Poetic Justice Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Praise

  Dedication

  Galatians 6:7

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Copyright

  POETIC JUSTICE

  R.C. Bridgestock

  Praise for Poetic Justice

  ‘Poetic Justice is a dark tale that intertwines high stakes mystery with personal tragedy. Detective Jack Dylan manages to retain his humanity in the face of terrible adversity in a story that brims with authenticity.’ Adam Hamdy

  ‘Rings with a sure touch of insider authenticity’ Adrian Magson

  ‘A multi-faceted page turner. The perfect way to meet Jack Dylan’ Alison Bruce

  ‘Poetic Justice combines gritty realism with great heart.’ Ashley Dyer

  ‘Poetic Justice is crime fiction gold, with secrets, lies and tragic consequences. This is the authentic voice of the police procedural; crime fiction written by experts, who have lived through the real thing. R.C. Bridgestock books always deliver a cracking story with an expert’s insight.’ Howard Linskey

  Poetic Justice is a terrific read. The Bridgestock’s are an authentic voice in crime literature and have created a compelling character in DI Jack Dylan.’ J.D. Fennell

  ‘Jack’s back – and this time it’s personal. His wife is dead, his daughter is in danger and now two local teenagers have gone missing. But DI Jack Dylan is no ordinary detective. The ninth novel in the series is actually a prequel to the previous eight, and has all the elements you expect from crime writing duo Bob and Carol Bridgestock. The writing is smart and sharp, with plenty of insider knowledge and lashings of local Yorkshire colour. The plot grips from the start and doesn’t let up. A fast-paced, high-octane read.’ Paul Burston

  ‘A cracking read – fantastic story embedded in authentic police procedure’ Helen Pepper, Forensic specialist

  ‘Draws you in from the first page – one of the best crime novels I’ve read in years’ Adam Croft

  To our family who lived with us through the real

  crime and support us in fiction.

  For law enforcement officers – the true heroes – who strive

  for justice for the victims and their families.

  You reap what you sow.

  Be not deceived.

  God is not mocked: for whatever man soweth,

  that shall he also reap.

  Galatians 6:7

  Chapter One

  Frank Bland’s hand trembled as he fumbled for the phone. The receiver felt too heavy as he lifted it. His heart was pounding in his chest; his shoulders heaved with the effort of running; his legs felt like jelly. When he breathed in, the cold air froze his throat and lungs. Leaning heavily against the door, Frank dialled 999 and, while he waited for someone to answer, he closed his eyes and left a prayer on God’s answering machine. An angel in the mortal guise of a BT operator answered.

  ‘Emergency, which service please?’

  Shock, it appeared, had rendered him dumb. The controller sought to get him to speak, listening all the while for background noises, ruling out a kid’s prank. Frank licked his lips; his tongue felt like sandpaper.

  ‘Can you tell me your name? Where are you ringing from?’

  When the line remained soundless the operator persisted. ‘Can you cough or make another audible sign to let me know that you are in need of assistance?’ she said.

  He could see his breath spiral upwards out of his mouth. He tried, and tried again, but he couldn’t make a noise. A rush of adrenalin caused a burning sensation to run through his veins and, as his panic loomed larger, he could feel the perspiration run the length of his spine.

  The operator persisted. ‘Dial 55 if you are in danger.’

  Fleetingly, Frank looked at his right hand, the skin pale grey in the moonlight that shone through the window of the call box. He was shaking, and not from the cold; sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He extended his quivering fingers and, as quickly as they’d allow, dialled 55.

  The call was immediately transferred to the police operator. His voice was deep, calm and soothing, but at the same time authoritative, just what Frank needed at that moment. He felt the blood rush back to his brain and control come sliding in.

  ‘If you’re in danger please dial a number,’ said the police operator.

  Frank forced his voice out through his lips. His throat felt so constricted, he marvelled that he could breathe. His words came out in a rush, as if they’d been suppressed in a bubble.

  ‘There’s been an accident. The car in front of me, it went off the road and vanished down the ravine.’

  His frantic, breathless words, as the only witness on the road at the time heading in the same direction towards Harrowfield Town, were recorded.

  When the police operator ended the call, Frank slammed the receiver down and, backing away, pushed the heavy red door open and went out into the darkness. As advised, he returned to the scene.

  He followed the reflective road studs that lined the sweeping highway, which weaved and stretched for miles ahead across the Pennines. The sky was clear and the moonlight softened the darkness. The mild, dry conditions were a complete contrast to the previous weekend, when winter had arrived overnight, as it often did in the north of England. It seemed too calm for what he had seen to be real.

