A Long Time Dead Page 12

Chris stared. “Right.”

  Roger stirred the drinks some more, cheeks throbbing as he ground his teeth. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “For not capitalising on a... on a lapse of duty.”

  * * *

  Roger sat at his desk, thumbs again in his waistcoat pockets, trying to gauge Chris’s mood. It was foul and had been from the moment Roger came into the office. But he didn’t know why it was foul. Surely, it had nothing to do with Weston; that was gone now, passed an hour ago. There was something else. “You okay?” Chris’s mood was an important factor when it came to asking for time off.

  “No.”

  “What? Weston?”

  “He’s a prat. I ignore him.”

  “Wish I could.” Roger contemplated leaving the subject and just asking for the favour he had in mind. But he couldn’t. “You know, if I can...” he took a breath and just said it. “Do you want me to help you?”

  Chris turned in his seat, dragged his wrist beneath his nose and eyed Roger with a curiosity reserved for intellectual dunces. “Beg your paradox.”

  “I knew I’d offend you. Forget it, I didn’t mean—”

  “You really want to help me?”

  “What’s bothering you? You’re twitchy as a hare these days; seem to be on your guard all the time.”

  “My corns hurt.”

  “Fine.” Roger turned away.

  Chris straightened in his chair, cleared his throat and then swept his greying hair down the side of his head the way a teddy boy would. “Actually, I could use your help.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m struggling, if you must know. My car tax is due, I’ve got a mound of fucking bills at home... I’m stuck, Roger. Till payday, I mean; I’ll be hunky dory after pay day.” He smiled warmly, and Roger could feel the heat of embarrassment from ten yards away, could see the squirm. “What is it they say? Why is there so much month left at the end of the money?” He laughed as though it was nothing.

  But Roger could see it was more than nothing.

  And this presented Roger with another problem: how to help a friend out with a loan when he would be sleeping next to smelly old Hobnail tonight, watching every penny for when the maintenance payment was due. “How much do you need?”

  “I don’t like to ask—”

  Roger waved the protest aside. “Don’t worry about it; I have a favour to ask in return.”

  “I’m already into you for twenty quid.”

  “You’re into me for forty quid, Chris, but don’t worry about it. How much?”

  “Three hundred.”

  Roger closed his eyes. How the hell was he going to explain that to Yvonne? She really would think he was seeing a prostitute then.

  “I know it’s a lot,” his voice was quiet, shame brought the volume right down, and his eyes came down with it. “I wouldn’t ask, only I’m living like a tramp as it is just now.”

  “I’ll help if I can; might not be three hundred though.”

  “Anything...” And then Chris looked up, pointed at Roger. “Shit, speaking of tramps, that pet of yours, Hobnail, pulled me again this morning—”

  “I told him not to bother—”

  “He stopped me to pass on a message to you.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s he say?”

  “He needs to speak to you urgently,” Chris said, “wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”

  “Where?”

  “He didn’t say. I thought he’d wait for you like he always does.”

  “When was this?”

  “When I came in to work, about 7.30 this morning. He said he’d been trying to get hold of you all week.”

  Roger wore a pensive look; it went well with his troubled heart and his solemn thoughts. Apart from Yvonne, all he could think of was Hobnail. Maybe he was ill and needed someone to get him to the hospital; it would explain why he hadn’t been there when Roger came into work.

  Chris asked, “Why do they call him Hobnail?”

  “He wore hobnail boots for twenty years as a miner. Even wore them out of work, down the club, shopping, out playing football, everywhere. Now he wears old trainers, has done for years, but the name stuck.” He resumed his thoughts.

  “Go on,” Chris said, “you’ve got twenty minutes. Go see if you can find him.”

  * * *

  There was the slightest chink of sun fighting through the tarmac-coloured sky in Wakefield centre: Hobnail’s stomping ground. Eventually the cloud won and the sun retreated. The multi-layered greyness matched Roger’s mood as he stretched his long legs through the busy streets, avoiding the crowded footpaths and walking on the gritted roads, his long raincoat floating out behind him like Dracula’s cape, the tuft of black hair bouncing on his head with each elongated stride.

