Poetic Justice

by R. C. Bridgestock

  He poured himself another glass of whisky. The alcohol was working, soaking up his thoughts and pushing away worry, and he solemnly waved his glass in the air.

  ‘Here’s to the future, whatever that may be …’ His voice wavered. He was successful, he had a career, he still had a life. His head bowed. The sad thing was that, according to Larry, Kay’s death was even more of a senseless waste because to her lover she had been just a conquest, whereas to Dylan she had been the whole world. What else could he have done to please her? He had done everything she had asked of him: worked hard and earned enough money to give her the comfortable lifestyle she craved – which, until now, he’d believed she’d enjoyed. But he was forced to admit that it hadn’t been enough, maybe nothing he could have done would ever have been enough; he wasn’t Richard, Isla’s dad. How foolish had he been to try to make himself believe that he could ever be enough for the lovely, vivacious Kay?

  All this time she might just have considered him as a provider: the one who gave her the material things in life. Today he had been faced with a harsh reality and he couldn’t even ask her why. She was gone from him. The real truth could be that she had never really been his.

  He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had felt as helpless as he did now, and he wasn’t quite certain what enraged him more: Kay’s clever attempts at hiding her indiscretions, or the fact that he had failed to act on his instincts sooner. But then he hadn’t really wanted to think her capable of such deceit. How could he ever trust anyone again?

  He turned his face into the cushion and let the tears flow. It was time to let go. He gulped his drink down and reached for the bottle, aware that if he drank any more he would become entirely numb and end up not feeling anything. He poured himself another whisky.

  The next two days passed by in a blur. Then he remembered there was a funeral to plan.

  It appeared that Kay had pushed Kenny Fisher closer to insanity every day. When news of her death was broken to him by doctors, he seemed to smile with satisfaction, rather than show any signs of being upset. No one else would ever be able to have her now. His lack of control over his facial muscles was put down by the doctors to him being taken off the medication to allow him to wake up from the induced coma. Besides, the staff monitoring him were more than aware that everyone reacted differently to news of a death.

  Medical staff continued to perform tests on him, those that had had to wait until the patient was awake. Previously undetected brain injuries, usually a result of a lack of oxygen, but occasionally from a stroke, had been known to occur while patients were in a drug-induced coma in the past, and this was a consideration in his case owing to his strange reactions since being woken.

  Kenny had no such injuries. He was patiently biding his time until he felt strong enough to leave the hospital, knowing full well that the doctors wouldn’t allow the detectives anywhere near him until he was deemed fit to be interviewed.

  The police in charge of the enquiry had been told that the unnamed man involved in the fatal accident was off the danger list – his visible wounds were healing quickly and quite well, and he was both eating and sleeping – but his mental health was causing the doctors concern. Also of deep concern, to the police and hospital staff alike, was that no one had reported a man of his description missing.

  It was all part of Kenny Fisher’s clever planning. He had no family, or none that would miss a short absence, and his work force were never shocked by him ‘upping and off’ when he pleased. For some time, he had done the bulk of his work by telephone or using the latest computer technology.

  Days passed and his identity was still unknown. In his mute state he appeared gracious and grateful to the staff who nursed him. His wounds were still such that the authorities would not show them to the media – they were simply too shocking.

  When he did finally speak, he expressed a wish to leave hospital as soon as possible.

  Two rest days at home and Dylan was back in the office, early as usual. He wanted an update on the accident, intending to use his experience as an investigator to understand what had happened to his wife. He was ready to go to the scene to see for himself the stretch of road where the accident had taken place. Photographic evidence and witness statements were all well and good, but he was more than aware that nothing beat being at an actual crime scene to get the feeling for both the time and the place.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Dawn in conversation with the uniformed inspector. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked when she tapped at his door and entered his office a few minutes later. She sat down opposite him.

  ‘An update regarding Tiffany Shaw. Remember? The schoolgirl who went missing the same day as Tanya King.’

  His look was wry. ‘’Course I remember. I might have a lot on my plate right now, but I’m not senile yet.’

  ‘Touché,’ she said, with a bob of her head. ‘Tiffany has confessed to spending the night with an older man – her teacher – but she is adamant that he didn’t force himself on her, and that intercourse was by consent.’

  Dylan nodded. ‘But she can’t legally give her consent because she’s only fourteen years of age.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, I didn’t want to disturb you last night, but it appears that the fact that her dad is a builder and built like the proverbial brick shit-house – and has a put a price on the teacher’s head – has dampened her lover’s ardour a bit. He’s come out of hiding and into the station with his solicitor. He’s admitted everything and been arrested for rape. He’s up for remand this morning.’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t very well argue that he didn’t know her age, could he, since he taught her?’

  ‘No, he’s only twenty-three himself, and has ruined a very promising career by all accounts.’

  Dawn saw Dylan bite his bottom lip. He sighed. ‘Another one who’s fucked it up for everyone then, just because he can’t keep his dick in his pants.’