  Hands in his pockets, and still trembling from shock, he watched the hazard lights on his car flashing rhythmically. With only a little light from the sky, he stood on the grass verge, still struggling to believe what he had seen, and peered down into the blackness of the ravine. All was quiet and still. His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest, after the exertion of the uphill hike. He struggled to catch the tight, hard breaths inside him and forced them out slowly instead, to make himself calm down.

  He looked about him. The lights of the M62 were behind him, but neither they nor the reflective road studs were any use in his attempt to follow the numerous sheep tracks that led down into the abyss. If only he were younger and fitter, he’d have been down like a flash. He looked up to see a swirling shape appear, shimmering like the folds of a curtain in the sky, stirred by the wind in an eerie silence. But this was no divine intervention come to help those in the crash; it was smoke rising from the vehicle – a sign, he feared, of worse to come.

  Frank looked from left to right, unsure from which way the emergency services would come, straining to hear the sirens approaching, hoping and willing another vehicle to come along to bring him support on the isolated stretch of moorland road. He felt useless, he felt vulnerable, he felt extremely scared.

  In the stillness, and with little else he could do, he berated himself for not listening to his daughter, who had begged him, on the death of his wife, to get a mobile phone. ‘What if the telephone box had been vandalised?’ he could hear her say. He shuddered to think what he wo
uld have done then.

  After what seemed like an eternity, and to his utmost relief, in the distance he saw a convoy of blue lights traversing the valley below and coming in his direction. Their lights brightened up the sky immediately above them in a continuous blue streak.

  Frank knew only too well that people had differing views about the use of the blues and twos during the hours of darkness, especially when the roads were generally quiet. He’d sat in on enough discussions, with arguments both for and against. The objectors didn’t see the need for the emergency services disturbing them in their homes at night and thought that they should show restraint ; he’d said as much himself. However, he now understood that, for those awaiting the assistance of emergency services, the sound of a siren or the sight of a blue light was a reassurance like no other.

  The old man watched the convoy pass through the village of Marsden. The blue flashing line moved at speed against the blackened backdrop. Now they turned up toward Standedge.

  The sirens got louder and louder and, hopping from one foot to another, Frank anxiously waited to greet them. Shivering, he watched their final approach. It was nine-fifteen in the evening on this February night and in the valley a swirling mist could now be seen creeping from the moorland in the path of the headlights. Was this nature’s attempt to hide the devastation beneath?

  As the police, ambulance, fire brigade and the mountain-rescue vehicles came together their sirens silenced in unison. They parked in an orderly fashion near where the vehicle had left the road, just below where Frank stood.

  ‘Down there.’ The jittery old man pointed.

  Taking instruction from Frank, the crews began to assemble their equipment. Within minutes, dark bodies, not unlike seals in high-vis jackets, began scrambling down the unwelcoming terrain, slithering into the unknown towards where the vehicle had disappeared into the forest, with shouts of, ‘Hold on, help is on its way!’

  Initially, the flashlights shone in every direction, showing the rescuers their steep descent into the dense, dark wood below. But, minutes later, the team came together in an illuminated line. The site of the upturned wreckage had been located. A rescuer’s shout appeared to come from the bowels of the earth.

  ‘The vehicle’s caught on pine trees approximately fifty metres down the slope, so in my estimation there’s still a further drop of around fifty metres to the river below.’

  A uniformed police officer approached Frank.

  ‘Mr Bland?’

  ‘Frank,’ he nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘PC Pamela Clare, although everyone calls me PC.’ Her warm smile was comforting. ‘I believe you telephoned the incident in on three nines?’

  ‘Yes, from the telephone box down the road,’ Frank said. Trying to anticipate the next question, he called upon his memory to recollect some useful information. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentration making him frown. ‘I was on my way from my daughter’s in Bury. I go every week since my wife … Anyway, as you’re aware, this road has just re-opened after the snow and ice and, well, I don’t “do” motorways – especially the M62 with all the heavy goods vehicles constantly on your tail. This road is fast enough for me. The only downside is,’ he hung his head, ‘it means I have to pass the infamous Saddleworth moors. That bit of the journey always sends a chill down my spine, no matter what time of day. Hindley and Brady and the five children they killed – you’re probably too young to remember …’

  PC Clare’s body language and facial expression told him to return to the accident. ‘Can you tell me what you saw tonight, Frank?’

  Frank shook himself. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?’

  PC’s gentle smile and professional manner encouraged him to continue.

  ‘The road was quiet, in fact, I’d not seen another car except the Saab in front, as I came down. It was travelling at about forty miles an hour, I would guess. The driver didn’t appear to be in any sort of rush. Then, suddenly, for no reason that I could see, it was as if the wheel had been grabbed from the driver’s hand. The Saab suddenly swerved into the concrete posts on the left side of the road. The passenger, if there is one, would have taken a real whack. It gave me one hell of a shock. The next thing I knew the car was being driven normally again. I wondered if the driver had been drinking, or if they’d fallen asleep. Then, lo and behold, it happens again, and again. By this time, I’m dropping back, wondering what the hell is going on.’

