A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) Read online

  “Where do you live?” His nails dug into the steering wheel, heart racing.

  The blonde didn’t answer. Instead, she hurried around to the passenger side, wobbling her chest on purpose, and grinning as she closed the door. “Ooh, it’s freezing out there,” she rubbed her arms briskly and smiled across at him. “Nice and warm in here, though.”

  Once inside, he quickly appraised her, and his situation. She was drunk, fine; he had no problem with that. In fact, if he was hoping to accomplish anything at all tonight, then it was a help that she was. Anyway, he acknowledged, would she have jumped in a stranger’s car with sex on her mind if she were sober? She was cute. He guessed she was maybe twenty, twenty-one, roughly the same age as Sally Delaney, only not in the same league at all.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nicky,” she smiled.

  “Well, Nicky,” he followed her curves again just to make sure she was real, “where do you live?”

  “Barnstones Estate. It’s just off Aberford Road actually, near Pinderfields.”

  That was all he needed for the time being. He looked around, flipped the car into reverse and pulled slowly further up into the shade of the archway.

  “Aren’t you going the wrong way?” she said with a tipsy smile.

  “I just don’t want people to see us. I mean, they may get the wrong idea. A young girl hitching a lift with a bloke she doesn’t even know. They might think I’m a murderer or something,” he joked.

  “People won’t know anything of the sort. I’m not out very often. No one actually knows me, except my friends, that is.”

  He could not have chosen a better candidate if he’d read her CV.

  “Anyway,” she hiccupped, “they’d probably think you’re my uncle come to give his niece a lift home.” Together they laughed. “Because, do you know how many weirdos are out there? Every fourth person is a weirdo, actually; let me tell you, it’s true. It’s a fact. I read it somewhere. There are more weirdos kicking about than you think. Can you imagine how many weirdos are running the country? How many are treating you in hospital?”

  He made no reply.

  “Frightened? You bet your arse I’m frightened. I mean, through that arch, there must be six or eight police cars with two coppers per car…”

  He thought of the police. Swallowed.

  “…that means there are… well, there’s loads of ‘em, at least a car-full.”

  “It makes you—”

  “One in four,” she pondered. “You can’t be too careful. Well, that’s what my brother keeps telling me, actually.”

  “Your brother?” He slowed the car’s retreat.

  “Yeah, I live in his house.”

  He brought the car to a halt. “And he’s waiting for you?”

  “No, no, silly. He’s in London, lives there. I just rent his house from him. It’s not much of a rent though, because he says I’m doing him a favour by looking after it while he’s away. Suppose I am, really, aren’t I? I mean if he—”

  “You’re a wonderful person, Nicky.” The car continued uphill again, but its retreat was thwarted. A car rumbled down Thompson’s Yard towards the archway, towards his car. Reflecting from the rear-view mirror, a pair of headlamps painted a white rectangle across his face. They flashed at him, blinding him. “Can’t they see I’m trying to go—”

  “You’ll have to go out through the arch,” Nicky said.

  The car behind flashed its main beam again and then the horn sounded. He began to feel flustered, agitated. Panic touched him. “You’ll have to get down, Nicky; I mean I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

  “What do you mean, I’ll have to get down?” she giggled suggestively.

  “No, no. I mean you’ll just have to bend over so that you’re not seen. I wouldn’t want anyone to think…” His words stalled; she ran her tongue delectably over her upper lip. Then without another word, Nicky bent low in the passenger seat.

  The car rolled forward out into the bright lights of Westgate. He was right; there was a camera to his right, far above him, and another pair of cameras constantly monitored things up and down the street from their vantage point over the bank’s main entrance.

  He turned on the headlights and pulled out onto the road, looking around all the time, yet trying to be inconspicuous. The street was busy even for this hour; traffic buoyant, noisy with music and affluent with speed. Police vehicles were in abundance, marking their presence on the corners of Westgate, casting shaded eyes over the throng of youth. Some had their windows down, eyeing-up or talking to girls who dared to stop for a chat. Either way, he thought, they’re paying no particular attention to me: just a middle-aged male, in an average car, proceeding at a modest speed with no one else on board.

