Consequences

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Liz’s murderer ran out of the park and through the woods, to the main road, discarding his headgear to the bushes. The scorched sole of his trainer flapped annoyingly, catching on each step up the snicket. Sweat ran off him. Reaching his stolen car, he was met with pandemonium, as emergency vehicle sirens alerted his fellow road users of their presence. Moving vehicles stopped and pulled over in front of him to let them pass.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ He punched the car’s console and revved the engine wildly. Yanking the steering wheel to the right, he put his foot to the floor and flew around the stationary cars, clipping the wing mirror of one. Without stopping, he glanced at the blonde woman within and flashed one angry finger.

  Dazed, but with disregard for the glass that had shot into the car along with the wing mirror, Jen stared frantically at the number plate G470 RSR.

  ‘G470 RSR. Oh, God...what was it?’ she rhythmically repeated the registration number over and over in her mind, and pulling a receipt and a pen out of her bag, with shaking hands she scribbled it down. Her heart beat frantically. She scrawled over the letters to make them as clear and bold as she could. It was red; the car was red. What was the make? It was no good, she was useless with makes and models. It was big. What an idiot she thought, how dare he poke one finger at her. It was his bloody fault. Tears sprang into her eyes but she knew it was shock and anger that brought them.

  Detective Sergeant Patrick Finch left Dylan’s office, pleased that at last he’d not only been given a DS’s post but he was also looking forward to working with Jack Dylan. He’d heard a lot about him.

  ‘Tracy, the Detective Inspector says he would love a cuppa. I didn’t know he was sexist,’ he said.

  ‘He’s not, the kettles over there Sarge. I’m sure he’ll enjoy a drink made by you just as much as Tracy,’ Vicky said, temporarily stopping typing a report.

  ‘Okay, worth a try though,’ he laughed. ‘Do you two want one?’

  Vicky pushed her chair back on its wheels and stood up, ‘Oh, go on, I’ll make ’em Pat,’ she yawned, as she stretched lazily and shook her long blonde hair. She stuck out her expansive chest. ’I don’t want you upsetting the boss with your bloody awful coffee.’ DS Finch wasn’t looking at her face, she clocked him and smiled. Her breast enlargements were the best, she knew, thanks to the money she managed to save from working overtime, and even Patrick ‘perfect’ Finch as he was known in the Met, she’d been told, couldn’t resist breaching his own politically correct code of conduct.

  ‘I’d rather you call me Sergeant or Patrick,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever,’ she replied, nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.

  An outside line was ringing on Dylan’s phone. He was just picking it up when John tapped at his office door and entered. Dylan smiled and beckoned him to sit in the chair opposite.

  ‘Hi Jen …’ he started, ‘calm down...what on earth’s happened?’ Dylan said, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

  ‘Some idiot nearly wrote me off,’ Jen sobbed. ‘He smashed into the wing mirror of my car and he never even stopped. He was driving like a maniac.’ Jen’s voice was shaking.

  Dylan’s mobile nearly leapt off the desk with the vibration, and it made John jump. Dylan pointed at it for John to answer.

  ‘Boss it’s a job, it’s urgent,’ John said, quietly.

  ‘Look love...I’ve gotta go...an urgent job’s just come in. As long as you’re okay and the car is driveable, go home and ring the traffic office to report it...I’ll ring you as soon as I can.’

  ‘But Jack, I’m …’ Jen cried. It was no good, Dylan had hung up. His lack of empathy broke Jen’s heart...what would it take for him to make her his priority?

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Inspector Dylan,’ he said, as he replaced one phone and took the mobile from John.

  ‘Hello Sir, Force Control. Your attendance is being requested at the bottom car park of St Peter’s Park. Uniform personnel and fire brigade have attended at the scene of a car on fire and they have found a woman’s body nearby, they’re sealing the scene. There’s a strong smell of accelerants and it appears suspicious.’

  ‘Thank you. Inform them I’m en route. I’ll be approximately thirty minutes,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

  He stood up, grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and threw it over his shoulder. ’Come on John, job on. Vicky, grab an exhibits bag and bring Tracy with you,’ he called from his doorway. ’See you later Pat.’

