Poetic Justice

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Dylan knew better of Larry Banks. He had no intention of going for promotion. He was a detective sergeant, the best job in the police force in his eyes. Always someone above him to shoulder the responsibility and getting paid for his overtime, something the rank of inspector and above didn’t qualify for. In addition, it meant that he had others of a lower rank than him to call upon to do the dirty work.

  Larry could see that Dylan was engaged in deep conversation with Dawn; there was no chance of him getting out of the office anytime soon.

  Dawn’s plan, she explained to Dylan, was to get Tanya King and Nick Towler to take part in a video interview, now they were both on the mend. But, although their physical injuries were healing, it was highly possible that their emotional scars would never leave them.

  A dark shadow crossed Dylan’s face. ‘Do you think they will dare to risk the wrath of Peter Donaldson?’ he asked.

  ‘I would definitely have said no if Field Colt was going to remain open, but it does seem it’s going to close down.’

  A glimmer of hope filled his eyes. ‘So, let me get this right. What you’re saying is they might just go along with it. After all, what’ve they got to lose?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying! I hear you went over to Field Colt to have a chat with Donaldson.’ The sparkle in her eyes suddenly vanished. ‘Please be careful. I hear he’s quite well connected.’

  ‘How long have you known me?’ Dylan said. ‘Have you ever seen me back away from anything, even if it’s to my detriment?’ Instinctively, his fingers touched the scar at his temple and the one on his nose.

  ‘Touché! It’s him and his colleagues who should be worried.’

  Dylan focused on Dawn’s face as he leaned forward. ‘Look, I don’t care if he is a good mate of Hugo-Watkins like he said, or of the Chief Constable; or even the bloody Commissioner. The bastards who are involved in this crime need to be put behind bars, and the sooner the better.’ He prodded the desk. ‘I want no stone unturned in this case. If the evidence is there, we’ll put them before the courts as soon as physically possible.’

  ‘Well, as you’re aware, rumours have been rife about Field Colt for as long as I care to remember. We have lots of paper reports and several allegations that go back years, all carefully stored in the archives. The more recent ones are on the electronic databases, I’ve checked. Most have been written off as No Further Action. Because, let’s face it …’ Dawn paused, sighing heavily, ‘… in the end, without the victims’ co-operation, we’re stuffed. And the bloody abusers know it.’ Dawn’s large brown eyes looked sorrowful. ‘I sort of get it in a way. Remember, these kids in the home have nothing but tales from their elders to go by. Who the hell can they trust? If they test the water – and most of them do stand up for themselves at one time or another – they’re simply branded as troublemakers, even if they do then bow down and refuse to co-operate with the police. I’ve found out recently that the “problem child” is often moved on repeatedly – away from their friends, sometimes at very short notice – and the others aren’t told where they’ve gone and aren’t allowed any communication with them from then on. How frightening must that be for the child who’s been moved? But also, what does it say to those left behind?’

  ‘So, the kids think it’s better to put up and shut up,’ said Dylan, his eyes taking on a glazed look. ‘And who knows what horrors the next home will bring them?’

  Instead of using the conference facilities at the police training school, which was world-renowned for its excellence and had its own bedrooms on site, Dylan’s latest course had been scheduled at a very expensive offsite location in a beautiful-looking country hotel. As Dylan had driven up towards the entrance, he’d been stopped by a tall, serious-faced young man wearing a uniform, who’d insisted on parking the car for him.

  Dylan had taken his bag from the passenger side and got out, handing the young man the keys. He’d then been greeted by an older gent in a top hat who’d extended a firm handshake and a hearty greeting, taken the bag from his hand and led him into the foyer where he’d waited patiently with Dylan until he could be booked in. The old man had looked somewhat relieved when the policeman had declined his offer to show him up to his room on the top floor.

