Tony Black - Long Time Dead

The corridors smelled of the same disinfectant as the doocot, but much less potent. There was also a dampness creeping into the mix that no amount of scrubbing was going to dislodge. As I shone the torchlight on the floor I could see the myriad scrapes of shoe soles that had scarred and pitted the floors over the decades. Although the place felt empty, seemed empty, I got the distinct impression I wasn’t alone.

When I reached the entrance to the Grand Hall I paused. This was where Ben Laird had died. I didn’t want to get too close to whoever had brought him to that end, but it wasn’t something I was backing away from. My hand trembled as I pushed at the door. On entry I heard scuffles but when I tried to direct the flashlight, I dropped it on the floor.

‘Who the fuck’s there?’ I shouted.

Footfalls. Scuffles at first, then quick steps. Running.

A window slammed shut. I could still hear the shuffling of bodies nearby.

I got down on my knees and tried to locate the flashlight. It had gone out on impact with the floor. ‘Fuck… shit.’

I tried to guess at the number of people in the hall; I couldn’t count them. It was more than two or three for sure; maybe a lot more.

‘Who’s there? Show yourselves, y’fuckers…’

I flailed about for the flashlight, found it; pressed the button but it wouldn’t come on again. I tapped the head of the torch in my hand, tried to get it working. Not a flicker.

I had a bad feeling as the room fell silent. Manoeuvred myself over to the wall. I kicked at the high skirting with my Docs, felt the oak panelling and slid along to the light switches. As I turned them on I was almost too scared to look. My breathing halted. In the silence of the night I could feel the cold breeze blowing from the banging window. It was nothing compared to the cold line of sweat that formed on my spine as I stared ahead.

In the centre of the stage, above a toppled stool, was Joe Calder. He was hanging by a thick rope.

‘Oh, Christ…’

I looked about, saw the window flapping in the night air. I ran over, looked out. Saw nothing in the darkness. Whoever had been here was well and truly out of sight now. I walked back to the stage, looked up at the hanging figure.

Calder looked smaller, more pathetic than I remembered him.

His grey flannels indicated he’d vented his bowels and bladder as the rope had tightened. His face was pearl grey and contorted. He didn’t look like a man who had died a happy death.

PLOD’S RESPONSE FLOORED ME. If I saw one flashing blue light, I saw a hundred. They swarmed on the uni, had the grounds floodlit and taped off before I could blink. A power of uniforms spread out, taking orders from a small coterie of pot-bellied detectives in the sort of coats BHS specialise in. Wife-bought, no doubt. The hall was sealed off and all the exits guarded by barrel-chested thugs in high-visibility jackets. I watched one playing with the handle on his baton; it sat in a quick-release holster; he looked primed to crack a few heads. None of the campus bods messed: a couple of stragglers in dressing gowns floated about, approached the odd WPC and got pelters for their trouble. The word had obviously went out from on high: batten this one down, fast.

‘Right, eh… Dury?’ It was a balding fifty-something with a Magnum P. I. tache and a roll-neck that had been worn to shreds by his stubbly jowls.

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

I didn’t expect a hand to be extended, so I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Aye… you match the description.’

‘ Eh ?’

A grunt; some tea-stained teeth put on show. ‘You’re the talk of the station.’

My rep preceded me. Was hardly surprised; a chill passed through me, though. I could recall being fitted up by these fuckers one too many times before. Three cold beads of sweat ran down my back like a cat’s claw.

‘Look, I gave my statement to the young lad in uniform. What is it you want from me?’

His dark eyes widened above heavy bags, stretched so much I could make out the cholesterol rings on his irises. ‘I’ll ask the fucking questions.’ He licked the tip of a pencil, brought it down to hover above his notepad. He was still staring at me, waiting for a tell, a twitch, any excuse to lamp me one, introduce me to the slippery steps, when a Daimler pulled up. The vehicle was flagged through the cordon. Thought: Must be top brass. I watched the car roll towards the main building, then glide to a halt a few steps away from us. As the door opened, I caught sight of a star and a crown on an epaulette. Wasn’t an expert on the filth but felt sure that kind of flash was reserved for the chief super.

‘Oh, fuck…’ said Magnum tache.

I looked back at him. He pressed the pencil tip into the notepad; the lead snapped.

The super made his way towards us with a purposeful stride. Silver-grey hair had been carefully parted on his head. He covered it with his cap. The badge shone in the flashing lights. Though it was the middle of the night, he was immaculately turned out; couldn’t do much about the furrows on his brows, though. He looked like a man ready to bust heads under his carefully polished police-issue shoes.

‘Detective.’ His clipped voice sounded out of place in this century.

‘Chief Super.’ I half expected to see bowing and scraping, genuflexion.

The boss man started to put on brown leather gloves. They clashed with the black uniform, but I wasn’t about to tell him. ‘What’s the SP, Detective?’

‘Erm, well… no’ much change since the briefing.’ He turned to me. ‘This is the bloke that found him.’

The super put steely-blue eyes on me; I felt frozen in his gaze. For a moment I thought he might speak, but he merely sussed me out, drew what he could from my appearance – by the kip of me, I dreaded to think what that might be.

The super took the notebook from the detective, flicking back a few pages. He halted on one or two points. I watched him wet his lips with a flash of grey tongue. The piercing eyes seemed to be recording every detail; he unnerved me.

‘That’s enough, Detective,’ he said, ‘back to work. I’ll expect your report on my desk in the morning.’

‘The morning… It’s the middle of-’

The super lifted his head; it was enough.

‘Yes, sir.’

As plod departed I was left alone with the top boy. He spoke to me for the first time: ‘So, Mr Dury…’

Was it a conversational gambit? I didn’t bite. Held schtum.

He put his hands behind his back, turned and nodded to the car park. ‘Shall we take a walk?’

Couldn’t say it appealed to me, but I followed on. He had a strong stride, spoke as he walked. ‘You have a name I hear cropping up quite a bit these days.’

‘That so?’

A piranha smirk. ‘Oh, yes.’ He stretched out the vowel.

‘Well, better than no one talking about me, I suppose.’

We’d reached the bourne of the car park. ‘I don’t believe I’ve given you my name.’ He extended his hand. ‘Chief Superintendent Charles Henderson.’

I shook his hand, but it felt unnatural.

‘What interest do you have in this… case, Mr Dury?’

I played him. ‘By case, do you mean Calder’s murder… or are you including Ben Laird’s too?’

He brought a gloved hand up to his chin, rubbed the spot where most men would have stubble at this time of the night, said, ‘What makes you think either were murdered?’

I let out a sigh. Most people would have taken that as an indication that I wasn’t playing the game but Henderson didn’t faze. ‘Well, Ben aside, for the moment, if you were properly briefed tonight you’d know that I’d heard movement in the hall before I found Calder.’