Consequences

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Dylan looked into Malcolm’s eyes, ‘DI Dylan and DS Benjamin.’

  Malcolm took his feet off the table and leaned forward to greet them.

  ‘Right, now you’re here I’ll tell you to your faces, I’ve nothing more to say to you. I’m keeping my head down and I’m doing my stretch. Now piss off and leave me alone.’ He got up, walked to the door and nodded at the guard to let him out.

  ‘Malcolm, sit down. We’ve some bad news for you and there is no easy way to tell you.’ Malcolm’s eyes fixed on Dylan and he sat down. Suddenly Dylan felt guilty; Malcolm wasn’t the first to know about their investigation into the death of his wife.

  ‘We were called to a burnt out car in St Peter’s Park; a Renault. There was a body, burnt beyond recognition at the side of the car. We’ve now identified that body as your wife, Elizabeth Reynolds.’

  ‘What?’ Dylan watched Malcolm’s hands clench and his brow furrow.

  ‘Malcolm, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. We are doing everything possible to trace the killer. I promise.’

  ‘Lizzie, my Lizzie? It can’t be. ’Malcolm’s eyes swelled with tears.

  ‘Where’s Gemma? Where’s my daughter?’

  ‘She’s with Connie and Ken.’

  ‘Hold on, I can’t get my head round this. Why are you sure? If the body can’t be identified? How? Why would she be in the park?’ he shrieked.

  ‘We’re trying to find out why, Malcolm. But we’re positive it’s Liz; dental records have confirmed it to us this morning. She had withdrawn half a million pounds from the bank the day before the incident. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve no idea...that’s straight up. I wouldn’t let her handle that sort of money, no way. Who the fuck would do that to Lizzie?’

  ‘I’ve got to ask you. It’s got nothing to do with you being in here has it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t leave anything...knowing I was coming in here and leaving her and Gemma alone. You need to find out what’s gone on. I want to know; otherwise you’ll have another murder on your hands when I get out. What the fuck’s happening?’ he said, running his hand through his hair.

  ‘Then what does Gemma do without her mum or dad, eh? Come on Malcolm what else can you tell us?’

  It took a moment for him to answer.

  ‘Nothing, absolutely nothing.’ Malcolm sat rubbing his head in his hands. ’I’ve had no hassle in here, you can ask them,’ he nodded at the guard.

  ‘We’re trying to contact your mum but her neighbour tells us she’s in France.’

  ‘Let me tell her...I’ll ring her from ’ere.’

  ‘Okay. Whatever you want.’

  Malcolm’s head was down. He nodded, and then turned to Dylan, biting his lip. ’So what happens now? I’ll put some feelers out see if anyone can tell me anything,’ he said.

  Dylan was satisfied that it had come as an absolute shock to him; either that or he was a very good actor.

  ‘Can you get Janet to contact us to confirm you’ve broken the news to her, because at some point Liz’s details will have to go out to the media and her face will be all over the newspapers and on the TV. We need to appeal for witnesses as soon as we can.’

  ‘Sure, but I want to know what’s happening. I’ve a right. I want to know that Gemma’s okay’.

  ‘Look, we’ll get a panic alarm fitted at Ken and Connie’s house and keep you updated.’

  ‘Was she killed in the park? Or somewhere else?’

  ‘Burnt with the car. We’re still doing tests, but for now that’s all we know.’

  ‘I need to get my head around this,’ he said.

  As they left the gloomy building, the sunlight burst through a cloud. Dylan put his hand up to his eyes so he could see John’s face.

  ‘He seemed genuinely shocked and upset, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mmm. Do you think he’s owt to do with it, boss? Do you think she was paying someone off for him?’

  ‘Who knows? The golden rule is, - never assume or presume, John. She’d got the money for something or someone. But who and why we’ll have to find out.’

  There would be a lot more questions awaiting answers back at the office.

  ‘I’ve had a call from Traffic. They’ve traced the person the hire car was loaned to on the day it hit me,’ enthused Jen, as she bounded unexpectedly into Dylan’s office.

  ‘Great, who is it?’ said Dylan, not lifting his eyes from his paperwork.

