Poetic Justice

by R. C. Bridgestock

  The fog muffled the sound of the fleet vehicle Dylan was driving as it pulled up outside.

  Seven fifteen, Larry noted on the clock in his car; most people were still in bed.

  There were no lights on in the house and the curtains were drawn back, Dylan noted, but his attention quickly shifted when his colleague greeted him.

  ‘Good God, Larry, you look like total shit! You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends, mate; you’re going to end up killing yourself!’

  Larry stared down at the floor, his stance unusually shifty. He couldn’t look Dylan in the eye.

  ‘Yeah, it was another late one. I guess it goes with the territory.’

  Dylan flicked open the boot, taking out his overnight bag.

  ‘So, is it somebody’s husband after you again? He walked ahead to the front door and put his key in the lock. Larry followed him. He turned. ‘Kay’s probably still in bed,’ he said. ‘Better be quiet.’

  Larry shrugged. ‘I’ve only just got here so I haven’t even knocked.’ He couldn’t tell him the truth, not on the doorstep shrouded in fog.

  ‘It was beautiful when I left Sheffield this morning,’ Dylan said as he opened the door and put his case in the hallway. There was post behind the door and he picked it up and put it on the hallway table. As he turned to close the door, he saw the anorak standing upright at the bottom of the stairs and attempted to move it.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he laughed. ‘It’s supposed to stop a bullet, not give you a bloody hernia. I’d better start coming to the gym with you.’ Dylan looked up the stairs, saying nothing. He took off his coat and slung it over the bannister, before heading for the kitchen.

  ‘I did warn you,’ said Larry. ‘Are you putting the kettle on?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dylan, turning to face his detective sergeant. ‘Am I going to need a strong coffee?’

  ‘Better make it a strong, sweet tea,’ he replied.

  Larry sat down at the kitchen table facing Dylan.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it before Kay comes down?’ Dylan asked, his eyes on the kitchen door.

  ‘Please, Jack. Don’t make this any harder than it is.’ Larry paused, leaned forward and looked at the wooden floor between his legs.

  Dylan’s mouth had gone dry. ‘Come on, just spit it out for God’s sake. Has something happened to Isla?’

  Larry looked up, seeing pure fear in Dylan’s eyes for the first time ever.

  ‘No, Jack, it’s Kay. She was killed in a road accident last night.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  A sledgehammer slammed into Dylan’s stomach. Every function of his body went numb for what seemed like an eternity. Dylan recognised the mask of the detective that had settled on Larry’s face. Seeing tears begin to gather in the detective sergeant’s eyes, a tingling sensation began to spread through his veins. He slowly shook his head.

  ‘Larry, that’s not funny,’ he said, coming round the table, grabbing his colleague by the throat and pulling him to his feet with a power that could only be explained by an adrenalin rush. The two men stood nose-to-nose. Dylan tried to control his breathing as his heart began to pound in his chest and a vein on his forehead throbbed.

  ‘She’s not dead! There’s no way she’s dead. I’d know if my wife was dead!’ he yelled. After a moment Dylan released Larry unceremoniously, dropping him like a lead weight back onto the chair before dashing to the stairs and leaping up them two at a time.

  Dylan’s breath came in short bursts. His legs felt like rubber as he stood at the foot of their bed; it hadn’t been slept in. Kay’s discarded nightclothes lay strewn, as always, over the pine rocking chair at her side of the bed, where she had nursed Isla as a baby.

  When Dylan re-joined Larry in the kitchen a few minutes later, he found him making tea. Tears had begun to trickle down Dylan’s cheeks; he knew very well his colleague wouldn’t joke about something as serious as this.

  He slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, his eyes glued to the face of the man who came to lay a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulders. Dylan’s first reaction was to push him away, but Larry held on tight. The release of built-up tension was like the bursting of a dam. Dylan’s entire body shook in spasms so violent and overpowering that he didn’t notice the tears also rolling down Larry’s cheeks. After a few moments Larry sat down opposite him. Dylan calmed himself and took a sip of his hot drink.

