She smiled at him, but there was no response.
Ros went back to her own work.
Now she had the wound facing her. A neat hole no wider than the nail of her little finger, ringed with a thin smear of black, like a kid had traced it with a soft charcoal pencil. Gunshot residue. And it was quite intense, which meant the weapon was close when fired. After close-up photography of the wound, Ros put on fresh gloves, took out the swabs from a GSR kit and removed the black residue.
Once the GSR swabs were sealed inside a bag, Ros turned the body over and photographed it. She noted how the shirt wasn’t tucked in at the front as it had been at the back, and the zip on his trousers was undone, as was the leather belt – it added strength to Eddie’s theory. And his shoes were still neatly polished except for a little contact dirt in the stitching, so she knew if anyone had been dragged towards marker four, it hadn’t been Blake.
The flies were growing in number and in curiosity; their bravery was also increasing, and with it, Ros’s temper grew correspondingly shorter. Even the soft perpetual music of the stream nearby couldn’t calm her down. The worst was the flies seemed attracted to her own sweat and, after being wafted away from the corpse, would try and alight on her forehead or neck.
In Ros’s experience, the hands of a corpse were often frozen into fists, which made it the devil’s own job to powder ridge detail, but Blake Crosby had hit the ground palms out and that’s where he’d stayed through the developing process of rigor. He lay now face up, pale creases among the lividity in his face, dirt stuck to his cheek, insects scurrying away from the light. Hands face up, fingers straight out; he looked like a man in a glass coffin, trying to keep the lid from crushing him. Ros almost, but not quite, smiled at the thought.
She couldn’t know for sure whether Blake Crosby was right- or left-handed. And since she thought it might be wise to know if he’d handled a firearm recently, it would be a good idea to swab for gunshot residues in the web of his thumbs and along the edge of the index fingers before swabbing the rest of each hand for contact DNA.
She remembered Jeffery asking for tapings of his hands too, but after all the swabbing, and after being crushed by his own body weight for several hours, she thought it unlikely to produce much in the way of results. But still, she had to show willing.
Once all the swabbing was complete, Ros changed gloves again, got herself as comfortable as she could and prepared the tapings kit. And that’s when her phone rang.
— Four —
Eddie had photographed the rock, taken the embedded hairs from it and even seized it. He didn’t yet know how thorough MCU were, and so he thought he’d better err on the side of caution. And then he set to gathering the white fibres from the trunk of the oak after recording their height from the ground, photographing them, and gathered the white fibres from the twig nearby. The twig was smooth, its young bark was shiny, and halfway along its three-foot length were bits of ridge detail in blood, very, very faint, but still, it was every scene examiner’s dream to find them.
Eddie would have been whooping on any other day, but today, he simply photographed them, swabbed the blood, swabbed again around the blood for contact DNA and then just bagged the twig while barely thinking about it.
And now he found himself halfway up the tree, having extensively photographed the trunk and boughs, scaled and swabbed the contact red stain and dabbed tape over it in the hope of collecting more, if different, fibres. That’s when he stopped.
Below him, by about twelve feet, and away from him by about twenty, Ros was kneeling over some dead guy, swabbing the palms of his hands.
Floating above her head was a glowing red question mark. He could see it like he could see the oak leaves flicking back and forth in the breeze like tiny flags. Eddie let his legs sway back and forth as he watched her, engrossed with her even though she was wrapped up in a white scene suit. They were traditionally unflattering, but Ros would look good wearing a landfill site.
The question mark flashed on and off in time with Eddie’s heart. It was there, he knew, because that was how he felt about her right now. Why the hell would she go to the trouble of inviting him to work with her at MCU, why go to the trouble, and obvious heartache, of breaking her two-year vow of silence towards him – and then go out of her way to make him feel like shit? She couldn’t be colder towards him if she had Frigidaire stamped on her forehead.
The worst part was not knowing what he’d done wrong; how had he upset her? The second worst part was her refusal to tell him. Christ, women were hard work, really hard work.
And that prompted another, more disconcerting thought to flutter in Eddie’s mind. This one had brought an anchor that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the QE2; it wasn’t going anywhere for a very long time. The thought was this: he would give MCU one week, and if things hadn’t improved, he would leave. Simple as that.
It had taken two things to get him to quit divisional CSI: a slow and gradual build-up of distaste encouraged by a shit system and propagated by really shit management, and a final injustice done to the very job they were here to do.
And although he was skint, Eddie had enjoyed his week or two away from such an intensely complicated and stressful world where people didn’t always want you to succeed – where people would rather you let a murderer go if it proved them right about you being a wanker. And then they’d talked him back round and he’d let them. He shook his head, eyes still on Ros.
Why had they done that? More to the point, why had he accepted? Getting to the point of finally closing the office door for the last time, especially with no other income about to magically spring up, took some real balls. And now look…back here again. Only now it was worse, because in Ros, he had found apathy where once there had been a good friend.
Yes, a week. And then, if things were still the same, he would walk again.
