A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (4 page)

“Jon,” Helen held the phone out, “stop ignoring me. Go photo the gun.”

He looked hopefully at Roger.

Roger shook his head, handed Paul a coffee. “I’m off duty. Anyway, guns frighten the crap out of me.”

“Come
on
,” Helen raised her voice. “Officers are waiting at the scene.”

Jon snatched the phone, and the lacklustre curtain of hair fell again over Helen’s face.

“What’s so scary about guns?” Paul asked.

Roger put his index finger to his lower lip and looked at the ceiling. “Er, they fucking kill people. Have you seen the mess a bullet makes of flesh and bone?”

“Only in photos.”

“Next time you see a story on the news where some kid has been shot dead, think about it. Don’t just sit there waiting for the sports news to come on; really think about it: what it does to the family, what are they going to do with his bedroom, his belongings, who arranges the funeral, who tells the school and the doctors and the clubs he was a member of? Who tells the grandparents…” Roger stopped.

Paul was staring at him. Even Helen raised her head, looked intently at him.

“I’m lecturing, aren’t I?”

“Tell him,” Helen said.

“Tell me what?”

“I didn’t lose anyone to a gun if that’s what you’re thinking; nothing quite so drastic. But it ain’t nice when a round flies so close to your ear that you can feel the heat coming off it and hear it purr before it sinks three inches into a breeze block wall. It can make you a tad nervous of them. Makes you
really
think.”

“Someone shot a gun at you?” Paul sat forward, made himself comfortable.

“I went to a scene like the one Jon’s going to. Straightforward photography job. Nothing snaggy. But before you can photo the weapon, it needs making safe. That means an AFO, an Authorised Firearms Officer, has to empty the thing, make sure there isn’t a round still in the breech, and then sign a label accordingly. To ‘prove it safe’, it’s called.”

“Yeah?”

“So, I’m in the same room as the gun, the same room as the AFO and he’s doing the business. He’s gloved up, and I’m on my knees setting the camera up, getting the flash and the scales ready, that sort of thing. Anyway, he’s fumbling with the damned thing when the fucking door behind him flies open and smacks him in the arm.” Roger rubbed the scars on his fingertips. “The gun fired. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor on my back, the tripod’s on top of me and there’s screaming and pandemonium all over the place.” He smiled, as if visiting a pleasant memory. “I soiled myself.”

Paul dangled between horror and humour. Humour won evidently, and he smiled. “Sorry.”

“So I think it’s fair to say that guns really
do
frighten the crap out of me.”

Paul laughed. Roger jumped as Jon, finally on his way to the job, slammed the door behind him. They could hear him cursing all the way up the corridor.

“It’s frightening to have a gun go off in your face.”

Paul became serious again.

“There’s a flash first, and your instinct is to close your eyes and put an arm up to protect yourself. Of course, what could your arm do against a bullet? But before you’ve got your eyes even half closed, the thing is either rattling around inside your skull or it’s in the wall. If you’re lucky.

“Then there’s an almighty bang – I mean a
crack
louder than anything you’ve ever heard and it’s the crack as much as anything that scares you.”

“What happened to the firearms man?”

Roger shrugged. “It didn’t do much for his confidence. He’s back on the beat somewhere in Dewsbury, I think.”

“So what happens if a firearms job comes in, and you’re it?”

Roger locked his desk drawer. “I put on my incontinence pants and go and do it. But I hate guns.” He looked at Paul, a barely concealed fervour in his eyes. “I really hate them. And I think anyone who uses them, or deals in them, ought to be locked up forever.
Anyone
.”

Despite the freezing temperature outside, Wood Street police station’s Number One squash court was hot as hell, like a sauna but without the steam, and Roger’s t-shirt clung to his body. Sweat matted his spiky hair and trickled down his plum-red face. He scrubbed it away quickly, hovering over Lenny Firth, wondering if he really was hurt.

“I think it’s broken, Roger,” Firth said through clenched teeth. “Might need an ambulance, mate.”

“Shit, Lenny,” Roger said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Firth opened one eye, and as he opened his other, a grin framed a sly laugh.

“You bastard.”

Firth laughed. “I got you, didn’t I?”

“Prick.”