  ‘Tell me …’ said Dylan. ‘I want to know everything.’

  ‘Your car was being driven over the tops from Redchester on the A62 when it left the road. Kay was pronounced dead at the scene.’

  Dylan looked confused. ‘Why am I only getting to know this now?’

  Larry chose his words carefully: Dylan knew all the professional jargon and its underlying technical meaning. ‘When the car left the road, it ended up on its roof in a deep ravine. It wasn’t the easiest place to retrieve it from, as you can imagine. Eventually, the Traffic police from Redchester identified who the vehicle belonged to through the registration number. They contacted us because you, the owner, were identified on the system as living on another force’s patch, hence our lads then contacted me. The Redchester police had no idea you were a police officer, but obviously our guys did. After they’d got in touch with me, I tried getting hold of you, hoping that you were alive and still at the conference.’

  Dylan put his head in his hands, his fingertips rubbing his forehead. ‘Did she suffer at all?’ he asked, his hooded eyes looking up and searching Larry’s face.

  Larry shook his head. ‘I am reliably informed that Kay’s injuries were such that she would have died instantly. No, she wouldn’t have suffered.’

  There was a long silence between them. Larry had literally taken his breath away, and Dylan was finding it hard to form structured sentences, his brain full of unanswered questions caught up in a tangled web, each fighting for supremacy.

  ‘Was she driving too fast, or perhaps there was ice on the road? Did she swerve to miss an animal?’ He paused, a sudden memory producing a fleeting smile. ‘I’ve seen her slam on the brakes for a damn crow on the road tucking into roadkill; terrified both me and Isla – and the driver behind us, no doubt.’ Dylan paused. He looked puzzled. ‘What the hell was she doing over there in the first place? She’d not mentioned going out, let alone out of the county. I don’t understand.’ Dylan stared into the teacup on the table before him, the cold brown liquid only half drunk. Larry never had been good at making a brew. He rubbed his finger around the rim. ‘There was definitely nothing wrong with the car. It was serviced by Luke, you know Luke Henderson, the police mechanic?’ Dylan stared at Larry, searching his face for more.

  ‘Another reason,’ Larry paused, struggling to force the words out, ‘another reason for the delay in contacting you was because she wasn’t the driver of the car.’

  Dylan looked wary.

  ‘Kay was the passenger in your car and the driver survived, but he is on a life-support machine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everyone assumed that the male driver was you. When I heard about the accident and I checked with the hotel porter, he confirmed that you’d left the conference, but he couldn’t tell me exactly what time.’

  ‘Reception was closed, so I just chucked my keys in the express drop-off.’

  ‘Exactly, but not as early as I initially feared. For all I knew you could have come home after the event had finished the night before and gone out with Kay.’

  ‘So, this person who’s lying in hospital. I guess he can’t be identified?’

  Larry shook his head. ‘And now you know why I was so shocked when you rang me.’

  Dylan’s face was solemn. Larry could see he was working through the information he had been given and trying to put all the pieces of the jigsaw into place. ‘Okay,’ he eventually said, ‘let me get this straight. What we do know is that Kay was the passenger, but we don’t yet know who the driver is?’

  ‘That’s right.’

&nb
sp; ‘Had she been kidnapped, do you think?’

  ‘The driver is badly injured; his face and hands so badly burned that they are completely covered in bandages, besides which he’s been put into an induced coma. There is nothing to suggest Kay was kidnapped.’

  Dylan sat in silence, tears trickling unchecked down his face.

  ‘If she wasn’t kidnapped …’ He stared at Larry.

  Larry swallowed hard. ‘When I dropped the anorak off, she was dressed ready to go out. There was someone else there—’

  ‘Are you telling me Kay was seeing someone?’

  Larry nodded. ‘Looks that way.’