  Dylan parked up on the A62 near the remnants of police tape dangling from a bare branch of a leafless tree and flapping in the wind. More tape still divided the area where the car had left the road from the rest of the world. Tempted as he was to get out and tear it down, he resisted: it reminded him that it was here Kay had died, with her as yet unnamed lover beside her.

  He remained seated inside the car for some time. Radio Leeds had been playing in the background all the while, but his attention was suddenly drawn to the lyrics of the current song, and he reached out to turn up the volume. It was ‘I'd Do Anything for Love’.Transfixed by the tune, he continued to listen as the words built up the suspense, portraying a romance-consumed lover who pledged to do anything in the name of love except ‘that’, a mysterious thing that he won’t specify. The revving of the motorcycle, the police chase … the song went on and on, and he with it, until the conclusion where the woman predicts what he will eventually do and the singer denies that he will ever leave her and start screwing around.

  Dylan stared out across the bleak wilderness, beautiful, challenging and unforgiving, his whole being consumed with grief. Would he not have done that?

  After a while he stepped out of his car and headed towards the guardrail that protected tired drivers from the almighty drop into the wilderness beyond. He passed a waist-high concrete bollard that had obviously been hit at speed for it to have crumbled as it had. At its base lay a bunch of freshly picked wild flowers; his eyes searched for a note – there was none. Before he could ponder on this, the wind picked up and hurried him along towards the grass verge where there remained clear evidence of the path the car had travelled before going over the edge.

  It was as if he was there as it had happened. He could hear the sound of a car hitting a bollard, so real it seemed that he quickly looked over his shoulder towards the road. He heard the terrifying screeching of brakes and put his hands over his ears, screwing up his face and tightly closing his eyes in an effort to block out the nightmare images dancing through his mind. When he opened
them again he was surrounded by a low, white cloud that spread towards the ravine, abruptly halting at its edge. The cloud tops were as smooth now as the surface of the road. Then a thunderous smash made him jump. Seconds later it was followed by a booming sound, as the ghost car came to an abrupt halt below. The apparition had him rooted him to the spot and he heard his own voice crying out into the ether, pleading, ‘No! NO!’

  He stepped forward and, tentatively looking down into the ravine’s belly, spied two red lights, the width of a car, staring back up at him from the abyss. Then there was nothing but an eerie silence.

  Dylan stared into the ravine, surveying the expanse of plants and trees, blending together every possible shade of green. The clouds parted and the sun came shining through. A brilliant white light shone down towards the earth and met the dispersing cloud, forming a ‘stairway to heaven’ – or was it hell, given the circumstances?

  Walking back to the road, he felt strangely empowered. He had a desperate need to see the car that had been involved in the fatal accident, but he knew it was still on the ramps in the police garage, waiting to be examined by the vehicle investigation branch, so that was impossible. He had promised himself he would not interfere with the official investigation into Kay’s death, but that wouldn’t stop him doing his own. Only then could he accept the outcome, which he hoped would result in a substantial jail term for the driver.

  Back at the station he searched the computer database for the latest information and his heartbeat quickened on seeing that the driver had been identified as one Kevin Fisher. He was taken aback: the only Kevin Fisher he knew was Kay’s boss, Kenny.

  The Road Traffic sergeant dealing with the accident was Barry Thewlis. Dylan wanted to get to Fisher, he wanted to get to Fisher so badly, but he knew he had to bide his time, so he went to speak to Thewlis.

  Dylan found Thewlis in his office, doing paperwork. It was dark outside and he looked to be concentrating, head down. As he came up behind him, Dylan put his hand on the sergeant’s back and gently patted it so as not to startle him.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Dylan.

  Thewlis looked over his shoulder. ‘I think it’s me who should be asking you that,’ he replied.

  Dylan sat in the chair next to him as Thewlis opened a file drawer in his desk. He selected several papers and spread them out in front of him. ‘I’m guessing you want the lowdown?’ His eye caught Dylan’s.

  He nodded. ‘Please. Whatever you can tell me.’

  Thewlis tapped his pen against the desktop thoughtfully, then put it down and cracked his knuckles. ‘Your vehicle is still being examined but rest assured it’s being treated as priority. They want to be absolutely sure there weren’t any mechanical defects that might have contributed to the accident.’

  ‘I read Frank Bland’s witness statement, the one he gave about the vehicle prior to the accident. Is it possible to have a copy of that faxed over to my office so I can study what he said? If he got the impression the erratic driving was deliberate, then maybe this wasn’t quite the accident we’ve been led to believe it was.’

  Thewlis nodded. ‘The driver of the car was stone cold sober at time of the accident, whereas your wife was three times over the legal limit. Which might explain why she was in the passenger seat. It’s most unfortunate that her airbag didn’t deploy.’

  ‘But the driver’s did?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thewlis paused. ‘I know it won’t give you much comfort, but your wife died instantly.’

  Dylan’s face was impassive, but he carried on as if he had his own agenda. ‘I see that it’s been confirmed that the driver was a Kevin Fisher?’

