A Long Time Dead

by Andrew Barrett

  “I meant a plan of the floor.”

  “Hey, good point. Okay, tell you what, that’s my job. You crack on with the gels and I’ll sketch.”

  Paul peeled the clear plastic sheet away from the gel lifter. Like the Mylar, it was jet black on one side, but was self-adhesive across its fifteen-inch length. Its reverse side was white rubber. Paul used a small roller to adhere the gel to the floor and ensure no air bubbles were trapped. He left it in place for Roger to measure and sketch, and used the torch to find another four Hush Puppies impressions.

  “They go right up to the cupboard,” Paul said, staring at the lifters and then up at Roger. “And then they go back out of the room again.”

  “Okay,” he said, “open it.”

  “You sure you don’t want to do it? It’s your—”

  “Please, the fucking suspense is killing me; just open the damned cupboard.”

  — Four —

  “Can you see anything?” Shelby walked around the back while Firth cupped his hands to the cobweb-covered garage window. It had a dull silvery sheen right across it. He tried the handle.

  “I think he’s got curtains up in there or a sheet across the window.”

  Shelby looked at Chris’s back door, flipped the handle. He peered in through the kitchen window.

  “Why are we here?”

  “There you go again, Lenny. Letting your mouth go off on one all by itself.”

  “Is it ‘Pick on Lenny Day’ today?”

  “Yes it is.” Shelby turned away from the window. “Mrs Conniston said Chris had called round. Didn’t she?”

  Firth said nothing.

  “Lenny, that was a question. It’s traditional to provide a response after a question.”

  “Yes, she said that, yes,” he sighed, squinting into the drizzle.

  “Good. Then that’s why we’re here. They’re good friends those two, Conniston and Hutchinson. Thick as thieves sometimes.”

  “You think he’s hiding Roger?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Seems a bit strange that he should want to tell Mrs Conniston of her husband’s misfortune, her husband’s arrest, I mean.”

  “I’ll double check round the front.”

  “They’ll be together somewhere.” Shelby followed at a more leisurely pace, giving the garage another cursory glance. “Best friends share no secrets, Lenny.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  — One —

  Where are you, Roger?

  Chris turned off the engine, sat in the car brooding, listening to the cooling exhaust ticking in the darkness of the garage. After three quarters of an hour, it stopped ticking. Cool. Cold. He waited patiently.

  How could Bell give Conniston the promotion? For fuck’s sake, he still had another two weeks of acting-up to do. They were all square in the role-plays and the interviews. So how could he do that? And then, the real insult came when Yvonne Conniston told him the news. Bell didn’t even have the fucking courage to tell him himself!

  “‘You’ll have to work on your interpersonal techniques...’ you fucking knew all along that Conniston would get it, you slimy bastard, didn’t even have the decency to let me finish acting-up, didn’t have the guts to give us a fair fight, a fair competition. I’d win then. Oh, you’re damned right I would.”

  Chris froze. He saw someone through the corner of his eye at his garage window. A silhouette peered in, hands cupped to the glass, talking to someone else.

  Burglars! They tried the garage door and Chris’s heart lurched to see the handle flick up and down all by itself. For some stupid reason, he held his breath.

  No, no, not burglars. It was those bastards from the bookies. Tony Paxman Bookmakers on the Bull Ring were fine bookies; great at extending credit, no problem, Chris, you’re a good customer, they said. Hey, you can’t do too much for a good customer. They were good lads who popped in here to see him once a fucking week regular as a clock with the trots, to collect their dues. Chris swallowed. He was going to disappoint them again. And he wondered how far they’d take it this time. He closed his eyes. Waited. Apparently, you could do too much for a good customer.

  He listened to the voices, and thought he recognised them.

  No, those voices didn’t belong to Paxman’s men, didn’t even belong to Paxman himself; one of those voices belonged to Terry. Terry had no second name. But he came into the station every now and then to pay his respects to Chris personally, just to make sure Chris didn’t forget him. Chris never had, though he’d been fifty quid short once. And that hadn’t gone down too well. Luckily, only embarrassment gave him a red face that time. Next time would be worse. Nice man, Terry. He carried a shiny chrome knuckleduster for late payers. Chris had seen it, and being in this job, he knew what it could do to a mandible. The results were frightening. Terry always got his money before anyone else. Terry liked it like that.