  It was Dylan’s turn to shake his head. ‘Who the fuck?’ he spat through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll fucking kill him.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him, I only heard his voice.’

  Dylan gave him a deadpan look. ‘You mean you don’t know, or you won’t tell me?’

  When no answer was forthcoming Dylan rose from his chair and walked into the lounge to find the answering machine flashing.

  Larry appeared in the doorway, a questioning expression on his face.

  ‘I left a message last night. She never heard it …’ Dylan lifted his face to the window and looked out onto the empty driveway.

  ‘Honestly, no one has any idea who the driver is yet. The main thing is, it isn’t you.’

  Dylan turned. ‘I need to see her. And him.’

  ‘I told you, the driver is covered in bandages so there’s no point going to the hospital. You won’t be able to see anything.’

  ‘But he’s fucking alive, Larry! Kay’s dead. Where’s the fucking justice in that? Perhaps it’d have been better if they’d both died.’ Dylan walked into the hallway and picked up his coat. ‘Let’s get to the mortuary. I need to see Kay and then I want to go to the hospital. I need to see him …’

  ‘But …’

  Dylan raised his arm. ‘I know what you’re going to say. It may sound stupid to you, but I’ve got to see him and I also want to see my car. The Traffic department might know more than me about cars, but they’re not trained investigators. I need to satisfy myself that everything that can be done, is being done. Only then will I accept the outcome.’

  Larry fumbled in his jacket pocket for his mobile phone. ‘I’ll just make a call and let the divisional commander know that you’re safe – and arrange for the coroner’s officer to be there at the mortuary for the viewing. You’ll need to formally identify Kay.’

  ‘I doubt Hugo-Watkins will care whether I’m dead or alive. He’s probably already got one of his yes men lined up as a replacement.’

  The closer they got to the mortuary, the more agitated Dylan became. He glanced over at Larry.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for what?’

  ‘It can’t have been easy, telling me …’

  Larry smiled. ‘Hey, I’m just thankful you’re still here. Who else is gonna save me from myself?’

  Neither man said a word as they walked down the corridor to the viewing room at the mortuary, somewhere they’d walked together a hundred times before; but this time it was different. Larry glanced over at Dylan. The police force must have replaced his blood with ice water – the mask of the detective was locked in place. Their footsteps reverberated, adding to the tension of the moment.

  Dylan’s mind was focused. His marriage might have been over in his head before all this, but it was his heart now taking supremacy. Had his wife lived, and it had been proven that she had been having an affair, she would have been dead to him – there were no grey areas in infidelity as far as he was now concerned.

  Dylan knew the coroner’s officer, former police officer Derek Booth, quite well. He was waiting for them through the swinging doors. Derek was a tall, grey-haired man, with a stubbly grey beard. He was a sensitive soul, with a firm handshake which Dylan noticed hadn’t weakened at all over the years.

  ‘Hang in there, boss,’ said Sir Derek, as he was affectionately known by both his colleagues and the local community where he had served as community constable until his retirement. He put an arm around Dylan’s shoulders; there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘There’s some jewellery in an envelope and clothing in there,’ the mortuary assistant advised, pushing a brown paper bag towards Dylan. The lump inside Dylan’s throat became a rock. Swallowing was all but impossible. His heart wanted to stop, too, as he stared at the bag. Larry took it for him.

  Derek looked towards the viewing room. ‘When you’re ready,’ Derek said. ‘Take as long as you like. I’ll go and put the kettle on and when you’re finished maybe we can have a brew together, eh?’

  Dylan nodded, glad it was Derek on duty and not a stranger. He took a step towards the door. His knees almost failed him and he stumbled slightly. He felt Derek’s hand squeeze his arm. It gave him some comfort and encouraged him to go on. The metal door handle which he had turned many, many times for victims about to view the bodies of their loved ones, today felt very different in his sweaty palm. The door opened slowly to reveal the familiar dimly lit room. Sympathetic music played low in the background and the sweet smell of potpourri hung in the air.

