A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy)

by Andrew Barrett

The sergeant ignored him completely.

  “What’s Weston said to you, Ellis? I’m still the same old Roger, y’know.”

  Ellis locked the door.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. They cocked up! What’s he said to you?”

  Weston had caused maximum pain and minimum injury. Roger’s lip had bled but that was about it. His face would probably be red for a while but it wouldn’t bruise and as for his shin, it would look like a graze many people carry around with them. But perhaps most dangerous of all, Weston had the custody staff under his thumb.

  Roger sat there with his arms wrapped around his bent-up legs, rubbing his shin, feeling alone and fearing the future.

  He concluded that his colleagues had obviously found physical evidence; maybe a ‘witness’ or two had been dragged up from somewhere to help their case. But, he thought, physical evidence aside, his track record for cruising, for having an affair, for lying to his wife, for lying to his employer, would all send him down for eternity. In that respect, Weston was right: what goes around comes around. Yet despite the underlying fear that kept him pinned to the wall, he knew it was an error and he knew it would be sorted out.

  — Two —

  In the interview room, just off the main cell area, Shelby sat across a small desk from Roger and said nothing.

  It smelled of old vomit and disinfectant in here. The walls were stippled cream, the carpet a well worn shit-brown, but the door was still police station blue. In the corner was a Pioneer twin cassette deck, specifically built for police purposes and housed in a metal frame to protect it from prisoners of a more disturbed nature. Around the room, as in the custody area, ran a pressure sensitive alarm tape; should the interviewee become a little irate, bells, gongs, klaxons and lights would sound and flash outside the door.

  “You sure you don’t want a solicitor?” Shelby finally broke the silence.

  “I haven’t done whatever it is you’re accusing me of, so why would I need legal advice? Anyway, I won’t be in here that long. Once your fuck up is uncovered, I’ll be on my way, right to the County Court.”

  “If you’re—”

  “I will need legal advice in the near future.”

  Shelby began with a caution for the benefit of the tape. This was a legal requirement, and no questioning about his involvement with the specific charge could begin without it. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”

  Roger’s mouth fell open. The sombre words he’d heard a thousand times before were now aimed at him. He laced his fingers tightly together on the desk in front of him. The paper suit crackled. He could not believe this was happening.

  “For the tape, I am Detective Inspector Graham Shelby, and I am interviewing Roger Conniston in connection with the murder of Nicky Bridgestock.” He glanced at his watch. “The time is 1410hrs, Friday 22nd January 1999.” Then a little less formally, “Roger, are you sure you do not want a solicitor?”

  Roger shook his head.

  “For the tape, please.”

  “No, I don’t want a solicitor. Thank you for asking.”

  “Right then,” Shelby opened a blue folder, quickly read its opening page. “Do you know a girl named Nicky Bridgestock?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to Nicky’s house?”

  “What’s her address?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever been to her house. Where does she live, what’s her address?”

  Shelby was puzzled.

  “What’s my job, Graham? I’m a SOCO; it’s my business to go to people’s houses. Now what’s her bloody address?”

  He returned to the opening page, embarrassed at being caught off-guard in the first minute. “Seventy-four, Potter Lane, Wakefield. Ring any bells?”

  Earnestly, Roger thought for moment and then answered, “No, I’ve never knowingly been there.”

  “Did you have cause to go there while investigating her death?”

  Roger shook his head, remembered the tape and said, “No.”

  “Can you explain to me how your fingerprints were found in her house?”

  “What!” He propped himself forward on the desk. “My fingerprints were found in her house? Where?”

  “Can you explain to me—”

  “No! Now where the hell did you find my bloody fingerprints?”

  Shelby was a wolf approaching its frightened prey, all too easily caught. This was the part he loved, and for the moment he put aside any friendship he may have enjoyed with Roger; this was the job, this was what he was paid for. “Two nights ago, you were supposed to go off duty at 2am, that’s Wednesday morning. You actually retired a little earlier, one-thirty to be precise.”

  Roger flinched.

  “Would you mind telling me where you went?”

  Roger responded at last. “I went to see Alice Taylor.”

  “Who’s Alice Taylor?”

  “She’s a counsellor, among other things. At OHU.”

  “Our Occupational Health Unit?”

  Roger nodded.

  “That was a yes,” he looked at the tape recorder. “You said, ‘among other things’. What did you mean?”

  “We were having an affair,” Roger lifted his chin.

  “Is she married?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Is she married?” Shelby repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “How long has the affair being going on?”

  “Three or four months, not that long.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “Originally, you mean, or that night?”

  “That night, Roger.”

  “Her place.”

  “Why did you not tell your superiors this when asked?”

  “Weston’s not my superior.”

  “Christopher Hutchinson was. I assume he asked where you’d been when Inspector Weston raised the issue.”

  “How did you know—”

  Shelby raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he pressed.

  “Would you tell your superiors you were having an affair with someone from OHU?”

  “Did you meet her through a counselling session or through purely social events?”

  “Counselling.”

  “Problems?”

  “No, I liked the fucking furniture in her office!”

