A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (33 page)

Except one.

“Shit,” said Paul.

“That’s what I thought.” Roger came closer, “See anything else?”

After a while, Paul replied. “Nope, can’t say I do.”

“Look at the lining paper, see how it’s darkened and rippled slightly?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, whoever put it away, not only put it away the wrong way up, but he also put it away without drying it first.”

“The tea-towel,” Paul said. “It’s neatly folded by the sink.”

Roger nodded. “So, what’s it all mean, Sherlock?”

“He rinsed his mug, eventually found the right cupboard and just put it away, wet and upside down.”

Roger clapped Paul on the shoulder. “You’ll make a shit-hot SOCO. I can tell. But why do you say ‘eventually’?”

“It’ll have been dark if they’ve both just got back from a night out; the curtains are open, so he wouldn’t dare put the light on. He’ll have found this cupboard by streetlight, I suppose.”

Roger stood, stretched his legs and looked at the dirt on the white knees of his suit. He could still see Weston’s blood there too. “What next, then?”

“What next…” Paul considered. “Masks?”

“Then what?”

“I was hoping you’d know that one; I’ve got them all right up till now.”

“Okay, we photograph the cupboard, first with the door closed, then with it open. Then close up on the mug. When we have the mug out, re-photograph to show the damp patch.”

“Gotcha.”

“Then we swab for DNA. He might have taken a drink from the mug. Then, you can do a little fingerprinting, see what shows up.”

Paul stood, came face to face with Roger. “Listen,” he said, “I’ll do the swabbing, okay, but this time I’m standing firm – I want you to do the fingerprinting. I couldn’t live with myself if I smudged one or messed up lifting it, or creased it while mounting it,” he shook his head, “I…”

“You wouldn’t have to live with yourself,” Roger said, “I’d shoot you.”

“Cheers.”

“Pleasure. Okay, fair enough. Now get the forensic kit, eh.”

After the initial part of the photography, they both wore fresh gloves and facemasks. Removing the mug was going to be like a surgical operation. They discussed the best way of getting it out without losing any potential fingerprints and without damaging any potential DNA from around the rim. “You know,” Roger said, “if I were to put a mug in a cupboard upside down, I’d either use the handle, or grip the body.”

“No shit? How else you going to do it?”

“I’m thinking out loud here, give me some slack,” he smiled. “What I’m getting at is this: he’s not likely to have touched the underside, is he?”

“No. So?”

“So, we tilt the mug over, slip a swab up inside and pick it out of the cupboard on the swab, then tip it all the way over onto the worktop.” That’s exactly the way it worked. Smooth. The mug stared at them from its new home. “Go ahead with the swabs, Paul.”

“Wait,” Paul said, “look here.” He pointed with a gloved finger.

Roger closed up, feeling his split lip with his tongue. There was something on the mug. Red. Blood. Patterned. “It’s only a fingerprint in blood!” Roger exclaimed, a wild grin on his face. “You know, I could cry, I’m so happy.”

“Any detail in it?”

“Some. Enough.”

“Okay. Now what?”

Roger smiled, “Your favourite bit.”

“Oh no, not the fingerprint camera.” Paul filled out a blue label, wrote B/W in the corner, and lightly stuck it to the mug near the mark, while Roger loaded the film and wound on to frame 1.

“You okay with this?” Roger asked.

“I’ve had plenty of practice.” Paul took the camera and located the mark. The flash popped. “May as well use all ten frames on it.”

“No,” Roger said, “just five, then we need to swab and re-photo it.”

“Why?”

“A new policy. It’s supposed to prove you’ve swabbed the mark and that the blood on the swab has come from that mark.”

“Ha, it doesn’t
prove
that.”

“No, I know, but it’s how the CPS barristers want it done these days.”

“I would have thought a photo of a fingerprint in blood would be incontrovertible.”

Paul swabbed a tiny area of the fingerprint that Roger declared as no value, collecting a stain no larger than the nib of a fountain pen. He packaged the swab and took a gulp of water from a bottle in his kit. “Rim swabs now?”

“Yup.”