  The strawberry birthmark on Kay’s left forearm was easily identifiable even amidst all the cuts and bruises and burnt flesh. It told him instantly, if he had been in any doubt at all before, that it was his wife’s body laid out before him. Her eyes were closed on her swollen and distorted face, but it was definitely her.

  The injuries from the fire and being thrown through the car windscreen made her battered body appear mannequin-like. Dylan’s throat tightened; he was more than slightly aware of the wounds that the crisp white sheet covering her must conceal. His chest shuddered and his tears were uncontrollable. She looked unbelievably peaceful, like an angel; yet the sight of her was also grotesque.

  ‘Why, Kay?’ he asked. A sob caught in his throat. ‘What the hell were you thinking? Was I such a bad husband?’

  He looked up at the ceiling. ‘How the hell do I break this news to Isla?’ His eyes were drawn to the gaping wound on Kay’s face, stretching from her forehead right down to her chin. A second one extended from her nose to her ear. He knew it was true that her death would have been instant. He was glad she had not suffered.

  He couldn’t bring himself to touch her, let alone to kiss her. He felt totally betrayed. His sadness mingled with anger and he breathed in deeply. ‘Even though I know you were seeing someone else, I still wouldn’t wish you in here. If you weren’t happy, you should have said. I loved you enough to let you go.’

  Part of him wanted to pick her up and shake her; part of him didn’t want to leave her alone. He knew that her soul had gone from her body. He also knew that once he had left, her carcass would be lifted on the tray beneath and slid back into the fridge to lie on a shelf alone, but surrounded by strangers. She’d undergone a post-mortem examination and he knew exactly what that would have entailed. The mere thought of it turned his stomach. She was now nothing more than a statistic. The shell he would leave in the room wasn’t Kay.

  He managed somehow to stop himself from collapsing, allowing himself the comfort of anger as his primary emotion. He remembered their lunch together a few days before. Why hadn’t he confronted her then? Why had he left things to drift? Then his thoughts went back to a few days before that. She had gone out in stockings, Isla had said. Presumably she had been going to meet him. Even when Isla so desperately needed her mum? Had he ever really known his wife?

  The only way he would get through this was by keeping the mask of the detective in place. In his eyes, Kay was now a stranger, no longer the person he’d thought she was. She’d chosen to go off with someone else. Their relationship was in the past and that’s where it would remain, in his past. Shivers ran down his spine. Dylan was not distressed by the chill, he knew full well that the room was kept cool in order to slow the decomposition of the body on the table. He looked down at the corpse before him. That’s all it w
as to him now, just a shell.

  Composed, he turned and walked from the room. He had seen what he needed to see.

  Derek Booth lifted his head when he walked out of the door. His eyes asked the burning question.

  ‘Yes,’ Dylan said. ‘It’s Kay Dylan. My wife.’

  In the kitchen Derek pulled out a chair and handed Dylan a mug of coffee, pushing a plate of Rich Tea biscuits in his direction. ‘Just how you like it, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’ve taken the liberty of writing out your statement identifying her, for you to sign. Now, sit down, read and sign thereon. You know the routine better than most.’

  Dylan sat down next to Larry. Derek patted him gently on the back as he watched him sign his signature. He felt for him, but he also knew, just as Dylan did, that if you got too deeply involved with other people’s sadness you wouldn’t be able to do your job.

  ‘Thanks, Derek,’ said Dylan, offering him the document across the table.

  ‘You’re more than welcome, sir, more than welcome.’ The coroner’s officer looked across at Larry. ‘Your colleague has updated me, so we don’t need anything else from you at this moment. We can speak later,’ he said kindly.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,’ said Larry, as they crossed the car park.

  Dylan walked ahead of him; a man on a mission. ‘Not until I’ve seen the bastard who put her in there,’ he said.