  Thewlis blinked. ‘Yes, we were contacted by the hospital when Fisher confirmed his details to them. Does the name mean anything to you?’ Thewlis sat back in his chair and chewed the top of his pen.

  Dylan’s mouth twisted. He paused and looked down at his hands. ‘Yes, it does,’ he answered. ‘Kevin, known as Kenny, Fisher is – or rather was – Kay’s boss.’

  The corner of Thewlis’s mouth turned down. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’

  Dylan didn’t acknowledge his sympathy, afraid that if he did he would lapse into speaking as the victim and not the investigator. ‘Do we know why her airbag didn’t deploy?’ he asked.

  Thewlis straightened up. ‘No, not yet. That question will form part of the examiner’s findings.’

  ‘And Fisher hasn’t been interviewed yet, I understand?’

  Thewlis hesitated. ‘We’re waiting for the hospital staff to give us the green light, but as soon as he is fit for interview, we will be speaking to him.’

  Dylan sat forward. ‘And you’ll let me know what he says?’

  Thewlis smiled slightly. ‘Of course. I can guarantee that.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  This can’t be happening, thought Jen, when she saw Detective Inspector Jack Dylan put his head around the admin door and motion to her. Her face flushed as she rose from her chair to walk towards him. At six foot, Dylan was tall. If that didn’t separate him from the rest of his colleagues, his chestnut brown hair, blue eyes and handsomely chiselled features, which were normally devoid of any emotion except for the rare moments when he was mildly amused, would have captured anyone’s attention.

  The soulful eyes which had greeted him when they were first introduced at the retirement party now appeared like large blue saucers, lost as they were in the depths of her now gaunt face. She appeared to have lost weight since he had last seen her. Her A-line skirt hung loosely about her hips and the elegant blouse she wore hung off the shoulders of her delicate frame. A walking coat-hanger was the description a few of her colleagues had started to use.

  Jen wasn’t sure what the correct words of condolence were when speaking to an officer of Dylan’s rank or, indeed, whether she should mention his private life at all. After all, she barely knew him. Yet she felt a strange connection to his world, having registered the details of his wife’s death in the Accident Register, marking the booklet with the ghastly red pen which was kept aside specifically for use on such dire occasions. It had been her first fatality in the job.

  Dylan forced his mind back to the reason for him being there.

  Jen tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She coughed and tore her eyes away from his.

  His voice was even and polite, ‘I am told that you’re the one to speak to regarding the Accident Register?’ he said, in order to break the silence.

  Jen nodded.

  ‘I’ll be in sitting in the kitchen along the corridor. Would you mind joining me?’

  Jen shook her head and he was gone. She watched him walk down the corridor.

  Rita’s desk was next to the shelves where the Accident Register was kept. She raised her eyes to meet Jen’s as she lifted it down, her expression full of empathy.

  Dylan prowled the kitchen. He turned when he heard the door open and immediately sat down at the table.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear the sad news about your wife,’ Jen said, doing her utmost to avoid direct eye contact. Dylan held his hand out for the book. The tension between them was palpable. There was some awkward fumbling owing to the register’s large size; as it left Jen’s hands, her fingers touched his and a shock wave like a mild electric pulse passed between them. Her eyes met his, but didn’t find the look she’d expected; instead there was a childlike vulnerability in his gaze, which made her want to reach out and give him a hug.

  She moved over to the kitchen worktops and, needing to do something with her hands, filled up the kettle and plugged it in. She could hear him turning the pages, then he stopped. Jen held her breath for a moment, then pulled two cups out of the cupboard and fiddled with the screw cap on the coffee jar, busying herself until she got up the nerve to turn around.

  Dylan scanned the entry, hoping and praying that he would find some answers, but there was nothing other than the facts he already knew. When Jen turned, he was slamming the register shut. She c
arried the cups to the table, her hands shaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Dylan gave a weak smile as she put a cup down in front of him. ‘For what?’ he asked.

  ‘For not being able to help.’

  Dylan shook his head. ‘I don’t really know what I was expecting.’

  ‘Answers?’ she suggested, taking a sip of coffee.

  ‘I guess so.’ He sighed heavily.

  ‘And all the register will give you is the bare facts: day, date, time, location et cetera. I could have told you that if you’d asked,’ she said softly.

  ‘I had to see it for myself, for my own peace of mind.’ He smiled briefly. ‘It’s the investigator in me, it’s a curse; I can’t leave anything to chance.’ He put one hand on the table and stood with the cup in the other before emptying it. ‘Thank you for humouring me,’ he said sincerely.

  Jen sat for a while after he’d left. Why do terrible things happen to nice people?

  Returning to his own office, Dylan was surprised to see Larry, clutching a brown envelope in his hand.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Jack? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’

  Dylan took out his phone and checked it, seeing three missed calls from Larry. His pager also showed that he had been bleeped several times.

  ‘What’s so important?’ Dylan asked, sliding behind his desk.

  ‘Kenny Fisher is on the mend. They’re hoping to speak to him soon.’