  This was Roger’s patch too; this was his city and he knew it very well. Wakefield was compact, and at a brisk pace, one could walk north to south through its very centre in just fourteen minutes, twelve minutes east to west.

  He checked the municipal bins around the back of The Ridings shopping centre and those behind the Burger King in the precinct, and the small brick alcove in the bank of air-conditioning units behind Boots where the homeless gathered.

  With watering eyes, he walked the periphery of the Bull Ring. He walked slowly past people huddled on benches, while above them on the ornate lampposts, posters advertising Wakefield’s second Rhubarb Festival flapped in the wind like trapped birds. He peered into the Black Rock pub, named as a tribute to Wakefield’s mining past, and The Fleece, and finally The Joker, on his way back into the office.

  Hobnail was missing.

  * * *

  Back in the office, still desperate to know what had become of Hobnail but unable to do much about it, Roger got on with the business of asking for a favour. “I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask for a couple of hours off this afternoon, is it Chris?” He bowed with his hands together in prayer.

  “You’ve got more neck than a bloody giraffe. Go on, enlighten me, what’s it for?”

  “It’s another of Yvonne’s appointments. I said—”

  “Yeah, of course you can.” Chris’s face straightened, “Just one thing puzzles me, why didn’t you tell Weston that Yvonne was poorly and that you had to leave early? Maybe he would have been more lenient on you.”

  Roger said, “I couldn’t use her illness as an excuse or an alibi; I’d rather take the shafting, I think.”

  “Very noble.”

  — Three —

  At last, the SOCO office was empty. This was good.

  He worked quickly. He found a roll of rubber lifting tape in the store cupboard they kept by the door. He snatched a length. It made a sound like ripping paper. He took the lifting tape to the doorframe, glanced down at the covering of black powder and searched for the fingertips, the ones that were easy to spot.

  There they were. The tiny scars along all four fingers. He smiled and stuck the free end of the lifting tape to the doorframe and smoothed it across the prints.

  He crouched, peered and then smiled. All was good. Gently, he peeled away the tape and the black ridge detail parted from the doorframe. He lifted the tape up to the light, and briefly inspected the fingerprints. They looked fine to him. Once he’d mounted the lift onto an acetate sheet, he slid it into his back pocket.

  Next, he walked over to Roger’s desk, inserted a house key past a crusty old Mars bar, and into Roger’s jacket pocket. Then he forced them through the lining, ripping the fabric inside.

  The scene was set. Now all he had to do was wait. Wait and forget the details.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “XW to 2894, receiving?”

  Micky wound down the window of his patrol car, flicked his cigarette into a large puddle, and put aside thoughts of a full breakfast in a bread cake. “2894, go ahead.”

  “2894, just received a report of a misper who hasn’t shown in at work today. Are you available to check it out, please
?”

  Micky’s mouth fell open. “XW from 2894, isn’t this taking the nanny-state thing a bit too far?”

  “2894, 10-20 that, but there is reason for concern.” There was a distinct edge to the operator’s voice. “A colleague of hers noted her absence and is at the misper’s address now. There’s no sign of life there and the misper is not known as a prankster. Are you in a position to check this out? Over.”

  “I’m en-route to take a statement. Is no one else free? Over.”

  “Negative. You’re it.”

  I’m it, I’m it. I’m always frigging ‘it’. Micky sighed into the mike. “10-20, pass details.”

  * * *

  Micky drew up to the house on Potter Lane and noticed a Rover parked on the drive, a lone woman at the wheel. She got out and was approaching before Micky had even turned the engine off. “XW from 2894, 10-6, over.”

  “2894, 10-6, 10-20.”

  Reluctantly, he climbed from his warm patrol car and sauntered towards the ashen-faced young woman. He forced himself to smile, despite the rumbling from his stomach.