  ‘Sir, I’d rather be called Patrick...’ Patrick Finch said, to the back of Dylan’s coat tails.

  ‘Baptism by fire, John,’ Dylan said, as they screeched out of the yard. He could see John’s young, large, athletic, black frame fill with nerves as he sat beside him and remembered how he’d felt on his first job as a DS, heading for an unknown death scene, whilst being under the spotlight of the boss, his every move being watched.

  ‘Confirm with Control that the Scenes of Crime Supervisor is on their way, will you please, John?’ Dylan instructed.

  ‘Your first murder maybe, Tracy?’ Vicky grinned, excitement in her voice as they drove to the scene in the CID car. ‘This is what all the training’s for, girl.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tracy said holding her stomach. They whizzed past cars going in the opposite direction. Her mind was racing as their sirens wailed. What would it be like? How would she cope? Would she show herself up and be sick at the sight of the body?

  ‘Don’t look so worried love, I’ll look after you,’ Vicky said kindly. ’I’ve told you before, Dylan’s a good boss. Think yourself lucky it’s not one of the others.’

  ‘Thanks,’ was all Tracy could manage to say; words were no comfort. Nerves seemingly forgotten on their arrival she ran to keep up with Vicky, who was striding out as she headed towards what looked like their rendezvous point at the scene. She’d cope no matter how bad it was. Wouldn’t she?

  St Peter’s Park was a large and rambling estate, just off the A518, which lead from Harrowfield towards its neighbouring town of Bradford, and the M62 motorway network. Although there were numerous entrances for pedestrians, there were only two means of access for vehicles; one to the Manor House and its car park at the top, and one directly to the lower car park. The acres of lawns from Sibden Manor and its fortress walls sloped down in a steep gradient to include the park, its boating lake and children’s play area. Rough wooded terrain steeply sloped back up to the main road on one side. The park was well used during the summer months but in the winter dog walkers were the main occupants. In fact it was a place Dylan and Jen quite often walked Max.

  A fire engine stood shrouded by trees. Its lights turned as the water pipes hung from it and snaked along the ground. The fire tender was masking the burnt shell of a vehicle, and a police car alongside. Dylan tentatively stepped into the water that had been discharged to dampen the flames. It looked like there had been a torrential downpour, ‘evidence washed away’. He reached in the boot of his car and opened the packaging of a protective coverall, handing another one to John as he did so.

  ‘You’ll end up with a boot full of these John, one for every scene, don’t rely on SOCO to have your size, mate.’

  Dylan noticed a small area around the car that had been sealed off with cones and rope, and a uniformed Inspector came towards them.

  ‘Hello Jack,’ Dylan nodded as he joined him. He turned back to the scene. ‘We were called to a report of a vehicle on fire,’ he explained, as Dylan, now suited up, walked beside him, John close behind. ‘We arrived about the same time as the Brigade. They quickly extinguished the fire but you’ll see the vehicle is just a shell, and there’s a body...or what’s left of it on the floor, at the driver’s side. I’ve kept the Fire Officers here just in case you need to speak to them.’

  ‘Good, have they also pronounced life extinct because of the state of the body?’

  ‘Yes,’ the inspector replied.

  ‘Thank-you.’ Dylan raised his eyebrow at the young officer. ’We’l
l need their details and a copy of their report. Can you get a unit to the entrance to stop anyone coming in? I’m expecting the Scenes of Crime Supervisor. Can you also arrange for a dog man to attend?’ Dylan directed. He made notes in his pocket book and noticed John doing the same. There was an overwhelming smell of fuel, and the remains of a petrol canister and a suitcase lay next to the body. ‘I hope the fire officer in the cab pressed the record button to capture video footage. The recording of the route to the scene may have recorded a car or a person leaving the scene that we can focus on for further enquires. We’ll also need it for disclosure purposes.’ Dylan called to the uniformed inspector.

  With the movement of the fire engine, the devastation could be seen more clearly. Dylan squatted as close as he could to the burnt corpse, without touching it. He had always been taught to keep his hands in his pockets at a scene; that way he would never instinctively touch anything and he never broke the rule.

