Consequences Page 17

  They were woken by the phone. Jen looked at the clock, it was four fifteen. Dylan’s hand, robot-like, reached out to get it. He managed a grunt as he picked it up.

  ‘Morning sir. I hope I haven’t woken you?’

  Why did people always say that? Did they truly expect you to be sat up twenty-for/seven?

  ‘You did,’ he said grumpily. He felt for Jen, as she wasn’t on call, but she was always woken up too. Hang on a minute, he wasn’t on call either.

  ‘Night shift have disturbed a burglar at the bakery on Greenhead Road. The officers chased him into the yard, and now he’s threatening to jump from the rooftops. They’ve asked for a negotiator and I understand …’

  ‘But I’m not on call.’

  ‘I know sir, but the on-call is halfway up the A1, en route to the Regional Crime Conference in Newcastle, and recommended you as the nearest, trained …’

  ‘Remind me to thank them. have you started a log? It’ll take me at least twenty minutes to get there.’

  Jen was already pulling clothes out of his wardrobe for him. ‘Not another body Jack, surely?’ she groaned.

  ‘Uniform’s disturbed a burglar and he’s threatening to jump off a building.’

  She turned, hankie in hand. ‘But …’

  ‘I know, I’m not on call,’ he said, tying his shoelaces. ‘I’ll have to sort it later.’ He took the hankie off her and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. ‘I was having such a lovely sleep,’ he whispered, as he kissed her lips.

  ‘Me - too. Look, there’s some fruit, a cereal bar and water in that bag,’ she said pointing to his briefcase. ‘Please be careful and let me know what’s happening when you can. Love you.’

  Dylan reached out for a cuddle. ‘That, you can be sure of, Miss Jones. I wish people would just leave us alone,’ he moaned.

  ‘You better go,’ she said, biting her bottom lip. ‘Don’t forget to grab your scarf and gloves; it’ll be cold out there at this time of the morning.’

  ‘If they were going to do it, they’ll have done it by the time I get there, love. Hopefully they’ll have realised before then, that being smashed to pieces isn’t as attractive as being locked up and I’ll be back home soon.’ Dylan had seen the bodies of jumpers that had landed feet first, ending up inches shorter than they once had been and he had also seen them land head first; leaving an absolute mess for some poor bugger to clean up.

  Driving over the moorland to Greenhead Road, Dylan thought how prisons had changed over the past twenty-five years, not always for the better. A lot of the suicides he’d been called to, or threats of suicides, were people with long police records. The ones that really needed help didn’t hesitate to kill themselves; it was done without a backward glance. How could anyone face such terror head on? He couldn’t comprehend what must go through the mind of someone about to end their own life, and the different ways they’d resort to, to do it. He would always remember going to the body of a young woman who’d slit her wrists; the deep red blood bath that met him when he opened the bathroom door. Her pale grey lifeless body lay in a few inches of water in the moisture-filled room as if she had fallen asleep; her eyes closed as if at peace. A razor blade lay in her upturned hand, her arm draped over the side of the bath, and a pool of blood that had dripped from her wrist, lay on the cream tiled floor, seeping into the lines of grout. The memory of the smell made his nostrils swell and bile rise in his throat. He was making good time along the quiet streets now. Then there was a sudden bright pink flash of a speed camera...Oh God; that was all he needed. Endless reports to prove that he was indeed en route to an emergency. He looked at his Speedo 38 mph in a 30mph area.

  A police car with flashing blue lights blocked the road ahead. Dylan drove towards it. An officer held up his hand indicating for Dylan to stop. Dylan took his foot off the accelerator and drove at a crawl. The officer drew his truncheon, seemingly threatening to put it through Dylan’s windscreen. It had the desired effect. Dylan stopped.

  The officer stormed over to the driver side and wrenched the door open.

  ‘Can’t you see the bloody road is closed …’ he started to say.

  ‘Put that away,’ Dylan said angrily, flashing his warrant card in his face.

  ‘I’m your on-call flaming negotiator.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t recognise …’ he said, fumbling as he put the truncheon back in the pocket in his trousers. ’He’s gone into the yard over there and up the old fire escape,’ the officer said, pointing.

