When morning came, he was still at the side of Isla’s bed. She had slept peacefully and appeared calm and serene beneath the starched white sheets. When she woke, she gave him a dreamy smile. He put his hand on her clammy arm, cringing to see that her two front teeth were broken. His eyes left hers and came to rest on a Bible that was on the bedside cabinet beside him.
‘We’ve prepared a room for your daughter so that the doctors can evaluate her further,’ said a nurse, as she busied herself checking Isla’s vital signs. Another nurse gathered together the little property Isla had with her from the cabinet.
Dylan walked briskly to keep up with the medical team as they wheeled Isla into a lift and down a corridor towards an unknown destination. He was thankful that, with her head bowed down in her drug-induced state, Isla didn’t see the signs for the mental health secure unit or feel as pained as he did at all the security measures that had to be taken before people could enter or leave.He looked down at the straps that restrained her. How had it come to this? There were so many questions he wanted to ask but he knew he had to bide his time.
When the nurse accompanying them exchanged clipboards with another, Isla was taken off to the left in the wheelchair. Dylan was directed to the right, into a windowless waiting room that was as white, shiny, bright and sterile-looking as the corridor.
‘Someone will be out to see you as soon as they’ve got her settled,’ the nurse said. She paused and handed Dylan a clipboard. ‘In the meantime, it would help if you could complete this form.’ The nurse scurried away before he could say another word.
Dylan sat down. He needed to fill in the form, but first he needed to stop his hands from shaking.
Outside the hospital, he leaned against cold stone, in the space between the entrance and a window, one foot planted firmly against the wall. Hearing his phone ring, he fumbled in his pocket and answered it. He saw that he’d missed several calls.
‘Where are you?’ Larry’s voice sounded desperate.
Dylan smiled a little. Normality was good. ‘I’m on my way to the station. I’ll catch up with you there.’
‘No, wait,’ Larry said. ‘Don’t hang up. We’ve got calls coming in to say your house is on fire. Good God! I thought you were in there.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
A pall of thick, black smoke lay heavy in the air and, as Dylan approached the scene, he detected the scent of burning peculiar to a house fire: a bitter stench mixing charred dry wood with the odour of burning plastic and smouldering synthetic household fabrics. He parked his car and ran towards the house. At the top of the driveway he stood powerless and immobile. He wanted to run inside the house with gallant intentions, but his spirit was crippled. Faceless people surrounded him: a police officer guarding the scene; a firefighter dragging a heavy hose up the driveway; the obligatory onlookers staring and pointing.
Larry joined him at the same time as his neighbour, Janice Anderson. She touched Dylan’s arm lightly. ‘Would you two like a drink?’ she asked, handing them both a steaming mug of pale liquid. ‘My Tony has a friend who is in the fire restoration business,’ she said. ‘He’s on the telephone to him now. Maybe he can help?’
She tottered off in her fluffy pink slippers. Larry gave Dylan a sideways glance. ‘Restoration! Is she having a laugh?’ Larry said, putting the mug to his lips. He grimaced. The tea tasted like paint thinner.
Seeing the shards of glass, pieces of splintered wood and broken bricks strewn all over the neat patch of garden, Larry whistled through his teeth. ‘Who built these houses, the three little pigs?’
‘Looks that way doesn’t it,’ Dylan replied. Outwardly, he appeared to be coping; inside, he cried silently, broken and distraught.
‘If this is how bad it is on the outside, I don’t hold out much hope for anything inside.’
Dylan could only shake his head in despair.
‘What’s worse, the whole crime scene is totally soaked in water.’ Larry turned to look at Dylan. ‘On a positive, we have a witness who saw someone running away, with an arm ablaze: a white male, so at least we have a lead.’
‘What twisted bastard would go so far as to try to burn my house down, Larry? Why?’
Inside the house, the stench was overpowering. Dylan’s irritated eyes immediately started to water, fumes caught in his throat and he began to cough violently. The firefighter at the door offered him his bottle of water.
‘I’ll be fine, thanks,’ said Dylan. The amount of structural damage surprised him. In his experience, a fire normally tended to consume a room’s contents – all the personal items that made the aftermath of a fire such a tragedy for inhabitants – but left the house itself merely scarred. However, as he looked up now he could actually see openings where plaster board had been torn from the ceiling. The staircase itself had all but disappeared: had there been petrol through the letterbox? He could just about make out the remnants of some of the furniture.
Life, as he had known it, was over: dead and buried for ever. All that was left now was to bury Kay and to get Isla well again.
Dylan closed his office door, shutting out the sympathetic looks from the team. He wanted normality; he didn’t want their sympathy or pity. He was in the process of unlocking his desk drawer when Larry stuck his head round the door.
‘I’ll get us a coffee and a slice of toast, shall I?’ Dylan’s eyes rose to meet his colleague’s.
‘Don’t worry, lad. I’ll make sure it’s not burnt.’
The door closed behind him and Dylan laughed. What else could he do? It could have been a lot worse; he would have been in bed fast asleep when the fire struck had he not gone to the hospital. He shuddered to think what would have happened then. Isla had saved him.