  When he turned left at the end of Westgate, right at the traffic lights on Northgate, and over the roundabout onto Aberford Road, he invited Nicky to sit back up. She grunted as though nearly asleep, and then sat up obediently. He liked that, because it lent to him a feeling of power over her, the passenger no one knew he had.

  Flashing orange lights of a lorry sparkled up near the hospital. As they neared, he saw it was a gritter, scattering rock salt on the road. He slowed down and kept his distance.

  “You’ve got strange eyes,” she said thoughtfully.

  He said nothing, only watched the blinking orange lights.

  “So, what’s your name, then?” she slurred.

  “You’re drunk, aren’t you? I bet you stopped drinking when you were tipsy, but it’s catching you up, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm,” she sniggered, “Actually, I think you’re probably right! And it feels good, too. I may even have a swifty when we get home.” She appeared slightly confused, and then nudged him with her elbow. “Did I say swifty, then?” He nodded and she laughed again. “How presumptuous of me.” Slowly the laughter drooped into fits of giggling but her perpetual smile remained. “Anyway,” she said, “stop changing the subject, what’s your name, Mister Mister?”

  He thought about it. “John,” he said. “You can call me John.”

  “Oh yeah? And what does everyone else call you?”

  He looked across, snatched glances at her. “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Hey,” she giggled, “I’m only kidding.”

  “Oh,” he said, relieved.

  “John. Oh, John. And what does my chauffeur do for a living?”

  “Nothing exciting really. What about you?”

  “I asked first.”

  “You’d better tell me where you live, Nicky. I know you said near the hospital, but where exactly.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s over there. We passed the actual turning already. I’m sorry, I was too busy chatting, I suppose.”

  He pulled the car to a halt and saw the gritter disappear over the crest of a hill. He reversed into Pinderfields entrance and re-entered the main road. “Potter Lane?” he asked without any hint of the frustration or the nerves he felt.

  “Yes, yes. That’s the one. Potter Lane. Forty-two to be precisely-type-thingy. Hic!”

  “No problem. And what was it you said you did for a living, Nicky?”

  “I’m a bank clerk, that’s all. Nothing very glamorous, I’m afraid, but I suppose it pays the bills, you know.”

  He turned down Potter Lane and drew the car to a halt beneath the cover of a willow tree. On both sides of the road were large grassed areas populated intermittently by trees, and a tiny, unlit playground. Further down the hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile, the houses tipped gradually into a form of slight disarray before finally giving onto the council-owned Barnstones Estate, a community that thrived in the mining days.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Well, Nicky, I don’t know about you, but I need some fresh air. And I could do with a little exercise, you know, to ward off that tired feeling and bring me round a bit.”

  Nicky surprised him when she said nothing, just opened her door and climbed out.

  H
e got out too, locked the car and saw Nicky tottering off down the street without him, her arms wrapped in an embrace against the cold. He didn’t shout because it wasn’t worth the risk, but instead plodded quickly after her. “Nicky, Nicky, wait.” He caught her and gently took hold of her arm.

  She spun around, staring coldly at him. “I’ve got pride, John. I actually know when I’m being given the brush-off.”

  “Whoa, whoa, Nicky. This is no brush-off, dear. I meant what I said; I need some air and a stroll. I need to wake up a bit, that’s all.”

  She squinted up at him. “You sure?” Breath clouded before her.

  “Take me to your house, some coffee wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Nicky’s smile reappeared and she walked unaided, though still shakily, down the hill to her house for the last time. The sky was a clear and desolate black. No breeze blew and all was still.

  As they strolled down the path towards Nicky’s side door, the security light came on and lit up the whole driveway and next door’s house as if they had their own private patch of daylight. Silently, he cursed and walked ahead of her so she partly shielded him from the street. A shiver ran up his back and his concern returned to Nicky’s hand as it tried to get her key into the lock. He felt like shouting at her to hurry the fuck up and get inside, but he forced himself to remain calm, taking long slow breaths. Over her shoulder, he looked around the cul-de-sac; only a few lights were visible, and no curtains twitched.