  The building was semi-derelict. Sitting on the edge of its roof was the cause of all the commotion. One, two, three, four. Dylan counted the storeys and moaned. How the chuff was he going to get up there to speak to this twat? His legs went weak; shook at the thought. The male figure silhouetted against the dawn light looked ant sized from where Dylan stood. There was a loud crash making Dylan jump.

  ‘A slate sir,’ called a uniformed officer. ‘He’s keeping us awake by throwing them off.’

  ‘You could have bloody warned me.’ Dylan yelled.

  ‘Tell control I’ve arrived will you, and ask for an ambulance in case he does jump.’

  ‘Or I faint,’ Dylan thought.

  ‘Ask for the fire brigade as well; we might need their turntable and ladders.’ Dylan swallowed hard as he looked skyward. Should he try the megaphone first? He had it in the boot of his car with his scarf and gloves.

  ‘What’s he nicked?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘Bit of cash, some food, but we think he probably just wanted a place to get his head down for the night, and when he got disturbed he freaked out.’

  Dylan inhaled deeply as he inspected the fire escape. He could smell Thomas’s bakery. The staff were inside grafting away as usual at this time of day, getting their orders ready. Was there anything nicer than the smell of baking bread he wondered, and his stomach rumbled as if in response to his thoughts. Rusty metal crumbled in his hand as he fingered the ladder’s rungs. He grimaced at the health and safety nightmare, but what choice did he have? Dylan could hear Jen’s voice clearly as he began to climb. ’What the hell did you go up for? Are you stark raving mad?’

  Two flights up and his head began to spin. The ground looked blurred beneath him and the noise of another slate hitting the ground echoed in his ears. Should he go up or back down? The fire brigade would be rescuing him at this rate. Dylan couldn’t make out the facial features on the raised faces of the uniformed officers below. His throat was dry, his heart raced and he could hear his chest wheezing, as he climbed the next ladder. Dylan stood on the platform like a statue. His stomach clenched. His legs were like jelly. He leaned back to the wall. His fingers spanned the cool stone that he desperately tried to get a grip on. He closed his eyes. ‘God help me,’ he whispered. ‘Why do I do this? I must be crazy...and for the love of the job,’ he griped, breathing heavily.

  ‘If you come any further,’ a man’s voice screamed, ‘I’ll...I’ll jump… I mean it.’

  Dylan stayed perfectly still. The air was blowing cool on his skin and the sky was black directly above him. Gasping for breath, he looked up. A dull pounding began at the top of his spine. He couldn’t hold the position long. It was hard to see the Jumper’s face in the little light the early morning was bringing. He glanced up again. It was as if someone below had read his mind, as they threw a switch on a lamp and directed the fierce light into his face. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ he yelled, shielding his eyes with his arm.

  The lamp moved in awkward jolts until it caught the Jumper’s face.

  ‘Chubby Connor,’ Dylan said, under his breath. Was this deja vu? He could feel the blood running cold through his veins. This was one evil, murdering bastard who didn’t deserve saving, and what made it even worse was Dylan was risking his own life for him. The sight of Charlie’s little body on the mortuary table flashed through his mind. What the hell was he doing trying to save the bastard?

  ‘Is that you Alan? Chubby?’ he said calmly. His heart raced. Ther
e was no reply.

  ‘It’s not long since you were on the bridge. What’s up now? Can’t we try sort it like we did last time? It’s Inspector Dylan.’

  Was this his second chance with Alan ‘Chubby’ Connor? Fate was a funny thing. Be careful what you wish for son, his dad used to say.

  Chubby had disappeared from Dylan’s line of vision. Dylan’s mind was fighting with his conscience; his head was saying one thing and his heart was screaming another. Dylan slid his back down the factory wall and sat on the landing of the fire escape. Chubby must have heard him. He came to the roof steps. The lamp now focused on them both, and ‘Chubby’ Connor was clearly lit, holding a roof slate.

  ‘Were you starving son? Is that why you went into the bakery?’ Dylan said. Chubby was silent.

