Read Online A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) by Andrew Barrett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Barrett
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particles of aluminium, he powdered each digit, rolled a strip of adhesive tape, called an Austin lift, across its wrinkled bulb and placed the lift onto a clear acetate sheet, about the size of a piece of A4. He turned the sheet over so the fingerprints were the correct way around, and labelled them ‘right thumb’, ‘right index’, ‘right middle’, and so on.
She was cold and had become stiff again now. The skin of her abdomen that wasn’t streaked with blood, had a green caste to it; the colour of decay.
He never got used to touching a human being and discovering its hands were not warm; that they lacked the ability to flinch when he cracked the fingers out straight so he could do his work, and how they were like raw chicken legs: how the skin, wrinkled and lifeless, slid over the gristle and the bone and the muscle—
“You okay, Roger?”
Roger smiled, “Looking forward to the full English.”
Chris said nothing, just wandered away.
Ann, whistling loudly now, threw the bloodied rib shears and other assorted tools into a steaming sink of detergent. Around the room, voices grew, laughter began. DC Clements wiped her top lip. Bags were zipped up, clipboards, pens and labels packed away ready for the next body.
The fingerprints were now an exhibit, and for the sake of its integrity, Roger slid the acetate into a clear plastic bag, sealed it and signed over the seal before attaching a CJA exhibit label and a length of biohazard tape. And for the exhibit’s continuity, he made a note of the time of exchange, and handed the bag over to DS Firth.
“You still want that breakfast I promised you?” asked Chris.
“Mind if I cut and run? I’m knackered.”
“Quite glad, really,” Chris’s moved in a little closer, away from the others, and whispered. “I’m a bit skint, actually. Can’t wait for pay day.” He stood there expectantly.
That was the kind of comment, thought Roger, you might expect from Hobnail, who at least was upfront about his fiscal situation, but there was something about the way Chris looked at him furtively, as though he should be honoured to dip into his pocket and help him out. Roger closed the latches on the aluminium camera case, looked up at Chris and asked, “You want to borrow some?”
“Get out of here,” he whispered, “I wasn’t…”
Roger stopped the embarrassment; he was too tired and it would lead to the same conclusion as it did last time. And the time before. “If you’re really in a fix, I could run to twenty.”
Chris’s mouth snapped shut at the offer. “You don’t mind? I’ll make sure you get it back. Promise. I think I lost some, you know, that’s why I’m skint.”
Roger said nothing, but wondered on which three-legged horse Chris lost his money.
* * *
More rain accompanied Roger as he drove home with the heater fan on full and the wipers grating across the windscreen. Pink Floyd played Comfortably Numb on the stereo. Under his reddened eyes were dark bags; around his face the earlier five o’clock shadow had matured into a nine o’clock beard. He yawned constantly and sighed in between.
Even as Roger pulled onto the drive outside his home, the scene at Turner Avenue continued to buzz with police activity. Two SOCOs, one upstairs and one down, brushed aluminium fingerprint powder over every suitable surface, and three gloved-up detectives pulled out drawers, read bank statements and love letters, lifted scraps of carpet, and searched in the loft.
They were being thorough. Thorough enough to find eventually the late Sally Delaney’s diary in the dust up on top of the wall unit.
— Two —
After a thin and fitful sleep, Roger was back in the office, feeling as though he had never been away. His shift began at six o’clock in the evening, always a busy time. But by ten, the calls had dwindled, and when he closed his fingerprinting kit on the last burglary for the evening, he made straight for Weston’s house.
He drove
She was cold and had become stiff again now. The skin of her abdomen that wasn’t streaked with blood, had a green caste to it; the colour of decay.
He never got used to touching a human being and discovering its hands were not warm; that they lacked the ability to flinch when he cracked the fingers out straight so he could do his work, and how they were like raw chicken legs: how the skin, wrinkled and lifeless, slid over the gristle and the bone and the muscle—
“You okay, Roger?”
Roger smiled, “Looking forward to the full English.”
Chris said nothing, just wandered away.
Ann, whistling loudly now, threw the bloodied rib shears and other assorted tools into a steaming sink of detergent. Around the room, voices grew, laughter began. DC Clements wiped her top lip. Bags were zipped up, clipboards, pens and labels packed away ready for the next body.
The fingerprints were now an exhibit, and for the sake of its integrity, Roger slid the acetate into a clear plastic bag, sealed it and signed over the seal before attaching a CJA exhibit label and a length of biohazard tape. And for the exhibit’s continuity, he made a note of the time of exchange, and handed the bag over to DS Firth.
“You still want that breakfast I promised you?” asked Chris.
“Mind if I cut and run? I’m knackered.”
“Quite glad, really,” Chris’s moved in a little closer, away from the others, and whispered. “I’m a bit skint, actually. Can’t wait for pay day.” He stood there expectantly.
That was the kind of comment, thought Roger, you might expect from Hobnail, who at least was upfront about his fiscal situation, but there was something about the way Chris looked at him furtively, as though he should be honoured to dip into his pocket and help him out. Roger closed the latches on the aluminium camera case, looked up at Chris and asked, “You want to borrow some?”
“Get out of here,” he whispered, “I wasn’t…”
Roger stopped the embarrassment; he was too tired and it would lead to the same conclusion as it did last time. And the time before. “If you’re really in a fix, I could run to twenty.”
Chris’s mouth snapped shut at the offer. “You don’t mind? I’ll make sure you get it back. Promise. I think I lost some, you know, that’s why I’m skint.”
Roger said nothing, but wondered on which three-legged horse Chris lost his money.
* * *
More rain accompanied Roger as he drove home with the heater fan on full and the wipers grating across the windscreen. Pink Floyd played Comfortably Numb on the stereo. Under his reddened eyes were dark bags; around his face the earlier five o’clock shadow had matured into a nine o’clock beard. He yawned constantly and sighed in between.
Even as Roger pulled onto the drive outside his home, the scene at Turner Avenue continued to buzz with police activity. Two SOCOs, one upstairs and one down, brushed aluminium fingerprint powder over every suitable surface, and three gloved-up detectives pulled out drawers, read bank statements and love letters, lifted scraps of carpet, and searched in the loft.
They were being thorough. Thorough enough to find eventually the late Sally Delaney’s diary in the dust up on top of the wall unit.
— Two —
After a thin and fitful sleep, Roger was back in the office, feeling as though he had never been away. His shift began at six o’clock in the evening, always a busy time. But by ten, the calls had dwindled, and when he closed his fingerprinting kit on the last burglary for the evening, he made straight for Weston’s house.
He drove
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