  Shelby slammed a fist onto the desk. Pointed a chubby finger. “Don’t keep on with the sarcasm, Roger. I don’t like it and it’s not helping you.”

  “Look, I didn’t kill this Nicky girl; I do not know how my prints got into her house. I do know that I have never been there. Ever!”

  “Okay, let’s try another, shall we? And I’ll have this checked out, Roger, so beware. You also left the office two hours early on Wednesday afternoon, a medical appointment for your wife you said. Is this correct?”

  The cassette bobbins turned, catching each word, each sigh, each denial.

  “No,” he said. “I lied to Chris. Alice and I had split up...” He paused and then explained to Shelby’s fierce eyes. “That night I took time off, I went to her house to break off our affair.”

  Shelby urged, “Go on.”

  “When I got there…I didn’t really have the bottle, and… Let’s just say that Alice’s powers of seduction were irresistible to me. We ended up in the sack.” His chin lowered again.

  “So you didn’t split up?”

  “Let me finish. Afterwards, I said we should quit.”

  “After you made love?”

  “I’m not especially proud of the order I did things.”

  “So why did you go and see her the next day?”

  “After I said we should quit, she gave me this,” he pointed to the fading scratch. “Needless to say, she wasn’t entirely happy with the order I did things either. I suppose that was her leaving present to me.”

  “Roger is pointing to a scratch across
his left cheek,” Shelby said for the tape. “So why did you go and see her?”

  “I’m going for promotion; well, I was going for promotion – and was told yesterday that I’d got it. Congratulations to me, huh.” He sighed, and then continued, “Anyway, at the time I was still trying for promotion and so I didn’t want Alice, who was pissed off at me, to mess up my chances by putting anything nasty into my personal file.

  “I went to try and make up, as friends, nothing more. I went to smooth the waters. They say that your counselling sessions are in confidence anyway, that nothing is written down, and certainly nothing is transferred to Force Personnel files. But I know how this Force works; I wanted to hedge my bets.”

  “She’ll corroborate your story?”

  He shrugged. “Absolutely, she’s no reason to lie.”

  “I’ll check this out. So if you’re spinning a tale I’d rather you came clean now.”

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting here at all, Shelby. I can’t believe I’m being accused of a girl’s murder – a girl I’ve never clapped eyes on, and you say you’d rather I came clean! What sort of a man do you think I am? I’ve worked as a SOCO in this nick for years, I’ve worked for the Force for twelve years, and suddenly I’m a lying bastard with nothing better to do than ‘spin tales’ for someone like you who has got things just about as fucking wrong as they could be!” The tendons stood out proud on his neck, the skin so tight it looked on the verge of splitting.

  Shelby straightened in his chair. His face lost its wrinkles and the colour filled his cheeks again. He continued, “We’ve already got your personal file and we’ve begun an informal interview with Mrs Taylor because of the remarks found within that file.”

  Roger felt panic rising in his chest. “I am innocent! Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because you can’t refute anything we have against you.”

  “You can’t check my personal files. That’s an infringement of the Data Protection Act, it’s against Human Rights.”

  “Data Protection doesn’t apply when I’m interviewing a suspect in a murder. And that’s what you are, Roger.”

  “You’re systematically ruining my career, shafting my marriage and now you’re bringing the Force into disrepute—”

  Shelby slammed his fist into the desktop again. “You,” he roared, pointing a shaking finger, “shafted your own marriage as soon as you climbed into Mrs Taylor’s bed – if indeed you did at all! And, you are the one bringing the Force into disrepute!”

  “Read the sodding file, then. She told me she wouldn’t write anything down anyway.”

  Shelby stood and hastily gathered the folder. “Interview suspended at 14.50.”

  * * *

  Shelby stood in the corridor outside the cell area interview room, his starched face lit by the red ceiling light outside the room’s door. He was trembling with anger at the man’s attitude. The custody sergeant glanced up, saw Shelby’s fury and quickly returned to his newspaper.

  For a while, Shelby harboured doubts about Roger’s guilt, fingerprints or not, but the way he was defending himself stank of guilt. Twenty-odd years of prodding and poking interviewees had taught him well. And those twenty-odd years went into his interview strategy – which now appeared slipshod, amateurish… Usually two officers interviewed but Shelby thought he’d handle it better alone. He was beginning to question that decision.

  The cells’ gate banged closed. “Boss!” Lenny Firth limped up the corridor towards him and Shelby pulled himself together quickly. “Got a statement from Alice Taylor,” he waved the papers.

  “What’s she say?”

  “She’s had several professional meetings with Conniston, nothing on a personal level; in fact she was offended by the suggestion.”

  “Get to the point, Lenny.”

  “He’s unbalanced.”

  “Aren’t you his squash partner?”

  “I’m being objective, boss, I’d—”

  “I know, I know; I mean you should know if he’s unbalanced, Lenny, shouldn’t you, without recourse to Alice Taylor.”

  Lenny said, “He could be very emotive, very angry, and passionate even. But you never really know what’s going on inside a man’s head. That’s where a counsellor has the upper hand over a squash opponent, she ought to know if he’s unbalanced.”

