Consequences Read online

  ‘Good. Get it over with,’ Dylan said as he walked along the hallway to the kitchen. Jen started to serve tea.

  ‘Do you want to borrow my specs?’ Dylan asked, as he opened the evening paper and retrieved his glasses from their casing.

  ‘Get lost, I want to identify him, not magnify him,’ she giggled.

  Jen woke up a few times in the night, anxiety gripping her. Jack had always talked about people making identifications; but now she was being asked to do one, she wondered if she would really remember that face as clearly as she thought she would in her mind’s eye. Would Jack be disappointed with her if she couldn’t identify the guy driving the car? She would be so embarrassed, after all the fuss she’d made.

  The next day, they didn’t keep her waiting long at the video unit. She was bombarded with questions:

  When did she see the man? Where? How far away was he? How long did she have him in her view? Could she describe him? What did she remember about him? Did he have any distinguishing features? Had she seen him before that day? Had she seen him since that day? Had anyone shown her a photograph of him? The civilian officer’s questions went on and on. She wanted to shout at him to stop. It wasn’t easy, nor did she feel comfortable. A tap came at the door.

  ‘Brew up?’ said the nicely rounded, pinafore clad, tea lady, who entered the room.

  ‘Oh, gosh a cup of tea would be lovely. We don’t have a tea trolley anymore at Harrowfield: cutbacks,’ Jen said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Well, it’s nice that our boss still lets us have one here,’ said the kindly older lady. ‘Keeps me out of trouble,’ she laughed. ‘I’ve been ’ere for thirty- eight years this year. Milk and sugar, love?’

  ‘Milk, no sugar thanks,’ Jen said, gratefully accepting the steaming cup from the old lady’s arthritic grip. Jen realised her hands were shaking. How daft, she thought. Had the officer noticed she was trembling? His face was an unemotional mask as he continued.

  ‘The man who you saw may, or may not be present on the video screen you are about to see. Look carefully at all the pictures of people you are shown and take your time, there’s no rush. ‘The computer sprang into action, and a screen of ten photographs, all with the same grey background, appeared. Naively she hadn’t realised how similar the images would look. Her heart started beating faster. Her eyes flashed from one side to the other and back again. She couldn’t see him.

  ‘He’s not there,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure, we’ll move to the next page. Like I said, there is no rush. Just take as long as you need, there’s no pressure,’ he said soothingly.

  ‘Tell that to my brain.’ Jen laughed nervously.

  Systematically she went through eight more pictures. No, no, no, she was about to dismiss them all too when she saw him.

  ‘It’s him. It’s definitely him,’ she shouted loudly, surprising even herself. ’That’s him; the man that stuck one finger up at me.’ She started to shake.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m certain that’s him.’ She touched the screen. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Thank -you,’ the officer said calmly. ‘Now all we need to do is get a short statement from you.’

  As she left the building she rang Dylan.

  ‘It’s me. I did it. I picked him out. Tell me how proud you are? I picked him out.’ she screeched.

  ‘Who did you pick? What did they call him?’ said Dylan.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know what they called him. I never asked, should I have done? But it was him. It doesn’t matter what they call him does it? I’m positive it was the man in the car that hit me.’

  ‘I’ll ring and find out who you picked, and ring you back in a minute or two,’ Dylan said, with a smile at her excitement.

  Jen sat anxiously waiting in her car for Dylan’s call. When the phone rang she pressed the button to receive the call. The phone went dead.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said fumbling with her mobile as it dropped on her knee.

  ‘Jen?’ She heard Dylan’s voice calling in the distance. She snatched the phone from her lap and put it to her ear. Her heart pumped wildly.

  ‘Yeah, spot on girl. You picked out Frankie Miller. Well done. It was him after all.’

  Jen took a deep breath and looked to the heavens. ‘Good detective I’d make, eh Jack?’ she sighed, her voice shaking.

  ‘The best. Now be careful driving home. No more trying to apprehend criminals for me, I’ve got a team for that,’ he said.

  Dylan could now well and truly put Frankie in St Peter’s Park at the time Liz was murdered. But he needed more. Nothing yet proved he’d done it. What the hell would make him go to such extremes?