  “At last,” Nicky said, hopping up the step into the short hallway between the kitchen to her left and the lounge on her right. “You go make yourself at home, John, and I’ll fix us a drink.”

  “Just coffee for me, please,” he said.

  “Oh, go on. Have a vodka. I love vodka.”

  “I’ll stick to the coffee. Don’t forget,” he said with a sickly smile, “I’m driving.”

  “You er, don’t fancy staying the night?”

  “See how it goes, eh. Just coffee for now.”

  “Okay.” She winked. “I suppose it could actually work to my advantage, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.” With his elbow, he turned on the light switch and assessed the lounge, its floor covering, and even the fabric of the sofa, revising and amending his plan as he went along. He chose not to sit down, but he did choose to step out of his shoes by the fire and lay his folded coat carefully over them, being aware, even at this stage, of leaving fibres and footwear evidence. He couldn’t know if her bedroom was carpeted or whether it had that same fake wooden flooring the kitchen had.

  He patted the bulge in his hip pocket.

  The lounge was small but sparsely furnished, giving it a more spacious appearance, despite an abundance of whale and dolphin posters. A glass-topped coffee table took centre stage. A small TV stood in one corner near to a mini stereo. In the magazine rack were copies of Bella, Hello and a mail order catalogue, no TV magazines or newspapers.

  From the kitchen, a cupboard door closed, a teaspoon rattled in a mug, milk bottles clinked, and Nicky mumbled something and giggled.

  At the back of the lounge, a pair of curtains drew his attention. He pulled one aside to reveal French doors looking out onto a small overgrown garden that hadn’t seen a mower for a couple of seasons. Frost glimmered white on the long grass and the nettles illuminated by the sliver of lounge light. Beyond the broken wooden fence at the foot of the garden, was total darkness. He let the curtain swing back over the doors, and turned around. Opposite was the staircase winding tightly away into the shadows.

  So far, so good, he thought. He fumbled with the small package.

  Nicky reappeared with a tumbler of vodka and a steaming mug of coffee. “Why don’t you sit down?” she asked.

  He gestured at the stairs, “Well, I thought…”

  Nicky grew excited. “You are an eager beaver, aren’t you?” She thudded his mug onto the coffee table hard enough to spill its contents down her hand and onto the glass. “Oops.” She licked her fingers, sucked them. “Clumsy me.” Then she downed her vodka, hissing as it stung her throat.

  “Come on, sexpot.” She hurried to the threadbare stairs and climbed them two at a time; peering under her arm to make sure he followed.

  He followed.

  As he ascended, he could see up her white top, and watched, almost mesmerised, as her breasts oscillated beneath their gossamer shroud. At the head of the stairs, she turned left down a pokey little landing. Two steps later, she stopped and twisted a dimmer switch just enough to illuminate what was a small but tidy room with a double bed beneath a dark, curtained window. The only other furniture was a single wardrobe, a cheap metal-framed chair, and a four-drawer chest with a white-framed mirror and a scattering of cosmetics.

  Nicky pulled the curtains open and turned slowly around to face him. She drew the flimsy top up over her head and exposed her breasts. “Let me take your clothes off.”

  “No,” he snapped. And then, “I’m sorry. I prefer to strip quick and watch you strip slow, is what I meant to say.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Her smooth skin, embellished with subtle touches of make-up, her dark eyes edged with mascara and her full lips coloured a deep red, looked oh-so inviting to him, but still he kept his distance as she unbuckled and let fall her black jeans. She wore no underwear.

  “Come on, John, you’re lagging behind, you know.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Actually, I could give you a hand?”

  “No.”

  “Aw.” Nicky was disappointed, but undeterred; she became even bolder in her attempts to coax him from his apparent shyness. Her fingers glided around her chest, stroked her thighs; her expression changed as her eyes closed, and she uttered a groan of pleasure.