  Still sitting inside his car, afraid to make a noise, he wound the window down an inch and put his ear to the gap. The voices faded, and some moments later, they returned. One of the voices he knew well. And it wasn’t dear old Terry at all. It was Shelby. The other voice belonged to Detective Sergeant Lenny Firth. He said, ‘You think he’s hiding Roger?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Seems a bit strange that he should want to tell Mrs Conniston of her husband’s misfortune, her husband’s arrest, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll double check round the front.’

  ‘They’ll be together somewhere’. Shelby’s voice said. ‘Best friends share no secrets, Lenny.’

  Chris bit down on his lip. Blood landed in his cardigan.

  He waited another half an hour.

  “You’re right, Graham; best friends share no secrets. Me and Roger, we share everything. Everything. I gave him my promotion. I gave him my knowledge too; he’s damn nearly as good at the job as I am. But no match in a straight fight. He couldn’t hack it at a major scene.” He waved a pointing finger angrily at the air. “Not Roger. And what did Roger give me? Fuck all, that’s what.”

  He got out, closed the door, and locked it. “What does Bell think Roger would do at a major scene, huh? When he’s the one giving the orders and taking the shit from idiots like Shelby? Conniston would fold in ten minutes flat. He would, or he’d ask around, get a consensus of opinion!”

  Where are you, Roger?

  Chris unlocked the small wooden garage door and slowly stepped out, peered around in case Shelby and Firth were being cunning for a change, then locked it after him. The hinges creaked annoyingly, loudly. He tiptoed through the rain, across to the house.

  He unlocked the back door, stepped in, locked it and kicked his shoes towards a pile of others. They missed, thudded the wall and knocked the bin over. He took off his jacket; let it fall on the floor. It was dark in here but he didn’t turn on any lights.

  He sat in the lounge, folded his arms against the cold, and thought of the absurdity of it all. He thought about Conniston, about how he had ‘acquired’ his promotion. And he was galled.

  Still no sign of Roger.

  Chris’s toes hurt. In the darkness, he looked down to see his feet curled into the foot-equivalent of a fist. They dug into each other and they dug into the floor. His arms were still folded achingly tight across his chest. Like his toes, his fingertips hurt, and so too did his ribs.

  He leaned back again in the chair, in the gloom, in his cold house, with his feet curled into fists, and another drop of blood soaked into his cardigan as he waited. He waited for Conniston, because his bitch of a wife – who tried to give him the dead girl’s house keys – can you fucking believe it – who tried to pass him incriminating evidence – said that Roger Boy wanted a favour, old bean, old pal.

  “Oh, I’ll do you a favour alright,” he mumbled.

  The lounge was black. A putrid, meagre light came in through the window and glanced off the Lucozade bottles on the floor. People walked by, looking in, some peering in. Nosy bastards. “Fuck off!” Chris threw two fingers. Eyes front, th
e passers by passed by quicker.

  I could go to Shelby. When Roger gets here, I could tell Shelby. I could yell it, I could yell ‘Shelby, I have your escaped murderer here in my house, take him away before...’

  I’d get it then, the promotion. Bell would have no choice, would he? Chris smiled again, retrieved his jacket, and stuffed it behind the settee. He stood in silence, bit his nails and spat them across the floor before climbing the stairs, feeling his way. He paced the landing. Back and forth, back and forth. Wondering. Thinking. Cursing.

  A thought bounced around his mind as though it were inside a pinball machine. It scored over a million before he could nail it down: it’s all falling down around my ears.

  But it’s not.

  It is.

  No, you are the new Supervisor. Congratulations. Terry and Paxman will be pleased.

  But be careful, Roger’s an escaped murderer! And you know what? He could easily kill again. The bastard could turn at any second, at any provocation. You gotta be careful. You might say the wrong thing; you might end up fighting for your own life. Who knows what might happen then. There’s always self-defence, Chris. Always self defence.