  Lisa tapped on his door, ‘forensic on my phone for you sir. I’ll put ‘em through.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he mouthed as his hand hovered over the phone, waiting for it to ring.

  ‘Hello? DI Dylan? It’s Mike from the lab. You’ll be pleased to know that we’ve retrieved the SIM card from Liz Reynolds’ phone.’

  ‘Miracles do happen,’ Dylan said, leaning back in his chair as John smiled and left the office.

  ‘But is the information retrievable?’ Dylan felt his heart jump into his mouth. He didn’t realise till he gasped that he had been holding his breath.

  ‘The text may well be safe and sound. I’ll send it over to you so your people can attempt to download the data as soon as possible.’

  ‘No you won’t. I’ll send someone over to get it,’ Dylan said, jumping up as he replaced the receiver before he had time to say goodbye.

  Dylan needed to show continuity, and he wanted the data as quick as possible.

  He looked to the ceiling. ‘Thank you God, again,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Just a few more pieces please.’

  ‘Vicky, will you go to Telephone Section at HQ for me please, ASAP?’ he shouted into the CID office.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mobile phone tracking, tracks the current position of a mobile phone even on the move. To locate the phone, it must emit at least the roaming signal, to contact the next nearby antenna tower, but the process does not require an active call. Recent advancement in this field had become a major asset in detecting crime, and Dylan was hopeful that the data would be retrievable. Then they’d be able to plot Liz Reynolds and Frankie Miller’s movements, as well as hopefully link them to Larry Bank’s phone number. That information would be priceless to the enquiry.

  This would give an insight into where they met and the text message detail they had sent to each other. Dylan would get a crime analyst from the Intelligence Unit to chart it all, displaying all contacts. It might look like a map of the London underground by the time they’d finished, but the timeline and visual links would be clear on one page, for the investigators and courts to see, now and in the future.

  Just when Dylan thought things couldn’t get any better, forensics confirmed that they had a trace of petrol on the balaclava worn by Frankie Miller, minute, but sufficient.

  Dylan discussed it with John. This proof was putting Frankie in the frame for Liz’s murder, but why did he do it? It didn’t make sense. Did Larry or Malcolm know why? The team didn’t have a full picture yet, but Dylan was on a high and wouldn’t let anything spoil the moment.

  ‘Is that Mr Dylan?’ said a light happy voice over the phone.

  ‘This is your top detective.’ He knew who it was in an instant.

  ‘Hi Vicky, what’s up?’ Dylan smiled.

  ‘It’s me Jack.’ Jen shrieked.

  ‘I know it’s you, ya fool.’ he laughed.

  ‘I was missing you and I just wanted to hear your voice.’

  ‘Me too. Will catch up with you soon. Gotta go, I’m just in the middle of something,’ he sighed as he replaced the phone on its hook.

  Keeping in touch, however briefly, helped Jen cope. Just by the tone of his voice she knew he was okay and she was happy.

  Dylan and John studied the information they had.

&nbs
p; ‘Dead fish in the bin. Any significance do you think, boss?’ said John.

  ‘Don’t know. Could have been to frighten her. Did she tell Malcolm about the fish?’

  ‘Malcolm’s never said anything has he, so perhaps he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Interestingly, according to Malcolm’s visiting schedule, Larry made a short visit to him in the nick three months ago,’ John told Dylan.

  ‘Did Larry submit an intelligence sheet in Malcolm Reynolds’ file?’ said Dylan.

  ‘No, not a hint of his visit.’

  ‘Let’s have a run out and see Liz’s parents. Update them about Frankie Miller, and drop it on their toes that we think one of our detectives was friendly with the Reynolds’, and see what reaction we get. Then we’ll see if anything is fed back to Malcolm. It’s time we gave Malcolm another visit too. We desperately need to find Larry,’ he insisted. ‘He won’t be far from some bar, wherever he is.’

  ‘Just a thought boss, do they have a tracker on leased mobile homes?’

  ‘Don’t know, but what a stroke of luck that would be if they did. Write up an action. Let’s make the enquiry a priority.’

