Consequences

by R. C. Bridgestock

  ‘I keep going back to why would Frankie be robbing a bank if he’d got the money from Lizzie? Nah, I’m sorry, I’m not buying it. There’s something seriously not right here. There’s got to be someone else in this equation,’ Malcolm looked Dylan straight in the eyes. ‘What’re you keeping from me? There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Unfortunately we don’t have all the answers for you, but what I’m telling you is what we’ve got, Malcolm. I can only tell you what we know.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Malcolm said, through clenched teeth, as he stood pointing his finger at them both. ‘Don’t bother coming back till you’ve got the answers for me, eh? You lot couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. Someone is gonna fucking pay for this; I’ll take their fucking head off.’ Malcolm muttered, as he walked to the door. Not looking back, he punched the wall as he waited impatiently for the prison officer to let him out of the room.

  Dylan was pleased that there had been no mention of Larry Banks. At some stage he knew he would have to tell Malcolm what he knew about him: he wouldn’t be able to avoid it. After all it would come into the public domain through disclosure at the coroners’ court and he was Liz’s next of kin. It would be better coming from him than anyone else. But for now Dylan had a few more days to trace Larry, or find out what had gone on and why.

  ‘Do you think Larry’s capable of murder?’ he asked John, as they walked to the car. A few heavy spots of rain dropped on his suit, and he looked up to the sky and frowned as he brushed them away.

  ‘What do you think, boss? You know him better than most, I would have thought.’

  ‘Do we ever really know anyone, John?’ Dylan sighed, as he opened the car door. Jumping in he slammed it quickly after him as rain suddenly pounded the windscreen, so heavily that when he started the engine and put the windscreen wipers on they couldn’t cope with the deluge they tried to disperse. They sat and waited in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Once he knows a copper’s been bedding his wife, that’s going to be it, he’s not going to speak to any of us again, and he’ll accuse us of a cover up,’ he shouted above the noise on the car roof, of the torrent of rain that the clouds had unleashed.

  John agreed. ‘We’d better ask for at least two prison officers in the room when we drop that bombshell on him.’

  Dylan switched his thoughts to what Chubby Connor was saying in interview, as he eventually dropped John off at the main entrance to the station. Parking the car in his bay in the back yard, he contemplated waiting until the shower had passed but on second thoughts he decided against it. Knowing the weather in Harrowfield, once the rain clouds were stuck between the Pennines, it was unlikely that that would be anytime soon. Dylan ran into the station. He was drenched. Rain dripped from his hair and down the neck of his jacket as he fumbled to get his warrant card out of his wallet, to swipe at the door. He wriggled out of his wet jacket, shaking the raindrops off as best he could, as he walked down the corridor on his way to see Dawn and Patrick in the incident room. He opened the office door. They sat looking morose; both deep in thought, reading documents and clutching breadcakes in their hands.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ Dylan gasped. ‘Good news for me?’ then he saw their faces. ‘Bad?’ he said.

  ‘The night before Charlie died, Chubby admits throwing him about with Todd and he says Charlie hit his head on the wall, which caused it to bleed,’ Dawn heaved a sigh as she attempted to straighten her aching back. She stretched shoulders back, lifted her chin high and cracked her neck to one side, before putting her sandwich down and pushing it away from her. She put her hand to her chest and burped.

  Dylan sat down. ’You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, thanks just indigestion,’ she frowned, rubbed her chest then belching loudly.

  ‘He says he carried him up to his room after they’d been playing around,’ said Patrick, putting his sandwich back in its paper bag.

  ‘Playing?’

  ‘Well, to be exact Chubby called it larking around. He said, Charlie didn’t get hurt. When asked how he knew that he said, ‘because he didn’t cry.’ Dawn swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

  ‘So...he thought being flung against the wall hadn’t hurt him, even though his head was bleeding...because he didn’t cry?’ Dylan asked. He listened attentively as he sat opposite the two sullen detective sergeants, deeply saddened by what he heard.

  ‘Susan had her hands round his neck screaming at Charlie to cry, he said. Charlie wouldn’t,’ Dawn said.