The gentle swaying of the branches, the soft music of the leaves and the gentle hum of the stream were pierced by a shrill sound. Eddie watched Ros as she fumbled the gloves off and retrieved her phone from her pocket. She looked at the caller display then bit her lower lip.
She looked up at Eddie, and he wasn’t surprised to see her turn away from him.
Unashamedly listening intently in her direction, he heard a few words, despite the noises from the trees and her hushed voice. She began with a hearty ‘Hi!’ but trailed off into monotone mumbling shortly afterwards. Before long, she had slipped the phone back in her pocket and pulled the mask way up high over her face before turning around again.
Eddie sighed hard. Now it was beginning to make sense. Some of it.
A boyfriend, obviously. And that had generated a conflict within her; a current boyfriend versus memories of her old…her old what? Her old relationship with Eddie.
And how did that make him feel?
He could sum it up in a couple of words: jealous. And resigned.
‘Eddie!’
Eddie turned on the bough and looked towards the police vehicles as some short, skinny man with a grin too wide for his face lumbered towards him, waving. ‘Who the fuck…’
‘Come for the exhibits.’
‘Great,’ Eddie said. ‘Ros?’
‘I’m here.’ Carrying a bulging brown bag packed full of exhibits, she walked straight past the tree, underneath Eddie’s dangling feet and met the man at the inner cordon. Eddie watched her fill out some paperwork, listened as they engaged in brief banter, and within moments, she was back, looking up at him this time. ‘Come on. Let’s bag him, and then we can get the hell out of here.’
‘Aw,’ he said, ‘I was enjoying the peace and quiet. Still, I expect there’ll be plenty more on the journey back.’
20
— One —
There was dust on the screen, only a fine layer, but the rain had turned it to mud, and the mud had left streaks down the glass, and for some reason not known to him, it looked very sad. How could a dirty windscreen look sad? he wondered. He didn’
t know; it just did. Maybe it reminded him of women crying, the way mascara runs down their faces.
‘Can we go now, please?’
Eddie started the engine, cleared the screen and set off from their first forensic scene examination together in over two years. He had wonderful memories of those times, and he wished they could’ve been replicated or reincarnated somehow, because working with Ros these days was painful, like combing your hair with barbed wire. Not at all pleasant.
Still, if he were ever granted the power of reincarnation, it wouldn’t be the old days he brought back; it would be Sammy.
Eddie eliminated the thought like the wipers eradicated the mud from the windscreen. Thoughts like that at times like these were dangerous, because they made him cry. And he didn’t want to cry, not today, and not in front of the ice-maiden.
He wasn’t so sure now whether his decision to give it a week at MCU was the right one under the circumstances. The circumstances being Ros and how she was hurting him by being so distant that he had to use binoculars to see her.
He’d already tried talking to her, asking her why she was different. And he’d already worked out that she had a boyfriend. That was a hard blow, and even now, as they drove through Garforth with only the sound of tyres on wet tarmac for company, he lived in hope that her relationship wouldn’t last long. You could do that with relationships like that, you were entitled. You couldn’t do that with marriage, though. With marriage, you had to respect the couple and their vows, as Ros had done with Eddie and Jilly a thousand years ago. She had done it with grace, too, far more grace than he could summon.
But she hadn’t yet told him why she was different towards him; he was still good ol’ Eddie, nothing new there. In fact, he was better than the old Eddie – he was sober! And he was single again. What was the problem?
And that’s why he revised his earlier decision.
‘When we get back to the office, I’m leaving.’
‘You have to do your paperwork, then you can go home.’
‘When we get back to the office, I’m resigning, then I’m leaving.’
‘You’ve only just started!’
‘And I wish I hadn’t.’ He didn’t look at her, he just kept driving.
‘Why?’
‘Because you dyed your hair.’
‘What?’
‘Because Ben and Jerry’s rum and raisin ice cream is like combing your hair with barbed wire.’
She was looking at him, and he sneaked a quick glance. She was smiling. Ros was smiling! He liked that, and though it faltered to begin with, he smiled back until she said, ‘I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.’
‘I meant that Ben and Jerry’s rum and raisin ice cream is shit the second time around.’ The sneaky look this time told him she wasn’t smiling any more. This time, she understood what he meant. This time, she looked sad.
‘You already said that, Eddie. Are you running out of metaphors?’
‘I’m running out of patience.’
They drove on in silence again until they reached Elland Road, and a McDonald’s. ‘Pull in here,’ Ros said.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it. I want a coffee.’
‘And here’s me thinking you wanted a fucking Happy Meal!’
Eddie pulled the van into the car park and killed the motor. She looked at him and climbed out. Eddie got out too, locked the door and lit a cigarette. He leaned against the van and watched her walking away into the restaurant. And that’s when he felt like killing himself all over again.
He breathed deeply and flicked the cigarette away.
She had chosen a booth away from any windows, tucked away in the corner where passing foot traffic was infrequent, and he was glad because he sensed it was all about to come out, and he didn’t want kids and fat bastards gawping as they walked by. It was still noisy in here, though; kids shouting when they should have been colouring or eating, the slow mouldering voices of a deep queue at the tills, and some unidentifiable tinny music falling like miniature party-poppers from the overhead speakers to air-burst into your private thoughts or derail your quiet conversation; as obtrusive as the crisp packet rustlers in a visual scene at the flicks.