  ‘Ah, well, they don’t know exactly. It was hired out to a company, so it must be one of their employees who was driving it, and the traffic cop tells me that they should have driving records for him to check, which will then tell us who was driving it at the time,’ she said, looking smug.

  ‘You should get your wing mirror fixed properly.’ Dylan looked up from his paperwork but his eyes concentrated on the computer screen as he typed. ’I thought they said it was stolen?’

  ‘Yeah, they did, but I bet the employee who borrowed the car failed to return it because he’d had an accident in it.’ Jen said, thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, quite the little detective aren’t we?’ Dylan laughed.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jen, ‘and how good is my memory then, remembering the car reg like that? You’ll be wanting me on your team next.’

  ‘Mmm not sure about that, I wouldn’t get anything done.’ Dylan smiled as he called up his messages on the computer. He looked studious whilst Jen stood quietly.

  ‘Bye Jen is it then?’ she said, teasing him.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Make me a drink before you go will you love?’ Dylan looked at her with puppy dog eyes.

  ‘Oh, good enough for making coffee then, eh?’ Jen said as she headed for the door.

  ‘Let me tell you, Detectives, no matter how naturally talented they are, have to start somewhere and making good coffee is a good start, ask Vicky.’ Dylan smiled as he watched her leave.

  Dylan read the email that told him Fred White was off the danger list and likely to make a full recovery; now that was good news. He rang Larry’s home to let him know but there was no reply; he tried his mobile but it was dead. Dylan shrugged. Where the hell was he? Then he remembered looking at his calendar. Larry was due to appear in court. With everything else, Dylan had forgotten. Blast.

  The next email told him Susan Sharpe’s defence team wanted a second post-mortem on Charlie, and there would be a third when Todd and Connor were locked up.

  ‘Bloody ridiculous,’ Dylan said just as Jen walked back in the office with a steaming mug of coffee and a biscuit.

  ‘What’s ridiculous?’

  ‘Little Charlie’s body being messed about with, that’s what. Very, very rarely do pathologists disagree. I can understand why they have to have two post-mortems when there is one injury, or an unusual cause of death, but with this case they’ve plenty of injuries to choose from. All this is, is folk making money out of others’ grief. Prosecution costs are always transparent and monitored, but the defence team; who knows what, goes on? We certainly don’t. So I guess it’s either me or Pat that will have to relive the post-mortem of the poor little un twice more.’ Dylan sighed.

  ‘Sorry, love. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘What can anyone say? Tell you what. I’m going to ‘have a word with the coroner and see if it’s possible to get agreement between defence solicitors.’

  ‘You can only try.’

  ‘Hey, nice coffee Jen; there is hope for you yet in CID,’ he said with a wink. ‘And Fred White is on the mend.’

  Jen smiled.’ That is good news.’

  Dylan walked with Jen to the main entrance.

  ‘You’ll be home on time?’

  ‘Yeah, I won’t be long now. I just want to call in on the incident rooms, then, I’ll be coming home. What’s for tea?’

  ‘Chicken dinner, so don’t be late otherwise Max might be eating it.’

  ‘Will ’e hell as like. I’ll be there,’ Dylan said, as they smiled at each other.


  Dylan wandered down the corridor and into the mailroom. The cupboard like room housed several pigeonholes marked with people’s names, teams and rotas, all filled with internal and external mail. Pinned together but not in an envelope, there was a thick wedge of A5 size photographs, in Charlie Sharpe’s incident room tray.

  ‘Hell fire.’ Dylan hollered, grabbing the photo’s. ‘Who the flaming hell sent these like this?’ There was no one to hear his outburst. Dylan flounced into the incident room. ‘have you seen these?’ he said, throwing the photographs across Patrick Finch’s desk. ‘They’ve been sent through the internal mail just like that, for anyone to see. How bloody thoughtless can they get?’

  ‘PM photos?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Yeah, fancy how upsetting they’d be for anyone coming across them in the post. I’m not having this.’ Dylan was spitting feathers as he picked up the phone.

  ‘Could you put me through to the Imaging Unit please?’ Dylan waited for the call to be answered.