  Liz’s mum Connie was a shadow of her former self. In fact, Dylan hardly recognised the woman who opened the door to them. Her hair hung lank around her face; her clothes clung to her stooped frame. Dragging her slippered feet into the kitchen and she offered the men a seat at the littered kitchen table.

  ‘How are you?’ said Dylan, although from her appearance it was obvious. Connie turned from the sink where she’d been filling the kettle. Her automatic response to a visitor in her home was to make a cup of tea.

  ‘Honestly?’ she asked. The men nodded. ‘Some days, if it wasn’t for Gemma, I wouldn’t get out of bed,’ she smiled feebly. ‘But life has to go on I keep telling myself. I’m just having bad days and very bad days at the moment. They tell me it will pass.’

  ‘And what help are you getting?’

  ‘Frances, your FLO, suggested I go to the doctors, and he has referred me for counselling, which will hopefully help me deal with the thoughts when I’m awake, and the nightmares when I’m asleep.’ She sighed as she brushed her fringe out of her eyes, and flopped down, with a deep sigh, onto a chair. ’But my daughter’s dead, and at our age...what’s there to unravel? Gemma’s got to be looked after and that’s my one and only focus. I don’t need a shrink to tell me that, do I?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be able to help you get some support. Connie, if there’s anything that you think we can do...well you only have to ask.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she yawned. ‘I forgot how demanding it is to look after a young ‘un.’

  The kettle whistled.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, don’t bother for us, we’re fine. We just called to see how you were.’

  Dylan and John got up to leave. ‘You’ve enough on your plate at the moment. We’ll come back another day for a chat and a cuppa, eh?’ Dylan said resting a hand on her arm.

  ‘Whatever.’ She shrugged as she followed them down the hallway. ’You’re always welcome.’

  Dylan turned at the open door.

  ‘Just while I think on, did you ever hear Liz or Malcolm talk of a man called Larry Banks?’

  ‘No, sorry I don’t think I did.’

  ‘No sweat,’ said Dylan.

  Dylan and John got in the car.

  ‘I think Jen’s at home. We’ve got to pass. Shall we call in for a cuppa?’

  ‘Good idea,’ John replied.

  Max was sleeping in the sun that shone warmly through the patio window, although it was still cool outside. ‘Spring weather is surely just around the corner,’ Dylan thought, but winter was not about to surrender without a fight this year.

  ‘Well done with the ID Jen,’ John said, as they entered the house.

  ‘Crawler,’ Dylan whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Thankyou. Glad some one appreciates my conscientiousness, John. Have a piece of home-made parkin, and how about a ginger biscuit? They’ve just come out of the oven.’

  ‘Thank you, I think I will.’ John smiled smugly. ‘Do you know, I can’t imagine why this man hasn’t put a ring on your finger yet,’ he said. ’And he thinks he’s so darn clever.’ John chuckled.

  ‘I’m the eternal bachelor, that’s why,’ Dylan snivelled. ‘And that’s what you love about me isn’t it Jen?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ she smiled and turned away quickly, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face.

  ‘Come on, here boy,’ whistled John. Max ran over and deposited a toy at his feet, and stood back barking.

  ‘Don’t you go giving him a biscuit; ginger gives him tremendous wind.’ Jack said, grumpily.

  ‘And we know who Jack blames for wind don’t we Max?’ Jen said, moodily, as she handed the men cups of tea, before reaching out to grab Max’s collar. ‘You’ll cover them in hairs, come away,’ she snapped.

  Dylan frowned. ‘Guess which hand the biscuit’s in boy,’ he asked Max, and Max dutifully pawed at his clenched fist and won his reward with ease.

  ‘Do you think it would have been easier to pick out a culprit in flesh in a line with twelve other men like they used to instead of looking at a video, Jen?’ John said reaching out to grab another biscuit. ’These are absolutely gorgeous by the way.’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Jen shrugged her shoulders. ‘It would have probably been more intimidating, but I think I’d have picked him out the guy I saw, whatever. His face is truly imprinted on my mind.’