Taking another plain sterile swab, the same type they used in hospitals, Paul twisted and broke its seal. He withdrew the swab, nothing more than a glorified cotton wool bud, and then moistened it with two drops of sterile water from the same phial he used on the fingerprint swab. Lightly he rubbed the swab around the outer edge of rim before re-sheathing it into its plastic tube and sealing over the torn seal with biohazard tape. He did the same with another swab, this time stroking it around the inside of the rim. He took a third swab from his supply and did nothing with it other than write his CID6 number and the date on it, before slipping it and its two companions into a plastic evidence bag. The third swab was the batch control swab; should any unusual results fall out of the laboratory computer, the scientist could test this batch swab to check for background contamination. In too went the phial of water, and Paul sealed the bag. Gratefully, he took off his mask and stood aside. “Thank God that’s over.”

 “You did well,” Roger said. “Now it’s my turn.” He picked the best squirrel-haired brush from Paul’s meagre collection, spun the lid off the pot of aluminium powder and lowered the brush inside. Then he flicked off the excess and gently brushed around the mug’s handle, inside and out. He saw something there, came closer and inspected the mark. “It’s good,” he said. “Right thumb on the handle. Pity there’s nothing but smears on the inside.”

“Great. What about the body then?”

“Let’s see, eh.” He charged the brush, flicked again and used small circular motions to spread the powder on the mug, avoiding the fingerprint in blood. Soon a dull silvery sheen, like polished lead, covered its entire surface. Only smears of index, middle and the ring fingers of a right hand developed on the body of the mug. That and the ghostly shadow of a matching thumb around the far side, opposite the fingers.

“You taking them?”

“Damned right I am. There’s not much detail there, but it might be enough to get me off the hook.”

“Okay, I’ll get some acetates and a roll of lifting tape.”

Roger pressed the clear rubber lifting tape onto the handle of the mug, pressed down, rolling his gloved thumb over the fingerprint, being careful not to rub the tape onto the mark for fear of scratches. Using an acetate pen, he marked a gravity arrow on the lift so the bureau could orient it correctly. He lifted the tape, stared at it, saw the fingerprint and closed his eyes with gratitude. “Gotcha now, Weston. You bastard. Always said I’d get you on forensic evidence.”

Roger placed the lift onto an acetate sheet and let Paul endorse it with his name, Nicky’s address and the location of the mark. He repeated this on all the marks before putting them into a fingerprint envelope. “I pray to God they’re his marks. Have you seen the scene log, Paul; was Weston’s name on it?”

Paul shook his head, “Don’t remember seeing it.”

“Good. How’s he going to explain this one.”

“What next?”

“We seize the mug. It’s still in the old Disclosure policy. Anyway,” Roger said, “we take it as insurance. It’s photographed, but you can’t beat having the real thing to show to a jury.”

“Okay, what’s my next exhibit number?”

“Let’s see; photos are PB1, ESLA foil is PB2, footwear gels are PB3 to PB8, red stain swab is PB9, rim swabs are PB10, so the mug is PB11.”

“What time you got?”

“1930 hours.” Roger watched him writing out the CJA label, watched him stick it to a box, place the cup inside the box and seal it away.

Finally, Paul signed over his seals.

“Are you comfortable with this?” Roger asked.

“With what?”

“You know, doing this exam.”

“I believe you didn’t kill that girl, Roger. I also believe that someone has seriously fucked up on a grand scale – I can’t help wondering why he’d want to frame you; I mean, killing a stranger ‘cause he dislikes you seems seriously extreme to me. But no,” he stepped back, “I’m not really comfy doing this. I haven’t asked permission, I’m still on probation, and I’m in a murder scene with a man who should be behind bars.” He laughed, “Not good credentials for a long career are they.”

“Suppose not.”

“It’s down to trust,” Paul said. “I trust you. You didn’t kill Nicky Bridgestock. It just needs pointing out to Shelby.”

“You know something, boss?”

“Lenny, I know lots of things; you want me start alphabetically?”

“Oh, naff off, if you’re in one of your moods.”

Shelby stopped the car violently, sliding its front tyre into the kerb. “What the hell did you say to me!” Then Firth shocked him further by getting out.

“Forget it, Inspector Shelby. You’ve taken the piss out of me long enough and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

“Now just you—”

“Shut up!” Amazingly, Shelby did, and Firth appeared shocked this time. “I’m putting in for a transfer.” He closed the door, stuck his hands in his pockets and began walking.

