A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (34 page)

The collective glow from the rough circle of garden lamps barely grazed the house, but it was enough for him to see the way in. The bathroom window was ajar. It would mean climbing up a drainpipe, and negotiating a two or three-yard shimmy along a sloping tiled roof that was probably growing its own moss carpet, but it was his only chance.

Blowing into his hands, he scampered across a stretch of spongy grass, shadows dancing around his feet.

Paul approached Bishopgarth, a six-acre West Yorkshire police site that once housed the Bishop of Wakefield and his staff over a century before. The old Bishop’s Palace was a CID training block now. The footwear and fingerprints bureaux, and the Fingerprint Development Laboratory, were secreted in a recent addition to the complex on a lower level than the rest of the buildings; it looked like a fugitive from an industrial estate.

Out of breath, Paul descended the stairs and jogged along a corridor, rushing towards its end where a sign stuck onto the double doors proclaimed ‘The Fingerprint Bureau’. Smirking to himself, he opened the door marked ‘The Finger’, and stepped into a large office he hadn’t seen since his training days.

Even though night had fallen, it was bright in here; reflective windows stretching down one side of the office bounced light from diffused fluorescent tubes overhead. There were at least thirty desks, and at most of them sat the fingerprint examiners, hunched over their work areas, quietly doing their jobs while immersed in music from a radio or cassette player. Above the desks were divisional identifiers hanging from the ceiling: AA, AC, BA, BB, CA, CB, and the like. No one sat at the desk below Paul’s divisional identifier, DA.

Across the back wall was the police file, a huge metal cabinet with locked roller shutter doors. It contained all the fingerprints of serving police officers and civilian staff, over six thousand employees, and it was there to aid elimination from inadvertent contamination at crime scenes. Paul knew that his fingerprints had been picked out of there for comparison twice since he became operational. Once he lifted his own marks at a burglary, and again at a rape.

“They used to send out fingerprint brushes sprayed gold and mounted on a plinth if you lifted your own marks.”

Paul turned. It was Barry Goodwyn struggling through the door with a tray of hot drinks. “Here, let me help.”

Barry put the tray on a table and shouted, “Tea up!” and then to Paul he said, “Back in the old days, when we had time for a bit of fun,
you’d
have received a couple of golden brushes by now, young Mr Bryant.”

Paul blushed. “Barry,” he said, moving to one side. “I could really use your help if you can spare half an hour.”

“What’s up?”

Paul followed him to the desk below ‘DA’ and pulled up a spare chair.
Radio 2
played to the furry animals paper-clipped around the back of Barry’s workstation.

“What’s it to do with?”

Paul opened his CID6 book.

The word ‘Murder’ stood out, and Barry read the address. “Aw, not more Bridgestock stuff. I’ve just got back from telling Inspector Shelby about the Bridgestock marks.”

“What about them?”

“Hasn’t he seen you?”

“No. Why would he?”

“I think I’ll let him explain it.”

“Now I’m seriously worried.”

“Okay,” Barry said, “but if he asks how you know, I didn’t tell you.”

“Fine. Shoot.”

“One of the marks that you submitted has a speck of blue paint sandwiched between the lift and the acetate.”

“Shit,” Paul whispered.

“He’d like a word, I think.”

“I bet he would,” his thoughts steered away to Shelby, an anger management candidate if ever there was one.

“Anyway, what you got there?” Barry asked.

They can only sack you once, he thought, handing over the envelope. “Marks from the kitchen area, this time; a mug actually.”

“How come you went back? I thought they’d about wrapped that scene up and put it to bed.”

“Just tying up loose ends, I guess,” he shrugged.

“Let’s have a look then.” Barry pulled out the fingerprint lifts and asked, “Why haven’t they been photographed?”

“Ah, yes. They’re a rush job.”

“Chris behind all this, is he?”

“Well, you know—”

“Supervisors are the worst offenders of all.”

“They are?”

“They can’t abide others breaking the rules, but when it suits them, they’re all for it, and they always get someone else to do the dirty work for them. Do as I say, not as I do; a favourite saying among that lot, I’m afraid.”

“So you always have them photo’d first.”

