Consequences

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  Consequences

  RC Bridgestock

  Fiction aimed at the heart and the head…

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2012

  Copyright © RC Bridgestock 2012

  RC Bridgestock has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

  www. caffeine-nights com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-17-5

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Aknowledgements

  Thank you to Margaret Emsley, Gemma Beckwith and Ray Jordan for the reading of early drafts and subsequent support and contributions.

  Also to our publisher Darren Laws for his continued hard work, dedication and belief in Jack Dylan's career.

  For those who strive daily to bring to justice the lawbreakers.

  The victims will always come first.

  Consequences

  Chapter One

  ‘Enough,’ Detective Inspector Jack Dylan sighed as he slid his chair away from the desk. He had spent a good few hours with his nose to the grindstone but at last he had reached the base of the paper mountain that had greeted him at the start of his day.

  He studied for a moment the last letter in his pile, yet another solicitor’s request for a hard copy of a police file. Why in the age of electronic messaging did they, along with the courts and Uncle Tom Cobley and all still demand them? It wasn’t as if they didn’t have computer terminals or a network set up; so it had to be down to people being afraid of change, or their lack of trust in today’s technology. The prosecution file against the child murderer of Daisy Charlotte Hind and Christopher Spencer he’d recently dealt with would fill two transit vans; yet another rain forest turned to dust. He’d already received copious letters from the defence solicitors Perfect & Best who had a reputation for being ruthless. Their business had recently moved to the larger premises of the old Co-Op buildings in Harrowfield as their popularity increased amongst the criminal fraternity. They condemned police action at every opportunity and ensured the press were there to report it. Nonetheless, their clients still got sent down, but not without a courtroom drama. Dylan knew they would have a team ready to spend hours, days, weeks scrutinizing the case, searching for that weak link, a break of continuity in the line of evidence or a failure to disclose something to the defence; anything to drive a stake right through the heart of the prosecution case. The defence had it easy in his eyes everything was delivered to their door on a platter. The main evidence was received by them a matter of days after an arrest and once they knew what the police evidence was they could then put forward a defence. Dylan smirked to himself as he packed documents into his briefcase, a case for the three monkeys perhaps for the defence could see everything, hear everything and say nowt. There were only four defences to murder: diminished responsibility, insanity, provocation or a suicide pact. Who knows, Perfect & Best might advise their client to plead guilty on this one - Nah, that wouldn’t be a money-maker for them now would it?

  Dylan jumped as his leg cramped and he frantically rubbed it. It was time to go home. He was looking forward to a weekend away on the Isle of Wight with his partner Jen, far from the madding crowd.

  ‘On my way love, just crossing the yard to the car,’ Dylan spoke into his mobile.

  ‘Brilliant. We’re all ready and waiting...aren’t we?’ she said, as he heard Max their golden retriever start barking loudly in the background.

  ‘Let’s set straight off to miss the teatime traffic, eh? We can grab a sandwich on the way. I’ll drive.’ she shouted over the noise.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, smiling. ’I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.’ He put his briefcase in the boot of the car. He knew a couple of hours start on the rush hour traffic would make such a difference to the lengthy journey. Throwing his suit jacket on the back seat of car he pulled off his tie and opened his shirt collar. Dropping his shoulders, he sighed dramatically and could instantly feel himself relaxing as he relished the thought of time off after the pressure he’d been under, recently. The radio bellowed out an Abba song and he found himself singing along, badly. He chuckled; thank goodness no one could hear. A mile from home he joined a queue of slow moving traffic. At the approach to Stan Bridge the traffic came to a standstill. Dylan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Come on…places to go, people to see,’ he muttered. Winding down the window and leaning out as far as he could he saw a flashing blue beacon ahead. Was it police, ambulance? ‘Not an accident …please,’ he groaned. He turned up the radio. The local news was just about to start. In his experience local radio was always fantastic at keeping people up to date with traffic news. There was no alternative route though, whatever the problem, so he’d no choice but to wait. And he did; what could have been only minutes seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dylan as he banged his hand hard on the steering wheel, accidentally causing his horn to blare out which triggered a chain reaction from the other drivers.

  ‘Damn.’ That wasn’t his intention. He knew only too well car horns did nothing to ease a situation such as this and he immediately felt embarrassed.

  ‘Police are advising motorists to avoid the Stan Bridge area of the A581 as they are dealing with an incident of a man threatening to jump off the bridge. There could be long delays.’ The words came from the rich, calm voice of the broadcaster who was obviously sat in his cosy office. The last thing Dylan wanted was to get involved, but what could he do? Sit tight and hope a police negotiator was on the way or the person jumped? He, like the rest in the queue, simply wanted to continue on his journey. He picked up his mobile. Their phone was engaged. If he knew her, Jen would be ringing her dad with an estimated time of arrival. This message from him he knew was going to go down like a lead balloon.