He stared at her, waiting for her to begin.
‘I don’t want you to leave.’
‘I have to. I can’t work alongside you anymore.’
‘I’m not that bad–’
‘Ros, be honest just for once. I thought of you as an ice-maiden earlier; I never thought I’d label you like that, not my Ros.’
‘I’m not your Ros.’
‘There you go again!’
‘I’m married, Eddie.’ Her teeth were bared.
Silence. He stared at her, but he didn’t see anything. He had quite suddenly developed acute tunnel vision, but the vision part was wrong, there was nothing there; he saw right through her, but there was nothing on the other side. He saw nothing, he heard nothing.
‘…sorry, Eddie.’
‘What?’
‘I said I’m sorry.’
He smiled, an autopilot response. ‘You don’t have to apologise for being married; I hope you’ll be very happy.’ He checked his watch. ‘We should go.’
‘His name is Brian.’
‘Great.’
‘He’s a landscape gardener.’
‘Have you got a card? Got some nettles need clearing.’
‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘I need to tell you this.’
‘You don’t have to, it’s fine, I understand.’
‘No, you don’t. I was thirty-six, and…’
‘Really, you don’t have to explain.’
‘Shut up, Eddie.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I was thirty-six. No spring chicken.’ She tried to smile. ‘More an ugly duckling, really. And I was single. Alone. I was growing into an old spinster.’
‘I was–’
‘And then Brian came along. We got along well. I like him; he’s solid and reliable.’
Eddie swallowed, looked away. ‘I’m pleased for you, Ros.’ He smiled at her. ‘Really, I am. You’ve done well.’ There were tears pooling in her lower eyelids, and Eddie looked away again to save her embarrassment as she dabbed them away.
‘I was being very selfish,’ she continued, ‘when I came to offer you this job. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Selfish?’
‘Well, you know we had a kind of special relationship back when…y’know, when you were with Jilly. Didn’t we, we were–’
‘Really good friends,’ he said. ‘Yes, we were.’
‘We were really good friends then, and I’d hoped we could be really good friends again. You know, just like before.’
‘Only instead of you being able to look but not touch, now it’s my turn?’
‘It sounds crude when you say it like that.’
‘But true.’
‘Yes. I thought about it, Eddie. Jeffery told me where you were; he told me Westmoreland wanted you to come to MCU, but the final decision was mine, because I was the only one who could persuade you to come. So, I thought about it and wondered if it was fair to you. I knew it would be hard on me, at least to begin with, but it would be unfair to you. I suppose I just wanted you to be near.’
‘Perhaps you could have levelled with me.’
‘Told you I was married?’
He nodded.
‘Would it have made a difference?’
He thought about it. Would it have made a difference? Well, of course it fucking would. Ros was number one on his hit list, and now after this little revelation, she wasn’t even a competitor, and so he would have remained a happy bum instead of being back breathing aluminium powder and staring at a woman he could never be close to. And that was the saddest news he’d had in two years. But it had affected her more. ‘It would have made a difference to you, Ros. If you’d come clean to begin with, you wouldn’t have needed to treat me like a disease all day.’
And then she sobbed.
&nbs
p; Eddie reached out and was about to stroke her hair, but he pulled back quickly. She was married. He had to make himself remember that. And despite suspecting she was unhappy with Brian, he had to respect her status.
‘Is this the personal bit you wouldn’t tell me about?’
She nodded. ‘Some of it.’
‘There’s more?’
Her voice broke as she said, ‘I invited you to work at MCU because I wanted to punish you.’
Eddie sat back and folded his arms. His cheeks throbbed as he ground his teeth, and he took short shallow breaths. ‘Why punish me? What have I done?’
Eventually she looked up, napkin held over her nose, eyes beginning to redden. ‘Because all the years I’ve known and worked with you, you’ve been out of my reach. You’ve been with Jilly, or you’ve been trying to get back with Jilly. And even when we were alone in your shithole flat, you were thinking of Jilly; and even if you weren’t thinking of Jilly, you were too pissed to be thinking of me.
‘And then when I was dying in hospital, I was thinking of you, and I was thinking of her, and I was thinking of what you said, that everything you touch turns to shit, and I should stay away from you–’
‘A lot happened after I said that–’
‘I know! And I thought we’d turned a corner, Eddie.’
‘We had!
‘You had! I was turning into a fucking spinster!’
Just then a McDonald’s general, with four golden stars pinned to a name plate on his left breast, hovered at their table. ‘Sir, madam, I’ll have to ask you to leave if you continue–’
‘Okay, okay,’ Eddie said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There are children–’
‘I said okay! Thank you, okay.’
The general wandered off, and Eddie looked at Ros.
‘They told me you were dead, Ros. Make no mistake; they didn’t say you were poorly, they didn’t say you had a headache. They told me you were dead. Why would you make them say that? It’s beyond cruel.’
No Time to Die_a thrilling CSI mystery Page 11