  It was a mangled black skeleton with little flesh left on its frame. Fragments of clothing and flesh still clung to it. The jaw bone was dropped, as though the person had been screaming or shouting. The smell filled his nostrils, it was acrid, like hair burning or burning plastic. The smell of burning flesh was not a smell anyone forgot in a hurry. Dylan kept himself busy, scanning what was before him; the sight of other burned bodies etched on his mind. It never got any easier. In fact he seemed to get more sensitive, the older he got. Or was it the accumulation of tortured souls he’d witnessed. Corpses burnt or hung were always the worst for him.

  ‘Everyone okay?’ Dylan asked, sensing in the air, quiet initial shock of seeing carnage.

  ‘Well let’s just say, it’s enough to put me off barbeques this summer, boss,’ Vicky said, glancing back at Tracy who was grey, and held a hand to her mouth. Dylan could feel their reluctance to approach the body, and wondered if she was already regretting her attachment to CID?

  The smell of petrol seemed to be diminishing, but the aroma of burnt flesh hung heavy. SOCO supervisor Phil Turnbull arrived. It was apparent to Dylan that he needed a specialist from the forensic laboratory to attend too. He would have to remind them to use specialist bags, so the inflammable liquids didn’t evaporate. He wanted to know, if it was petrol, what type? Where had it been bought; a nearby garage possibly? Would there be CCTV there? A ‘to do list’ ran through his head.

  The barking and rocking of the police dog in the van that had pulled up on the car park, told Dylan that Trojan was ready and eager to start the sweep search.

  ‘Trevor, can you look for a trail that suggests whether anyone has been through here earlier today, please,’ Dylan asked the police dog handler. A few minutes later, Trojan pulled Trevor unceremoniously into the woods, by what Dylan could only describe as a tow-rope thrown over Trevor’s shoulder and around his waist. Dylan thought it was a bit like the anchorman in a tug of war being dragged along.

  Thinking aloud and giving instructions to John, Dylan reeled off his thoughts.

  ‘We’ll need aerial photographs of the area if we ‘haven’t already got them on the database; a search team for the area once the body is moved, and we’ll have to consider how we lift the shell of the vehicle.’ Dylan shook his head. Everything was as black as a silhouette. There were no tyres left on the car. The body was melted to the tarmac. Was it a man or a woman, he pondered? There were no visible clues. The remnants of a suitcase could be made out nearby but it was mostly ash. Dylan needed an investigation team. What sort of car was it? The fire had been so fierce it had mangled it so badly, that at the moment it didn’t give any clues away. Once forensics arrived he knew they would take a closer look. His priority was to identify the deceased, the vehicle and what had taken place. Experience told him he had a murder on his hands not a suicide, and it wouldn’t be long before the press descended.

  ‘Get me a better cordon around the immediate vicinity of the park to stop all access. We need to keep this crime scene as sterile as possible,’ he told John.

  Waiting for his instructions to be acted upon, he texted Jen, ‘How you doing, love?’

  ‘Speaking to ‘Traffic’ at the moment. They’re hoping I got a current number plate.’

  ‘Good. Sorry I had to dash, picked up a murder in St Peter’s Park x I’ll speak when I can x’

  Jen sighed and got back to the job in hand. To Jack, her car accident was trivial and she knew it, but so soon after her mum’s accident, it would have been nice for him to look out for her, just this once. Tears streamed down her face. Oh, God what did she sound like? He’d have a fit if he thought she was so dependent. She was acting so irrational. What on earth was the matter with her?

  ‘What colour was the car, if you don’t know what make it was?’ asked the young, impatient, PC Dale. Jen thought hard; she’d never been a witness before. ‘ Red...I think.’

  PC Dale sighed audibly. She was just beginning to realise how difficult it was for those witnesses that she typed statements for nearly every day of her working life. How could they be so sure of their evidence they signed, to say was a true account of what they saw?

  Dylan put his mobile back in his pocket as he walked round the scene. Somebody wanted rid of the evidence and they’d made a bloody good job of it. He scratched his chin. The obvious signs told him that this was going to be a ‘runner’: there would be no quick solution to this one.