  Come on, Roger.

  — Two —

  Paul stood aside and let the cupboard door swing open. They both stared inside, expecting some great revelation to announce itself. Then they looked at each other in despair. “No blood,” Roger said. “Would have been nice to have a little blood, just a bit. A fingerprint in blood would be perfect...”

  “How about if I try LMG or a KM protein test on the cupboard door handle?”

  Roger sank to his knees. “Nah,” he said at last. “You’re bound to find traces of protein here, it’s a kitchen. Not all protein means blood, does it. So not all positive reactions mean blood. And anyway, unless we were lucky enough to find a fingerprint in blood, what have we got? Nicky Bridgestock’s blood in her own kitchen: proves nothing. Good idea though, keep trying.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Paul. “I was just—”

  “Hey, don’t you be sorry; it’s good that— Wait a minute!”

  “What? What?”

  “What’s the first rule of scene examination?”

  “Phot— No, no; look. The first rule is observation.”

  “Don’t use posh words; look will do,” he smiled at Paul. “Go on then, observe.”

  The cupboard was nothing special, and that’s why nothing remarkable stood out at first. There were two shelves, both covered with flowery lining paper; the lower one had glasses in it, tumblers, wine glasses and even flutes. The top shelf was reserved for cups and for mugs. All sorts, a mixture of comic faces, mugs twisted into incredible shapes, Purple Ronnie mugs, Pooh Bear mugs, and then at the front were a row of plain utilitarian, sandy-coloured mugs. Six of them. All standing on their bases.

  Except one.

  “Shit,” said Paul.

  “That’s what I thought.” Roger came closer, “See anything else?”

  After a while, Paul replied. “Nope, can’t say I do.”

  “Look at the lining paper, see how it’s darkened and rippled slightly?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So, whoever put it away, not only put it away the wrong way up, but he also put it away without drying it first.”

  “The tea-towel,” Paul said. “It’s neatly folded by the sink.”

  Roger nodded. “So, what’s it all mean, Sherlock?”

  “He rinsed his mug, eventually found the right cupboard and just put it away, wet and upside down.”

  Roger clapped Paul on the shoulder. “You’ll make a shit-hot SOCO. I can tell. But why do you say ‘eventually’?”

  “It’ll have been dark if they’ve both just got back from a night out; the curtains are open, so he wouldn’t dare put the light on. He’ll have found this cupboard by streetlight, I suppose.”

  Roger stood, stretched his legs and looked at the dirt on the white knees of his suit. He could still see Weston’s blood there too. “What next, then?”

  “What next...” Paul considered. “Masks?”

  “Then what?”

  “I was hoping you’d know that one; I’ve got them all right up till now.”

  “Okay, we photograph the cupboard, first with the door closed, then with it open. Then close up on the mug. When we have the mug out, re-photograph to show the damp patch.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Then we swab for DNA. He might have taken a drink from the mug. Then, you can do a little fingerprinting, see what shows up.”

  Paul stood, came face to face with Roger. “Listen,” he said, “I’ll do the swabbing, okay, but this time I’m standing firm – I want you to do the fingerprinting. I couldn’t live with myself if I smudged one or messed up lifting it, or creased it while mounting it,” he shook his head, “I...”

  “You wouldn’t have to live with yourself,” Roger said, “I’d shoot you.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Pleasure. Okay, fair enough. Now get the forensic kit, eh.”

  After the initial part of the photography, they both wore fresh gloves and facemasks. Removing the mug was going to be like a surgical operation. They discussed the best way of getting it out without losing any potential fingerprints and without damaging any potential DNA from around the rim. “You know,” Roger said, “if I were to put a mug in a cupboard upside down, I’d either use the handle, or grip the body.”

  “No shit? How else you going to do it?”

  “I’m thinking out loud here, give me some slack,” he smiled. “What I’m getting at is this: he’s not likely to have touched the underside, is he?”

  “No. So?”

  “So, we tilt the mug over, slip a swab up inside and pick it out of the cupboard on the swab, then tip it all the way over onto the worktop.” That’s exactly the way it worked. Smooth. The mug stared at them from its new home. “Go ahead with the swabs, Paul.”