  ‘Charlie had refused to eat the food they were having, so Todd pushed his face in it and hit him round the head.’

  ‘But the nipper’s’ arms were broken according to the pathologist, so how could he …?’ Dylan said. ‘What did he have to say, about there being no light in Charlie’s room?’ His jaw tightened as he waited for the reply.

  ‘He said, Todd told him that the kid went to sleep better with no light. Susan tied the door so he couldn’t come out, unless she wanted him to.’

  ‘And the absence of food in the house?’

  ‘He said, if Charlie was good he got food when they did, but if he wasn’t …’ whispered Dawn. Dylan could see Dawn’s eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  ‘Any sign of remorse?’

  ‘No tears, no emotion, he was more concerned that he’d be sent to prison if he was found guilty, and if that happened he wanted to die himself. We went through Charlie’s injuries, and he told us the night before Charlie died Todd got a supply of dope. So he couldn’t remember much, but he did remember that Todd was brandishing a pool cue and lashing out at him, Susan and Charlie. He told us Todd and ‘he stayed up all night drinking smoking because they couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Because, they were as high, as kites that’s why.’ Dylan said.

  ‘Chubby said he took Charlie to bed because Todd and Susan were out of it and he’d fallen asleep on the floor, but he remembered Todd going upstairs and dragging Charlie out of his room later, when it was still dark. Charlie wasn’t moving, so Todd held a cigarette to his foot saying that would wake him. When he didn’t, Todd told Conner he was just acting about. Susan seeing Charlie in that state said she was calling for an ambulance and he says he legged it because he was frightened,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Connor’s clothing?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘All bagged and tagged for the lab, sir.’ Patrick’s voice sounded stronger. ‘His trainers look as if it might have dried blood on them. If that’s Charlie’s, and along with the blood stained fingerprint, he’s well up the creek without a paddle. The evidence will tie him in nicely.’

  ‘Let’s get him charged with murder. I’ll speak to the Crown Prosecution Service. We’ll probably have to produce Susan from prison and charge her as well before she’s due to appear again. Better let the prison know about his suicidal tendencies too. Chubby Connor might after all his previous attempts, try to take his own life and succeed, and we don’t want that before the trial. Will you let the press office know once you’ve charged him? Just brief details will do, and fore warn uniform of the court appearance,’ Dylan said to Dawn. She looked decidedly pale, he thought, and was distractingly turning her wedding ring on her finger and staring into space.

  ‘There are bound to be some angry locals, who’ll try to take matters into their own hands,’ she said, absentmindedly.

  ‘Do we know for certain who Charlie’s dad is yet?’ said Dylan.

  ‘We should have the results tomorrow, sir,’ replied Patrick.

  ‘Dawn, you okay?’ Dylan looked at Dawn as she took out of her handbag a hankie and mopped her brow. She put her head on top of her folded arms on the desk. He could see she was breathing heavily and laboured.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine...I’m just warm and tired,’ she said, as she lifted her head for a moment and sipped water from a bottle. ‘I’ll be okay in a minute.’

  ‘There’ll be another post-mortem and an inquest, and then we can get the little lad buried,’ said Dylan. �
�Come on Dawn, it’s about time you called it a day you’re flagging.’

  Dawn put her hands on the desk and pushed herself up. Dylan watched as her knees buckled from under her and she fell. Patrick caught her. Her forehead felt clammy to Dylan’s touch, and she was shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘Dawn, Dawn, come on Dawn you’re okay? ‘Have you any pain? Speak to us.’ yelled Dylan. As Patrick laid her on to the floor in the recovery position, Dylan telephoned for an ambulance.

  ‘Why oh, why did I let her interview?’ Dylan mumbled under his breath. ‘I should have known better.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jen caught a glimpse of Dylan’s face, as he walked down the path under the light of the security lamp. She could tell he was upset and went to see what was wrong.

  ‘It’s Dawn. She’s collapsed and been taken to hospital,’ he blurted out, as soon as she opened the door.