  Jacob Rhodes from the Forensics Laboratory was called in for his expertise in arson cases.

  ‘Should I arrange for the hot flasks, sir?’ Tracy interrupted Dylan’s thoughts.

  ‘Yeah, please. John, can you make sure Control is keeping a log of the attendees at the scene, etcetera.’ John told Dylan that the pathologist had been contacted, and would be attending at the mortuary.

  ‘Do you think it looks like rain, Vicky?’ Dylan asked looking towards the sky.

  ‘How would I know? I ain’t one of those glam weather girls. Even though I might look like one.’ Vicky posed. Dylan frowned.

  ‘I’ll organise an inflatable tent, just in case it rains,’ she sighed.

  ‘You’ve too much front for a weather girl, Vicky.’ Dylan called, as she walked away from him.

  She stopped and turned. ‘Somewhere for you to shelter under if it does rain though, eh?’ she laughed. ‘Good job Finchy isn’t here, eh?’ she said.

  Dylan tutted and smiled as he turned to John, ‘We’ll make the most of the time whilst we’re waiting for Jacob. All CCTV in the area will need seizing, or have I already mentioned that?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ’We need to organise a HOLMES incident room as well as the investigation team.’ John nodded as he scribed away in his notebook.

  ‘Boss,’ Trevor shouted. ‘Trojan has followed something on the footpath that leads up from the woods to the main road. There are possible recent footprints in the mud.’

  ‘John, estimated time of arrival for the Police Support Unit please? I need them to prioritise searching that route.’ He shouted, as he ran towards Trevor.

  ‘On their way, sir, fifteen minutes max I’m being told.’ John called back.

  ‘It could be nothing...just a dog walker,’ Trevor deliberated. But anyone who knew Dylan knew that he left nothing to chance, he’d have it photographed for the pattern and size but a plaster cast would give him a three- dimensional impression.

  Wheels in motion, Dylan studied the body once more. What would the small, perhaps female skeleton tell them? The open jaw showed fear, he was sure of that but it was so charred and burnt. The blaze had been intense there was no doubt. Was the person in the car when it ignited?

  For a moment the skeletal hand, seemed to reach out to him. Fingers splayed, quite a reasonable sliver of flesh hung from one. Was there enough for DNA or a fingerprint? Was he losing it? Dylan stared unblinking as he stepped back, soaking up the image and considering the possible motives. Upset lover? Revenge? What was the body doing here? What did he tell others to do? Find out who the victim is...find out how they lived that way you’ll
find out how they died.

  ‘Tent’s on its way, Boss.’ Vicky called. ‘You’ll be glad it’s self- erecting,’ she said. ’Did I tell you I once went out with a guy who…’ Seeing Tracy’s face, she shook her head, deciding not to continue. Tracy dropped the flask and bent down to pick it up.

  ‘It didn’t last long...and neither did he,’ she contemplated sadly.

  ‘An inflatable I think you mean Vicky,’ Dylan chuckled.

  ‘Yeah he’d one of them as well I think,’ she answered back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jacob Rhodes wore slim, black, designer spectacles, which made him look sincere and intelligent. He greeted Dylan and John as he eagerly took his protective suit from the back of his dark blue Range Rover. It was obvious by his manner he was keen to get started.

  ‘I’ll need copies of any photos as exhibits for disclosure,’ Dylan told him.

  ‘No problem Jack, both Phil and I will take samples and I’ll get copies of them for you from the memory card.’ Dylan watched them as they quietly busied themselves, sifting carefully and meticulously over the scene.

  ‘I’ve asked for a low loader to collect the vehicle shell and take it up to the forensics lab, but I’d be grateful if you could try and identify a chassis or engine number before they take it,’ Dylan said, leaning over the men.

  Jacob didn’t raise his head or make any comment.

  ‘Anything? Anything would be welcome. That’d give us a head start.’

  ‘We’ll do our best and it’ll be priority at the lab. We’ll bag the remains of the suitcase and take it back with us once we’ve finished with the car. My first impressions though...,’ said Phil Turnbull reaching out to poke the ash, ’...are that the contents of the suitcase were paper, not clothes, this certainly wasn’t an accident or suicide.’