  ‘Slight delay love...I’ve got a jumper. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’ He switched his mobile off, threw it on the passenger seat, retrieved his jacket and eased himself out of the car. Dylan locked the car and set off to walk past the stationary vehicles and their frustrated occupants.

  Jen picked up his message smiling and ended listening to it in tears of frustration, kicking the suitcases that stood like sentries on the doorstep.

  ‘Ouch,’ she screamed as she stubbed her toe. Max cowered. Jen hopped up and down the hallway, moaning.’ Flaming work, why do I bloody bother?’ She seethed, flopping dramatically down on the sofa in the lounge. She looked towards the ceiling pulling her hand through her hair in frustration. Max settled amongst the bags in the hall like a brindle suitcase – to be sure he wouldn’t be forgotten. She picked up the pamphlet of the beautiful, pictur
e postcard thatched cottage in Luccombe she had rented. The pictures showed far-reaching sea views but it was nearly three hundred miles away and they were now not going to see them today, it would be dark by the time they arrived. Although the few days away was a chance to escape the rat race, it was also an opportunity to check up on her dad and see how he was coping since her mum had been tragically killed as a result of a road accident a few months earlier and she couldn’t wait to see him. His neighbours had been kind, keeping an eye on him and updating her, but she was desperate to see how he was for herself. Although her Dad had always seemed the stronger of the two, in fact it was her mum who had always been the housekeeper and his rock. Jen couldn’t believe he was cooking for himself these days, since he’d never so much as made a cup of tea when her mum was alive. She shook her head and sighed, poor dad. She felt so guilty leaving him after the funeral but he had insisted that his life was on the Isle of Wight and he had no intention of leaving. It had been her home too until a few years ago when she’d felt she had no alternative but to move away.

  ‘Please hurry Jack,’ she said, and Max barked as he rose and came to her side. She was never surer he understood everything she said as she stroked his strong, soft head.

  DI Dylan’s pace quickened as he passed the toll booth. ‘Of all the bridges in all the world, why did it have to be this one, kid?’ The bridge he knew was no stranger to disasters. The present structure, built from Yorkshire stone, had two semi-elliptical arch ribs that were supported by stone piers. An earlier stone bridge on the site had collapsed on Rogation Day in the seventeen hundreds, during a beating of the bounds ceremony, causing many injuries. It had partly collapsed in a flash flood in recent years and was a place that Dylan had become a regular visitor to as a Negotiator where he attempted to talk people out of jumping to their deaths. Dylan reached the police car and beyond it at its highest point he could see the would-be flyer. The fragile figure of a young man stood like an Olympic diver, peering over the edge.

  Dylan recognised the young policewoman heading towards him.

  ‘Do we know who he is, Tracy?’

  ‘No sir,’ she said, surprised he remembered her name. He looked upwards… ‘Why’s he up there?’

  ‘Er. . . he’s threatening to jump.’

  Dylan raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, sorry sir, that’s a bit obvious…’ she said, blushing so intensely that her cheeks, brow and neck were suffused in crimson.

  ‘Supervision is on its way and I’ve just been asked to stop traffic at this end. We’ve got another car at the Sibden end.’

  Dylan nodded. ’Okay, let Control know there’s a negotiator here, that’s me. Now who’s stating the obvious?’ he said, as he smiled at her. ’Get them to divert traffic further back and make sure everything is stopped under the bridge. We could do with an ambulance down below, nearby. We’ll also need HQ to mobilise the Operational Support Unit in case he goes in the river.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tracy looked relieved to be given a purposeful task.

  ‘I’m gonna try and talk some sense into him. When you’ve done, walk to within ten yards of me so I don’t have to shout if we need to pass a message to Control. At the same time I don’t want him to be able to hear your radio transmitting.’

  ‘Of course sir,’ she said.

  ‘Right, better get to him. He might go over before I even get there at this rate.’ Dylan saw Tracy’s face blanch. In an instant it was as though she realised that the man threatening to jump might actually do it and she’d be a witness to the incident.

  Dylan strode out with urgency in his pace. He could hear the taunts and jeers from the crowd that had gathered behind him.

  ‘Tell him to jump. Do us all a favour.’ called one. Dylan cringed.

  Dylan knew a lot of people hadn’t time for suicides: their view being that some people frantically fought daily to save lives and people attempting suicide were throwing theirs away. Only one member of the public had stepped forward to help Dylan in a similar situation – the brother of a ‘jumper’. Against the manual’s advice Dylan had let him go forward. Within seconds the brothers were like bookends on the flyover both threatening to jump. Fortunately after a couple of hours of ‘double talk,’ they climbed down, but Dylan had learnt an invaluable lesson that day; to stick to the rules.