  ‘Oh my God, the baby? What about the baby?’ she cried.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let her interview in her condition?’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for everything, love.’ Jen said hugging him tight as he buried his head in her shoulder. ‘She hasn’t lost it yet has she?’

  ‘No, but she didn’t look too good when they lifted her into the ambulance.’

  ‘She’s in the very best of hands. Come on, keep positive,’ she said, as she led the way into the kitchen and poured him a brandy. Dylan stood at the worktop opposite her, sipping the warming, medicinal, aromatic liqueur.

  ‘Urgh. I hate cognac,’ he gasped.

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ she reassured.

  ‘If I hadn’t been so bloody keen to save Chubby Connor,’ he said, throwing the remainder of the drink down his throat. ‘Argh...let’s face it, in the end, the defence for Todd, Connor and Sharpe, is going to be that they blame each other …’ he spat. ‘What’s the point eh, Jen? What am I doing this bloody job for? There’s no deterrent anymore.’

  ‘For Charlie, Liz, Fred and anyone else who’s a victim of crime, and their families, remember? That’s why you’re doing it. Come on, you’ve just had a shock and you’re tired. If you’d have let Chubby jump off the bridge that day, he might have landed on someone and killed another...It’s fate love. You’re just not thinking straight, that’s all,’ she said soothingly.

  ‘They’d have had to be in a boat,’ he managed a weak smile. ’Chubby Conner would’ve probably landed in the water from where he’d jumped.’

  Jen punched him playfully. She smiled. ‘You know what I meant.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he reluctantly agreed.

  ‘Come on, let’s try and forget about everything for a while, walk Max and we’ll ring the hospital when we get back to see how Dawn and the baby are, eh?’ said Jen, as she reached out and touched his arm.

  Jen went for her coat and Dylan picked up Max’s lead. Excited Max jumped up at Dylan, with his ball in his mouth. Dylan took it from him and threw it down the hallway.

  Max ran and fetched it back, barking enthusiastically. It made Dylan smile. Jen was glad.

  ‘No, mate,’ he laughed half-heartedly. ‘We’re not taking your ball tonight,’ he said throwing it back in his basket. Max slumped to the floor with a loud groan.

  ‘You’re a flaming drama queen Maxie. Come on, walkies.’ Jen shouted over her shoulder from the doorway.

  The phone was ringing when they walked back in the house.

  ‘Dawn and the baby are okay for the moment,’ Ralph told Dylan. ‘Apparently they think she might have pregnancy induced hypertension and they’ve established that she’s also slightly anaemic, so they’re keeping a careful eye on her blood pressure and iron levels from now on.’

  ‘Thank God they’re alright.’ Dylan breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘I was sick with worry. I shouldn’t have let her interview Ralph, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault Jack. Think about it, you’d have had a hell of a job stopping her. Neither of us blames you, or the job. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you updated, I promise.’

  ‘Thanks Ralph...thank you for letting us know, I appreciate it. Give Dawn our best, won’t you?’

  The next morning, Dylan was sitting quietly opposite Patrick; both were deep in thought.

  ‘Jason is Charlie’s father. I’ve been to see Jason Todd and Susan Sharpe with their respective solicitors and an agreement has been reached regarding Charlie’s funeral after the inquest,’ Patrick said, breaking the silence.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dylan replied, gloomily.

  ‘Once Todd knows that Chubby is in the system though, it won’t be long before he gets to him for grassing him up, will it?’

  ‘Not our problem, mate,’ Dylan mumbled, as he studied the Chief’s Log.

  ‘I suppose Chubby Connor will remain in solitary for his own safety, in prison?’

  ‘Mmm, probably,’ Dylan replied, glancing up from his computer. ‘We will have to have another two post-mortems now for the separate defence teams.’ Dylan slammed the palm of his hand on the desk. Patrick jumped. ‘No we won’t. I’m going to get their agreement of the defence teams, to hold one post-mortem, if it’s the last thing I do for Charlie. Perhaps if the solicitors had to endure the mortuary every time they defended a murderer, they’d at the very least, see firsthand, what their clients had done? Would they then be able to represent them as easily do you think?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir, I’m sure, but if it’s the law?’