Shelby leapt out, slammed his door in a temper and shouted, “Lenny Firth, you get the hell back here now.”

Firth waved. Walked on through the rain.

“Lenny!” Shelby was hoarse, veins stood proud on his forehead. But it worked. Lenny stood still long enough for Shelby to walk to him. Shelby gathered his breath, then quietly said, “Lenny, I just… I’m tetchy, that’s all. I got Chamberpot chewing my nuts, I got to find an escaped murderer; I can’t find this new SOCO, I can’t find the old one… I’m thoroughly pissed off. And I’m taking it out on you.”

“And?”

“Huh? Oh yes,” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Firth turned. “I forgive you.”

“How noble. I’m still going to take the piss out of you, Lenny; you know that, don’t you?”

“I know where they’ll be.”

“Go on, spit it out.”

Chris was alone. He bit his nails. He sat in an old fabric recliner in the corner of his back bedroom; the one he used as a junk room, the one with an old school desk under the window. Fifty yards away a streetlight glowed. It disturbed his thoughts, so he drew the curtains and sat back down in the darkness. He began thinking of his situation, and ten more minutes dropped out of Chris’s life. He spent it with Conniston; he wondered where Roger was, and he wondered when he would call around and accept the much-needed help he asked for. After all, Chris was his friend; Chris was here to help wherever he could.

His feet were clenched tightly into fists again, burrowing into the carpet. They hurt but it didn’t matter.

They had employed the same technique for getting out as they had for getting in. And minutes after leaving Nicky’s house, Roger was trotting back up the mud path to Weston’s patrol car. To his left, and through the gaps between the houses, he heard Paul’s van drive away up the street.

Paul agreed to go straight back to the office and lodge the swabs in the Scenes of Crime freezer before heading over to the bureau and beg if necessary for them to search the fingerprints from the mug. While they searched, Paul would visit the Footwear Bureau and the Photographic Studio to deposit his evidence. Then he’d go back to the Fingerprint Bureau hoping for a result.

Roger took out the phone and from the depths of his memory, summoned up Chris’s home phone number. He dialled it and listened as a recorded voice told him the number was unavailable. “Shit.” He found the patrol car keys, and drove out of town, watching for other patrol cars, and praying he made it to the safety of Chris’s house without some sharp-eyed copper pulling him over. The radio was still dead. The day had been a long one, and only neat adrenaline kept him going. He was tired beyond measure, and hunger fell marginally into second place. His heart beat fast and he held the steering wheel extra tight so as not to feel his hands trembling. He tongued his split lip.

He had to get to Chris’s house; had to. Chris would keep him safe. Chris would stand up for him. But Roger stopped thinking about Chris. He was half way there when his earlier intention resurfaced and screamed
go to Weston’s house!

Roger pulled over and sat in the gloom. The more he thought about it, the more urgent it became. If he could get into Weston’s house and find conclusive evidence linking Weston to Nicky, such as a pair of shoes with the same pattern as those on Nicky’s kitchen floor, it would add to the evidence he and Paul already had, and it would blow this murder charge to hell.

 Going to Chris’s could wait until later.

“No, it’s not a mistake,” Roger convinced himself, and he turned the car around, driving through the evening traffic towards Sandal, hands trembling more than ever.

As he passed the open gates to Weston’s house, he saw a patrol car on the driveway, a single officer inside. A hundred yards further along, Roger turned into an exclusive estate where the houses just got bigger, the size of small hotels, with top-end cars parked on cobbled driveways. He kept turning right until, between the houses, he could see the street lamps on the main road. Then he parked the car and walked boldly through someone’s garden until he came to the rear wall.

Roger peered over the top, and could see Weston’s house two or three houses away to his right. It was in darkness, only a string of glowing garden lamps illuminating what looked from here like an ornamental pond and a gazebo. Time squeezed him; urged him over the wall and onto a mud path that ran along the backs of the grand houses.

Minutes later, Roger nestled beneath the dripping gazebo. His hands and arms were freezing, his nose running and his ears were numb. Only then, did he realise he had nothing with him to break into the house. “And what if it’s alarmed?” he whispered; the absence of an alarm bell box on the wall meant nothing.