  ‘What do they call it in psychology? Flash bulb? Flashback? A memory created in great detail, during a personally significant event. And if I remember rightly, those memories are perceived to have a photographic effect.’

  Jen looked at Dylan. It was Dylan’s turn to shrug his shoulders this time,

  ‘Don’t ask me?’

  ‘Take no notice of him, I’m impressed and you’re right that’s true,’ said Jen, as she cleared the pots off the table, to the sink.

  ‘Don’t be, I fancied my psychology teacher at school, hence I learnt things verbatim to impress her.’ John laughed.

  ‘Come on then, John, let’s get going, there’s no rest for the wicked, as they say,’ Dylan said.

  Jen stayed at the sink, her hand under the tap that was running for the washing up. She didn’t turn to watch them leave.

  ‘Bye Jen, thanks for the brew and the goodies,’ John shouted, as he walked towards the front door.

  ‘Bye love,’ Dylan said, as he gave her a quick peck on her cheek and followed John close behind. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Bye,’ she whispered, as the tears welled up in her eyes. Now Jack had said it out loud it was a stark reminder that she was destined to not only to be childless, but remain a spinster too. She sighed, and knew she should be happy. This was her lot and sooner or later she had to accept it. Why did it still upset her so?

  ‘You okay mate?’ Dylan asked as they drove back to the nick. John was unusually quiet.

  ‘Yeah, just thinking what the odds are of the SIO’s partner identifying a murder suspect in his case?’

  ‘Millions to one probably,’ Dylan chuckled.

  ‘More than that, boss I should think.’

  ‘Stop taking the piss, John. The defence barrister would have loved that wouldn’t he, if Frankie had been alive to stand trial.’

  ‘Yeah, can you imagine? ‘Did you show a photograph of Frankie Miller to your partner, DI Dylan? Do you take your work home, sir?’ The press would’ve had a field day too. Just imagine the headline. Did Investigator showed culprits photo before she identified him: Sold some papers that would have for them.’

  The day had finally arrived. Dylan’s double child murderer’s case was before Judge Fryer-Black at Harrowfield Crown Court, for a plea and case management hearing. It was the only case on the list outside court number one. What a waste of time it was for Dylan and Dawn to be sitting outside in the foyer of the crow
n court all morning just to wait for a five minute hearing. Dylan always found it absurd that victims and/or their families, witnesses, suspects and their relatives, all waited in the same lobby to go into the court. It just seemed wrong that they were forced to sit with one another, but costs meant that this had to be so. The feeling of intimidation must be horrible, for some of the witnesses and victims about to give evidence.

  The case was called by the usher, who, in her black gown, bustled into the busy corridor, from the courtroom. The court was packed when Dylan and Dawn finally entered. The media reminded Dylan of a pack of hungry wolves. ‘There won’t be many spare seats to such an event,’ Dylan thought, as they filed into the public gallery with the other voyeurs. Dawn and Dylan stood in the aisle and scanned the sixteen seats, to see if any were free, or if they would have to stand. Dawn hoped not. Sometimes the judges wouldn’t allow anyone to stand and they’d be asked to leave, which meant they’d miss everything; although amiable ushers, would often allow police officers to sit in the press seats.

  ‘I’m disappointed with the not guilty plea to murder,’ whispered Dylan, as they sat down.

  ‘The bastard just wants to squeeze every last ounce of life out of the Hinds and Spencer’s, I bet. You think he’d be satisfied wouldn’t you: he’d got his revenge that he wanted by murdering their children, without rubbing salt in their wounds,’ she replied. ‘I feel so sorry for them, Jack,’ she sighed as she shuffled on the rigid seat, trying to make herself comfortable. ’Gosh, it’s warm in here,’ she said, as she fanned her face with the previous conviction print outs and antecedents that she had brought with her, just in case there was a last minute change of plea; to guilty, and she was called to give antecedent history. It was her first day back at work, and Dylan noted that her bump was very noticeable now, but she was glowing.

  ‘The inference is that he denies the murder on the grounds of provocation. The jury will sort him out in due course though, and the judge will slam him, I hope,’ Dylan said. ‘Are you feeling okay?’