“Supposed to. But if they’re a special rush job, we can usually oblige.” Barry sipped his tea and then pulled his magnifying glass over a small easel mounted on top of his desk, raked back at such an angle as to provide comfort and prevent casting his own shadow across his work. “Let’s see them.”

Roger scurried towards the drainpipe and gripped the cold steel with numb hands. He climbed, feet scrabbling for purchase, and eventually was high enough to haul himself up onto the slick roof using the gutter. Cautiously, he shuffled along to the open transom. It was a simple reach away. He paused there, looked into the garden below, and listened. Traffic drone from the front of the house permeated around to the back.

Roger gripped the window frame and heaved himself up. Only then did the question occur to him: Is there anyone still inside? Will someone see me? But the most important question came last: how the fuck do I get back out without breaking my neck?

That’s when he fell headfirst into Weston’s bathroom. The back of his legs clattered against the open window, and his shins grated against the frame. He landed in a heap on the tiled floor, and the window clattered loud enough, Roger thought, to flush out anyone still left inside the house. Seething at the pain in his shins, and hands planted flat against a warm radiator, he waited for the footsteps. None came.

At the doorway, he peered across the landing. An orange light bleeding through a window glistened on a chandelier high above him. Leaning out, he saw the landing disappear into the shadows thirty feet away; there were no PIRs.

Prowling along the landing, he could see three doors to his right, three to the left. The first on the left was a walk-in airing cupboard, the second a guest’s bedroom, and the third was a games room, furnished with a full-sized snooker table, dartboard and its own bar. Nothing in any room to incriminate Weston. “The wealth of an Inspector,” Roger whispered. Dejectedly, he crossed the landing, opened the first door into a palatial bedroom with a carved four-poster and lace-edged canopy. This room was at the front of the house, and the same orange hue that lit up the landing, shone through two large windows onto an army of Lladro and Royal Doulton figurines.

Barbara Taylor Bradford novels splashed the oak bedside tables, but with nothing of interest lying in the drawers beneath them. Where does Weston sleep? he wondered.

“Well?”

“Well what, woman?”

“How do you feel, Colin?” Geraldine Weston fidgeted with her handbag.

“How the bloody hell do you think I feel?” He raised his voice, “I’ve been slammed around the fuck—” he saw DC Clements observe him through the door’s window. He waved her away, lowered his voice. “I’m leaving,” he said. “Now.”

The uniformed officer accompanying Clements looked in too.

“But you can’t,” Geraldine said, “you’ve suffered a concussion.”

“And every minute I spend in this god-forsaken shit hole is making me suffer even more!”

“But—”

“Oh stop your damned whining, woman, and get out the bleeding way.”

Geraldine stepped aside as Weston threw back the covers and staggered to his closet. He took out his uniform trousers and pulled them on.

“Why must you go home anyway? What’s the urgency?”

“Don’t question my decisions,” he snatched his shirt from a hanger. “I’m expecting a phone call.”

“But your health—”

“Shit.” Drips of blood across the collar, and more smeared down the back. “You didn’t bring me any clothes, did you?”

“They said you were staying overnight.”

“Come on, we’re leaving.” Weston dressed and barged through the door, glaring at Clements as she approached him. “And you stay the hell away from me, as well.” He gave the same look to the uniformed officer. Geraldine slipped out behind him, her coat over her arm, car keys clutched in her hand.

“Inspector Weston,” Clements began, “You can’t leave. You’re—”

“Pissed off? Damned right I am. Now go away, little girl.”

“Sir,” said the officer, “we’re under instruction—”

“Fuck your instructions, boy. I am free to go whenever I please.”

Weston marched up the corridor, past the nurses’ station, and Geraldine scurried along behind, glancing back.

“Who was he calling
boy
?” the officer said.

Clements took a deep breath and rang Shelby.

Roger tiptoed along the landing and entered the next bedroom. Old cigar smoke poked him in the eyes. No Lladro in here; only a couple of photos showing Weston with considerably darker hair, his nose bloody, hand curled into the red knot of a fist held aloft in victory. Roger looked away from the picture and swallowed.

