On the opposite side of the vehicle, the driver had been rescued from his bat-like position and hauled through the open driver’s door onto a stretcher. His airbag had deployed but was severely scorched. Adding to his injuries were several burns to his face, lower arms and hands.
The paramedics stabilised the driver, dealing with his burns as best they could and continuing to check his vital signs. His pulse was very weak and, with him still unconscious, they started the long climb up the ravine. Only then did their concentration turn to getting the two to hospital. It was a far from easy task to manoeuvre the stretchers up the steep and uneven slope, but with all the emergency crews working together, the ascent was managed with as little stress on the injured as possible. Once the two were on board, the ambulance hurriedly left the scene, its blue light whirring under the dark sky. The wailing sirens could be heard breaking the silence of the night, as the emergency vehicles re-traced their journey.
‘There’s no point in upsetting the witness more tonight,’ whispered a rescuer in PC Clare’s ear.
‘I’ll tell Frank that they’re unconscious, shall I?’ she whispered.
The rescuer nodded in agreement.
Having been examined by a paramedic, Frank made his way over to PC Clare. He could see one of the rescuers speaking with her. He felt a lot calmer now and the paramedics had deemed him fit enough to continue his journey home.
‘My daughter will be very anxious until she hears I’ve arrived safely,’ he said. ‘If she’s heard about the crash, she’ll no doubt be panicking.’ It was a weak attempt to raise a smile that focused two sets of concerned eyes upon him.
‘That’s what daughters do,’ smiled PC.
The verbal account Frank had given to PC Clare about what he had witnessed meant that the police would need to catch up with him for a written statement within the next twenty-four hours, and she told him she would update him then on the condition of the car’s occupants.
Frank Bland drove slowly home, willing himself to remember every last detail in order to be of as much use as possible to the emergency services. He was used to their procedures, having dealt with them as a mortuary assistant all his working life, although the young ’uns wouldn’t remember him now. The events were still swirling around in his mind ten minutes later when he pulled up outside his house. It was in darkness. All he wanted was to get inside and to hear his daughter’s voice, even if that meant she’d reprimand him – and, yes, he would agree to get a mobile phone now.
The long hours the emergency service teams spent practising rescues had proved invaluable. This may have been a fatal road accident, and might yet prove to be a double fatal, but the rescue itself had gone like clockwork; it had been faultless and was therefore deemed a success by the emergency services commanders.
The police supervisor from the Road Traffic department was called to the scene as soon as he got home after a ten-hour shift. When he arrived, he was pleased to see that the immediate area had been coned off for security and to enable investigations. Photographs had been taken. The road conditions, just as the witness, Frank Bland, had said, were confirmed by the investigators as ‘good’. There was nothing obvious to the trained eye that should concern a driver. Cat’s eyes illuminated the centre of the road and defined the lanes. The officer noted that the full moon gave a much better light than would normally be expected at this time of year. There were no sheep or other livestock in the area that could have caused an obstruction to distract a driver, or made him swerve suddenly not once, not twice, but three times, as had been reported. It was immediately apparent that there was considerable damage to a number of concrete posts at the side of the road – he counted one, two, three – and to the crash barrier at the hairpin bend. Bits of concrete and parts of a wing mirror, wheel trim and other debris had scattered at the points of contact and were strewn over the roadway, giving him a sense of the force of the vehicle’s impact.
He bent down and touched the tarmac. The road surface was dry. Could a mechanical failure be at fault? he wondered. Or was it human error?
The police had a duty to investigate how someone had died and that was exactly what he would ensure was done: checking every bit of information carefully, using every technique and all the equipment he had at his disposal. The vehicle needed to be recovered, searched and examined in detail. That, by itself, wasn’t going to be an easy task. To lift the metal, plastic and rubber mass of a car weighing over a tonne, a winch would be required at the very least, and maybe a crane. No matter what it took, it was, however, totally necessary in order to understand exactly what had taken place. He needed to find out precisely what had caused the vehicle to leave the road, ultimately leading to the loss of life.
Both driver and passenger, he had been told by the medics, were approximately mid-thirties. With no suggestion from the witness that the car had been travelling at excessive speed prior to the accident, the reported actions of the driver of the Saab puzzled him.
The traffic sergeant heard soft footsteps creeping up behind him, but he chose to keep studying the scene before him, systematically processing his next move.
‘Where the hell to start?’ asked PC. She sighed heavily.
He didn’t look at her. His attention was on the edge of the ravine and, beyond it, on the wreck of the vehicle.
‘You know as well as I do, PC, that dead men talk; a dead body affords us so much evidence of the life lived. But we’ll have to wait for the results of DNA, or a report of missing people, to get a result on their identity – unless he wakes up and talks to us beforehand.’
‘Do you think they’re husband and wife?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘God knows. Apparently, she’s wearing a wedding ring, he isn’t.’
Pamela Clare grimaced. ‘I heard visual identification’s impossible due to their injuries.’
He stood up and turned. ‘He’s heavily sedated, I’ve been reliably informed; his face, shoulders and arms covered in bandages.’