When the phone rang ten minutes later Dylan paused the CCTV footage he was viewing and picked it up. Barry Thewlis was on his way to see him with updates regarding the accident and Kenny Fisher. Dylan finished his toast and drained his coffee cup just as Thewlis appeared at his door. He invited him in. Thewlis shut the door behind him, his face grave.
‘Don’t lose it, boss,’ he said, ‘but Fisher signed himself out of the hospital before we had a chance to speak to him.’
‘What?’ Dylan cried out, drawing back and throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. His voice sounded like air escaping from a blacksmith’s bellows. His face turned a vivid crimson, deep enough to rival the colour of any red wine.
Thewlis kept his composure. ‘Please hear me out. From the outset it was clear to us that the accident wasn’t all that it seemed. In fact, we now believe that it wasn’t an accident at all.’
The men exchanged a look.
‘I’m all ears,’ said Dylan.
Thewlis’s face remained matter-of-fact when he handed over the rolled-up report to Dylan. ‘If you read this, sir, you’ll see the lack of tyre marks on the road signifies there was no attempt at all by the driver to brake at any time, a fact which is confirmed by our only witness.’
Dylan nodded eagerly. ‘Go on.’
‘Neither did the witness report seeing any brake lights until after the car had gone over the edge, something which you’d expect to see if the driver was attempting an emergency stop before the collision with the first bollard, let alone the second and the third …’
Dylan looked up from the report at the man on the other side of the desk and found his voice again. ‘I’ve been to the scene,’ he admitted. ‘Not that I don’t trust you; I just wanted to see it for myself.’
‘Of course you have. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,’ Thewlis said, only a slight strain showing in his smile. He inhaled deeply and continued. ‘You will see that the passenger seatbelt anchorage point has been deliberately unscrewed. These things, I am assured, don’t vibrate loose by themselves.’
In the blink of an eye, Dylan’s expression changed. He stared at Thewlis without speaking.
‘Also, there is the issue of the passenger airbag not activating.’
Dylan hesitated. ‘Surely these faults would have been picked up when the car was serviced?’
Thewlis nodded. ‘You’d think so. Which makes me think that any tinkering was done afterwards.’
For a moment Dylan’s stomach sank as he imagined the worst. ‘A deliberate act?’
‘The evidence suggests it. The damage is far greater on the passenger side, which confirms to the experts what our witness says.’ Thewlis paused. ‘Can I ask, was the vehicle new when you bought it?’
Dylan shook his head. ‘No, one careful lady owner; but it was two, nearly three years old. Why?’
‘Because it may be that the first owner switched the passenger airbag system off.’
Dylan frowned. ‘How would I know?’
‘Apparently, the driver is notified by way of a symbol that lights up on the dashboard.’
‘Then to my knowledge the passenger airbag was set to “on”. I have never seen a light on the dashboard that has signified anything else.’ He was thoughtful. ‘Saying that, I’ve not driven the car much lately …’ He paused again. ‘But I did drive it back from picking Isla up from the university and I would surely have noticed then if there had been anything amiss.’
‘All these factors have to be considered by the vehicle examiners.’
‘So, let me get this straight. You’re saying that whoever disabled the airbag and unscrewed the anchorage point on the seatbelt would have known that, should the car be involved in a collision, the passenger would be thrown through the windscreen, leaving any chance of survival highly doubtful? But the driver of the car would more than likely survive unscathed – seatbelt and airbag still being there to protect them?’
‘Exactly! You may recall that the witness to the accident also says in his statement that he got the impression that the collisions were a deliberate act, owing to the fact the driver swerved into all three bollards at speed.’
‘Perhaps Fisher misjudged the last bollard or Kay, fearing for her life, managed to drag the wheel from him? My wife would have fought back if she thought for one moment her life was in danger.’
Thewlis’s eyebrows rose. ‘Or Fisher’s airbag activated and he lost control of the vehicle at that point.’
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. ‘That would make sense. Going down the ravine surely wasn’t part of Fisher’s plan.’
‘I think that is a possibility.’
‘Then Fisher was attempting to kill Kay and make it look like it was an accident. But why? Is he mad?’
Dylan was puzzled. ‘Is unscrewing the anchorage point on a seatbelt a straightforward procedure?’
Thewlis nodded. ‘It is if you know what you’re doing.’
‘And turning the passenger airbag off?’
‘Possibly nothing more than a switch. Again, easy if you know how to do it.’ Thewlis looked thoughtful. ‘You don’t think Fisher was the one who torched your house, do you?’
Dylan looked forlorn. ‘Maybe him, maybe Patrick Todd, or maybe some other random idiot whose name hasn’t come into the equation yet.’ He slumped back in his chair. ‘Look, I’ll get CID out looking for Fisher and we’ll open up this investigation. Another thing I still don’t understand is that Kay was not a big drinker, never had been, and yet her bloods showed she was well over the legal limit.’
‘That’s right, three times over,’ said Thewlis.
‘So how did that come about? And do you think that points to her being unconscious when the car hit the posts?’