  “Go on.”

  “Apparently, he has nightmares – every time he sees a body, he can’t shake them off. She concludes by saying she thinks he’s unstable and was about to recommend professional external counselling through his Head of Department.”

  Shelby began to feel better; Roger’s innocence was something he could forget all about. “I want his DNA taking to the lab now; see if it matches the hair we found on Nicky.”

  “Already there, boss.”

  “You after Brownie points, Lenny?” And then he thought how enthusiastically Lenny was executing his duties towards his squash partner. He seemed to be enjoying this. With friends like you, Lenny…

  Firth puffed out his nimble chest. “I’ve taken the liberty of Fast-tracking it; we’ll have the results by close of business tonight.”

  “Good.” Shelby said. “Not that I’m bothered, but what kind of a premium are they putting on Fast-tracking nowadays?”

  “Two grand, plus the £247 for the sample.”

  “Shit. Discount for bulk analysis?”

  “Don’t think so, boss.”

  “Thought not.” He turned to leave. “Oh, Lenny, does she seem…fair-minded, this Alice Taylor? Not the vindictive sort is she?”

  “Straight as an arrow, boss, very nice lady.”

  “Bring us a couple of coffees in, will you?”

  Shelby entered the interview room again. He pressed ‘record’ and gave his name and the time. “We’ve spoken to Alice—”

  “Shouldn’t you caution me when the interview recommences, advising again of my right to a solicitor?”

  “Do you want one now?”

  “No. Just making sure you know my rights.”

  He didn’t feel better anymore. Shelby cautioned him in a low hypnotic voice. “Alice Taylor says that your relationship was entirely professional and that you are suffering delusions of grandeur to think it was anything more.”

  Roger felt alone again. “She’s lying.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Easy. His name is Angus. He travels a lot and she’s the lonely one stuck at home waiting for a bit of weak flesh like me to come along and play with her. She said her husband wasn’t the forgiving kind. Don’t think he’d take it too well if he found out I knew more about his bedroom and his lounge than he did.”

  “She says you’re unstable.”

  “At the moment, I’d say I have every right to be unstable.”

  A knock came at the door and Firth came in with two coffees on a plastic tray.

  “Thanks, Lenny,” Roger said.

  Firth closed the door.

  “My friends,” he whispered, “suddenly aren’t.” He sipped the drink, looked back at Shelby. “Anyway, she would say that, wouldn’t she? Don’t forget, I’m the one who broke it off, I offended her femininity, she thinks she’s an unpaid whore now, doesn’t she?”

  “Does she?”

  “Well who do you think gave me this?” He pointed to the scratch.

  Shelby’s face was blank.

  “Don’t tell me; you think Nicky bloody Bridgestock gave it to me?”

  Shelby blew at the steam floating over his coffee; he took in Roger’s demeanour over its rim. At that moment, it provided the perfect cover for a flashback to the post-mortem. Back to where the pathologist, Bellington Wainwright, had extreme difficulty obtaining nail scrapings because Nicky had bitten them down almost to the quick. Hardly face-scratching equipment. Hardly itch-scratching equipment.

  One-nil in favour of Roger’s innocence, he had to concede. “She also says, and I’m pressing the point of Alice Taylor, considering she’s your alibi, that you have dream
s of dead bodies.” Was this going to be one-all?

  “She’s no right to give away that kind of information,” he whispered in a defeated slur. He took his glasses off and rubbed them against the suit.

  “If this investigation concerned the Chief or the Mayor or the Head of the bloody Police Authority, we would dip into any available information we could, so cut the crap about rights to privacy, get on and answer the bloody question, man.”

  Roger put his glasses back on. “What question, you didn’t ask me a question.”

  “What do your dreams consist of?”

  “Are you offering me therapy?”

  “Answer the goddamned question!”

  Roger fell silent for a time and Shelby could see him thinking, could see his shoulders rise and fall inside his ill-fitting white suit as he considered his response.

  “I suppose I saw one body too many. I don’t know; that’s why I went to see her in the first place to try to get some help with the ghouls floating around inside my head.” He smiled at Shelby, making fun of himself. “She suggested I was putting an obstacle in my own path, an obstacle against my promotion.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s not something I planned, you know. I didn’t sit on the edge of the bed one night and talk myself into having nightmares! I was afraid of getting the job, I guess. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it. So subconsciously I tried to prevent it from happening at all.”

  “Did you dream of a dead body last night?”

  “How sweet of you to ask.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. But I was high; I’d had the good news of my promotion, and I’d had a drink or two to celebrate. I don’t think I dreamed anything last night.”

  “You didn’t dream anything last night?”

  “You want a cracker?”

  “For a man facing fifteen, you’re very flippant.”

  Roger became thoughtful, lowered his eyes. “I still think it’s a foul up; it’ll be sorted by the end of today and…” he trailed off, slipped back into his thoughts.

  “No, Roger. It won’t go away. No one has fouled up and I think it’s about time you started to take this seriously.”

  “I don’t have to prove my innocence, Graham.”