Consequences

by R. C. Bridgestock

  ‘DI Dylan, I think the woman, the woman you’ve found, might be my daughter.’ This was the shocked confession of the middle-aged lady who stood with a child at the counter. ‘My daughter, Gemma’s mum,’ she said, picking up the girl, placing her on her hip and kissing the top of her head. ‘She’s not answering her phone and she’s not rung to speak to her daughter, my grand-daughter. Something’s wrong. I just know it is.’

  ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ asked Dylan, smiling kindly at the little girl, who was trying to hide her face behind her hands.

  ‘Elizabeth. Liz Reynolds.’

  ‘And when did you last see her?’

  ‘The day before yesterday, but she should have been back by now. She didn’t ring...she always rings, always.’

  ‘The body we’ve found can’t be identified by normal means due to the damage by the fire. Neither can the car. It might not be your daughter. I don’t want you to worry unnecessarily. We are doing everything we can to identify the person we found at the scene.’

  ‘She isn’t at home. I’ve been there,’ she continued. Her voice faltered. ’I’ve a horrible feeling inside, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I know how hard this is for you, Mrs. . .’

  ‘Platt.’

  ‘Platt. But if you could continue to help the police constable at the help desk fill in the necessary Misper forms that we have to complete when a person is reported missing, then I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I promise. We are checking all reports of missing females and your daughter will now be included. Thank you for coming in. If in the meantime your daughter makes contact with you, can you please let us know immediately?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Platt said, turning to leave.

  ‘Before you go. You do know who Liz’s dentist is don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Platt replied.

  On the way back to his office Dylan’s shoulders stooped and he could feel his feet dragging. His head ached and he knew it was time to go home. ‘Elizabeth...Liz.’ Her name was going round and round his head in a whirr. It was the only misper report to come in during the last twenty-four hours. Could this be her? He’d get the team on this line of enquiry, as a priority.

  The kitchen felt moist and warm. The vegetables for their tea were boiling away on the hob, but there was no sign of Jen. Looking through the open door to the back garden, Dylan could see her, heavily laden with clothes from the washing line. She was still in her coat, which meant she couldn’t have been home long. He walked onto the patio.

  ‘Hiya, how’s it gone today?’ she called, as she unhooked the peg bag from the line and placed it on top of the damp clothes in the basket. Max bounded towards him from the bottom of the garden in the darkness, to be fussed.

  ‘Some guard dog you make,’ he said, as he cupped the dog’s ears in his hands and ruffled his fur. Jack walked over to Jen, gave her a quick kiss and picked up the overflowing basket from the wet grass.

  ‘When am I going to learn and watch the weather forecast?’ she said, smiling, tiredness etched all over her face.

  ‘Why don’t you use the tumble dryer that’s what it’s there for?’ he shivered. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Come on let’s get inside before we get pneumonia.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I love the smell of clothes dried outside, and using the tumble dryer costs a fortune.’ Jen said, following him into the house. Dylan stopped at the door to let her go in the house first.

  ‘The woman, she’s called Liz, I think. Her mum came in with Liz’s daughter to report her missing just before I left so with luck we might get an I.D.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, sighing. ’It always seems...real when the body has a name, doesn’t it?’ she said, as she took the basket from him and placed it on the worktop in the utility room.

  ‘Liz...the skeleton...it was awful, like something out of a horror movie,’ Jack reflected, sometime later, as he pushed his broccoli to one side of his dinner plate. Jen normally gave him a hard time about eating his vegetables but tonight wasn’t the time to tease.

  ‘Poor love...I really don’t know how you stand to see...and …well all the things you do. I’d be ill,’ she said as she slid her chair back, scraping the tiles. ‘Literally.’

  ‘Neither do I, sometimes. The cigs...at one time I’d smoke one after another to calm the emotions. Now, now it’s the strong mints and chewing gum that helps. D’ya know, sometimes I can taste the smell of death for a long time afterwards...if that makes any sense at all?’

  ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if that’s why detectives drink, to try and forget the sights and the smells. Talking of drinking, I spoke to Dorothy, the Duties Clerk Supervisor today, and according to Larry’s Annual Leave Form he was going ‘abroad’ on his holiday,’ Jen said, as she wiped the table. ’She’s sent you a copy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know he’d booked time off, I signed his application form. I went to his apartment today. I thought I should, just to see if he was back...he wasn’t there.’

  Jen shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him since it all happened,’ he said to her. ‘He’s definitely lost his job you know, and if Fred does die, he could face a charge of causing death by dangerous driving and go to prison.’

  ‘And, he deserves to have the book thrown at him, don’t you think?’ she snapped.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dylan could feel in his bones that it was going to be an eventful day. Every time his office door opened, the electrifying buzz of voices encroached into his space. The ‘unknown body’ enquiry was ongoing and expectations were high that the burned corpse would be identified. Checks at Liz Reynolds home had proved inconclusive and the house was secure. Door to door enquiries had drawn a blank. Her car was now known to be a Renault.

  ‘Hello Jack,’ Dawn greeted him warmly at the end of the phone.

  ‘Gosh, you’re up and about early. Morning sickness passed?’ he asked, as he reached for his pen and writing pad.

  ‘Umm...sort of.’ He could imagine her grimacing and dropping her shoulders; he knew her gestures well. ‘I’ve had a call from A & E at the Royal Infirmary. They’ve a ‘dead on arrival’. A small child called Charlie Sharpe, and he’s not quite four years old.’ Dylan made notes. ‘The poor little mite’s got numerous non-accidental injuries. The cause of death’s not known at the moment but he’s got recent head injuries.’

  ‘Where are the parents?’

  ‘Mum’s at the hospital with him. I’m told she’s not married. They’re taking the little boy’s body down to the mortuary.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the A & E in …’ Dylan looked at his watch. ‘twenty minutes? Make sure an officer stays with the body for continuity. If we haven’t got anyone at the house, get someone there to preserve the scene.’

  ‘They’re en route, boss.’

  Dylan placed the phone on its cradle and closed his eyes as he tried to gather his thoughts. No matter what procedures authorities put in place; children always ended up murdered. John tapped on his door as if he’d been summoned by telepathy, and walked into the office.

  ‘Good timing, you’ll have to take the morning briefing. I’ll be on my mobile; Dawn’s just rang. She’s at A & E; we’ve got a suspicious child death.’ Dylan stood up, straightened his tie and put his arm in the sleeve of his suit jacket. ‘I’m off to the infirmary, so I’ll give you a call later.’

  ‘No problem,’ John called out over his shoulder, as he walked back into the main office, glad that he was on this murder enquiry; although it was horrific, at least it wasn’t a child.

  Dawn’s eyes were red. Dylan knew she’d been crying. Nevertheless, he thought she looked well, as he smiled at her kindly.

  ‘Hormones,’ she said, shrugging and with a tissue, wiping away a tear that had escaped the corner of her eye.

  ‘No beautiful hankie?’ Dylan said, in mock horror.

  ‘I’m pregnant; I’d be washing all day, every day, if I used a hankie every tim
e I cried,’ she replied; a huge smile crossing her face.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Dylan said, as he steered her to a chair in a quiet recess of the hospital corridor.

  ‘The mum’s been taken through to a private office with the coroner’s officer. It’s awful this one Jack,’ she said. ’Poor little soul, his face is badly bruised but he still looks so angelic.’ Several tears easing out of the corner of her eyes and she let them run down her cheeks unchecked this time. Dylan put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed the top of her arm. She looked up at him, ‘I’m sorry, I’m all over the place,’ she said, blowing her nose, loudly.

  ‘Don’t apologise. It shows you’re caring and sensitive. Tell me, what do we know already?’ Focusing on the job in hand was the only way to cope with this one; that was for certain.

  ‘Mum’s twenty-one years old. Susan Sharpe and she lives in a two bed-roomed council house on the Drighton Estate, 14 Peel Street. She says she’s lived there alone with Charlie, the boy until recently, when she let her boyfriend and his mate move in.’ Dylan listened intently.