  Thankfully, the further along the bridge Dylan walked the less coherent the voices of the frustrated motorists and on lookers were. He felt the wind in his face. St Peter’s Park and the Sibden Valley came into view and in the far distance the bleak Yorkshire moorland: a spectacular sight, and one he realised he never truly appreciated as he drove over the bridge. Stepping up onto the pavement, he noticed the Victorian iron palisades which had been fitted after a man had been pushed to his death by an unknown attacker. Dylan was pleased it was there, boy did he detest heights. He’d almost reached the ‘jumper’ when he was stopped by shouting.

  ‘Don’t come any fucking nearer or I’ll go over…I mean it.’ he threatened.

  Dylan instantly complied with his demands. He wished he had a penny for every time he’d heard that line before. Since becoming a negotiator he’d heard some horrific stories and personal tragedies from people who were threatening to end their lives, but if they were still there when he arrived, in his experience there was a good chance it was a cry for help; if they were serious they didn’t hesitate. However, if the wind picked up it would take the ‘jumper’ over the edge whether it was intended or not.

  This lad now had Dylan’s total attention.

  ‘I know you’re serious, but I’m here to help,’ said Dylan as clearly and as sensitively as he knew how. ’Will you let me? Whatever the problem is we can sort it out.’

  ‘Just fuck off,’ the ‘jumper’ insisted, stepping precariously from one foot to the other on the flagstone at the top of a pillar.

  Dylan studied the lad, he’d have liked a closer look but he was sure he knew the face. He moved slightly forward hoping it would go unnoticed, and it did. Yes, it was Alan ‘Chubby’ Connor, local robber, burglar, and self-harmer, you name it, this lad had done it all before.

  ‘Poor sod,’ thought Dylan. He had spent his life in and out of institutions. Dylan pulled up the collar on his jacket. He could feel the cold seeping through his clothing; it was a hell of a lot cooler now. The northerly wind whistled by him sending a chill through his whole body. It might say March on the calendar but spring seemed a long way off to Dylan, from where he was standing.

  Chubby’s thin frame was clothed in a short sleeved, grubby t-shirt and jeans.

  ‘You must be bloody perishing up there.’

  There was no reply. However, he did adjust a baseball cap on his head.

  ‘Perhaps it was an essential accessory these days,’ Dylan thought, if you didn’t have a hoodie.

  ‘It’s Chubby Connor isn’t it?’ Dylan took two further steps forward without reprimand.

  ‘So there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight then copper? And no I haven’t done any jobs I want to admit to before I jump – so fuck off.’

  Chubby splayed his left hand and Dylan caught sight of a small knife in his right.

  ‘Don’t do it Chubby, there’s no need, I’m not coming any nearer.’

  ‘Back off then.’ Chubby held the knife to his wrist. Dylan took a step backwards.

  ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ Dylan’s raised his palms to show him he was retreating.

  A one man crime wave was standing right in front of him. A vote to save him or not, he knew, would definitely have got the thumbs down.

  ‘Think about performance figures,’ he heard his bosses say. ’What an opportunity you had.’

  ‘What the hell is all this about, Chubby?’ Dylan said. ’If you’ve done nothing wrong why are you doing this? You must be freezing your bollocks off up there for nowt.’ He shivered involuntarily. Chubby remained silent. Dylan could see him shaking but whether it was fear, cold or withdrawal from some substance he didn’t kno
w. Dylan talked. Hands in his pockets he shuffled his feet in an attempt to keep warm. Chubby remained silent but studious, his pallor noticeably turning blue with cold. Detective Inspector Dylan couldn’t tell whether his words were getting through, he could only hope.

  ‘I’d rather go over than go back inside.’ Chubby said.

  Dylan remained silent but had gained eye contact.

  ‘People think it’s easy in prison, but it ain’t,’ he continued.

  ‘Why should you go back inside, Chubby? What’s happened to make you think that? Come on...tell me.’

  He didn’t reply but leaned forward to glance over the precipice.

  Dylan took the step forward that he’d relinquished earlier and changed tactics.

  ‘You might die if you go over… but then again you might just be badly hurt and in a lot of pain you know and still end up going inside. Let’s try and sort it, eh?’ Dylan pleaded.

  ‘Life’s shit...my life’s shit...what’s the point?’ he whimpered.

  ‘Of course there’s a point...I bet you just haven’t thought it through, have you?...You’re not ill are you?’

  ‘Why, what you after? A bloody donor card? Tell you what get me one and I’ll sign it for you before I go over.’

  ‘No...do I ’ell,’ Dylan back tracked quickly.

  ‘What the fuck is she doing?’ asked Chubby, nodding at something behind Dylan that had caught his attention. Dylan turned to see Tracy walking towards them and signalled her to stop.

  ‘I asked her to see if she could get some hot drinks for us. I know I need one, don’t you? She’s probably coming to see what we want. Come on mate, you must be cold; you’ve got a purple glow about you. What about a sandwich . . .have you eaten today? What’s the harm in having a drink and a sandwich, eh Chubby?’ Dylan asked.