No Time to Die_a thrilling CSI mystery Page 6

  But the painful truth was that most of the time he couldn’t even recall their faces anymore. That was something he’d never admit to anyone because it sounded as though he didn’t give a shit about them; it sounded as though he never really cared for them. And that was a lie. He loved them.

  But he didn’t go to the graveyard, because today, he decided he was a grown up. What was the point in looking at a piece of sinking earth and spilling tears into it? Because that’s what would happen – always did. It really wouldn’t help. It would only have upset him, so he’d driven home. Via the off-licence.

  Even before he’d unlocked the front door to the cottage, he could hear the damned phone ringing. He closed the door and locked it as the first drops of rain landed and thudded through into the house just as the phone rang off and the machine picked up.

  He stood still and listened, watching the red digital display tell him he had three missed calls already. No one ever rang Eddie. He wasn’t Mr Popular, and that suited him just fine.

  But today, apparently, he was Mr Popular.

  ‘Eddie,’ said the phone, ‘it’s Chris from work,’ Eddie closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Mate, can you give me a ring. Pretty urgent. Erm, yeah. Cheers.’

  Eddie stood the bottle of Metaxa on the sideboard and took hold of the phone and its base in one hand, and then he walked to the kitchen. Even when the line between the phone and the wall socket tightened, he kept on walking until the plug twanged out of the wall and hit him in the back. Then he opened the bin and threw the whole lot inside.

  ‘Hello, Chris,’ Eddie mocked as he walked back into the lounge. ‘No, I can’t ring you. Piss off.’

  This was something new for Eddie. He had never been out of work, except for a spell of a few months three years ago, and even then, it had been sick leave, so not strictly out of work. And this didn’t feel like a week of leave either; it felt different, very strange as though he was his own man, could do anything he wanted and wasn’t beholden to anyone, cut free. Because even if you have a week off, or two weeks, or even a month, you know you’re going back to it; and you know they’ve still got you by the balls.

  Freedom – every man’s dream. That was a feeling, he guessed, you only ever got once you’d retired and your body was too knackered to take advantage of the fact. Or, he supposed, raising eyebrows as he peeled off his uniform in the bedroom, if you were a lazy idle tosser and had never worked a day in your life. Then it might feel like this.

  In his boxer shorts, Eddie went to the kitchen and took out a roll of bin bags from beneath the sink and filled the kettle while he was there. He returned to the bedroom, stripped the belt out of his trousers and threw loose change into the shoe box by the bed.

  But no, even that would feel different because you wouldn’t have had all the years of hard graft to give you the comparison. ‘See,’ Eddie said, ‘that’s what I like about you; deep thinking already, mate.’ He collected together all the bits of uniform the police had seen fit to give him over the years, including the steel toe-capped boots that wouldn’t look out of place on a storm-trooper, and stuffed them all into the bin bag.

  ‘Gonna have me a fire tomorrow.’ He walked through to the kitchen, found a mug that wasn’t too grubby, rinsed it and shook a little coffee out into it. ‘I could make it into a ceremony.’ He poured the water, dribbled some milk. ‘I could light some candles.’ He opened the drawer, searching for a teaspoon, and wasn’t surprised to find none. He took out a knife and stirred the coffee with the blade. It went everywhere, splashing across the worktop, but it didn’t dampen his spirits. He just mopped up the spilt coffee with the nearest tea-towel. ‘I could invite a few close friends around.’ He grinned as he walked into the bathroom and set the taps running, added bubbles and then added more bubbles. ‘So, that’ll be me and…me, then.’ He laughed.

  Or perhaps you’d feel like this if you were stinking rich, say a lottery winner, and had just walked from your mundane job stacking shelves at Sainsbury’s. How great would you feel then, he wondered. As good as this feels now? Probably a whole lot better, actually. Eddie sank into the bath, letting its heat cure his body and letting the bubbles run up the crack of his arse. He giggled.