PC’s face darkened. ‘Critical?’
‘Stable.’
‘The next twenty-four hours are crucial.’
‘Yep, and then with some luck he’ll be brought out of his induced coma and be able to enlighten us.’
‘If he can remember what happened, that is.’
‘Well, he’ll certainly be interviewed, and challenged about his account, if what he tells us doesn’t fit what we already know.’
‘I wonder, if there is no identification, whether we might find something in the car that would help?’
‘We’ll have to wait for daylight to recover and search the vehicle.’
‘The recovery vehicle has been called out?’
‘It has, and I guess when we both drive home from this we’ll drive a little bit slower. Life’s fragile, isn’t it?’
The registered owner of the vehicle, according to the Police National Computer was a Mr Jack Dylan of 37 High Villas, Ripponden, Halifax, West Yorkshire. This area was covered by the neighbouring police division of Calderdale and so the traffic sergeant liaised with colleagues there and made them aware of the situation. A local police officer would visit the address and find out if Mr Dylan was the current owner and, if so, glean what information they could about who had been driving the car at the time of the accident. It was always possible that he was the injured man.
The unit dispatched was made up of a rookie and his mentor.
‘When I was in the Traffic department, fatal RTAs were dealt with differently,’ said Harry Leach.
The young rookie rolled his eyes and stared out of the vehicle’s window. He felt sick to his stomach, sort of like the way he did when he had to speak in public but much worse. How could the old fella be so calm when he may be about to deliver the worst news in the world to a family?
The old timer glanced at Sultan Alam Mohammed. ‘You okay, Sam?’
Sam nodded. He felt a lump in his throat.
‘Back then a force photographer would take photograph
s of the scene and send us copies through the internal mail a few weeks later. We’d get a written report from the vehicle examiner, who would take a close look at any mechanical defects on the vehicle that might be a contributory factor to the crash. Oh, and an accident investigator would draw us a detailed plan of the scene and give some calculations on the speed and braking efficiency of the vehicles. His report could take two or three months.’
Arriving at the address, the pair found the detached house in darkness. Harry knocked loudly on the door and they stood and waited patiently on the doorstep. Sam noticed his breathing was so heavy he could feel and hear every breath he took and he wondered if the old timer could too. He tried to calm down.
‘The basic rule of thumb is to get in there, give them the death notice without dilly-dallying and get the hell out, okay?’ said Harry, out of the corner of his mouth.
Sam nodded emphatically.
‘If you want to be a police officer you’ll have to learn to become a sponge: able to soak up large amounts of emotional trauma, but not be affected by it too much. You’re lucky, our welfare is now at the top of the force’s concerns. Pfff – that never happened before; I don’t know why it has now. I guess all the new rules mean it’s mapped out now that they are responsible for our welfare.’
When there was no response at the door, Sam followed Harry to the back of the house. Security lights came on, illuminating the path. There was no answer to their knocking at the back door either. Harry looked through the patio windows. The rookie expelled the long breath of air he had been holding unintentionally. He was relieved that he didn’t have to be the bearer of sad, life-changing news quite yet.
The knocking and the tell-tale sight of the security lights had caused one of the neighbours to come out to see what all the commotion was about. Mr Anderson, in his grey and red striped pyjamas, dressing gown and sheepskin slippers walked down the path towards the officers. He and his wife Janice were friends of the Dylans and he invited the officers inside and confirmed that the blue Saab they were enquiring about still belonged to his neighbours.
‘I waved to Kay – Dylan’s wife – as she was leaving home in the car.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It’d be about five o’clock.’
‘Was she alone?’ asked Harry.
‘Yes, I think so,’ he said. He cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowed and his face turned grave. ‘Before you say any more, you do know her husband Jack Dylan is a senior police officer, don’t you?’
There was a long pause as Harry stared at Tony Anderson, a blank expression masking his internal struggle. Sam had never seen his mentor quiet for so long, and he felt compelled to say something. ‘Do you think she might have been going to pick Mr Dylan up from somewhere?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Tony replied. ‘Maybe. I haven’t seen Jack around for a couple of days. I just thought he was on a job. He’s in and out at all hours of the day and night.’ Tony looked a little embarrassed. ‘Well, as you guys know. It’s the job.’
The information was passed back to headquarter’s control room, where the operator contacted the divisional commander to inform him that Jack Dylan’s vehicle had been involved in a fatal road accident.
‘Owing to the nature of the survivor’s injuries, visual identification is not possible at this time,’ the operator said.
‘What about the casualty’s fingerprints? Can’t these be checked against force records?’
‘Again, due to extensive burns to the driver’s hands, I am reliably informed, sir, that it’s not possible.’
‘I see. And the passenger was pronounced dead at the scene?’
‘Yes, sir, and the passenger was a female.’