  Once there, he’d unpacked the few pieces of clothing he had brought with him, made himself a drink and sat on the chair by the window which overlooked a glorious garden. It was quiet, it was peaceful and he’d felt quite serene. Then he’d reminded himself that the tax payer was paying for this. What the hell was he doing here?

  Twenty minutes later Dylan was being handed his name tag. Not an ordinary paper sticker, or even one with his name handwritten on it with a marker pen; no, this had been a custom-made tag with his name and title engraved on a thick plastic plaque with a pin attached to the back.

  But the plush exterior hadn’t reflected the reality. His room had been damp, despite the antiquated heating system which had kept him awake throughout the first night, pumping water around the creaking radiators. By morning it had given up the ghost, resulting in the need to wear coats throughout the day. The food provided had been a cold buffet, hardly enough to satisfy the average Yorkshireman’s appetite, and it did nothing to help maintain body heat.

  The first speaker had been arrogant and patronising, devoid of any sense of humour; the second, vain and supercilious, mocking the first speaker’s pompous tone. Dylan’s companions were sullen and silent, hardly speaking at all save to make an occasional sardonic remark about the worthlessness of the event.

  With the promise of much of the same to come, Dylan had decided he would leave early the next morning. Why bother staying? Most attendees would no doubt be sleeping off the heavy drinking session from the night before. The morning plan allowed for further socialising, sexed up by naming it ‘Networking’, before they all returned to their native forces, and largely to allow time for the alcohol absorbed the previous evening to leave their bloodstreams – another working day lost.

  During the break for lunch, Dylan’s phone beeped a message and he picked it up, hoping it may be Kay, or Isla with an update. It was Larry. His ‘suit of armour’ had arrived.

  Unbeknownst to Dylan, the jacket had caused some amusement in the CID office. To all intents and purposes, the body armour looked like a normal, caramel-coloured anorak, which was obviously the idea behind the design. However, it was also patently obvious when it was placed before the officers on the office floor that it had zero flexibility. In fact, when Larry tried to lift it he found it took both hands and an extreme amount of effort. Wearing the garment would hardly make someone discreet, he thought, as he walked across the office in it, looking like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz.

  A little later, Larry pulled up outside the Dylans’ house. Their car was parked on the driveway, which he hoped meant that Kay was at home. As he approached the house, he could hear raised voices. He recognised Kay Dylan’s. The other had the deeper pitched tones of a man. He was surprised. He listened for a moment but, try as he might, he couldn’t make out a single word of what was being said.

  He knocked on the door. Instantly, the shouting ceased. He knocked again, louder this time, and waited. After a few moments the door flew open and Kay stood before him, looking a little flustered. He offered her the parcel.

  ‘Jack’s bullet-proof jacket,’ he said. ‘Its heavy! You’ll never carry it. Aren’t you going to invite me in for a coffee?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder.

  There was nothing he didn’t like about Kay Dylan. Everything was exactly to his taste – her long, dark hair; her soft, bronzed skin; the full lips; her sexy, hazel, come-to-bed eyes, high cheekbones and long, lean face. But, just like lightening, the flash had passed almost before the thought could form.

  Kay coloured deeply, staring at him in an embarrassed silence. Now he thought about it her hair was dishevelled, her silk blouse in disarray, her cardigan half on and half off. ‘Is everything all right?’ he said.

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nbsp; ‘It’s nothing you need concern yourself about, Larry.’ She attempted a smile, but it did not quite reach her eyes.

  Larry scowled. ‘Tell me you’re not seeing someone else behind Dylan’s back?’

  Kay’s sheepish look was semi-apologetic. ‘It’s over now. I promise. That’s the reason for all the shouting you heard. He’s not happy, but I’ve made my decision.’

  ‘Are you sure everything’s okay? I can come in and see him on his way if you like.’

  Kay shook her head. ‘No need, Larry. He’s not violent, just upset.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure you’re not in any danger. You’re lucky it was me calling and not Dylan bringing it home himself now that there’s a train strike.’