  “Wait,” Paul said, “look here.” He pointed with a gloved finger.

  Roger closed up, feeling his split lip with his tongue. There was something on the mug. Red. Blood. Patterned. “It’s only a fingerprint in blood!” Roger exclaimed, a wild grin on his face. “You know, I could cry, I’m so happy.”

  “Any detail in it?”

  “Some. Enough.”

  “Okay. Now what?”

  Roger smiled, “Your favourite bit.”

  “Oh no, not the fingerprint camera.” Paul filled out a blue label, wrote B/W in the corner, and lightly stuck it to the mug near the mark, while Roger loaded the film and wound on to frame 1.

  “You okay with this?” Roger asked.

  “I’ve had plenty of practice.” Paul took the camera and located the mark. The flash popped. “May as well use all ten frames on it.”

  “No,” Roger said, “just five, then we need to swab and re-photo it.”

  “Why?”

  “A new policy. It’s supposed to prove you’ve swabbed the mark and that the blood on the swab has come from that mark.”

  “Ha, it doesn’t prove that.”

  “No, I know, but it’s how the CPS barristers want it done these days.”

  “I would have thought a photo of a fingerprint in blood would be incontrovertible.”

  Paul swabbed a tiny area of the fingerprint that Roger declared as no value, collecting a stain no larger than the nib of a fountain pen. He packaged the swab and took a gulp of water from a bottle in his kit. “Rim swabs now?”

  “Yup.”

  Taking another plain sterile swab, the same type they used in hospitals, Paul twisted and broke its seal. He withdrew the swab, nothing more than a glorified cotton wool bud, and then moistened it with two drops of sterile water from the same phial he used on the fingerprint swab. Lightly he rubbed the swab around the outer edge of rim before re-sheathing it into its plastic tube and sealing over the torn seal with biohazard tape. He did the same with another swab, this time stroking it around the inside of the rim. He took a third s
wab from his supply and did nothing with it other than write his CID6 number and the date on it, before slipping it and its two companions into a plastic evidence bag. The third swab was the batch control swab; should any unusual results fall out of the laboratory computer, the scientist could test this batch swab to check for background contamination. In too went the phial of water, and Paul sealed the bag. Gratefully, he took off his mask and stood aside. “Thank God that’s over.”

  “You did well,” Roger said. “Now it’s my turn.” He picked the best squirrel-haired brush from Paul’s meagre collection, spun the lid off the pot of aluminium powder and lowered the brush inside. Then he flicked off the excess and gently brushed around the mug’s handle, inside and out. He saw something there, came closer and inspected the mark. “It’s good,” he said. “Right thumb on the handle. Pity there’s nothing but smears on the inside.”

  “Great. What about the body then?”

  “Let’s see, eh.” He charged the brush, flicked again and used small circular motions to spread the powder on the mug, avoiding the fingerprint in blood. Soon a dull silvery sheen, like polished lead, covered its entire surface. Only smears of index, middle and the ring fingers of a right hand developed on the body of the mug. That and the ghostly shadow of a matching thumb around the far side, opposite the fingers.

  “You taking them?”

  “Damned right I am. There’s not much detail there, but it might be enough to get me off the hook.”

  “Okay, I’ll get some acetates and a roll of lifting tape.”

  Roger pressed the clear rubber lifting tape onto the handle of the mug, pressed down, rolling his gloved thumb over the fingerprint, being careful not to rub the tape onto the mark for fear of scratches. Using an acetate pen, he marked a gravity arrow on the lift so the bureau could orient it correctly. He lifted the tape, stared at it, saw the fingerprint and closed his eyes with gratitude. “Gotcha now, Weston. You bastard. Always said I’d get you on forensic evidence.”

  Roger placed the lift onto an acetate sheet and let Paul endorse it with his name, Nicky’s address and the location of the mark. He repeated this on all the marks before putting them into a fingerprint envelope. “I pray to God they’re his marks. Have you seen the scene log, Paul; was Weston’s name on it?”