Thewlis’s eyes widened. ‘Are you thinking that your wife may already have been dead when the accident occurred?’
‘Perhaps. But let’s not assume anything. We must secure the evidence and let that speak for itself.’
Thewlis stood up. ‘In the meantime, we need to find Fisher.’
After Barry Thewlis had left, Dylan called Larry into his office. An incident room needed to be set up and the team required briefing. The priority enquiry was to find Kenny Fisher – and Patrick Todd.
Initially, the office was to be divided into two teams, one to be headed by Dylan, the other by Larry.
‘You sure you’re up to this?’ Larry asked. ‘Your priority should be finding a bed for the night.’
Dylan waved his suggestion away as being inconsequential. His red-rimmed eyes offered the hint of a smile. ‘When did you become the sensible one?’ he asked Larry, looking around the office. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with here?’
Dylan was keen to head the team looking for Kenny Fisher, but Larry persuaded him otherwise.
‘Think about it. It’s highly likely HQ will bring in someone else to head up the enquiry even if you insist on heading it yourself,’ he said, meeting Dylan’s gaze. ‘You know it, I know it. Now if you go looking for Todd, we might just get away without outside interference.’ He casually lifted an arm to halt any dissent. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said at the sight of Dylan’s disappointment; he allowed himself a little smirk. ‘I’ll make sure when we do find him that he resists arrest and he gets what’s coming to him, you can be assured of that. Mind you, saying that, I don’t think for one minute he’ll come quietly, do you? Whatever happens, we’ll be ready for him.’
The briefing room was well lit. Eight wooden tables with metal legs, surrounded by several rows of folding chairs, all faced in the same direction. A large dry-wipe board was mounted on one wall. The room was without windows and smelt of school dinners.
Dylan’s entrance was met by a few raised eyebrows and the odd sympathetic smile. Some faces were familiar, others were not. Standing at the front of the room with Larry, Dylan briefed the team with all the information he had. With all eyes focused on him, he described the suspects.
Detective Constable Ned Granger sloped into the room as quietly as he could, to be met with Dylan’s glare. The small, portly figure handed Larry a note then sat down. Larry read the contents and passed it on to Dylan. The room was silent as he also read its contents.
‘A witness has come forward in relation to the fire at my home,’ he told the assembled gathering. ‘The witness says that he saw someone hurrying from my house, frantically beating out flames on his arm. Fortunately for him, the flames were quickly extinguished and he was seen jumping into a dark-coloured Mercedes and driving off. This may or may not be linked to either of the enquiries, but at this stage I think we would be naïve not to think these personal attacks on myself and my family are not linked.’ Dylan’s eyes found Ned’s. ‘Have we got a description?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Yes, the person is described by the witness as of average height and neither fat nor thin.’
Dylan’s face fell. ‘Fat lot of use that is.’ Then his face brightened. ‘But we can get confirmation of Fisher’s vehicle and the registration details from the company he owns.’
‘Exactly,’ said Larry. ‘And once we have that we will circulate it to all units.’
Dylan looked thoughtful. ‘If it was Fisher, then we need to find him quickly to be able to prove that our witness was describing him.’
Ned looked puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Think about it. It was dark at the time and without evidence of the burns on his clothing, which I presume he will have ditched by now, and with his recent hospitalisation for burns to his hands in the car accident anyway, the witness could easily be discredited in a court of law by a decent defence solicitor.’
‘Another obvious line of enquiry is the hospitals. If someone had a serious injury that required treatment, the port of call for them would be the A&E department, wouldn’t it?’ said Ned.
Dylan nodded. ‘And not just in this county, try over the borders as well.’
When Dylan had finished briefing his team, and all local units were on the lookout for Patrick Todd, he sat down at his desk and contemplated his next move.
His top drawer was open slightly and he was drawn to the copy of the accident file he’d put there earlier. The writing on the front was blurred; the photocopier cartridges needed changing. Dylan removed the
photographs and the papers and spread them out on his desk. As he flicked through the pages it dawned on him that Fisher, for whatever reason, appeared to be playing a game with him – a deadly game. Dylan could sense it.
If Fisher was responsible for Kay’s death and the firing of his house, he knew he would be gone by now; he was one step ahead of them. They were wasting their time looking in the Harrowfield area. It was this gut reaction that made him suggest to Larry that his team should be making enquiries further afield. If he was heading for the airport in his condition, it would be Leeds/Bradford or Manchester and, if he did need hospital treatment badly, any hospital in between.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The detective inspector’s string of bad luck was the topic of conversation throughout the station: everywhere Jen turned they were talking about it. The media, having heard several rumours, were also ringing their contacts at the station for comments, but one thing the police were good at when a fellow officer’s chips were down was being supportive. Requests were channelled through the Press Office who presently were giving very little, indeed nothing, away.
Dylan was mindful of the situation but kept his head down and carried on. The hierarchy might think he was too close to the investigation to be impartial, but he was aware that they had no one else available to take over the enquiry at the moment.
Poetic Justice Page 20