  Kay’s eyes flew open wide, she scoured the street outside her door.

  Larry smirked. ‘Don’t worry, he’s taken the fleet car instead.’

  Larry turned to leave. Kay put her hand out to him. ‘Don’t you dare say anything to Dylan! It’s ended. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, can it?’

  ‘You’re playing a very dangerous game, Kay, bringing your lover to your house.’

  Kay stared into his eyes. ‘Like I said, it’s over, okay?’

  Larry raised an eyebrow in a knowing way.

  ‘I mean it, Larry. You tell Dylan about this and I’ll just have to tell him about us, and that would stir up shit that neither of us could handle.’

  Larry raised his hand as he walked down the pathway. ‘Okay, okay. Message received and understood. Bye!’

  Kay dragged the heavy coat inside and shut the door. It stood in the corner like a bodyguard. She watched Larry drive away before going into the lounge where she knew Kenny would be waiting impatiently. She flopped down in the nearest chair.

  ‘That was lucky, it was Dylan’s sergeant. I told you we can’t talk here; anyone could turn up, like I’ve said a hundred times before. Now do you believe me?’

  Kenny appeared sombre. ‘It’s a shame it wasn’t the big man himself. It’s about time he knew.’

  Kay was edgy. ‘Let’s go out for a while, shall we? I need a drink.’

  Dylan stood at the window of his hotel room, looking out into the darkness and wondering what he should do. Being away again had given him space to think. He was in no doubt that if he carried on down this path, he would lose his wife, his home and maybe his daughter. He wondered what Kay was doing now? She was his safety net; he liked having a home to go back to, even if he had rarely seen it of late. And he loved Isla as if she were his own flesh and blood.

  ‘So, what happens now?’ he whispered. Making his mind up eased his tension. He took his phone from his pocket and dialled.

  ‘Can I come home?’ he said to their answering machine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Open wounds always aroused questions but Detective Inspector Jack Dylan’s bruised heart couldn’t be seen by others and would be less easy to heal than any physical injury. Kay still hadn’t returned his call.

  Though there had been total silence from Kay, Stauer’s Hall had at least confirmed to him that Isla had settled in nicely and was responding well both to her counsellors and the other residents.

  Tired of listening for a call he’d accepted was never going to come, Dylan switched off his mobile phone. He had finally come to accept that his marriage was over. Contrary to Kay’s belief, he was neither ignorant of her indiscretions, nor as stupid as she liked to think. Not being a quitter, he’d always said that what he didn’t know or look for, couldn’t hurt him.

  That may once have seemed true, but he’d come to realise that what it could do was cause deep mistrust and an uncertainty about the future that he wasn’t prepared to ignore any longer. One thing Terry Spence and his family had taught him in the brief time he had spent with them at the retirement party was that life was for living, but it was only worth living with those who reciprocated love and loyalty wholeheartedly.

  Dylan took his time on the journey home. He had lots to think about. As he neared Harrowfield he was drawn towards a childhood haunt named Castle Hill, a heritage site that had been a settlement for almost four thousand years. With an icy wind biting round his ears, he stood and stared thoughtfully at the ancient monument overlooking the town. His back to the ancient stones, he prayed for a sign that everything was going to be okay and as he did so he watched his breath slowly drift away through the cold air. The pale winter sun shone on his face as it broke through a cloud and he began to reflect gravely on his life. Wasn’t it true what his hero and teacher, the great man Harry Wallis, had said: ‘When winter comes, and darkness falls, man is able to look into himself and read his own heart …’

  What came next?

  ‘… But, with the coming again of the summer, and of light, their eyes are blinded. Yet even so, though deep is the abyss, men’s hearts look forward after the long Northern winters to a spring of joy, to the smell of green leaves and dry leaves, and hay in the barn when we can trace the rainbow in the rain …’

  Tears ran down his cheeks as he turned to leave, ready at last – he thought sadly – ready now to face whatever lay ahead.