“I did, didn’t I? I had you hook, line and whatsit.”

“You’re just a sore loser, Lenny Firth; thought you’d bail out ‘cause I was whooping your arse.” Roger opened the court door, and the cool air from the myriad concrete passageways wafted pleasantly over him.

Firth stood up, scooped his racquet off the floor and limped out of the court. “It does hurt, actually. Twisted it or something. Anyway, that was obstruction.”

“Bollocks, obstruction,” Roger said. “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint and you can cry into it.”

Their voices echoed around the concrete stairwell.

Firth grinned, “I saw Weston giving you the eye on the way down here. And I’d take a wild guess it wasn’t ‘cause we nicked his court.”

“He’d have a coronary just thinking about playing squash; maybe I should offer him a game,” he laughed. “He only knows where the changing rooms are because they’re joined to the men’s toilet.” As he rounded the next flight, Roger waited for Firth to catch up. “And you know why he’s pissed off at me, Lenny.”

“Didn’t send you a Christmas card this year?”

“He won’t speak to me unless he has to, so it’s not all bad.”

“A man of great taste, then.”

“Like you’d know taste.” Roger stopped again. “You ever had someone look straight through you?”

“Part of being a copper, mate.”

“He looks right through me all the time. There’s something malicious about him that says he’d love to get me alone for ten minutes and beat the crap out of me for exposing his scam.”

“It would take an hour or more to beat all the crap out of you.”

Suddenly the stairwell erupted with voices and hurried feet, and Roger pulled back out of the way as DCI Mayers and his squash partner sprinted past without even a second glance.

 “Sir,” Firth saluted the empty air and waved two fingers at the disappearing blur. “See, I told you people look right through me all the time.” He listened to the retreating voices. “He was involved with it, wasn’t he?”

“Mayers? He took my report to the ACC.”

Firth stared and Roger detected a slight shake of the head. “And you can go fuck yourself.”

“What did I say?” Lenny shrugged

“Think I should have kept it to myself?” Roger asked.

Firth didn’t reply.

“You think it’s okay for a copper to do something wrong and get away with it? Everyone’s accountable, Lenny. Including inspectors.”

“I just can’t believe you had the balls to go through with it.”

“You’ve got it all wrong; you’ve got
me
all wrong. It takes balls to do nothing.” His face was dead straight. “How can I grass on one of my own? That’s what you’re thinking, Lenny. That’s what’s trickling through that shallow little mind of yours.”

“Fuck off, Roger.”

“Well, he’s not one of my own—”

“That’s perfectly clear now. The gap between civvies and coppers just got wider.”

Roger nodded. “Would you have felt this way if they’d found him guilty?”

Firth walked on.

“It’s not my fault they’re incompetent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Firth turned.

“They had him under surveillance; don’t tell me you didn’t know—”

“Yeah, I knew—”

“And so did Weston.” Roger thudded on.

Firth laughed, “So, he’s clean then?”

“And the Pope’s a lesbian drag artist from Venus.”

Oblique light from the car park flood lamps made it through the grimy windows and spilled onto the landing. They turned a corner, the light disappeared, and they walked along in a shade that was deep enough to lose sight of your hand in, heading for the changing rooms. They pushed through the double doors onto another corridor, more darkness.

Firth said, “If he is running guns, he must be worth a fortune.”

“Seen the gold on his wrist? Never the same piece twice,” Roger said. “And you can’t afford the house and the cars he’s got on an Inspector’s salary.”

Firth began to laugh.

Roger stopped, looked back at him. “What’s so funny?”

“You! I can’t believe how seriously you’re taking all this shit. Christ, Roger, you’re like a Man on a Mission.”

“Ex-fucking-scuse me,” he said. “He’s bent, Lenny. He’s selling weapons—”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s selling weapons; he’s as good as killing people. I examined his Armed Response Vehicle; the whole job was a bake. How he wriggled out of it I’ll never know.”

“Okay then, so what made you think it was a bake?”

“I fingerprinted it. No marks other than his and two of his men showed up – I mean no other marks at all; no smudged marks and not even any glove marks. Two men threatened and beat him, but there was barely a bruise on him. He made it up.”

Firth shook his head, stood before Roger. “I can see why they let it go. In fact, I
can’t
see why they put obs on him in the first place. Negative evidence means shit.”