  It would feel like that, he supposed, like getting the biggest and best “Get Out of Jail Free” card in the world, if he wasn’t almost broke.

  ‘Maybe not the best time to walk away,’ he conceded. From now on, though, there never would be a best time. He reckoned he had about 800 quid in the bank. Possibly. It had been a while since he’d checked; he made a mental note to have a look tomorrow, because, as he looked around at the bathroom, he knew he was leaving. There was nothing to stay here for, anyway.

  After Jilly, he’d sold their house and bought this cottage, aiming to be in the countryside but within an easy commute to work. And he’d more or less succeeded there – he was kind of in the countryside, but there was a busy road only 300 yards away, and when the wind was in the right direction, it was like living next to the M1. The commute had been quite good, though.

  Only now, he didn’t have a commute to do. Ah, that thought again, it made him smile, and he wondered how long it would take him to get used to the idea. Freedom.

  And that untangled him, made him take a big carefree breath. He could really aim for the countryside now, had a second chance to get it right. A second chance to get out of the clutches of this bastard city and live somewhere isolated; somewhere remote where you’d struggle to hear any man-made sound at all. The thought filled him with a tingling need. And he could do it; put this place on the market tomorrow and start looking for somewhere to grow old and senile in.

  No more early morning starts. No more late finishes, no more half nights or full nights to contend with. No more pissed-up complainants holding him responsible for the trouble they’d brought on themselves. And the thing that made him smile widest right now, as the water cooled, was the thought of no police bullshit: paperwork and politics. Bliss.

  There was a knock at his front door.

  Eddie blinked in astonishment. He closed his eyes and held his breath, teeth clenched tightly.

  The knock came again, and Eddie submersed himself. But he could still hear it, dulled but incessant. He surfaced, spat water and shouted, ‘Go away!’

  ‘Eddie,’ the muffled voice came back, ‘it’s me.’

  It’s me, he thought. Who the hell is “me”? It didn’t really matter who it was, Eddie was not in the mood for entertaining today; he was in a “this is the first day of the rest of my life, and I want to wallow in it by myself” kind of mood. ‘I don’t care who you are. Go away!’

  The door knocked again, only this time, it was more of a bang. And that didn’t improve Eddie’s temper at all. Growling, he climbed from the bath, threw a towel around his waist and headed for the door, water dripping from his chin and anger brewing inside.

  He opened the door. ‘What?’

  McCain stood there. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it’s raining.’

  ‘Better talk quick, then.’

  ‘Eddie. I’m getting wet.’

  ‘Frightened you’ll shrink?’

  ‘Please?’

  After a pause, Eddie threw the door open wide and stepped back. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone? I resigned.’

  ‘Thanks,’ McCain said as he brushed past Eddie into the lounge.

  Eddie closed the door, folded his goose pimpled arms and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘I won’t stay long–’

  ‘Correct. Now what do you want?’

  ‘About earlier…’

  Eddie stared.

  ‘I, er, I wanted to apologise about my behaviour at the scene. I was out of order.’

  Eddie stared.

  McCain looked away.

  ‘That it?’

  He shifted uncomfortably and then cleared his throat. ‘I wondered if you’d reconsider your resignation.’

  ‘Who wondered if I’d rec
onsider?’

  ‘I did.’

  Eddie stared again.

  McCain sighed. ‘Alright, Chris did. As well, I mean.’

  ‘Look, I resigned because you’re a prick, let’s get that out in the open before we go any further; no point pussyfooting around. And your personnel skills are non-existent.’ He paused there, wondering if McCain had the balls to throw that back at him. Evidently, he didn’t. ‘But it’s not just you. I resigned because no one gives a shit about the job anymore. Everyone is too busy ticking boxes to realise it’s more than collecting footwear evidence and searching for blood… All they want is their quota of jobs doing; they don’t care what we find at scenes anymore–’

  ‘That’s not us, mate, that’s the government–’

  ‘Exactly! And that’s why I quit.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Examining crime scenes isn’t about production-line shit; each one is different and needs individual attention. It isn’t about pushing us from one job to the next ’til the fucking list is clear, it’s about helping people.’