  ‘Do we have a name? Who’s the dad?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. She doesn’t appear to be awkward, just genuinely devastated. She tells me that she found Charlie this morning and called the ambulance.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dawn got her pen and notebook from her handbag to take down the list of enquiries that needed to be done as, Dylan reeled them off.

  ‘Statements need to be taken from the ambulance crew as to what they saw and did at the scene; also what the mother said to them. We need to find out if the mother has any relatives. Do social services know the family? Is Charlie on the ‘at risk’ register? We’ll need to hear what she says under caution. Somebody’s responsible for his death...and it may be her.’ Dawn didn’t lift her head, only too aware that the murderer more often turned out to be someone the victim knew. ‘We’ll need SOCO at the house, and a search team. Find out who the boyfriend and his mate are and where they are now. There’ll have to be a post-mortem of course.’

  ‘She must’ve been aware of so many injuries. You can’t miss them on his tiny body,’ Dawn said.

  Dylan saw the tears welling up in her eyes again.

  ‘I want you to deal with her but I don’t want you anywhere near the post-mortem in your condition.’

  But I’m fine Jack,’ Dawn protested.

  ‘And that’s the way I want it to stay. It’ll be bad enough for you, dealing with her. It sounds to me like she’s tried to cover up his injuries, and I won’t hear anymore,’ he said, walking away from her without a backward glance. Dylan didn’t want the argument that he was sure would follow. ‘I’ll go down to the mortuary and see what timescale we’re working to,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t take this one away from me Jack. I want the bastard that did this to Charlie,’ she cried, running after him.

  He stopped and turned. ’My decision’s been made Dawn. I won’t change my mind.’ She stood and watched him go. Tears once again stung her eyes and she stamped her foot in anger.

  Dylan looked through the head-high window of the door and saw Charlie’s mum sitting at a table. He was slightly shocked by the sight of Susan Sharpe. She was skinny, pale and sobbing helplessly into her hands. He studied her body language as she spoke to the coroner’s officer; mother’s seemed to get younger. Susan Sharpe looked but a child herself. ‘How difficult it must have been for such a young girl to bring up a child on her own,’ he thought, as he turned and carried on down the corridor to the mortuary.

  ‘Hello Sir,’ PC Hannah Jordan greeted him. Dylan nodded. ‘Mr Lacy, the coroner’s officer, has arranged a pathologist with paediatric experience. He’s due here at one.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine thanks - plenty of paperwork to be getting on with,’ she said smiling at him.

  ‘In that case I’ll get onto headquarters for staff.’

  As Dylan walked out of the office, taking his mobile from his pocket, he saw the small body on a stainless steel trolley, wrapped in a green hospital blanket.

  ‘Little Charlie Sharpe,’ he whispered. The trolleys were designed for adults; each could have carried eight ‘Charlie’s.’ He felt so very, very sad.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dialling HQ, Dylan knew for a fact he was going to be a thorn in everyone’s side. Once again he was requesting staff from the divisions, which already had stretched resources but for once he didn’t care. Baby deaths, baby murders and attacks on small children always tugged at his heartstrings. You would have to be numb for them to have no effect at all. The line was engaged and he ended the call. His mobile rang instantly.

  ‘CID will meet you at the scene, boss.’

  ‘Thank you, Tracy,’ he said.

  Dylan was in his protective clothing. The house was a potential murder scene, and with that in mind he entered the front door that led from a busy main road, into a small, square living room. The immediate wall of darkness from the daylight outside slowly started to lift, to enable him to see. He shivered. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke mingled with a food odour he couldn’t quite identify. He saw in the centre of the room a well worn, soiled, burnt orange coloured settee and a fading blue blanket lay haphazardly on it. Did the occupiers sleep there, he wondered? A very large flatscreen TV stood proudly off the wall, too big to fit in the corner of the lounge. On the floor was a filthy, threadbare, old-fashioned, patterned carpet, which his protective shoe covers, stuck to in places, as he walked upon it. Pulled to one side across the window, was an old, tatty, moth-eaten curtain. The walls were painted purple, and the paint had bubbled and was flaking around the window frame and below. As he made his way towards the kitchen door he stopped to take in his surroundings. He walked into the bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling and ducked instinctively, brushing it to one side with his gloved hand. His eyes caught sight of a neat pile of electrical goods against the back wall and he went over to look; there were DVD players, mobile phones, the odd laptop, a PSP and other handheld games consoles.

