra strap falls away—”

  Roger leapt from the plank and ploughed into Weston. They fell to the cold floor, a whiff of piss and disinfectant stung in Roger’s nose. Weston’s fist caught Roger around his left ear. His glasses skittered across the floor. And Roger was on his back, looking up into a blurred image of Weston.

  A roomful of shouts, echoes, and screams. Of fists and bared teeth.

  Weston grabbed Roger’s neck, gold-encrusted fingers digging into the flesh. It felt like Weston’s thumbs were touching the front of his spine. Roger began turning red; his eyes closed and seconds later, his pawing hands fell away from Weston’s arms.

  “Got you now, you wanker.” Weston’s words echoed in the silence. His thumbs relaxed.

  A whistle of cool air poured through Roger’s clenched teeth, and as Weston tried to regain his grip, Roger smashed his arms down, breaking Weston’s hold. They rolled, and Roger had Weston’s head in his hands, rammed it into the sticky cell floor. He lifted it, screamed into it and rammed into the floor... and then he stopped.

  Weston’s body relaxed.

  Panting, Roger saw the blood on the cell floor; droplets had sprayed outwards, and there were more droplets on the knee of his white suit. He let go of Weston’s head and fell off him, rubbing his burning neck.

  The cell door was open.

  Fifteen years.

  It kept bouncing back like an echo. Fifteen years. Could he really hack fifteen years inside? And if it was a fuck up, it had already gone this far, who was going to stop it going all the way through the courts?

  The cell door was wide open.

  Weston didn’t move.

  Roger picked his glasses out of the piss stain near the toilet. Like a rubber man, he stumbled out of the cell and down the corridor. He heard other prisoners shouting, thumping their doors. At the end, he peered around the corner. The place was empty. Mercifully so. Or had it been planned like that? Roger wondered.

  On the sergeant’s desk was a phone. Roger grabbed it, punched numbers. He listened. “Come on, baby. Answer me, please.” His heart banged and his neck throbbed.

  Eventually, he dropped the phone, left a red smear across the handset, and got moving. Ellis could walk in any second. And that’s when his troubles would truly begin. Roger staggered back up the corridor. The prisoners’ shouts were dull echoes. When he returned to Weston’s side, he searched his pockets, found his car keys, and his wallet. He closed the cell door. Locked it, feeling a wicked satisfaction, and put his shoes on. They were still damp.

  Inside the cell, Weston’s eyes snapped open. Through bloody lips, he croaked. “Don’t let me down, Beaver.”

  The custody area was still quiet. But he knew it wouldn’t be for long.

  The monitor showed Roger the empty transit bay. He ran behind the custody sergeant’s desk and smacked the door release button. Then he stopped. How much more trouble could escaping custody cause him?

  Seconds later, he blundered through the iron door leading from the custody area into the transit bay. With a heavy metallic ‘clang’, the door latched behind him; its significance – no return – wasn’t lost on him. In his panic, he dropped Weston’s wallet. Store cards and credit cards scattered, spilled like playing cards across the gritty floor. “Fuuuck.” He bent, dropped the keys. He scooped the keys back up, searched through the cards, found Weston’s warrant card, and slid it through the transit bay’s reader.

  The roller shutter door creaked up. “Come on, come on.” Rusty metal grinding on its spindle. Roger cringed at the noise and ducked beneath it, felt his tangle of hair brush against it, and ran up the ramp into the wet, floodlit car park. Icy air punched him. He waited by the concrete bulkhead as two officers locked their car and disappeared through the back entrance to Wood Street. He wondered when Ellis would return.

  Stamped into Weston’s brass key fob was a registration number. “P312SYG, P312SYG.” He scanned the car park, head flipping around so quickly that he missed it twice. It was right in front of him. The car park was clear now. He ran.

  With shaking hands, Roger closed the door and the world was mute except for his wheezing. He breathed the smell of stale cigar smoke. One last check around and all seemed clear.

  He started Weston’s patrol car, turned on the headlights and took it quickly around the bend, towards the erect barrier—

  A dazzle of headlights blinded him. Roger stamped on the brakes.

  The width of a matchbox separated the two patrol cars. Smoke and steam from the tyres drifted past his window. His heart hammered. And now he thought he was going to vomit into his own lap.

  Micky looked at him through both windscreens. Expressionless.

  Roger held his breath.

  After what felt like minutes, Micky swung his car out and pulled up alongside, and wound his window down. He stared at Roger, and then said, “You’re going to end up in some serious shit if they catch you.”

  He let the breath go. “I didn’t do it, Micky.”

  “This isn’t the way, mate. The system will—”

  “Fuck the system! It’s flawed, Micky, and it’s going to send me down.”

  Micky thought for a moment, and asked. “What’re you going to do, then?”

  “Pay Weston’s home a visit.”

  “What?”

  “He’s the key to all this crap, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Roger, you can’t just—”

  “Any better ideas?”

  Micky shook his head. “None. Just stay away from your home. They’ll put a plain car somewhere on your street. Watching.”

  “There is one more thing you could help me with.”

  Micky didn’t seem impressed, but he didn’t seem surprised either. “What do you want?”

  “Your mobi
le phone.”

  “My..? I want it back,” he said, passing it through the window, “in one piece. It’s my own personal phone, is that. Helen bought it for me.”

  “Thanks Micky. If I can ever...”

  “I still think you’re—”

  “I know. I have to try.” Roger revved the engine.

  “Oh,” Micky shouted, “and you never saw me. Okay?”

  Roger could only nod his gratitude.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  — One —

  Four minutes after Roger took possession of Micky’s phone in the car park, Sergeant Ellis Coldworth swiped his card through the reader next to the custody area door. The gate closed behind him and he walked towards his desk, newspaper tucked under his arm, aroma of tobacco drifting from his face. He craned his neck to get a look up at cell 6, but couldn’t really see too much without making a detour, and his paper was far more interesting than the goings-on inside a cell.

  Ellis slid his chair back, filled it with his generous backside and put his feet up on the counter, shook the newspaper out, and started at the sports pages. On the desk just beyond his feet was his telephone. Smeared red.

  * * *

  Lenny Firth pressed the intercom button and called, “Let us in, Ellis.” The cell area gate clicked and Firth swung it open, then let it shut behind him. He heard Ellis shake his newspaper. “Busy, then?”

  “Aye. Always bloody am.”

  “We want Roger back through now. Break time’s over.”

  Only Ellis’s eyes moved. Then all of him moved – quickly. “Roger Conniston? The SOCO? In cell 6?”

  “Problem?”

  “Problem? No, don’t be daft.” Ellis excused himself. He marched up the corridor, keys swinging in his hand, glancing back.

  Firth leaned over the desk to look at the paper. And as he did so, he noticed it. On the phone. It was a strange enough sight for him to forget the paper, to lean further over and look properly. Ellis shouted something from up the corridor. “Oh God. Now what?” Firth said, and walked up the corridor and in to cell 6.

  * * *

  Sergeant Coldworth looked up. “Call an ambulance, Lenny,” he said.

  “Shit,” Firth stared at Weston’s body, and then ran out of the cell, pulling his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. “Shelby’s going to fucking kill you, Ellis.”