  Now it was McCain’s turn to stare; he had a dumbfounded look in his eyes. Eddie also detected a part of them that clearly said, “Yeah right, if you say so”.

  Eddie almost laughed but managed to haul it back just in time; it was no good having McCain think he’d suddenly gained a new friend, or rather, just a friend. ‘I realise I’m no cuddly bunny, but the job is there to be done correctly for the victim, not done quickly for the government – otherwise, what’s the point? And it never will be done properly and for the victim, so that’s why I quit, and that’s why I’m telling you to piss off. I’m not coming back.’

  ‘You sure about this?’

  Eddie nodded.

  ‘What shall I tell Chris?’

  Eddie gently eased McCain out of the front door and into the rain again. ‘Tell him whatever you want, mate. Goodbye.’ He closed the door, and then a moment later, opened it again. ‘McCain?’

  With something approaching majesty, McCain spun around, clearly hoping that Eddie had changed his mind. He wore an optimistic smile. ‘Yes, Eddie?’

  ‘Wait there!’ Eddie disappeared back inside, and McCain looked confused until the bin bag caught him on the side of the face.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Eddie smiled. ‘Must’ve been the boots.’ He closed the door. And only a few seconds passed again, just enough time for McCain to shove the bag into the boot of his car, before Eddie opened the door again. ‘McCain?’

  ‘Yes, Eddie?’

  ‘Don’t come back.’ He slammed the door.

  After a minute, he heard McCain drive away, and Eddie stood in the lounge, slowly drying but still cold now. The first thing he saw was the NY cap on the mantelpiece. It just stared at him, not expecting him to say or do anything, just stared. It was an altar; a thing of reverence. But mostly, it was a cap full of precious memories, and that was why Eddie kept it in such a prominent place, so he’d never forget.

  The second thing his eyes fell on was the bottle of Metaxa brandy.

  He could barely remember buying it. But he was glad he had; he was very glad, because he had some serious remembering to do, and maybe a little planning too.

  Eddie clutched the bottle and waltzed into the bathroom. He licked his lips and cracked the seal, throwing the lid on the floor, and then he poured the entire bottle down the toilet and flushed it.

  With pride, and yet with dampened eyes, Eddie put the empty bottle down and climbed back into the bath.

  11

  She parked at the end of the street.

  The Bitch lived in a cul-de-sac of sorts, a modern estate in a south Leeds village called Oulton. The estate had only one entrance road, so she knew he’d have to drive past her to get out. It was raining again; always seemed to these days, there was no respite from it, it was incessant, and it was frustrating. It always rained. And she was always in a bad mood these days too. But that had little to do with the weather, if truth be told. This had to do with him. And The Bitch, of course.

  The lights of approaching traffic were too bright, and they appeared to starburst on the smeared windscreen and that made it even more difficult to see. Of course, she could just turn around and drive to The Bitch’s house, see if his pickup truck was parked there. She knew it would be. But if that were the case, she thought, then why put yourself through this, why not just go back to work and forget all about it?

  Naff off!

  She knew where his pickup was, but it still needed confirming. She had to know because…

  Her heart beat faster, and she rolled the window down a couple of inches, trying to get some cool air into the van, trying to stay focused without having a damned heart attack at the thought of what she was doing. What she was doing? Okay, without having a heart attack knowing what he was doing. With The Bitch.

  The rain spattered her face through the open window. She squinted but didn’t wind it back up again.

  I don’t know if it’s even happening yet.

  Of course you do; you can live in denial if you want–

  Okay, okay! I don’t know–

  There it is! His pickup drove straight past her; the sound of its massive tyres ploughing through the standing water deafened her, the spray following like a cloud of red mist – the devil’s afterburner. She flicked the wipers on full to make sure it was actually his pickup and not one just like it. It’s a Dodge Ram, stupid; there’s about five in the whole sodding country.

