A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (21 page)
Read A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) Online
Authors: Andrew Barrett
Shelby closed his mouth. “Touché,” he said. “Okay, then, if you think you can manage, Professor, then do.”
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.”
“Good description,” he chewed.
“His hair’s a mess.”
Beaver laughed. “Is that it, his fucking hair’s a mess?”
“Tall, six foot, maybe six-one. Slim, wears glasses.”
“Well that’s better than ‘his fucking hair’s a mess’.”
“You don’t want to fuck with me, kid. You might have a skin-head and tattoos all over your neck, but it doesn’t make you hard.”
“What time’s he usually home?”
“He works shifts. Better hunker down and prepare for a long wait.”
Beaver’s eyes sparkled. “Who are you?”
“Someone you need to stay on the right side of.”
Out of the two, Beaver turned away first. “The equipment?”
The man in the scuffed leather jacket reached inside a pocket with a massive gloved hand, pulled out a gun and placed it on the filing cabinet. He slid the weapon over towards Beaver.
‘You need the right equipment, Beaver,’ Jess had said, ‘and I know someone who knows someone with just such equipment. Get it, learn how to use it, and blow the fucker’s mind away. If you do a good job, you’ll be hearing from us’.
He picked it up, felt its weight, and curled his hand around its knurled grip. He admired its dull shine by the diffused glow from the skylight. He sniffed it. “It’s brand new,” he said rubbing oil from the trigger into his fingers. “How come it’s brand new, I didn’t expect a brand new weapon.”
“So give it back and I’ll be on my way.” The man held out his hand.
“Can it be traced? I mean, it’s brand new; a used gun can’t be traced.”
“You’re new to this game, aren’t you?” The man mocked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You
need
a brand new weapon.” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Suppose you get caught with a used gun, suppose the police send it to ballistics—”
“Now you’re talking shit!”
“Am I? I know a bit about forensics, kid.”
Beaver looked at the gun; saw the obliterated serial number. He felt its weight again and adored the power it gave him. He almost had a semi on. “Go on.”
The man’s lips barely moved when he spoke. “If a gun is tested forensically, they can match it to any crime it was used in. You’re caught with a used gun, kid; you’re caught for its crimes.”
“They can’t prove—”
“Listen to yourself!” He slapped the filing cabinet and dust bounced into the air. Then he said, “You’re a bright kid, you’ve been away, you know what it’s like to have a record; it would be down to
you
to prove that you didn’t do whatever the gun says you did.”
Beaver thought it over. It made sense.
“Do you want to spend your time looking at it, or do you want something to fire from it?”
“It don’t come with bullets?”
“I never transport weapons and ammunition together.”
“You don’t want to piss me about or—”
“Put your fucking mouth to sleep, boy.” The man pointed a finger right in Beaver’s face. “Remember this; I’m doing you a favour, I don’t normally deal with street shit like you. So mind your tongue before I pull it out through your fucking nose. Clear?”
Beaver stopped chewing, “Where’s the clip?”
The man in the black leather jacket and dark glasses walked away from Beaver, heading for the door. “It’s in a brown paper bag hidden in the grass by the left gate post.”
“Which gate post?” Beaver strode after him, but the man turned and stared. Beaver thought it would be a lot healthier to stay just where he was.
“At the entrance to the farm.”
“And what do I do if I need more ammunition? How did you know I’d only need one clip?” he shouted. A gloved hand pulled the creaking door closed behind it, and left Beaver alone thinking he’d just been rogered wholesale.
He smacked the clip home with the heel of his hand just like they did on TV, and then slipped the weapon into the front of his belt, paused, thought better of it and tucked it into his back pocket.
Beaver walked further into the harsh countryside, Jess’s instruction being to practice. He would fire half the clip and hope that would be enough. If nothing else, it would get him accustomed to the gun’s kick.
When Chris arrived at Nicky’s house, Gareth, the technician from the Fingerprint Development Laboratory, was waiting outside in his car, the engine running, heater on full and wipers intermittently flicking rainwater from the screen.
Chris recorded his time at the scene with the log-jockey, who told him that Shelby was already inside awaiting their arrival. Chris thanked him, then shook Gareth’s hand – a soft, wimpish shake, and exchanged the usual inter-departmental pleasantries. “Have you booked in?” he nodded towards the officer with the clipboard.
“Oh yes, done that,” Gareth said. “Are we suiting up?”
“No need. I think we have all the trace evidence we’re likely to get.”
“Okay. Which room are we starting in?”
Chris said, “This way. I’ll give you a hand with your kit.” Struggling with an umbilicus, something similar to a thin vacuum cleaner hose, two large aluminium boxes, a transformer and a further plastic box of goggles and black sheeting, they made it into the lounge and then stopped and listened to the shouting coming from upstairs. “Just follow the noise,” Chris said.
“Lenny, just write the bloody thing!” Shelby was screaming.
Chris looked at Gareth and saw the worried look on his face.
“It’s a simple report, for God’s sake. Yes. Yes! You know the headings, I left you a pro-forma.” Shelby sank into the monotonous tone of someone reciting a list. “What risks did the offender take entering the house or using an escape route? What physical or emotional aggression was required for her to become compliant? What? I don’t bloody know; think of one yourself for a change. Yes, one more heading: Planning. Is it possible he used reconnaissance, or even had a rehearsal of some kind? And what did he do to avoid detection?” There was a growl.