  ‘Imaging Unit Manager speaking,’ rattled a distracted voice.

  ‘This is DI Dylan. I’ve just received a full set of photographs of the murder of a young boy that display all his injuries, and the post-mortem photographs, through the internal mail.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘But they’re not in an envelope, anyone could see them,’ Dylan said raging.

  ‘It’s policy. We’ve been told not to waste money on envelopes.’

  ‘What? It won’t be saving you money when someone collapses with the shock. What if a relative saw them? I want them sent to me under the cover of confidentially in future and in an envelope. Do I make myself clear?’ demanded Dylan.

  ‘Well yes you do, to me, but I’ll have to take it back before the command team for their approval. Tell you what, put it in writing to me. If it’s best practice …’

  ‘It’s bloody common sense never mind it has to be approved by the command team as best practice. Oh, for Christ sake speak to whoever you have to but I won’t be so polite if it happens to me again,’ Dylan yelled, slamming the phone down. He looked around him to tell someone about this outrage but realised he was alone in the office. Where the hell had everyone gone? Dylan sat down, put his head in his hands and sighed.

  Dawn walked in some minutes later with a strong coffee. ‘Here you are. I thought might need this before you blew a gasket,’ she said chuckling.

  ‘Can you believe, it’s all about cost cutting and saving money? I’m sure some of ’em couldn’t organise a set of fat Bobbies never mind run a police force,’ Dylan said. ‘Tell me what planet are they on?’

  ‘Yeah...well, but hey look on the positive, who’d you be annoyed with if they made the right decisions in the first place,’ she said.

  ‘Probably you.’

  ‘As if I’d listen?’ she laughed, bringing a smile to his face.

  Patrick swung open the door. ‘Forensics is checking a bloodstained print from the doorframe of Charlie’s room for DNA, and the print against Connor, Todd and Sharpe. It’s too large for Charlie, so I’m just hoping it is Charlie’s blood and one of their fingerprints.’

  ‘Now that would be some justice, and great evidence wouldn’t it?’

  ‘They’re also looking at marks and blood splashes on the walls, and are suggesting using 3D technology to show all the injuries on Charlie’s body, for court purposes.’

  ‘Wow, that’s clever isn’t it? Just think what an impact that would have on a jury? Although if it’s too damning, the defence will say it’s unfair. I’m all up for it, Pat. Let’s just hope the judge has some balls.’

  Patrick sat across from Dylan at the desk. ‘I wish you’d call me Patrick sir.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever you like,’ said Dylan. ‘Any developments in the search for Chubby, and Jason Todd yet?’

  ‘No, boss. We’re still trying though.’

  Dawn yawned. ‘Hey lady, I hope you’re not doing too much,’ scolded Dylan.

  She smiled, looking tired.

  ‘Off home, now,’ said Dylan, as he got up to leave for the Reynolds’ incident room. He’d just check to see if there was any news in there before he went home too.

  The HOLMES team were beavering away in front of their computers. He looked at the clock; 6pm and all of them still busy, it was never simply just another ‘job’ for the incident team members. Each and every person that was involved wanted the offenders caught as soon as possible, but most of all they wanted to be part of it. The HOLMES team members didn’t just work on the computers Dylan had everyone involved in the briefings. Their collective knowledge was a catalyst and each person played an integral part.

  A Post-it note was stuck to his in tray, ‘Please ring CPS. Noel Cantrell X6110’. Dylan picked up the phone. Noel was a team leader and for him to call Dylan he knew it had to be serious.

  As expected, the news was bad. He’d rung Dylan out of courtesy to tell him that DS Larry Banks hadn’t answered his bail, nor had he appeared before the court on the charges against him. A warrant had been issued for his arrest. If he wasn’t at home or in court today then where was he? Dylan put in a call to Force Welfare to suggest they made some urgent checks, but they’d gone home; no twenty four hour call-out there. He left a message on their answering machine.