Roger glared at Firth. “This is bollocks, mate. I don’t know what kick you’re getting out of bringing all this shit back up again—”

“I’m interested.”

“In what? It’s over. He won.” Roger smiled, “You just want to know whether you should be seen hanging about with me, eh? Especially in here. Where all your mates can see you; fraternising with the enemy.” He turned away, “Very shallow, Lenny.”

“Shallow my arse, I’m just—”

“You got a promotion board coming up? Eh? Worried what the other Inspectors will say?”

“Hey, that’s not fair, Rog.”

“Fair? Fair! Two men got away with thirty weapons and all the ammo they could wish for. 9mms, 45s, Glocks, rifles.
Allegedly
. And any fool knows you’re not supposed to carry weapons
and
ammo in the same vehicle; everyone knows that, even
me
. Apparently Weston must have forgotten.” Roger turned and began striding. “None of it made sense. Think about it, Lenny, if you had that kind of firepower in your vehicle, would
you
stop at a petrol station for cigars on the way to the armoury?”

“But they must’ve put all that to him in interview?” Firth tried to catch up.

“I’m sure they did.”

“Then how did he get out of it?”

Roger shrugged.

“Friends in high places?” And then Firth added, “Or not enough evidence.”

“The petrol station attendant didn’t see anyone else… And something else that struck me as wild: would you refuse an escort when you’re carrying all this firepower, and send your men away on a false recce? I know he’s not in line for Mensa, but come on.”

Firth patted Roger on the shoulder. “You’re all strung out over this shit, aren’t you?”

“What I find strange, Lenny, is that you’re not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Work it out.”

“Why don’t you let it go? They held their enquiry, they found him innocent – stupid, but innocent – so let it ride, what’s it matter to you?”

“I already told you why it matters.”

“But—”

“And what do they do? Rather than risk Weston announce in public that he, a man with years of loyal service, was dismissed for being robbed and beaten while on duty, they transferred him back inside and closed the file. Sick.”

“If you feel so strongly that he’s escaped justice, and he hates you enough to make your life miserable, why don’t you put in for a transfer?”

Roger stopped and turned. “Why should he escape justice, as you say?” He looked at Firth long enough to make him back up a pace or two. “You trying to warn me off, Lenny?”

Firth gently held Roger’s arm. “But justice found him innocent! It’s you with the problem, Roger.”

Roger snatched his arm free. “He got to you, didn’t he? That’s what all this is about.”

“You were proved wrong, and you can’t leave it alone. No such thing as ‘double jeopardy’ yet, mate.”

“Won’t need ‘double jeopardy’ when he kills some poor bastard, will we?”

The door marked ‘male changing room’ sighed closed and a solitary figure glided discreetly inside. He entered the first toilet cubicle and locked the door behind him. It smelled of bleach and air-freshener. He checked his watch. Conniston had been playing squash for twenty minutes, he guessed, which meant he had another fifteen or twenty minutes remaining. Plenty of time.

Calmly, he sat on the toilet, placed the black cotton bag on the floor beside him, then listened and waited.

Someone entered the room and made for the urinals. After a while, a zipper jerked up and footsteps approached the sinks. A moment later, they headed away and the door squeaked open. Noise from the corridor briefly leaked in.

From the black bag, he took a pair of latex gloves. Snapped them on. Then he took out a white mask and stretched it over his face; it covered his mouth and nose. Finally, he pulled on a further pair of gloves. Nice and easy, he thought. Don’t forget your procedure. Just do it as you rehearsed, slick as a greased eel.

He unbolted the cubicle door and stepped out, about to go around the urinals and into the locker room when the door opened again.

He retreated inside the cubicle. Locked it, eyes rolling upward.

This time he did not sit, but stood there silently cursing, counting the seconds, ticking off the minutes with trembling fingers. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

Again, the door opened.

Now it was just him, the auto-flush, and the hum of an extractor fan.

Holding his breath, he left the cubicle again and hurried around the corner and into a long aisle of monotonous grey lockers. At the aisle’s end were the double doors leading down to the gymnasium and courts. The doors’ glass showed only his reflection; blackness in the corridor beyond them.