“He’s a pussycat, really,” joked Chris. “Come on, best not keep him waiting.”
They struggled up the stairs and into the bedroom. Shelby stood at the window, phone pressed awkwardly to his ear, fingers crawling through his thin hair. It was 11.35; results were slowly coming in, but not all of them were of the positive variety that Shelby wanted. The errant next-door neighbour had been located in Wales but could shed no light on any of their questions, more intent it seemed to carry on with his holiday. No results from house-to-house, zero from the taxi companies.
“Got that? Good. Yes. On my desk by 1600hrs because I have to have it on Chamberlain’s desk by 1800hrs. What? Never mind bloody squash!”
Shelby hit end, rammed the phone into his jacket pocket and turned to face Chris and Gareth. He let out a sigh. “Thanks for coming,” he said with no particular enthusiasm. He patted the phone through the pocket, “I hate these things. They always know where you are, they never leave you alone, and
ha
, Lenny Firth suddenly turned fucking stupid on me. One more IQ point and he’d be a glass of water.”
Chris laughed, Gareth quietly set up the equipment, plugged it into the mains and selected a filter for the Quasar.
“All set then?” Shelby stepped aside, rubbing his hands. Chris was about to answer when Shelby’s pocket rang. “Bear with me a minute.” He walked from the room and yelled into the mouthpiece, “Yes!”
The machine hummed as Chris flicked on the light switch, taped a black plastic bag over the window to minimise ambient light, and waited for Shelby to finish his ranting.
“Is he always like this?” Gareth whispered.
“Is that why you looked so worried when I pulled up outside?”
“It showed?”
“He is when things don’t go his way. And things are not going his way. Not these days, anyway.”
Shelby came back into the room, his face long and full of disappointment. “Better find me some fingerprints, lad. Those
you
found, Chris, aren’t much to go on, unfortunately.”
“You are taking the piss, I hope!”
“Six of the nine you sent in were hers, one belonged to her brother, one was crap – Barry from the Fingerprint Bureau’s words, not mine – and the other is unidentified.”
“Has he fed it through the AFR system?”
“Yup, no joy.”
“The NAFIS computer?”
“Give him time, man.”
Chris muttered something about incompetence, and tutted to Shelby.
“Don’t worry, I’ve asked him to do a manual search and then to check all attending officers. I’ve arranged for someone to go to the bank and get elims from that Joanne woman. I suppose he’s doing the best he can, though it can’t come quick enough for me.”
“Me neither,” echoed Chris. “Where’s the photographer? He was supposed to meet us here at 11.45.”
“Anyway, get on with it lad, let’s see if we can’t find a few for him to look at when he finally arrives.”
Much to Shelby’s disgust, Gareth placed a warning sign outside the room, closed the door and commenced the safety briefing required when using this apparatus. “This is a 400 nanometre-wavelength filter we’re using, so we need…see here on the card? We need a filter of 380 or more. Let’s check our goggles for the—”
“Oh, get on with it, man!”
Gareth put his goggles down and stared at Shelby.
“What’re you waiting for, lad, get—”
“Listen, you dragged me out here to do you a favour, Inspector Shelby, and I’m doing you that favour.”
Shelby’s jaw went slack.
“This safety chat I’m giving is not only obligatory under Health and Safety, but I happen to think it’s a good idea; I find being able to see quite useful. If I’ve read the card incorrectly or given you the wrong goggles – who’s blind and who’s to blame?”
“Okay, okay, now get on with it.”
“Sir,” Gareth said, “check your goggles for the correct frequency or I’ll have to insist you leave the room while I carry out the examination.”
He snatched the goggles and snapped, “What’s the frequency?”
Gareth responded, “Thank you, sir. 380 nanometre.”
Shelby shuffled his feet and pulled the goggles on, “Right, find me some marks.”
Gareth put his goggles on and bid Chris do the same.
The room was in near darkness, only cracks and chinks of light slithered in through minute gaps around Chris’s makeshift blackout curtain, and more poured in through gaps around the door. It was like staring up at a midnight sky on a clear winter’s night.
The torch, fed by the umbilicus from the main machine, spewed a cone of yellowish light at the walls. The cone was six inches across, but was magnificently bright; even with the goggles sealed onto their sweating faces the glare was atrocious. When the light illuminated an area of contamination, its reflected hue was bluish green.
For several minutes, Gareth played the light between waist and shoulder height across two or more yards of wall before anything substantial showed itself. “Keep your goggles on,” he crossed to the main machine and selected another filter of a different frequency. “I’m placing a 420 filter into the machine,” he robotically recited, “and the 380 goggles are still safe.” He returned to the mark on the wall, trained the cone onto it and four fingerprints from a small left hand shone back at the group, almost dazzling them.
Chris placed an adhesive arrow near the marks and that too, like the white shirts of nightclub dancers under fluorescent lights, gleamed a brilliant white.
They continued all along one wall, finding and arrowing marks until Chris stood, gripped the small of his back and said, “Right Graham, that’s it for me. I’m off to the mortuary now; see if the PolyLight has shown up.”
“Wouldn’t fucking surprise me if it hadn’t.”
Gareth turned off the machine and then hurriedly gathered the goggles back into the plastic box.
Chris’s forehead was wet through and an odour of rubber and moisture filled his nostrils. Again, the room appeared brighter, and the marks, which were so evident under the high intensity light, returned to complete invisibility again.