  So, that’s it, then.

  She turned off the wipers, and the screen blurred, just a rectangle with streaks of white and red floating around inside it. She was stunned, quite literally. It was like being told you were about to die. Sorry, nothing we can do. You’ve got a week left to live.

  Stunned was a mild word. She was cloven in two.

  “You’ve got a week left to live” had a liberating quality to it, though; it was the flag of freedom waved aloft in bright summer sun; it was an end to the wondering, the speculation. It was the death of anticipation. It was the last sigh of a lifetime of sighs given by the last breath. Now it was real. She could feel her throat closing up and her nasal passages blocking, too, could feel the prickle behind her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you bastard dare cry!’

  You’ve got a week left to live also made her angry as hell. She’d known about it for months and had chosen to ignore it; had chosen the easy option, the Let’s see if it dies a natural death option, when she knew deep down it never would. Deep down, she knew it was springtime in their world; it was a world still full of anticipation, still brimming with raw desire and with lust. And she hated them for it.

  She started the van, turned on the wipers and cleared her throat. Then she grazed a sleeve across her eyes and turned around, heading for The Bitch.

  Within a minute, she was outside 28 Priory Road and didn’t even remember driving there. Her world was silent, as though it was holding its breath. She killed the lights and the wipers and stepped out of the van. She walked along the pavement and down the drive and stood at the front door with rainwater running off her hair and her nose and not even noticing. She stood there with her hands curled into fists and her cheeks throbbing, her chest pounding and hatred leaking from her.

  And then the sound of the rain came back, calming. Traffic noises re-emerged into her world as though someone had turned the volume back up; water trickled down her neck, her hands ached and were cold. She blinked, and a single sob burst out of her mouth.

  As she climbed slowly back into the van and turned around, the woman at the upstairs window of 28 Priory Road let the curtains fall back into place and picked up the phone.

  12

  Eddie watched the spider walk across the carpet. It would pause every now and then as though inspecting something. Eddie watched with interest as it turned and headed towards him. ‘Hello,’ he whispered. ‘What’s your name?’ The spider stopped walking, and Eddie wondered if it was watching him, wondering what he
was. ‘You look like a Winston to me.’ Winston was the first guest in Eddie’s cottage that he didn’t mind sharing air with.

  Eddie shook out the newspaper and slurped tea. He resumed his search for properties up in North Yorkshire, somewhere in the Dales, he thought; it would be idyllic, and best of all, it would be out of Leeds, away from all the scrotes and all the coppers and all the CSIs.

  Hmmm, he thought, that’s the best bit!

  It was after eight o’clock; the light in the lounge was growing dim, and despite sitting by the window, Eddie was struggling to read. He put down his cup, ready to go and turn on the light. And then he heard it, quite plainly among the background of silence he so adored. The crunching of stones beneath tyres. And then the very faint purr of an engine. This did not please Eddie. He folded the paper, sat still and waited.

  And there it was, the closing of a car door; ah, and another.

  Who the hell is this? His forehead creased, and his fists clenched. Can’t be travellers, he thought; they have diesel vans that make an awful clattering noise. Can’t be friends either, because I got rid of them all one way or another. Who wants to hang around a miserable bastard for long? No one.

  So, who is it, then?

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Eddie closed his eyes. He knew who it was.

  Well, they can go fuck themselves, he thought. I’m not in.

  He and Winston sat in encroaching darkness for a full five minutes as they banged on the door, as they sidled through the nettles around the back and tried that door, peering through the kitchen window, no doubt. Eddie tapped his fingers; this move couldn’t come soon enough.

  And then he heard voices, soft, muffled. And a car door slammed. Eddie smiled at his victory and stood. He knocked the half full mug of tea, and it fell to the floor where it shattered. ‘Bollocks.’