  ‘Someone’s been busy thieving,’ Dylan muttered under his breath. Like the television, he would bet the shirt on his back they were the proceeds of crime.

  The kitchen was what Dylan would have expected; there were unwashed dishes and cups, doors hung off cupboards and there was no sign of any food. A filthy dishcloth had been thrown into the sink, which was littered with food debris and congealed grease. Crumpled clothes lay in an untidy heap on the floor, which was also strewn with empty cider bottles, tins of lager, beer and takeaway cartons. No wonder he couldn’t identify the smell. He stooped to peer at the takeaway boxes which had remnants of Chinese, Indian, Mc Donald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Roll-ups overflowed out of ashtrays on the windowsill, and the ash was scattered like dust. Dylan lowered his mask and sniffed up close; was it cannabis? Yeah, for sure.

  Dylan tentatively felt his way up the narrow, twisted, windowless staircase, onto a landing. An open door straight ahead led into the main bedroom. The room was almost in darkness because a blanket was pinned up over the window. Stale body odour hung powerfully in the air. Dylan adjusted the mask over his face to delay the smell reaching his nostrils. A dirty mattress covered with heavily creased, dirty linen and newspaper lay on the floor. A bed headboard stood against one wall and an old dressing table and wardrobe leaned against another, with the doors and drawers broken and open, clothing askew.

  Bleach would have had little effect on the bathroom fitments; the toilet, sink and bath were encrusted with deep rooted grime. Empty toiletry containers had spilled over into the bath. A dirty towel was strewn on the floor amid pieces of curled up old lino and dirt-caked bare floorboards. There were some tiles on the walls, but most of them were broken on the floor. Dylan didn’t cross the threshold but caught his reflection in the old cracked mirror above the washbasin. Turning away, he saw a rope had been pulled tightly over a peg on the outside of another door off the landing. He held t
he loose doorknob in his hand, before slowly pushing it open.

  The smell of urine and excrement made him wretch. He fumbled in his pocket for his torch and scanned the dark room, to see the window had been boarded up with cardboard. There was a pile of faeces in the corner on the bare, damp floorboards, and more was smeared on the walls. The box room was no bigger than a large airing cupboard and the dangling light fitting had no bulb. Dylan could see a dirty piece of blanket strewn over the floor. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, to sense the atmosphere. It was deathly quiet, more cramped than an animal’s pen. Through adult’s eyes, with a torch and knowing he could open the door and leave at any moment, to him the room felt like a dungeon or a prison cell. Moisture sat on his brow; he gasped for air and his heart began to race. Was this where Charlie had been kept? There were no toys, no books; nothing to remotely suggest a child had been there. Dylan’s heart ached. This hadn’t happened overnight, and the sad thing was that he knew this was not as rare as people liked to believe.

  ‘How the hell does this happen? Someone must have known,’ he muttered. He needed some air; the atmosphere was overbearing. He reached for the door handle, there wasn’t one there.

  Stumbling down the stairs he could hear voices. SOCO had arrived.

  ‘Jasmine. Good to see you. Can you do the usual, please; seize blankets, photograph the rooms, and the walls will need examining for blood splashes. The child’s got recent head injuries.’ Dylan’s phone rang. Jasmine nodded, smiling knowingly at him as he turned to take the call.

  ‘Boss, Patrick Finch. Where are you? Can’t hear you. Signal’s bad but if you can hear me; Division’s letting me go, so I can meet up with you. Anything happening?’ Patrick sounded eager and Dylan walked to the door to try for a better reception. ‘That’s great news. Apart from the burned body in the park, it looks like we’ve got a murder of a little lad on our hands.’