As senior detective covering the station in Dylan’s absence, DS Bankswas made aware of the crash, the injuries of the male driver and the death of the female passenger early the following morning. The moment he put the phone down, Larry Banks reached for the bottle hidden in his desk drawer. He had been given news like this before but this was different. He took several swigs from the bottle and, after a few minutes, managed to calm himself down a little. ‘Never assume,’ he heard Dylan’s voice saying in his ear, as plain as if he was there beside him. With a flicker of hope, he began to think more clearly. It looked bad, that much was true. Someone had died and another person was seriously injured and lying in intensive care. But was it possible the two people weren’t actually Dylan and Kay?
Larry ran a hand distractedly through his hair. What could he do? He spun the cap on the whisky and paused for a moment before removing it, taking another swig and throwing the empty bottle in the bin. He rested his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. What would Dylan do at a time like this? he asked himself.
And then it came to him. Larry reached across the desk and pulled Dylan’s tray towards him. He searched through it until he finally found the copy of the letter that confirmed the details of Dylan’s residential course. The two-day course was south of Sheffield, so Dylan had needed to stay over for at least one night and had elected to stay for two because of the early morning meetings. He’d also taken one of the CID cars … Larry jumped out of the chair as if it were on fire, leapt to the window and searched the police station’s backyard. There was no sign of the CID car. He widened his search to the illuminated streets beyond. As far as he could see, the CID car was not there either. The question remained: had Dylan returned early?
Back at his desk, Larry picked up the phone and rang the porter at Dylan’s hotel, giving him the details of the vehicle Dylan was using. Disappointment overwhelmed the DS when he was told that his boss’s room keys had been returned to reception. Larry explained why he was calling and the porter immediately agreed to check Dylan’s room and the register in which Dylan would have signed in and out.
As he waited for the return call, Larry noticed his hands trembling. He silently prayed his friend would be okay. Detective Inspector Jack Dylan was the best boss he’d ever had, his colleague, his mentor and his friend. Thirty-five, six feet tall and born in Yorkshire, Jack was known for his hard exterior – much needed in the job that he did – but Larry knew him to be kind-hearted underneath. Jack had a good sense of humour and had covered Larry’s back, and those of others under his command, on many occasions. He was known by the hierarchy as a safe pair of hands.
When the call came it was not with the news that Larry had hoped for. It appeared that Dylan had left the hotel in the CID car, but the porter could not tell him exactly when. It seemed very possible that he might be the casualty lying in intensive care, fighting for his life.
The night report for the chief’s log read as follows: A female passenger was pronounced dead at the scene of a car accident on the A62. She is believed to be the wife of Detective Inspector Jack Dylan. The driver, who is unable to be identified at this time owing to his injuries, is believed to be Mr Jack Dylan. The driver is in a critical condition, currently in an induced coma at the hospital.
Chapter Three
Ten days earlier
Detective Inspector Jack Dylan was in the City of London where he had just finished an intense, two-week residential development course for negotiators. Threat levels had risen to ‘severe’ due to ricin having been discovered in the north of the capital, an indication that this could be the most worrying terrorist threat to Britain since 9/11, the previous year. Though the intelligence reports named Heathrow, where some of Dylan’s hostage training had taken place, the thought was that terrorists might refocus their efforts away from the airport and the hope was to deter them by increasing the number of uniformed officers in the city. Uniformed police were being assisted by the deployment of troops following a tip-off from MI5 to Scotland Yard. Downing Street had stressed the need not to overreact and ‘do the terrorists job for them’ and encouraged everyone to continue to live a normal life.
Dylan made his way to a telephone kiosk at King’s Cross Station, swept along with the crowd, at a seasoned city dweller’s pace. So
tired was he from the schedule – kept awake for hours on end by interrogations, woken up from his sleep, undergoing long, arduous hours of negotiation – that when he and his colleagues had been able to let their hair down on the last night, they all opted for their beds and an early night. As soon as he’d put his head on the pillow he’d gone out like a light, forgetting to plug his mobile into its charger.
Berating himself for the second time that morning for being disorganised, Dylan squeezed into the telephone booth. Shuffling sideways, he looked down around his feet for a clean spot to put his holdall down. The concrete floor was littered with the stuff that people leave when they wait around a lot: cigarette butts, gum wrappers and crisp papers. Dylan put his change on the little shelf under the phone, picked up the receiver and wiped it with his coat sleeve. He dialled his home number. Facing the kiosk wall, he saw an adornment of cards and phone numbers, some written in lipstick, advertising personal services, massages and all types of unrestrained immoral self-indulgence. Alongside these was a selection of abusive graffiti. Dylan’s eyes settled wearily on one: ACAB – All Coppers Are Bastards.
Outside, two uniformed police officers were cuffing a scruffy individual. At his feet lay a handbag, its contents strewn over the floor. Dylan caught the eye of the young rookie who was covering his partner’s back while he dealt with the prisoner. His eyes spoke volumes to Dylan. Why am I doing this? Dylan felt his frustration. Then he looked beyond and saw another officer on his knees comforting an old lady. ‘That’s why we’re doing this, mate,’ he said in a whisper.
There was no answer at home. He sighed heavily and put the phone down. Dylan looked at his watch, slightly puzzled. Kay should be home now. He waited.
Poetic Justice Page 2