  When he got back to the car, he switched on his mobile phone and was startled to see the number of early morning calls from Larry Banks. He rang him back and waited, anticipating that if he’d been out all night on a job he may have returned home to sleep. To his surprise, the call was answered quickly.

  Larry’s choked voice, and his uncertainty about who was on the other end of the phone, brought a smile to Dylan’s face.

  ‘’Course it’s me, who the hell do you think?’ he said. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Larry was unable to speak for a second or two, overcome by emotion as he was. ‘Boss, is that really you?’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think it is? If you’ve slept in my office all night and it smells like a brewery when I get back, I’ll bloody kill you!’

  Larry’s voice sounded strange to Dylan: hollow, and disorientated.

  ‘No, of course I haven’t.’ Although just then he wished with every fibre of his being that he could drink something alcoholic, anything that would help to make his next task easier.

  The detective sergeant’s voice sounded quite untypical of him. For once, Dylan could hardly hear him. ‘It seems I’ve got a really poor signal. What did you say, Larry?’

  ‘Can I meet you at your house? There’s something personal we need to discuss urgently, away from the office. And I’ve got some news. We have a partial fingerprint for our brace and bit man, good enough for a search.’

  A surge of anger and frustration came over Dylan.

  ‘I can’t leave you for one minute, can I? What the hell have you done this time? Some irate husband chasing you again? Don’t tell me you’ve been caught in the act? There is only so much I can do you know.’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that.’

  Dylan’s voice softened. ‘You’re not seriously ill, are you?’

  ‘No, I just need to have a private chat. I’ll explain when I see you. I don’t want to do it over the phone.’

  ‘That sounds ominous. I’ll be home within the hour.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh, and Larry,’ he said, ‘I can’t get hold of Kay, so if you get there before me ask her to put some bacon under the grill, will you? I didn’t bother stopping for breakfast. I just wanted to get home.’

  Larry’s voice remained sombre. ‘I haven’t been home yet either, you know me, but it’s not like you to miss the full English. Anyway, I’ll see you back at yours.’ He hung up. He was immeasurably relieved that it wasn’t Dylan who was in the intensive care unit fighting for his life. Now, though, he had to tell him that his wife had died in a car accident, in their car, which was being driven by an unknown man.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Larry kicked the waste bin, opened his drawer, fumbled around in the back and was much relieved to see that the bottle of whisky he’d secreted there wasn’t empty. With trembling fingers, he u
nscrewed the cap. Then he heard the door. About to let go of the glass bottle he saw the door slowly opening and Dawn standing before him, dishevelled, her red-rimmed eyes bloodshot, still wearing the clothes that she had worn the day before. It was obvious that she hadn’t been to bed either.

  Larry looked from her grey face back to the bottle. His eyes wide he told her, ‘It’s not Dylan.’

  Dawn staggered towards him, her hand clamped tightly over her mouth. She started to cry with relief. Reaching out, she took the bottle from him and took a huge swig. She screwed up her face.

  ‘Nasty enough,’ said Larry, his quivering lip curled at one corner.

  She nodded her head. ‘For you?’ she said.

  ‘No, not really. For Dylan. It’s almost time for the shitty part; I need to break the news to him about Kay.’

  Larry pulled up outside the Dylans’ house. He wanted to make sure that he arrived before his colleague. Outside, the early morning mist had turned into a solid wall of fog, the earlier pale disc of the promising sun now totally obliterated. Turning off the car engine, he rested his head back and considered how to break such devastating news. There was no easy way. It was best simply to relate the facts, the way his boss always did. There was no point in trying to soften the blow, to ease the pain. Not that it would sink in for a while.

  He wondered how Dylan would take the news; just what exactly would his reaction be? Although they had worked together, he didn’t know a lot about Dylan the private man, only Dylan the boss. Jack Dylan was a nice man who had got Larry through some tight scrapes. What had he ever done to deserve this avalanche of shit landing on his doorstep?