A double bed with the covers awry sat between the windows. Underwear was piled on top of a bureau, and a wicker basket by its side dripped clothes onto the floor. In this room, there were no bedside cabinets. Weston used the windowsills to hold overflowing ashtrays, and the net curtains were smeared with burns. A copy of
Bravo Two Zero
and a stack of girlie magazines lay on the floor among a scattering of empty cigar boxes.

After finding nothing of interest in the first of Weston’s wall of wardrobes, Roger opened the second, and that’s where he found the shoes.

“Are you finished yet?” Micky asked.

Helen didn’t even raise her head, just continued writing and said, “I have paperwork to do. And interruptions don’t help. I’ve already had Shelby in here beating Jon up, and then Paul nattering for directions to the bureau or something; the last thing I need is—”

“Can’t it wait? I’m off duty in half an hour; I thought maybe we could…”

She put down her pen, slid her hair back behind her ears and folded her arms.

Micky fidgeted. “I know I’ve been a bit distant lately.”

“Distant? I need a telescope to see you these days.”

“Will this make up for it?” He took out a small navy blue box. Helen looked hopefully at his smile before news from his radio spoiled their privacy.

“XW to Delta Alpha Three.”

Micky’s eyes rolled. He was one half of the double-crewed unit known as Delta Alpha Three. “I don’t believe this,” he said, keying his mike. “2894 receiving.”

“2894, can you and your partner expedite to one-zero-three Sandal Road?”

“From 2894, yeah, I think you must have my duties mixed up,” he said, “I’m due off soon, over.”

“2894, 10-20 your last; instructions passed from DI Shelby though, we have no other units to attend, over.”

“10-20 that. Pass details again please.” He shook his head at Helen.

“Yes, 2894, address is one-zero-three Sandal Road, Sandal. You are to place Inspector Weston into protective custody; he’s due there shortly after discharging himself from Pinderfields, over.”

Micky gasped. “XW, er, 10-7 please.”

“2894, you heard me right, no need to repeat, over.”

“I thought that address was already under guard, over.”

“It is, 2894, and it has to stay guarded. Chief Inspector Regan is authorising Inspector Weston’s arrest for his own protection.”

“XW from 2894, 10-20, en route.”

“XW further,” said the operator. “A room on the secure ward at Pinderfields has been made available. And 2894, you’re to remain on his door until we receive further instructions.”

“Think I’ll save the paperwork for tomorrow.” Helen looked at the box. “Shall we save that for later too?” at last she smiled at him.

Micky nodded, put the box away, and was about to lean forward and collect a kiss, when he suddenly thought of something. “Shit!” he bolted for the door, stopped and turned, “Helen, ring my phone, tell him to get away from Weston’s house.”

“What? Tell who?”

Micky whispered, arms flapping, “Roger. He borrowed my phone. He went to Weston’s house. He might still be there.”

“Micky, I don’t think that’s very funny. Roger’s in serious—”

“It’s true!”

She laughed, “I know he’s dumb enough to break out of a cell, but... You
knew
about Roger and said nothing? Micky, I didn’t think
you
could be that dumb.”

“Do it now before Weston finds him there. He’ll kill him.”

Quickly, he grabbed one from each pair and hurried to the window. “Fuck,” he whispered, “no
Hush Puppies
.” Roger sighed. They’re downstairs, he thought. Have to be; it’s where I’d take my shoes off. He put them back, closed the doors and exited.

The last door on the landing was to neither a closet nor a bedroom, but to another staircase. The steps wound tightly up to an attic room, the same room he saw on one of his recces, he guessed, where the light was on at some ridiculous hour. A tingle ran up Roger’s back and he gripped the banister.

The higher he climbed, the more it smelled of stale smoke. He emerged into an attic so black he could have been wearing a blindfold, and swept his arms before him until he collided with the cold smooth surface of a leather office chair. Nearby was a desk.

Micky’s mobile phone rang. “Shit!” Panicking, he tore at it and whispered, “Hello?”

“Roger, Roger, it’s me, Helen.”

“Helen? What—”

“Get out of there!”

“What?”

“If you’re in Weston’s house, get out now; he’s on his way home.”

Goose pimples flashed across his body. All he could think of was Weston exploding into the room and ripping his heart out.