  ‘I bet you’re bloody freezing, your bollocks will drop off up there. Come down,’ Dylan shivered, but got his hankie out to mop his nose and his brow. Suddenly, debris flew past him and he heard a shout. Had Chubby fallen? Dylan’s stomach flipped. He looked below. All was still.

  ‘Bloody hell Chubby, why won’t you come on down, or do you want to end up like that slate?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Let’s talk about it eh? Let’s face it; you’ve nowhere to run to and nobody’s going away.’

  In the distance, sirens wailed, getting louder and louder as they got nearer. The blue lights whirred as the ambulance followed the fire engine that had raced into the yard. Oh my God, Dylan thought, what’re they doing?

  ‘What’s going on?’ Chubby shouted, as he noisily hopped from one foot to the other on the roof.

  ‘Calm down......calm down. The ambulance is here because if you fall or jump you might not die; you’ll be in tremendous pain and believe me you’re gonna be glad of the paramedics. Someone in the control room will have called them as a matter of course, so they can help you,’ Dylan yelled over the engine noise below.

  ‘I don’t need help. Tell them to go away,’ Chubby screamed.

  ‘But you do need help. That’s what this is all about isn’t it? You need help now,’ insisted Dylan.

  The fire crews were tilting their turntable preparing it for use.

  ‘What’s happening? What’s the ladder about?’ Chubby asked.

  ‘Fire brigade...they’re used to rescuing people from rooftops of burning buildings; they won’t mess about once they get set up.’

  Chubby was silent, and Dylan caught him transfixed by the commotion below. The pain in Dylan’s neck was intolerable as he watched Chubby, the man he had reluctantly taken into his care.

  ‘They’ll bring you down. My boss; can’t do with the road closed at morning rush hour. He’ll have given them orders to bring you down as soon as possible. I don’t think you’re a match for them do you?’

  ‘They can’t do it...tell them...tell them...I’ll batter the bastards with slates,’ Chubby cried, holding a slate in the air.

  ‘They want to help you. All them people down there are all there just for you.’

  Chubby retreated out of Dylan’s view and Dylan sat looking out on to the circus below. All those men and women wasting their time on a flaming murderer; it turned his stomach. He looked to the sky and felt the cold breeze on his face. Clouds skimmed what was left of the pale moon and he felt a light spray of rain brush his cheek. He waited. There was one thing for sure; if it was going to rain he was going to get wet. He stood up. His bum was numb from sitting on the cold platform, and a shiver ran through his body. This would teach him once and for all to bring gloves and a scarf with him, like Jen said.

  ‘Chubby?’Dylan shouted, standing up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, otherwise you know what’s going to happen. The fire brigade are coming up.’ Dylan waited. The rain came in heavier drops and the operator swung the fire engines turntable in the yard towards the factory, awaiting his orders to move it upwards.

  ‘Okay, Okay, tell them to fucking back off,’ came the most unexpected of replies. Dylan held on tightly to the railings, feeling the encrusted, flaking paintwork crumble beneath his cold hands. Chubby started his descent down the ladder and within seconds stood facing Dylan on the small platform. He looked ill. His clothes were tattered, torn and stained and he stank of smoke and sweat. Dylan stared into the young man’s haunted eyes. They were hollow and dark.

  ‘Walk behind me when we get to the bottom. There’s a police dog just outside the yard, so don’t try and do a runner.’ Dylan looked down. Seeing Chubby’s movements, the people who’d been standing in the yard had retreated, and only vehicles remained.

  Chubby Connor walked down the steps in front of Dylan and suddenly Dylan saw little Charlie Sharpe’s body lying in front of him, all his injuries crystal clear. What the hell was he doing saving this piece of shit? He grabbed the collar of Chubby’s t-shirt. Chubby turned, his eyes wide and pleading. Should Dylan push him? Who’d know he hadn’t fallen or jumped?

  ‘I shouldn’t have saved you last time you scum bag,’ Dylan growled, gripping the back of his t-shirt tighter with a clenched fist.

  ‘I got a donor card; it’s in my back pocket,’ Chubby said, calmly. The shock revelation halted Dylan’s actions. He raised his eyebrows. Chubby Conner would never know how close he was to it being pushed.

