Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

harbouring an idea so fanciful she wasn’t prepared to share it with anyone until she had discovered the truth.

CHAPTER 53
     
    G eoff was in a bad mood as he carried the rubbish out at the back of the café early on Sunday morning. It was a foul job at the best of times, humping bags out to the stinking bins where the pungent odour of mildew and rotting food hung in the air like a fog. To make matters worse he was suffering from a thumping hangover and the sight of a homeless tramp propped up against the bins, blissfully asleep, did nothing to improve his temper. The sleeper’s face was barely visible, concealed in shadows beneath the protruding hood of a dark anorak. No doubt he was adding to the stench of the place.

     
    ‘Here, you, shove off out of it,’ Geoff snarled, nudging the stranger with his foot.
    The other man keeled over slowly until he was lying on his side in a puddle, legs stuck out in front of him at an odd angle. He was well out of it, oblivious to his clothes which were sodden after the heavy rain overnight.
    ‘Wake up!’ Geoff snapped. ‘You’re in my way. Push off! Some of us are trying to earn a living here.’

     
    He gave the tramp’s leg another kick, harder this time. The sleeper still didn’t stir. With a flash of rage Geoff booted him viciously but the man lay without moving, blocking the access to the bins. A few drops of rain began to fall. A horrible thought struck Geoff who set down the rubbish bag he was clutching and stooped down. Lifting the edge of the hood he glimpsed a face, grey and rigid. Geoff swore softly. That was all he needed, some bloody homeless yob dropping dead right outside his café. He considered dragging the inert body a few feet along to the far side of the bins, out of sight, where he could leave it for some other unlucky bugger to deal with. He had enough on his plate without having to faff around with strangers who drank themselves to death and then went and parked themselves right on his back doorstep.

     
    Geoff wanted to open the café in less than half an hour and really didn’t have time to start messing about with the police, and goodness knows what else besides. The geezer could have gone and croaked outside one of the big chains that could afford to close up for a day while the police investigated the area and removed the body. But he knew he couldn’t ignore it. With a sigh he pulled out his phone and hesitated for a second, uncertain who he should speak to. In the end he dialled 999 to report that he had discovered a dead person lying in the gutter outside his café.

     
    He seemed to be waiting for ages, fiddling with place settings on the tables, until a patrol car drew up in the street at the front of the café. He opened the door to admit two young uniformed police officers who followed him through the empty café and out of the back door to the bins where the three of them stood in a semi-circle gazing down at the body, still lying on its side. Glancing up, Geoff saw that the face of one of the policemen had gone slightly grey and he wondered if this was the first time the lad had seen a stiff.

     
    Geoff looked back down at the hooded face, half submerged in an oily puddle.
    ‘Can you move it now, please? Only I need to get to the bins.’
    He indicated the black rubbish bag he had left standing by the kerb.
    ‘I can’t get my litter in the bin.’
    His relief that the police had responded so promptly to his call soon vanished.
    ‘What do you mean you can’t move it out of the way?’ he protested. ‘What about my rubbish?’

     
    The younger of the two police officers suddenly darted away behind the bins. Geoff and the other officer watched his bent back for a second, listening to sounds of vomiting, before the older policeman politely suggested Geoff take his rubbish back inside for the time being.
    ‘And then we’ll need to ask you a few questions, sir.’
    Geoff gaped.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stand around jawing. I need to open up. It’s already gone nine, and this is costing me money. I’m not bleeding Starbucks.’

     
    ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we need to alert local CID and they’ll decide whether to call out the Homicide Assessment Team.’
    ‘What does that mean? Homicide team? Who’s talking about homicide? It’s just some old soak, isn’t it? Just take it away will you? This is outrageous – take it away. I’ve got a café to run here.’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
    The policeman turned