  The dull twinge in his crotch grew only to a tepid erection, but he knew that control was essential. “Lay down, Nicky.”

  “That’s more like it,” she said, eagerly bouncing onto the bed like a kid until she settled down on her back.

  “Draw the curtains, will you?” he asked.

  “You are shy, aren’t you?”

  “Mind if I turn down the light some more?” he said.

  “No, go for it. I sometimes leave the curtains open and the light on when I’m getting undressed or when I feel like a little solo fun; I dunno, it sort of adds excitement wondering if there’s someone outside actually watching. Well, it does it for me every time.” She pulled the curtains closed again.

  While Nicky’s back was turned, he fumbled in his pocket and from a plastic bag, pulled a pair of latex gloves. He quietly slipped them on, and using the back of a finger, twisted the light switch until the darkness intensified, creating deeper shadows.

  She was back on the bed. “Hurry up, John,” she teased. He could hear her groaning. “I’m waiting.”

  He turned around and shuffled to the side of the bed. Being careful not to brush against the chair, and minimising contact with the duvet, he stood at her right side and watched as she tugged at her erect nipples. Her legs moved erotically back and forth, supplying glimpses of the delight held between them. She groaned. He licked his lips, but took no further notice.

  “Okay,” he whispered, “I’m going to undress now, Nicky.”

  “’Bout time, too.”

  “Now, I want you to put your hands over your eyes for me,” his voice quivered only slightly.

  “Aw, I want to watch. You watched me,” she reminded him.

  “I’m shy, Nicky. Please, just while I undress.”

  She tutted and then obliged.

  “That’s better,” he said, and then wished he’d brought a plastic smock, just in case things became messy. Hands behind his back, he silently pulled out the blade concealed within the knife’s handle.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “I’m working up to it. Any second now.” His breathing became rapid, shallow. With great deliberation, he reached over her. He raised the small knife towards her left ear.


  Nicky’s hands began to slip. She tried to peek.

  He thrust the blade into the meat of her neck, having to fight her thrashing arms. A steaming gush of black fluid pumped from her throat, soaking his gloved hand and the pillow, flowing like hot mud across the bed. He could see steam.

  She arched her back. Her eyes pleaded with him, and even in the half-light, he could see the look of misunderstanding, of misplaced trust in her eyes. She gasped for air, swallowed and then began choking on her own lifeblood.

  For only a short while did her arms and legs continue thrashing but not once did she catch hold of him or his clothes or even go near the embedded knife. She seemed afraid to go near it; preferring to accept whatever lay before her than risk finding out what was causing the pain and the encroaching blackness.

  As the life seeped from her, he could see the opaque glaze of death growing on her half-opened eyes like ice crystals forming on glass. Now who’s got weird eyes, he thought. The sound of her final breath, a burble of air in thick liquid, left her body and suddenly the room was silent save for his own hushed breathing.

  Now began the clear-minded process of departure, while leaving behind nothing of himself, nothing that could incriminate him. He removed the gloves, the hot liquid that covered them already beginning to cool, and laid them on the quilt as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

  From his coat downstairs, he took out his glasses, unfolded their arms and put them on. He retrieved a black cotton bag and from it took two fresh pairs of latex gloves, a pair of sterile disposable tweezers, a plastic bag and the small white paper package. Returning upstairs, he pulled on a new pair of latex gloves and while holding his breath, used the tweezers to place the contents of the paper package into the mound of her damp pubic area.

  He stepped away from the bed, exhaled and took a moment to recover a little of his composure. His mouth was dry.

  Kneeling beside her, he took out a new disposable pen and wrote ‘Roger 710961’ on the back of her left hand. From Nicky’s equally neat bathroom, he used a dampened face cloth and rubbed most of the writing off again, leaving only the slightest trace in the creases of her skin. He returned to the bathroom, wrung out the cloth and then wiped the tap from which he had drawn the water, free of the faint bloody streaks.