  The woman, dressed in a dark suit, introduced herself as Joanne Philips from The Imperial Bank on Westgate. She said that Nicky was rarely late to work, “And if ever she was, she would always ring in. We all went into town last night for a knees-up; it was the Assistant Manager’s birthday—”

  “Miss Philips,” Micky interrupted, irritated by the tale already and still eager to visit his favourite greasy spoon, “are you sure that she didn’t stay at someone else’s house last night and perhaps felt too hung over—”

  “No!” Miss Philips shouted. “Sorry,” she said.

  Micky nodded.

  “She left earlier than the rest of us, she’s not a big drinker.” She followed Micky round to the front of the semi where, unusually, the kitchen was located. “I mean she was tipsy, maybe even a little drunk, but she wasn’t slaughtered or anything like that.”

  Micky didn’t appreciate her choice of words. The curtains were open. “What time did she go out last night?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Roughly.”

  “Sometime before seven, I don’t really know.”

  “That helps,” Micky said sarcastically. He shielded the kitchen window with a hand but could see nothing of note.

  “We all met at Yates’s around seven, but I don’t know what time she left home; I mean, she could have gone for a drink before...” Miss Philips followed him around to the side of the house. “She’s a good kid, and well, all I’m saying is that this is so out of character.”

  Micky grunted and peered through the letterbox, the leather kit on his utility belt creaking as he bent. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, certainly no signs of disturbance. He could smell nothing odd either. “Well, I’ll file a Missing Person’s report,” he straightened up, “but I don’t see that there’s a whole lot more we can do.”

  “How about looking round the back, there might be a broken window or something.”

  Without a word, but cursing inside his head, Micky unlatched the wooden gate between the house and the concrete garage, and headed a few steps into the back garden. Surrounding the knee-high weeds and scruffy, yellowing grass was an old fence, broken and orange with fungi. “No,” he said, “there’s no sign of disturbance here either; look, no tracks across the... lawn. The curtains are all drawn tight upstairs.” Before she could respond, he was heading back around the front and hopefully back to the comfort of his patrol car.

  She scurried after him and then overtook him, held onto his arm and brought him to a halt. “But—”

  “There are no signs of disturbance anywhere,” he said, too firmly, “and you have to admit, she’s a young girl out on the town last night and, well, she could have stayed at someone’s house and maybe she feels a little too tired to come in, or maybe,” he winked, “she’s still enjoying herself.”

  Miss Philips erupted. “I beg your fucking pardon!”

  Micky stepped back, hands outstretched, “Look, I—”

  “She’s a good kid and I’m concerned for her safety, even if you’re not. And I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as your sergeant would like you to take it.”

  “You want me to break the door in, don’t you?”

  “How perceptive.”

  Ouch, thought Micky. Again, he bent to the letterbox and shouted, “Hello, in there. This is the police, would you please respond?” Nothing. There was nothing but dead silence. He looked up at Miss Philips. “Really, breaking down her door is a bit drastic when she might show up at any time.”

  Miss Philips’s voice grew louder, “Would you please be a hero for once in your life and break down the door for me?”

  “Hey,” Micky danced backward, “I can’t just go around kicking in people’s doors, despite what you might see on TV—”

  “Listen, I’ll accept responsibility for the damage, I promise. I’ll pay for it all.”

  Micky admired her. “This goes against all the rules, Miss Philips.”

  “I know,” she whispered, “but I stand by my promise.”

  “Okay,” he stood back, “here goes.” He aimed his boot at the upright below the mortise lock, and kicked. Two more blows and the door crashed in; shards of white-painted doorframe scattered around the tiny hallway, but the glass remained intact.

  Miss Philips beat him to the entrance and was in the hall before he grabbed her gently by the arm. “Now listen,” he said, “I’ve done you a favour, you do me one, eh? Let me have a look round first, and I’ll come and get you. I promise too.” She reluctantly agreed and Micky left her on the doorstep. He didn’t bother checking the kitchen; it was small and appeared in order from outside, and anyway he knew Miss Philips would crane her neck while he searched the rest of the house. “Oh, and don’t touch anything,” he called back.