  ‘So, in your view, this was no accident?’

  Frank shook his head despondently. ‘I don’t see how it could be.’

  ‘And, when the car left the road? You think that was intentional too?’

  Frank pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. After the car had hit the third post it didn’t recover as easily, it hit the crash barrier, then rocked from side to side before heading towards the opposite side of the road towards the ravine. I knew there was an almighty drop over the edge. I admit to closing my eyes. Only when I opened them did I see the brake lights come on. You wouldn’t bother braking if you intended to do it, would you?’ Frank spoke quickly, anticipating her question. ‘God, it gave me one hell of a shock to see it flip over and spin out of control down the ravine. There’s no way I could get down there with my bad hip, but I know this road well enough to know there’s a telephone box near the next lay-by, so I got to it as quick as I could, praying it hadn’t been vandalised.’

  PC Clare gave him a quick nod of agreement. ‘And, rang three nines.’

  ‘I feel bad that I couldn’t do any more.’ He nodded down towards the hillside. ‘I hope they will be all right.’

  Frank paled suddenly and his shaking became uncontrollable. It was clear to the seasoned police officer that the old man was in shock. Mentally noting what he had told her, she caught the attention of one of the medics and called them over.

  ‘Can you make sure he’s okay when you get the chance?’ she said in a whisper. She saw Frank’s eyes narrow, his deliberate intake of a deep breath. She reassured him that he had done the best that anyone could have done in the circumstances. The medic arrived with a blanket to wrap around his shoulders, but his eyes could not be drawn from the activity down the ravine.

  ‘It looks very overgrown and pretty inaccessible to me. Can you imagine if you’d attempted to get to them and injured yourself?’ PC Clare nodded slowly. ‘No, you did the right thing, Mr Bland.’

  He turned to her. ‘Frank, please,’ he said, running a bony hand through his white, wire-brush hair. Suddenly he yawned, and she offered him a seat in the police car. He declined.

  A burst of frenzied voices told them that the rescue teams had reached the upturned vehicle. There was a rush of people at the road surface then quick, fleeting glimpses of equipment being lowered down to those requesting it. The shouting, although controlled, held great urgency.

  ‘Is he alive?’ A strong, incisive voice asked.

  A shrill reply came. ‘I have a pulse.’

  The pause wasn’t long enough to prepare Frank for the disembodied whisper that followed this news. It was quieter and seemed slower to reach the onlookers, as if it had been suppressed along the way. ‘She’s not breathing …’

  The Saab had a personalised number plate: JDYN 1. The vehicle was now a mangled, contorted heap of metal, and even though some paintwork still showed signs of the cosmic-blue colour in places, collectively it looked like it belonged in a scrapper’s yard. There was the gut-wrenching smell of blood; but the underlying smell of petrol was more of a worry to the rescuers.

  Chapter Two

  The shattered glass of the windows was scattered about them, among the blood and what was probably flesh and bone. One of the first things visible, before artificial light gave them more clarity, was the tiny flames licking around the driver’s head and his pendulous arm. The driver was trapped by his seatbelt, which was almost strangling him. The strange sounds emanating from his motionless body told them he was breathing, if only shallowly. His shirt sleeve was all but ripped
off, and the light beam revealed horrendous damage to his arm, which was horribly twisted, the flesh torn.

  Once the flames were extinguished, the rescuers were able to work safely, although thick smoke still encircled the area around them, making it difficult for them to breathe. Everyone there worked quietly and diligently, in no doubt that an unintended spark could cause an explosion; their lives were most definitely still at risk.

  There had been two people in the car and, as one emergency team dealt with the driver, the passenger was seen to by another. They had to decide who needed their attention more urgently; neither was moving. The seatbelt of the female was detached and her airbag hadn’t activated. Her body lay some metres away from the vehicle, crumpled and twisted, more like a rubber model of a person than a human being. Only the blood around her head, and the guts that spilled from her side, indicated that this body had once been alive.

  The paramedics quickly checked for vital signs. Her face was hidden by her long dark hair. There was no pulse. Pushing her hair to the side off her face revealed a large, sunken head wound on her left side, oozing quantities of blood.

  In the unforgiving location, with nothing to lose but everything to gain by working on the badly wounded victim, the team frantically carried out CPR. Unresponsive, the woman was pronounced dead at the scene, and as the rescuers hung their heads, sweating profusely from their exertion, her body was covered with a blanket and placed on a stretcher, ready to be taken back up the hillside and into the waiting ambulance.