  He sat peeling a banana at his desk, and even though he was deep in thought he noticed some of the HOLMES team looking at him, over their computers. He pulled a face at them through the glass partition. Their tired faces broke out into smiles. Perhaps he was going totally mad, he thought. The fax at his side startled him, and he put the rest of the banana in his mouth, so he could pick up the paper. Intelligence from the prison backed up the claim that Malcolm Reynolds was a model prisoner. There was nothing on record to suggest him and his wife had problems. He was a calming influence, the guards on the wing had reported; especially to Frankie Miller, his long term cellmate who had been released a few weeks ago. Frankie Miller, Dylan found out, was a career criminal who used violence at every opportunity; but there had been a bond forged between Malcolm Reynolds and him, which the prison authorities thought had been good for Frankie. He was a colourful, character no doubt. Dylan would generate an enquiry for him on the HOLMES system. An interesting read, Dylan thought, and a priority line of enquiry at that, if he was out and about.

  Dylan stopped for petrol on the way home. Outside he noticed a bucket of flowers and grabbed a bunch for Jen. He picked up a dog chew for Max from the basket as he waited in the queue.

  There was a police traffic car on the driveway of their home. The smell of roast chicken and stuffing wafted through the door as he walked in. Dylan didn’t realise until then just how hungry he was.

  ‘Time away from work is time wasted, officer,’ Dylan shouted from the hallway. He could hear Max growling from the kitchen.

  ‘Sir, PC Tom Dale,’ said the traffic officer, as he stood up from his haunches where he’d been playing tug of war with Max and his toy. Hearing Dylan’s voice Max ran from his newfound playmate and dropped at Dylan’s feet, barking wildly.

  ‘Hello there, mate. Nice to see you too,’ he said, pulling the chew from his pocket. Max sniffed at it, took it into his mouth and carried it to his bed. Dylan handed Jen the flowers and kissed her cheek.

  Jen smiled. ‘Flowers, what you after?’

  He grinned as he winked at PC Dale.

  ‘Sit down won’t you and drink your tea. Come with news about the accident?’

  ‘Yeah, but not good news. The company records only show the stolen car being hired, but no one took it out legitimately that day.’

  ‘Just my luck.’ Jen said, as she moved to check the vegetables boiling in the steamer, then got a vase for her flowers from the cupboard.

  ‘I’ll get off then,’ PC Dale said, ‘and thanks for the brew, Jen. I’ll see you later.’ PC Dale shook Dylan’s hand.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you then as they say,’ Dylan said.

  Yeah, sounds about right for CID.’ he grinned,
sheepishly.

  Jen showed PC Dale to the door, as Dylan sat at the kitchen table. Max brought the chew back to him and laid it at his feet.

  ‘Get away with that manky old thing.’ Dylan said, throwing it back in Max’s bed. Max jumped on top of it and whined.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers, love. How’re the enquiries going?’ Jen said, kissing the top of his head as she came back into the kitchen.

  ‘I found out Larry didn’t turn up at court today,’ he sighed.

  ‘How daft is that?’ she said, dishing out their dinner and putting his on the table in front of him.

  ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how much you really know about people you work with? Or about anyone, really,’ she said, thoughtfully.

  Jen got up and cleared the table and stood at the sink holding her back.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, just tired that’s all and my back...argh it kills,’ she said stretching her spine.

  ‘Do you want me to make coffee?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘Not for me love, I’ve gone right off coffee. I’ll make you one when I’ve finished this though, if you want to go up and get changed.’

  Jen switched on the TV in the lounge for the late news. The room was warm and Dylan sat reading the Harrowfield Examiner.

  ‘Breaking news,’ the newsreader said. ‘Manchester police have named a man shot whilst attempting to commit an armed robbery at Lloyds Bank at lunchtime today, as Frank Miller.’

  Dylan looked up from his paper and turned to Jen.

  ‘That’s the name of the bloke celled up with Malcolm Reynolds.

  ‘Frank Miller’s not such an unusual name in the north.’ Jen cuddled up close to Dylan, taking the paper off him as he turned his head for a kiss.

  ‘No...you’re right …’ he agreed, kissing her back. ‘Let’s go to bed eh? You look all in.’

  ‘Yeah, I am,’ she yawned.