  When he entered, a wave of heat prickled his face.

  The daytime noises drifted away as he carefully walked through into the lounge, eyes flicking left and right, and even behind the door, glancing at the ceiling where the centre light still shone. He touched the long low radiator against the back wall and got burned fingers for his trouble. “Bastard,” he said, shaking his hand. “Why put the fucking heating on so high,” he whispered. “Is she fucking anaemic or something?” He felt clammy under the arms, and shuddered as rolling sweat tickled down his back.

  Satisfied that the lounge was all clear, he took to the stairs, noticing that the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was on too. The drawn curtains over the large landing window were thick, and despite the light bulb, it was like twilight in here.

  He checked the bathroom, then the smaller of the two bedrooms. All was in order. Slowly now, he walked across the landing towards the master bedroom. It was even hotter up here and tiny beads of sweat congregated beneath Micky’s wide eyes. The floorboards creaked.

  “Can I come up, yet?”

  Micky jumped, “Fuck!” he whispered. “Not yet, Miss Philips,” he called back, maintaining a friendly tone.

  He listened at the closed door of the master bedroom. Deathly silence greeted him. Micky turned the handle.

  * * *

  She decided to go up anyway.

  Her way lit by a naked bulb dangling from a flex high above her head, she mounted the stairs. And as she neared the top, the heat became almost intolerable; her head prickled and her throat glistened. Everything was quiet. Eerie.

  Joanne looked left and saw the officer disappear into the darkness of Nicky’s room, and silently followed. There was a slit of daylight between the drawn curtains, and it shone directly onto the bed beneath it. She could pick out individual shapes among Nicky’s bedroom furniture, the wardrobe, chest of drawers and chair, and only a moment passed before she saw the darkness on the bed surrounding a small naked body.

  Her world spun into a heat haze and she fell backwards onto the threadbare landing carpet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  — One �
��

  It was Wednesday 12.30; Chris lowered his head and took a large bite from his burger. He chewed and swallowed hurriedly as the phone rang. Wiping a hand across his shining lips, he picked it up. Meat juice trickled down his chin and landed with a splat in the centre pages of his Racing Post.

  “Log number? Right, I’ll print it off and we’ll head out. Oh, who’s SIO? Right, right. Well who’s deputy SIO, then? Yep, okay. I’ll be taking Paul with me. Okay.” Chris replaced the receiver and said, “Better chew and drink fast, Paul. That’s your last meal for a while.” More juice dripped onto his cardigan.

  Before Chris could satisfy Paul’s curiosity, Roger strode into the office and declared there had been another murder. “They’re wondering if it’s connected with the one on Turner Avenue.”

  “Why’s that?” Paul stammered.

  “Both young females—”

  “No comparison,” Chris blurted out. He swigged tea. “Look where they happened, Roger: Turner Avenue and Potter Lane. It’s like comparing Beirut with Florida.”

  “Potter Lane’s near the Barnstones Estate, Chris, and that’s like the Turners in places. Rough as a bear’s arse. And they both happened indoors; both women lived alone. They’re seriously considering them being the start of a serial.”

  “Anyway, we’ll soon see. Won’t we, Paul?” Chris wiped his hands down his trousers.

  “Yeah,” was all Paul could say.

  “You’re not concerned about contamination?”

  He screwed the burger wrapper up, dragged a sleeve through the grease on his chin. “I think we’re safe on that score. But thank you. Anyway, it’s on my patch and I’m going.”

  “It’s your call,” Roger said. “You still okay with me having a couple of hours off?”

  “Go for it. The job would be easier with you and Paul, but I think we’ll cope. You go and look after your lady, and give her my best, won’t you?”

  “Course I will, and thanks, I appreciate it.”

  * * *

  It was raining again when Chris climbed from the MIV. He instructed Paul to set up the camera equipment, and sought the deputy SIO. “And don’t forget to sterilise the tripod’s feet,” he called over his shoulder. “And then document the fact.”