  ‘Don’t quote the law to me Pat, sometimes I think the law is an ass. Think about it: In a year’s time there’ll be a trial. The defence barristers will argue about how unfortunate Susan Sharpe, Chubby Connor and Jason Todd are; uneducated, unloved, no experience in looking after a child. Why on earth do we need a six week trial do you think? Don’t tell me they didn’t know the difference between right and wrong? They knew exactly what they were doing to Charlie. He was the unfortunate one. He didn’t ask to be born. There, by the grace of God as they say. We can’t choose our parents or where we are born. I wish I had a penny for every time a person said they were sorry after they’d been caught for committing a crime.’ Dylan sighed. ’I need to concentrate on Liz Reynolds’ murder this morning Pat, for a while. Can I leave this one with you?’

  ‘Please sir, it’s Patrick,’ he said. Dylan nodded.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I’ll update you, sir.’

  Dylan grunted.

  ‘Will you be interviewing Todd with me, since Dawn’s not here, sir?’ Patrick said.

  Dylan looked up. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why the hell not? I’m just in the mood for the likes of Jason Todd.’

  Patrick smiled. He liked Dylan, he liked Dylan a lot. He might turn a blind eye to staff making unacceptable comments, but he’d challenge him about his concerns regarding the issues he had with political correctness on his team later. No, it wasn’t the right place or time now.

  ‘Where on earth was Larry Banks?’ Dylan thought, as he ran up the steps two at a time. No matter where he was he must have seen a paper, the news, ‘Sky’, something to alert him of Liz Reynolds’ murder, and the circumstances, or had he indeed been aware of it before any of them? Why hadn’t he rung and talked to him, to profess his innocence, to explain what he knew? Dylan was beginning to think he was not only a thief, but a murderer too.

  Larry had seen the Sun newspaper, and its coverage of the murder whilst basking in the sunshine on the French Riviera. His days were far different from policing Harrowfield. He strolled around Antibes between the azure sea and the snow-capped mountains during the day, and his nights were spent watching bats and fireflies as he drank at the bars. The food was great, the alleyways picturesque and the banking system absolutely bloody appalling he was told, but he could change his English notes to Euros, and that was all he needed a bank for. He told his newfound drinking friends that he was making a personal attempt to drink the vineyards dry, and he was even more determined to achieve that ambition since reading about
Liz Reynolds’ demise. One night, sitting in his favourite little laundrette near the campsite, he looked towards Fort Carre, where Napoleon was imprisoned, and contemplated his future.

  He’d tried to write a letter to Dylan professing his innocence; or at least he thought he had. Yes, he had he remembered he’d given it to the nice barmaid at the campsite restaurant to post; it was the night he’d got home to find a hedgehog at his door.

  Dylan and John were sitting in a meeting at the Greater Manchester Police HQ with officers dealing with the shooting of Frankie Miller. It was agreed that Frankie’s clothing and footwear would be examined for any connection to Liz Reynolds and her vehicle. Dylan looked at the photos of the items, which had been seized. Gary Warner told the men that they were hoping soon for details of Frankie’s mobile phone usage. The stolen vehicle he’d used was to be checked to see if its number plate had been recognised on the ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition System), that the Vehicle Crime Unit in the West Yorkshire Police was trialling. Dylan and John would have to be patient, as Greater Manchester Police had a lot to do and those investigating the shooting of Frankie would be under the scrutiny of the Independent Police Complaints Commission, to show to the public that the police action had been lawful. It was frustrating. Dylan and John exchanged with GMP information and photos allowing them to raise lines of enquiry or actions, which hopefully would connect Frankie to Liz’s murder.

  A pint with the GMP officers, just to be sociable, was a welcome breather after the meeting. Knowing they were also interested in Frankie Miller brought new life; new sparks to their inquiry and for this Dylan was grateful. Also, meeting the officers gave Dylan and John contacts they didn’t have before and it was nice to put names to people who’d only been voices on the phone before.

  On the way back, over the dank moorland via the M62, Dylan and John discussed the arguments ‘for and against’ Larry or Frankie being the murderer.