  ‘You’re under arrest for the murder of Charlie Sharpe as well as burglary.’ Dylan cautioned him as he handed Chubby to the uniformed officers. The latter charge, he knew, would pale into insignificance. His reply, for the sake of the arrest form, had been, ‘Not me...not me...I didn’t do it …I swear.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Is the DI off today?’ Tracy asked Vicky.

  ‘No, not that I’m aware of...perhaps he was out on the town last night,’ she said giggling.

  ‘Oh, you’re scandalous.’ Tracy screeched.

  Sitting opposite the pair, John Benjamin was studying the chief constable’s log to see what had happened of note, around the force overnight.

  ‘What’s new Sarge?’ said Vicky. ‘Is the kettle on?’

  ‘It says that Dylan was called to negotiate at a suicide attempt in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Oh, no, hasn’t he enough on his plate without that?’ said Dawn, groaning.

  Dawn was studying the Crime Information System, trying to locate possible associates of Jason Todd. According to Susan, no one else could be the father. The coroner would want to know who Charlie’s father was and tests would have to be done to confirm it.

  ‘The plot thickens,’ John told Dawn, as he came off the phone to forensics. The DNA on the balaclava is that of...guess who?’

  Dawn shook her head.

  ‘One Frank Miller.’

  ‘What was Miller doing in St Peter’s Park?’

  ‘I think I’d arrange another visit to the prison for Dylan, if I were you,’ Dawn said to John. ’A-S-A-P.’

  John lifted the phone; a voice was already on the line.

  ‘Hello? Hello? DI Dylan?’

  ‘No, DS John Benjamin, he’s not here at the moment can I help?’

  ‘Can you just tell him that DC Gary Warner rang from the Regional Crime Squad, and ask him to ring me back as soon as possible, please?’

  John took his number and put the phone down. For a moment he stopped, and for the first time in his career he wondered if he really wanted to be an SIO. Thinking about Dylan’s present workload, he didn’t know if he could keep up with the constant demand the job presented or if it would be fair to his family. Even now he spent precious little time with his them, and he knew he’d have to think very hard if it was the career path he wanted to pursue. Yes, the job was undeniably interesting, exciting at times, but at what cost?

  John kept a record of what information had come in to tell Dylan, and he updated the policy book. He decided to liaise with Greater Manchester police. He needed to find out more about Frankie Miller; had he a mobile phone on him? Where was his clothing? All the items would help their investigation, he
had no doubt. In Dylan’s absence there was plenty to do.

  Dawn was on the phone, listening intently.

  ‘Brilliant, that’s really brilliant you can carry on giving us news like that,’

  DS Patrick Finch stopped what he was doing and sat with his mouth open, eagerly waiting to find out what news was so good. She looked jaded, he thought, studying her face.

  ‘The bloodstained fingerprint has been identified. Yeah, and it’s that of Alan Connor alias Chubby, and the blood is Charlie Sharpe’s.’

  ‘That’s a great result,’ he said grinning. ‘Dylan will have a good start to his day, when he surfaces.’

  ‘Yes he will, and that forensically connects Connor for us too. I’ve done my bit now; all you have to do is find and arrest Connor and quickly Pat,’ she teased.

  ‘I wish you’d call me Patrick.’

  ‘Mmm, now what would Dylan say to you?’ her finger touched her cheek in a thoughtful pose. ‘You won’t find him, sat on your arse in here.’ she chortled. ‘But before you set off, put the kettle on Pat, there’s a love. Toast would be good too; remember I’m feeding two,’ she said, patting her stomach.

  Patrick gritted his teeth together and clenched his fists.

  Dawn stuck her tongue out.

  ‘Urgh, put that away. Goodness knows where it’s been,’ John laughed.

  ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate, John,’ Patrick scolded. John raised his eyebrows at Dawn and she smiled.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on then shall I?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Maybe now, Dylan will give Connor’s picture to the press and get his face plastered over the TV. That should make it hard for him to carrying on lying low,’ Dawn said.

  Dylan sat quietly for a moment, alone in his car. He felt numb, sick, tired and hardly daring to think just how close he’d been to pushing Chubby down the steps. Before his culpable feelings took over, he dialled the CID office and Patrick answered.